DAYLIGHT FADING

five | that was just a dream

                       | five: that was just a dream |

                                                or

                         | losing my religion: REM |

I spend my five minutes slumped against the wall, telling myself to get a hold on my emotions. I thought I had nothing to lose tonight, but I was wrong. I have everything to lose and the fallout won’t just affect me but all of the people I care about.

It’s perhaps a depressingly short list, but that doesn’t particularly bother me. At least there is a list. The years of being a pin-up, squeaky clean pop star haven’t changed everything about me and haven’t changed the people I care about. The list I’ve got is almost identical to how it was two years ago.

I look up and spy a small mirror. I walk over, knowing that I can’t go back on looking like a total mess and having Moira know her interview is getting to me where she can’t see. I can ponder all of my ultimate questions in private.

As I catch the first glimpse of my reflection, I find myself grateful that I decided to forego foundation except under my eyes. I’ve created slight red marks from the pressure of my fingers on my forehead and my cheeks and I’ve had foundation on, I’m certain I would’ve smudged it.

Given that I haven’t cried my mascara and flicky eyeliner are still intact. My hair looks a little messy but I can live with that. It’s not as if it’s suddenly turned into a matted birds nest. But most importantly, I don’t look as if I’ve spent the last five minutes getting re-made up.

I kneel down slightly to re-tie one of the laces on my Dr Martens that I’ve accidently trodden on in my hurry to get to the mirror. “Miss D’Angelo?” I straighten up, satisfied with my shoe lace tying, before turning round to see some pretty, overly made up little thing. One of the people who dreams of being on television but hasn’t made it there yet. Someone who might never make it.

“I’m on, right?” my statement comes out a little sarcastic, even though I don’t mean it to. The pretty girl pulls a sour face, obviously displeased with my comment and turns her back to me.

I tap her shoulder as I make my way towards the side of the stage. She turns back, pulling what may be the most ridiculous pout I have seen in my life. “A word of advice?” for once, I smugly use my superior height to properly look down at this small girl, who is just annoying me for no reason. She has one of those really punchable faces. “If you think that comment was being a diva, get out of this industry before you meet a real one.”

I walk back onto the stage to the cheers of an audience that don’t affect me at all and pretty much flop back onto the sofa with no regard to grace or elegance. I’m Lacey fucking D’Angelo and I can do what I like. The thought reminds me that I still need to drop the f-bomb at some point in this interview.

Moira walks back on, clearly having been touched up by her stylists. I don’t bother to resist the urge to give a snort as the crowd don’t cheer her. The best defence is swearing, sarcasm and acting like a total bitch. No feelings, no one gets hurt. As I recall, I thought that earlier and then I was honest because I was a stupid little shit. I’m not worried, but those words are going out into the big, wide world where Adam Marr is probably going to stumble across them, knowing my luck. To be honest, he probably wouldn’t care anymore. I wouldn’t if I was him.

The guys behind the camera give their countdown to air time and I look at the glistening lines of the piano. I have to admit, it’s a beautiful instrument, but I’d prefer something with a little more history. I’m not a fan of battered but scars and scratches, like humans have, just make an instrument even better for me.