Get Into The Light: Chapter Nineteen- Only Beautiful People Can Get Away With Rubbish Clothes

Lynette answered the door wearing a shabby hood top and denim shorts. Her hair was scrunched up under a lime green baseball cap with ‘Gabba’ scrawled on the front. She smiled but her eyes were very small and there were grey circles underneath.
‘Is Joost here?’ I said.
There was nothing I wanted less at the moment than to see him again.
‘No. He’s doing a photo shoot for ‘Oor’ magazine.’
Plopping myself onto a chair, I decided not to mention the Penguin Party or the fact that Joost had called me boring or the fact that he’d pinched me and made me run away. It was rapidly becoming clear to me how wrong I’d been in entertaining the idea that Joost was someone worthy of my affections. In fact at the moment, I wasn’t even sure if Carl was worthy. As he shuffled in and fell onto the sofa in front of the TV, I really noticed the age difference. Today he looked like he’d just crawled out of a skip. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin had a dreadful, yellowy pallor to it. He deserved this two day hangover – he’d been selfish and shown total disregard for my feelings- how on earth did he expect me to stay sober when he went off his nut every time we went out? The atmosphere between us had been bad. I was furious that he hadn’t come home as soon as I left. But he probably hadn’t even realised I’d gone until another couple of hours later when he started to come down again and the crowds started to thin out. All that time I’d sat at home with a migraine headache (unfair when I hadn’t earned it) watching the same animation go round and round on CNN – a Winter scene of frosted trees which seemed to represent my rapidly dissolving love for Carl, And I’d thought my friends in London were boring because all they talked about were men and the different hair products available on the market but these people here were no different. It was all about going out, getting out of it and then recovery. And the drugs didn’t provoke any grand reveal- they didn’t point out the secret to the universe. All they did was make your eyes bulge and make you want to lick peoples’ faces. But there was no point thinking about all this stuff right now. This was a pivotal moment. The video in which I would be in the foreground – mesmerising, sexy yet subtle was now sitting in Lynette’s video player. Carl stretched his feet across the gap and propped his feet in my lap.
‘Take your shoes off,’ I said.
He set his feet on the floor again. He still had the self-same moon-face that he’d had when we’d been out at the party. Perhaps it was permanent now. Two days he’d spent in bed, groaning, now and then surfacing to drink a pint of water and I’d continued to watch the same CNN animation (there never seemed to be any actual news on the channel) and all I could think about was whether this was the same lifestyle all the great dance acts aspired to. Did Zarzar spend days in bed sitting in the dark? Did they pour coffee milk on stale Corn Flakes and wonder if the shower would be warm enough if they left it to heat up for ten minutes? Did they pick small grey nuggets of Budgie poo off of their cardigans before they went out to take over the Dutch dance charts?

In essence the video was exactly the same as it had always been but there was now three seconds where you saw a blurry nose (the witches nose- my nose) come into frame, a blade of grass waving at the camera before cutting straight to Lynette’s arse again. Lynette looked nervous after it finished, like she was waiting for me to stand up, walk up to the TV screen and thrust my head right through the centre. And there was still a part of me that was disappointed that it was nowhere near how I’d imagined but this was only the first video after all and there would be more to come and perhaps it was in fact a blessing that there was barely any of my visage in this thing because I hadn’t learned how to turn it on for the cameras, had no idea how to create chemistry, how to enchant and capture an audience. I didn’t want these videos lurking about when I was truly successful and people would laugh at my naïve camera shy attitude.
‘It’s much better - don’t you think?’ Carl said, getting up and planting a smacker on my forehead.
Now he was doing everything in a very exaggerated, friendly manner. He was trying to tempt me out of my frosty cave.
‘It’s okay. It’s still got nothing to do with the song.’
‘Since when did you see a dance video that ever bore any relation to the song?’ he said and smiled.
I gave him a look which expressed my displeasure at this comment.

Lynette disappeared into the kitchen and I followed, helping myself to a glass of tap water. She picked up a cracker from the chopping board and nibbled at it anxiously.
‘What’s wrong?’
It was going to be something about Pete. Or something about Joost. Lynette’s world had really slimmed down now and there was no talk of Art College or designing new stage outfits or creating personas or dramas as part of our act. I felt like we were acting out a scene in one of those old-fashioned black and white photo stories. In a minute we’d look out the window and witness Pete kissing a glamorous model on the bridge and a solitary tear would slowly run down Lynette’s cheek.
‘I don’t know where Joost’s gone. I’m worried. He’d not really at a photo shoot- I just made that bit up. I haven’t seen him since the party. He didn’t come home. And now he’s not answering his phone.’
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ I said.
Lynette gasped and at first I didn’t know why I’d suggested it - it just seemed one of many possibilities. Joost had been completely out of it. It was possible that he’d tried to clamber onto his bicycle and then cycled head first into the murky waters of the canal or got his tyre stuck in one of the tram rails and hurtled over the handlebars (as I had done once or twice, narrowly missing death myself) and into the path of an oncoming taxi. Or he could have made it back home but then fallen asleep on his back and choked on his own vomit. As I thought through all these different options, I realised I was actually enjoying the idea that something terrible had happened to Joost. At least it would prove to this bunch of chimps that drugs had awful consequences and you couldn’t get away with it all the time. If watching me go mental didn’t do anything then Joost’s death surely would or not? Carl popped his head round the corner.
‘We’re meeting Forest in ten minutes,’ he said in his overly enthusiastic new manner.

‘Do you want to come with us?’ I asked but Lynette declined.
Instead she went into the cupboard and poured herself a glass of vodka.
‘It’s a bit early for that isn’t it?’
‘I need to sleep. I can’t sleep not knowing where he is. I haven’t slept for two days.’
‘Vodka makes you angry not sleepy.’
‘I don’t care. I’d rather be angry than sad. Do you think he’s left me Lola? Do you think he’s met someone else?’
'No of course not.'
'Do you think he's dead?'
'No- sorry I said that.'
I looked at her face and felt a huge swell of pity rising up in my chest. Lynette didn’t deserve this unhappiness despite the fact she was pretty, had thin legs and had men staring at her all the time.
‘We’ve got the Marcanti Plaza to look forward to,’ I said.
‘I’ve got a terrible headache. I’m going to bed,’ she said.
‘Good idea. Get some rest.’
I took the vodka glass from her hand and tipped it down the sink. I'd now turned into some dreary anti-drinks/drugs priestess. I was going to start singing about the worshipful Lord and opening animal sanctuaries and writing books about how satisfying and hearty vegetable stews could be. And what kind of sick person actually got excited thinking that one of their friends had died? Or was this part of my psychosis? Perhaps I’d never be completely normal again. Perhaps I’d turned into a psychopath who had no feelings and just wanted to watch the CNN animation sequence over and over until their brain exploded. I tested myself by looking at Carl’s moon face and trying to generate some warmth and affection but instead I felt nothing but resentment.

‘What’s up with Lynette?’ Carl asked as we biked towards the ‘De Vliegende Muis’ where we had arranged to meet Forest.
‘Joost’s disappeared,’ I said.
‘He’s probably just met someone else. I didn’t want to say anything but he was kissing this red-haired girl in the upstairs chill out room.’
‘He pinched me and left a bruise.’
‘I know. Its terrible.’
‘You should have punched him in the face but you were too off your trolley to care.’
‘Are we really going to talk about this again? I said I was sorry.’
‘I don’t care if you’re sorry – just don’t make me go through it again.’

As we rounded the corner of Oudezijds Achterburgwal, I saw a familiar face outside the coffee shop.
‘Hey Miss Ellen,’ I called.
But she didn’t answer and as I span round I noticed Bob van Veen of Zarzar was sitting in the seat opposite. What was going on? Was he trying to poach her for his act? Carl didn’t notice any of this because he was probably still mulling over the fact that he couldn’t take any more E when he went out if he wanted to keep his psychotic, English girlfriend happy.
‘Did you see who that was?’ I said manouveuring up alongside him, narrowly avoiding another cyclist who was trying to overtake. Carl wasn’t listening.
‘It was Bob van Veen,’ I shouted.
‘What?’ he said.
‘He was sitting with Miss Ellen. What do you think that was all about?’
Carl shook his head and carried on cycling. We turned into a narrow small side street leading to the Red Light District.
‘What was she talking about?’ I said.
‘How do I know?’
'Are they friends?'
‘They’re probably just catching up. I’m sure she used to do some session singing for him in the past.’
‘What if he’s trying to recruit her for his band?’
‘He’s got a singer already. Why would he do that?’
‘Because I can’t sing? Because we’re playing at Marcanti Plaza and will be complete rubbish with no singer on stage?’
‘You’re being paranoid. First you think Joost is dead and now you think Miss Ellen is going to join Zarzar. What next? Do you think I’m having a gay affair with Forest perhaps?’
‘Don’t get testy with me,’ I said.
‘You’re being a real pain Lola. I don’t know what’s going on and I’m trying to be supportive but you’re always moaning about everything and complaining. I thought you liked going out. I thought you enjoyed it!’
‘Why are we talking about going out? We weren’t even talking about that.’
‘That’s what this mood is all about isn’t it. You don’t want anyone to have fun anymore. You want to take people down to your level.’
‘My level! What the hell do you mean my level?’
‘Nothing. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m didn’t mean anything. Let’s just get on with this meeting. I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘Do you mean I want everyone to be mad just like I was? Is that it?’
Carl sighed. The bicycle behind overtook us both, the cyclist swearing under his breath as he whisked past.
‘Sodemieter op!’ I shouted at his retreating back.

We locked up our bikes in silence. People sitting outside on the terrace were witnessing an age-old scenario. This was something awful about being in a relationship. Something they rarely showed in films. There are moments, when you’re in a relationship and all you want to do his stand over your partner and raise your hand high above your head and bring it down on the back of that partner’s neck and watch with glee as their nose smashes into the pavement. Luckily these moments don’t come about very often but when they do they’re frightening. Twinned with the desire to hurt your partner in a really terrible way, are the dreadful silences after you’ve had an argument; neither one of you wants to be the first one to speak - it’s like when you’re a child and you try and sit it out in your bedroom sulking and your stomach is rumbling, mouth dry and crusty but you won’t go downstairs because you don’t want to surrender. I wasn’t sure why I was still so angry with Carl (it wasn’t still the Penguin party was it?) but something needed to be exorcised. I needed a short flash of physical violence to help loosen me up again. And I wished Joost were dead. No that wasn’t true. I liked Joost. Perhaps I still fancied him. Perhaps that was why I was angry with Carl because he looked nothing like him and had trousers that flapped round his calves in a remarkably silly manner (it was not endearing- why had I thought that in the first place?)
‘De Vligende Muis’ was on a street that divided the Red Light District and China Town. If you want to see the Amsterdam that your parents probably associate with Amsterdam then this is probably it. There are plenty of drug deals and junkies and of course, then there’s the prostitutes sat in their brightly lit windows smiling. But this is only a small enclave of Amsterdam, it’s the stereotype. Unfortunately because of its proximity to Central Station it’s generally the first and last place that tourists stop- they don’t see the rest. But then again, what side of Amsterdam was I really seeing? I wasn’t really immersing myself in the high culture and roller skating round the Rembrandt Museum- I wasn’t exploring a more edifying version of this city.
‘Why did we arrange to meet Forest here? Why not somewhere different?’ I said to Carl as we walked in.
‘Don’t start criticising again Lola. If you don’t want to be here, just go home.’
We went inside and waited for Forest to arrive.

Forest was very good at not acknowledging the tension between Carl and I. He ordered a round of beers and smoked, licking his teeth every two or three breaths, leaning forward excitedly and shaking his finger in our face to make a point. He talked of his grand plans for Cyberia, how we would tour Europe, perhaps even the US, bringing out new singles once a month and then an album of material and he’d already designed a logo which looked like two circles interweaved with one another and was something he’d copied from a Carl Sagan paperback cover. We would eventually get signed by a really big label and he’d help engineer this because he still had many contacts, in fact even now he had people who were interested and perhaps we’d think about making music for films because Carl still had a loyal following with Secret Scribe and many people would be interested in hearing what he did next but that audience would probably be a different one than this one which was why we had to think about another name for that project when the time came rather than releasing it under the name Cyberia. And as Forest talked away, the spittle accumulating in the corners of his mouth, I tried to visualise all these fabulous things but instead kept feeling this sinking sensation like we’d probably hit the high point already (video on MTV, a gig that had sort of gone okay) and were now heading back into obscurity. Who was interested in a Dutch dance act that had two hapless dancers one of whom moonlighted on the microphone now and then but was always consistently ill at ease? And it made sense that Miss Ellen was in conversations with Bob van Veen because Zarzar was a polished and professional dance act. They didn’t invite puzzled looks. People didn’t dissect their performances because everything happened in a completely seamless way. The girls were proper dancers like the ones you saw on proper videos by proper artists. And their costumes were made by designers, not knocked up by a drug dealing art student who was obsessed with glitter and cheap materials.

That weekend was pretty subdued. Carl had promised that instead of going out, we’d stay in, share a bottle of wine and watch the CNN animation together. In fact, the video got its first play on MTV and that provided a momentary lift as we both danced about the flat, Bobby the budgie flapping his wings wildly as we rejoiced at our success. But this was short lived because two minutes later, Zarzar’s video came on and it was so much more slick and polished that even Carl couldn’t see the benefit of standing up for our one and we finished off the wine and went to bed early. That weekend was probably the first and only weekend (apart when I’d been looney) that was stayed in. Lynette was in too- she said she was catching up with sleep but I knew she was wallowing in misery because Joost had eventually called but then told her he needed some ‘space’. This was just a long-winded manner of announcing he was breaking up with her. He gave no reason but men like him didn’t really need to give reasons because there were plenty of other women willing to take him on.

The gig beckoned in a few days time. The Marcanti Plaza. One of the biggest clubs in Amsterdam. The following Monday it was time to think about outfits. Whatever the shape of the band’s trajectory, we needed to look good whilst being fully humiliated by Zarzar (who would be on right before us). I flicked through many magazines trying to ‘land’ a look that would work. If you’re Debbie Harry then it’s fine to just wear a T-shirt and some thigh high boots. But I wasn’t thinking like that because I was only seventeen and there were no barriers to what I would go out wearing. So the outfit I decided on in the end consisted of almost an exact replica of a classic Blondie look except the T-shirt was from the Hema department store and I chopped up the tights to make some fingerless gloves. Carl didn’t pass any comments when I emerged from the bathroom in all my regalia. Instead he got a carrier bag from under the sink and slunk off to buy some beers from the petrol station.
‘Maybe try on your black dress instead?’ he said before he left.

The Marcanti Plaza. Only one of the biggest clubs in Amsterdam. And I looked like a Cabbage Patch Doll trying to be rebellious and cool. Only beautiful people could get away with wearing rubbish clothes. I needed really good quality clothes, which distracted from the fact that I had bee’s nest hair and a crooked nose. THE MARCANTI PLAZA.
The words kept popping into my head regular intervals. The letters neon and ten feet high. In London there was the Hammersmith Apollo, The Astoria, Brixton Academy but who had even heard of the Marcanti Plaza? Were we going to be the band to actually create a reputation for this place like before CBGB’s became so iconic? Had Ace of Base even played there yet? What about 2 Unlimited? Was this part of some big movement that would one day be reflected upon as part and parcel of one of the most significant periods in music history?

The phone rang whilst I was getting out of the Debbie Harry outfit and into a long, black, crochet number which was hard to move about in because it was so tight but that didn’t matter because it was good to have something physical standing in my way- an excuse as to why I was as stiff as a broom up there.
‘Can I speak to Carl?’
It was Miss Ellen. I only hoped that she stuck with us until we finished the performance because there was no way I could manage to sing her songs and even the idea of talking through my one was nerve wracking enough. I told her Carl was out and that we’d see her at the gig instead.
‘Can you ask him to call me back again this evening?’
I needed to stall her – buy some more time so we would at least have a singer for the performance.
‘He’s out tonight.’
‘What about tomorrow morning?’
‘He’s lost his voice. He’s got a terrible cold.’
‘Can you tell him to call me when he can?’
‘Yes.’

The Marcanti Plaza.
The Pimento Pasta.
The Momentous Piranha.

This was either going to be the best night of my life or the very worst.