Vendis

***Infrequent profanity***

Even before she’d achieved celebrity status on prime-time dating show, Cloud Nine, Venus Eastman’s following, both online and in reality – the unscripted kind - had been talked about with envy. Indeed, for all she’d had her critics, condemned as being far too remote and aloof, or else too shallow and lacking in intelligence to be deserving of such attention, her model-girl figure, perfect make-up and fashion-sense, combined with her quiet air of confidence, had seen her up there on every extra-curricular High School and College pedestal imaginable, classed, if only by her peers and their younger siblings - the majority of whom were either in awe, in love with her, or both - as the girl most likely to succeed, for when it came to number-crunching time, when notes were taken and compared as to who amongst the students had notched up the most romantic associations, and who had the coolest friend-group, she was undoubtedly it.

Cool. I’ve known cool, and believe you me, girl, come autumn, when the central heating breaks down, you’ll find it’s not all its cracked up to be…

Netta Goodwin, formerly McIntyre, Forest, and, for the life of her, Venus couldn’t remember what else, whilst not a relation by blood or by marriage, but the former live-in partner of her Grandpa Dom, and therefore more of a grandma than her actual one, never tired of having her say. She reminded her of herself, Netta explained, for she’d ‘worn the hot pants, too’, and they never kept her warm in spite of their label.

Married thrice, umpteen lovers, one long-forgotten TV talent show appearance, a stage career which failed before it even took off… and scandal… This, the old lady would constantly remind her, had been the sum and total of her life – ‘no *big, red book at the end of it either’ - and when her looks had faded (although, really, they hadn’t, for her face was remarkably smooth for a woman close to eighty, and she did take good care of herself) where had she ended up? On her own, that was where. Giving vocal instruction until she’d retired, and Dom - bless his heart - had provided the only true sense of family she’d ever known, although she’d messed that up as well. ‘Forever chasing slippery satin sheets across the floor when a blanket would have more than sufficed…’

A blanket – yes, thinking about it now, Venus would have liked a blanket, even then. The only trouble was that she’d seen the one she wanted but the owner wasn’t selling, and regardless of how many others had been offered to her, then and ever since, a plethora of which had been thrown at her feet, some specially designed and meticulously crafted, she’d cast them all aside, kicked them right into touch…

Not that Addy West had been anything like a blanket. And certainly not a wet one. Not to her… East and West. Venus and Addy – now that could be short for Adonis, except it wasn’t. Still, how fortuitous; it had to be a sign. And ‘Vendis’ – she liked the sound of that. Venus West eventually… But no, he hadn’t wanted her. And as Netta had said at the time, that was just typical of life’s sweet irony; of all the guys she had to choose from, trust her to set her sights on the only one within a hundred-mile radius who would rather gauge his own eyes out than have them so much as glance in her direction. Sweet? There was nothing sweet about that. Bitter maybe, painful certainly…

You fancy Addy West – oh, come on Vee, you’ve got to be kidding… That and the follow-up laughter and laughing reactions of her pre-celebrity entourage, had stayed with her since High School. Why, when she could have the captain of the A team, Demitri ‘fit-as-fuck’ Constantine, St Edmond’s top goal-scorer ever, would she even look twice at the B team goalie, freckle-faced and ginger, and a nice enough boy, they supposed, but really…?

Fair-weather friends, sycophants, hangers on, they weren’t worth a jot, and she’d soon stopped telling them anything, but still they sniggered, while she, undeterred, continued her futile pursuit. All throughout High School and College, and later as well, she would bump into Addy accidentally-on-purpose, even when he did cold-shoulder her; she would call and message him from various phones, only for him to block her every time; and once – and she did regret this – she’d even followed him into the gents in the pub where he drank, and being a little tipsy herself, had attempted to physically seduce him. She simply couldn’t help herself even when he did recoil in much the same way as a person might when bitten by a venomous snake. And, to add insult to injury, his friends had ribbed him about it throughout.

What’s wrong with you, Ads? Wish she’d come after me like that. Just give her one. Are you gay…?

Funny, he’d ignored that, but had punched the guy who said he’d better watch out, for come breakfast time he might just find she’d added his bits to her crispbread and swallowed them up… That was when the police had come, and while Addy’s friends, including the victim, had denied there had been any such assault, she’d been issued a caution for stalking…

That was it. It ended there. It had to. Word had got out and she was losing followers on her vlog. Time to reinvent herself, post a few new selfies, rebuild her reputation; make-up and skin-care, beauty tips daily, how-to-do hairstyles, the latest must-have fashions, she threw herself in, and, much to Netta’s delight, she did start dating again, although what she didn’t tell her – or the men, come to that – was why she tended to take them where she did. Far be it from her to approach him, but while Addy was a man of habit, and still drank where he always had, there was nothing to stop her being there too. Looking – only looking – no law against that – and by keeping a distance, while letting him see what he was missing by lapping up the attentions of a string of other guys, one of whom just happened to look a little bit like him when she’d had a drink, it was he who approached her in the end… What do you think you’re playing at? Coming in here with my double, making a fool of yourself and me…! Aha! So, he was jealous after all. Hope really did ‘spring eternal’, but, and it was Netta who’d reminded her of this, it also ‘flew with swallow’s wings’.

Addy, you know I’m only ever thinking of you. It’s only ever been you. Those men mean nothing.

A shake of the head and a sigh.

It’s not you, Venus, really it isn’t. It’s just that I can’t involve myself with anyone.

But, why, Addy, why? I’ll be famous one day, and rich, you’ll see. I could give you everything…

He’d looked at her then, sadly she thought, but he hadn’t replied, and she hadn’t encountered him since.

Cloud Nine had been Netta’s idea, although the old lady claimed different. They’d been watching series one together, and she’d said something to the effect that she could see her applying for that, and if she got on, she’d be just like that little old lady in the audience who’d been there to support the girl who’d gone on to win… Well, why not, Venus had asked herself. She had exactly the sort of look the programme makers went for, and as a social media influencer, she stood a good chance. More than a chance, the producers agreed at her audition, and as it happened, someone from her neck of the woods was being considered too – Demitri Constantine, the footballer – did she know him? Oh yes, she’d laughed, she knew him well. Captain of the A team, Saint Edmonds, and still ‘as fit as fuck’… Wonderful, wonderful, High School Beauty Queen, boyhood crush, all great stuff, we’ll put you on Cloud One together, see how it pans out from there…

‘Deeping in the shallows’, Demitri called it. ‘Catching feelings’, the ‘f’ of which the tabloids had taken to printing as pound signs, as day-by-day and week-by-week the clouds progressed to diminish in size as couples were voted out all the way to number nine. And Netta did attend the final, sang on it too, some lines from ‘Secret Love’, the song she’d performed more than half a century earlier when she’d last appeared on TV. Dressed like a queen in black satin, dolled up to the nines, making the most of what would probably be her final two minutes of fame. How she’d relevelled in the applause of that hand-picked studio audience, to a greater extent, perhaps, than she’d cheered for her and Demitri when they’d stood hand-in-hand in front of that marshmallow-sky looking backdrop and received their giant cheque amidst all the swirling plastic-gold, glitter-me-down, confetti.

They had a contract now, her and her showmance lover. What they did in private was up to them, but they were to live together in the house provided for them for at least a year, and attend, as a couple, all the various functions organised by those who pulled their strings; their publicity team and management, their new inescapable entourage.

‘I hope they know what they’re doing here,’ he’d grumbled that morning ahead of their latest hometown appearance. ‘I’m missing a match for this – an important one too.’

‘Well, no one forced you to sign the contract. No one forced you to win the show. You could’ve backed out halfway through, left me to it. I’d have lifted the prize no matter who I’d been paired up with, and you know that’s the truth. It was me the public were rooting for, not you with your thrice-at-the most two-hundred-plus casual fucks!’ Venus couldn’t help but rub it in, Demitri really was an arrogant fuck-boy prick.

‘Oh yeah, Venus Eastman, ‘don’t touch me now, I’m not like that, let’s wait, it’s all too soon’ – fucking ice queen! As if anyone really bought into that mush. And,’ he scowled, ‘I just hope for both our sakes that all the shit that saddo troll posted yesterday doesn’t end up going viral.’

‘What troll? What shit?’ She curled her lip.

‘What troll, she says… As if you don’t know. The one who claimed to know you, the one who called you a stalker.’

‘Oh that. That was years ago.’

‘Yeah, and who cares about that? Fact remains that however long ago it was, you still made a cunt of yourself over some ginger no-mark virgin. And yeah, that’ll look good on the cover of next week’s ‘Hello’, don’t you think? You in your plunge-line lamé and him all wrapped up in Mummy’s apron strings.’

‘Don’t talk about Addy like that. He’s ten times the man you are.’

‘Is that so?’ Demitri laughed. ‘Still hold a torch for him them?’

Mocking her, was he? Well, he’d be mocking on the other side of his pretty-boy face when she threw that vase at his head. Good job he walked away when he did.

They were due at The Regal at one. Not exactly a high-end hotel, but near enough. The bar staff were naming cocktails in their honour; they’d have a hand in mixing them. Admission by ticket only. ‘Hello’ would be there. Demitri had been right about the lamé dress, only this one wasn’t plunge-line. She’d had yet another spray-tan so the overall effect with the dress being cut so high was that she looked like a foil-wrapped biscuit. Pick-up twelve-thirty, they were taken by car… Remember smile, look at each other – no, not like that! You’re meant to be in love. Oh, for Jesus Christ’s sake…

They had to pass Addy’s house to get there… Just the same, except… Why the concrete ramp leading up to his door? Had he moved? Or had one of his parents had an accident; neither one of them was old… Something had obviously happened, but no one told her anything anymore. Addy wasn’t on social media - never had been – and his name was never mentioned when she checked up on his friends… She’d asked Netta about him once, but she’d quickly changed the subject…

There were people outside the hotel, a couple of photographers. Not a massive crowd, still best they go in round the back. Introductions, then up a flight of stairs. A bedroom, hair and make-up finishing touches, more entourage… Do you mind if I take five minutes? Just need a bit of air… She took her bag and phone, found a bathroom, swung open the door and felt like bursting into tears…But there was someone there, sitting in the corner on the floor by the sinks. Legs stretched out before her, paperback held at length. Shakespeare. The Taming of the Shrew…

‘Oh, oh no, I’m really sorry. I know I’m not meant to be here but…. Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it…?’

The girl who was dressed in a black hooded top and trousers which looked at least two sizes too large, sprang to her feet having dropped the book. Her hood covered much of her pixie-like face, but her mouth between words fell agape in a way that couldn’t help but be noticed…

‘Venus, you’re Venus Eastman, aren’t you? Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe it. I watched you on Cloud Nine all the time. You and Demitri. I loved you… And I voted for you too even though I’m not supposed to. You won’t tell anyone, will you…? See, I’m not eighteen yet, and I’m not meant to be here either, but my sister’s a cleaner here and she sneaked me in, just so I could get a look at you…’

‘Thank you, I’m flattered. And don’t worry, I won’t tell.’ Venus laughed. ‘What’s that you’re reading? Any good?’

‘Oh, it’s just for my English Lit. A-Level. Can’t make out half the language. Like doing French isn’t bad enough, but that Petruchio geezer, oh what a cunt…! Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to swear… to offend you... Oh, I do like your dress, wish I could wear something like that.’

Her dress. She was welcome to it… In fact…

‘You could, you know… I’m sure it would fit you… Hey, fancy a swap? You could keep it if you want.’

‘What, me have your dress, and you take my scruffs…? Naw, I couldn’t.’

‘Sure, you could, and the shoes… What size are you?’

‘Er… five…’

‘Perfect. Here, help me with my zip…’

It only took five minutes for the outfits to be exchanged, that and many more ‘can’t believe this is happening’ forgive-my-language-please swears and blasphemes.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told the girl, whose name she discovered was Clarisse, ‘you won’t get in trouble, I’ll let my people know. Also, if you want, you can come to the event as my guest. Just do me a favour and stay here a little while longer. I need to see someone first.’ Venus scrubbed away her make-up, put up the hood and left while Clarisse stood behind, trembling slightly, mouth still agape, but looking an entirely different person.

Run, Venus, run. Back downstairs, past the entourage and concierge. A turn of the head, but that was all… Bloody chancing hoodie…! No, don’t bother calling security, they’re gone… be on camera if anything’s reported missing…

Addy, she needed to see Addy. And if he had moved away, she’d find out where he’d gone. Two streets to run, that was all. So much easier in trainers than those ridiculous heels… She would tell him that she loved him no matter what. She would give up all the fame, break her contract if she had to. Hand back the money. She’d assure him that whatever it was that was wrong, why he couldn’t get involved, she’d understand, be there for him…

The house, there was his house… And there…

A hammer to the heart, that’s how it felt when she saw him. Body all twisted, face drooping to one side, hands barely gripping the walking frame. Still want me, Venus, do you…? Still want me like this…? He didn’t need to say the words. Just one look in the eye…

Her phone had been ringing and beeping constantly. She answered it now… Yes, I’m just on my way. Yes, I did give that girl my dress… Cocktails at three now? Understood. The meet and greet at eight… The white diamanté playsuit…? Cool… Yes, everything’s cool…

She remembered a poem that Netta had read to her once. About unrequited love. The final lines went something like this… I talk about him still when drunk enough, and when sober I go on searching for what I think I don’t want to find… Netta wasn’t normally one for poetry, so she must have related somehow – like she did now…

Time to herself tomorrow, at least. She might get a tattoo – an Adonis. Or she might just take Netta shopping, buy them both a blanket, a beautiful one.

***

Author’s note: Deviated slightly from the prompt. Venus and Adonis, while not a Shakespeare play, but an epic poem, has in more recent times, been performed on stage. *The ‘big, red, book’ is a reference to UK TV show, This Is Your Life, a popular watch in the 70’s and 80’s, at the end of which host, Eamon Andrews would present his celebrity guests with a copy of the book about their life as detailed in the programme. The book always had a red cover.