Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

‘He’s got such a particular style.’ Aisha sighs.

Becky nods her agreement. ‘Yeah. He has.’ To bad-mouth him now would only make her seem bitter, and she wouldn’t be listened to, and it’s not worth the breath.

Becky trained at the London Contemporary Dance School. She graduated with a first-class degree six years before. Out of a class of twenty-five graduates, only four dancers got jobs and, despite finishing top of her class, Becky wasn’t one of them. She tried for a year to find work but had no luck. It was hard not to be crushed by the constant judgement.

One of Becky’s oldest friends was the music producer Sasha, who got lucky with some dated dubstep, all dramatic top-line vocals and shit predictable drops. It was a huge hit. Sasha asked her to dance in the video. Marshall Law was to direct it. The record label were unsure at first, but Becky rose to the challenge. Relieved to have found work, even if it wasn’t the kind of work she wanted.

The video got upwards of a million views in its first two weeks online. Becky found herself with more work coming in, but all of it was commercial. She took one job after another, and the years melted. And so here she was. Bound to Marshall, bound to sexing it up behind piss-poor rappers in obvious dance routines.

‘I’ve been asking my agent to get me on one of his shoots for AGES now, my God, you wouldn’t believe. ’ Aisha laments and Becky feels her stomach weaken.

‘You’ve got an agent?’ she asks, trying to play it cool but feeling the power dynamic shift irreversibly.

Aisha glows. ‘Yeah. Sure. You know Glenda Marlowe, right? She signed me up, after that thing last month, you know, at the Opera House.’

Becky’s liver pulses. Blood rises in her cheeks. ‘And has she been getting you work?’

‘Yeah, tons. Mainly, erm, film. It’s cool.’ They nod at each other. Becky feels small and stumpy and unrepresented. ‘She’s here,’ Aisha says. Pointing. Becky’s smile is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. ‘She doesn’t really do, like, unsolicited, you know. ’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Becky agrees gravely. ‘Sure.’ Already so old and her body so sore from the years of despising it.

‘But she’s just there, I can introduce you. You never know?’ Aisha tips her head to the side, twirls her straw with her tongue.

‘Yeah? You could do that?’

Aisha leans across Becky’s body slowly to tap her agent on the arm. Becky sees that it’s the woman in black she’d been hatefully eavesdropping on.

‘Glenda?’ Aisha whispers. Their bodies press together and Becky feels like a pervert.

‘Yes, peach?’ Glenda extricates herself from the musician she had been talking to and stands before Becky now, legs parted, rocking back on her heels.

‘This is Becky. She’s a dancer.’

‘Of course she is,’ Glenda says. Fake smile, monotone.

‘From the video. She’s worked with Marshall.’ Glenda nods at the name-drop, a little more interested.

‘Hi!’ Becky says. ‘Lovely to meet you.’ Becky goes in to kiss Glenda’s cheeks, but Glenda is kissing the air around Becky’s face. Becky leans in too far, and ends up planting a kiss on Glenda’s neck. Embarrassed, Becky shrivels. Glenda remains blank as a page.

‘Becky’s looking for representation,’ Aisha explains.

Glenda looks her over. ‘Are you?’ she says.

Becky turns her head to the side to show her profile, pushes her hand into her hip, shoulders-back tits-out wet-mouth stomach-in. ‘Yeah, I think so. Things are busy, but they could be busier.’

‘And where are you hoping to get to, eventually?’ Glenda flattens her eyes like a striking snake.

‘I’d like to do some more videos, work my way up to, eventually, a full tour with a bigger artist.’

Glenda raises her eyebrows. ‘OK,’ she says.

‘I’d also really like to do some contemporary work, I’d love to join a company.’ Glenda clears her throat, a flicker of annoyance flashes in her eyes. ‘And, like, my thing is, that I want to choreograph my own pieces. I’d like to make a good living freelancing as an independent dancer who makes and performs her own work.’ Her toes clench.

Glenda gazes over her head at the other people in the room. Aisha nods at nothing, mute and beautiful.

‘Oh I see , you’re an artist.’ The sarcasm drips like wax from Glenda’s sneering mouth. ‘There’s not much scope for working with an agent if you’re planning on following that route,’ she says, her tone patronising, her eyes bored.

Becky loses two feet in height. Looks up at the women from knee level.

Glenda’s attention is caught by someone more important behind Becky’s left shoulder. ‘Do you want to meet Marshall?’ Becky offers, trying not to seem needy. ‘He’s just over there.’

Glenda’s smile is a wet, dark smudge. Like wine or blood, seeping outwards across her face. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Let’s tango.’

Harry is walking through the drizzle, watching drunk party boys in expensive clothes laughing like the camera’s on them. The rain rushes through the gutters and the traffic clogs the roads. Sharp financial buildings rise like fangs in the city’s screaming mouth. Harry’s vision is blinkered by office blocks and advertising hoardings and high-rise new builds that make her keep her eyes low, skimming the passing bodies as girls throw their heads back and laugh horsily at nothing. She spits in the gutter and hates everybody. She sees a man on the corner she’s walking towards, standing underneath the awning of a closed corner shop. A tall guy, wearing baggy jeans, limited-edition Air Force Ones, a massive parka. He’s got thick, dirty hair underneath a cap with its peak tipped up almost vertical. He’s selling balloons, talking loud.

‘Who wants?’ he’s saying. ‘Come on, you little terrors, come and have a go on one of these.’

Fuck’s sake , Harry thinks. It’s Reggie . A beacon in the wasteland.

‘Reg!’ Harry stops beside him. The rain is dripping thickly from the awning. ‘You alright, Reg?’

Reggie looks at her, angry for a second to hear his real name used, and then his face bursts open into recognition. ‘Harry! Fuckinell! What’s going on, bruv? What ya sayin’?’ Reggie throws his arms around Harry and pulls her into his chest, slapping her hard on the back.

Harry speaks into Reggie’s armpit until he lets her go. ‘Yeah, I’m alright, mate. You know. Same old thing.’

Reggie looks her over, holding her elbows. ‘Fuckinell!! How long’s it been?’ He sings his words. Like always.

‘Too long, mate. What you doing out here?’

‘Selling nitrate, innit. Tell you what, though, I’m feeling a little wobbly to be totally honest with you, mate. I been selling acid all fucking month, I think some of it must have got through the palm of my hand or something. I’m getting fucking trails when I look at you.’

He holds Harry at arm’s length and moves his head from side to side to check how his trails are doing. ‘Definitely fucking something’s going on, mate.’ His eyes are wide as empty tunnels as he stares straight into Harry’s face. He moves his heavy head slowly to either side, watching the trails as they blossom outwards. Harry moves her head with him.

‘Where you staying now, you still with your mum?’ she asks him.

Reggie stops moving his head and drops his arms. ‘She passed away, God rest her soul.’ He looks at the pavement, then at the sky. Holds his left hand over a ring he’s wearing on his right index finger. Raises it to his lips and kisses it.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Reg.’ Harry’s voice is small and useless. She wishes there were more to say. They stand together quietly for a long moment.