Much Ado About Britpop

20 May 1993 - Blakes Hotel, South Kensington, London

tw: discussion of ED and ana-ideologies

"Come up with me," Tinsley says, staring up at Damon. She was wide eyed, with smudged mascara and tacky purple lipstick, and dragging her feet like a listless teenager.

"Why?" was the first thing he could think to reply. He didn't exactly want to shag the suddenly doe eyed girl-woman-creature in this state, where she was a bit drunk, very high on E, and a touch coked up as well.

She'd either genuinely confuse it as a romantic overture and be heartbroken at being a one-off, swear she wanted a one-night stand too but later admit she lied, or worst of all, be so unimpressed she'd forget all about it or disabuse him of the notion he had any sexual prowess at all.

"I'm too awake, and Juniper has Robbie in her room," Tinsley said. "I don't want to fuck you. I just wanna, I don't know, chatter and blather and look at TV. Besides, look."

She nodded subtly in the direction of the almost familiar group of paparazzi. "It looks pretty fake if you never go in with me and don't come out. And I'm not spending the night in this state with you and Jamie around to outsmart me," Tinsley went on. "It's one thing one of you does it, but the tag teaming is just plain cruel."

Damon looks over his shoulder, flashing a cheeky smile for the cameras. "Alright," he said. "Sounds good to me. ...Is there a couch?"

"It's a boutique hotel," Tinsley pointed out. "Of course there is. Come on." She dragged him by the hand up the steps, through the lobby and onto the elevator, her gauzy skirt moving with her at a speed that looked unnatural.

"What's the rush," Damon said.

"Doesn't it look better for you if I'm 'gasping for it' or whatever people here say," she pointed out.

He shrugged in response. "I don't care how it looks," he said. "I might call the whole thing a day soon. It's been kind of fun, but a bit phony for my tastes."

A dark pall was suddenly cast over their usual light, playful banter. She was genuinely angry, for some reason.

"You don't get to do that," Tinsley said with a sneer. "In case you haven't noticed, I call the shots here. I know a lot more about this world than you do, so just listen to me and suck it up. I'm the one in control this time."

"Tins," Damon said with a grin, "with your attitude, I doubt you have ever experienced not calling the shots."

"Well, I fucking have and it sucks," Tinsley said. "Especially because it's always fucking losers like you who are...who are fucking lucky to be graced by my ethereal presence that call the shots and...and spin me around on the merry go round till I fucking puke."

"You can't be sick," Damon said. "You ate enough with your booze. I watched you."

"Are you listening to me," Tinsley said as the elevator went up. "I...fucking told you about yourself, and all you heard was puke."

"No, I heard you, but your words aren't exactly as cutting as they are when you're...well, not sober, but not as fucked up as this."

"Whatever," Tinsley said. "I'm as fine as I'll ever be."

But to Damon, she looked lost and scared. It wasn't the version of lost and scared he'd seen her perform on screen, which resembled a sad little girl trapped in a grown woman's body, wondering where her childhood had gone. This was more like an older woman trapped under the visage of youth, who knew what horrible things lay ahead in fifty years' time and yet was powerless to stop any of it.

They got off the elevator and she led him to her room. Once inside, she flopped onto the couch and stared up at him. He was struck by how her eyes had gone from pale to electric blue, and it made her dark eye makeup look darker.