I Knew You Were Trouble

Chapter Two

In Heathrow’s light and airy departures hall at Terminal 3, the check-in kiosks bustling with passengers, I’m still annoyed. My Oscar statuette has a noticeable dent in it. So does my wall. And I’m preparing to get on a plane to Japan to work with the world’s most famous boy band. I step over the two heavy-duty Peli cases containing cameras and kit that is all going into oversized baggage.

‘Good morning,’ a voice says from behind me. As I turn, Meredith stands waiting, a nervous smile on her face.

‘Meredith!’ I force a smile. ‘Hi. I’m so sorry I walked out on you the other day. I was…’

‘Please, call me Mer. It’s no problem. I get that Vaughn has strongarmed you into this project. I know it would never be your first choice of assignment.’

I give a dramatic shrug. ‘It’s been a hard pill to swallow, but here we are. I watched some Rebel Heart videos. You’re going to have to fill me in on who’s who.’

Meredith holds up a paper file. ‘I came prepared. I hope you don’t mind… I contacted the airline. Told them we’d be travelling together and to put us in adjacent seats. I can spend some of the flight going through all the details.’

She hands me the file. I open it to find a profile on each band member.

‘Looks like a fun read,’ a voice says in a Scottish baritone from behind me.

I turn around again to find Duncan standing in ripped jeans, a leather jacket and brown leather boots, his six-foot-three frame towering over both me and Meredith. At twenty-six, he’s characteristically low-key, with his small canvas holdall slung over his shoulder, his short, light blonde hair having had a fresh cut.

‘You’re here,’ I exclaim, embracing him. ‘Oh, Christ, that means this isn’t all a dream and it’s actually happening. Dunc, this is Meredith, Mer, this is Duncan Gray, my chief camera operator.’

Duncan holds out his hand. ‘I’m her only camera operator. Alright?’

Meredith’s cheeks flush red as she reaches for his hand. ‘Oh man, are you from Scotland?’

‘Did the voice give us away?’ Duncan says.

It’s sweet how Meredith’s always so cheerful.

‘I love your accent,’ Meredith says. ‘I’ve never been; always wanted to go.’

‘Where you from?’ Duncan asks.

‘California. Saratoga, near Silicon Valley. My parents also own a small place in Huntington Beach. It’s on the coast… I mean, of course it is, it’s a beach…’

I watch the two of them interact, Meredith turning another shade of beetroot, before I ask Duncan how his blind date went from the night before.

‘Well, she was definitely a Rebel Heart fan. Filled me in on everyone. I am practically an encyclopedia of random band facts.’

I laugh. ‘Oh well, at least you never have to see her again.’

‘Reckon I might find her hiding out in my suitcase.’

‘Where’s the rest of your stuff?’

‘I checked in already.’ He looks to the Peli cases. ‘Want some help with these bad boys?’

It’s an evening flight. After boarding for Tokyo, a cabin crew member offers me champagne. Taking my glass, I raise it to Duncan, seated over on the other side of the business class cabin, offering him a silent toast. We aren’t used to this kind of treatment. Duncan does the same, a wry smile on his face because he knows the next few months are likely going to be torture for me. Meredith sits in the rear-facing seat opposite.

‘So how did you come to get this job?’ I ask Meredith after take-off.

‘I, uhm, my dad… he works for Silverpix. He’s an exec in the finance department. It’s not how I got the job, but…’ Her voice tails off.

‘So, what, you graduated college and then took on this job?’ I say, saving Meredith the agony and embarrassment of admitting that nepotism is exactly how she came by the role.

‘Something like that.’

‘You look young, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Meredith flushes again. ‘Yeah, people kind of say that about me.’

‘You can’t be more than, what, twenty-four?’

‘Twenty-four, exactly, how did you guess?’

‘Well, you look younger.’

Meredith changes the subject. ‘So, you should probably get familiar with the band whilst we’re here. Where do you want me to start?’

I’m finishing the last dregs of my champagne, hoping I might be offered a top-up. ‘Don’t know. Maybe give me some general history first. They were a manufactured pop group, and they auditioned across the world, I know that much.’

‘Correct,’ Meredith says with a smile. ‘Six years ago. It was a reality show called So You Wanna Be a Star? The producers wanted to put together a boy band and a girl band from different points across the globe. Auditions were held in Sydney, Seoul, London, New York and Los Angeles, then the final thirty contestants went on to compete in the main show in LA. Anyone auditioning had to speak English: that was a prerequisite. The makers were looking for all-rounders. Individuals who could both sing and dance. For the boys, there were six winners, but a Korean contestant, Kye Yo-Han, dropped out shortly after the band formed.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Basically, he got too homesick. Went back to Seoul. He’s a big star there now. K-pop. He wasn’t replaced because the judges concluded the band looked better as a five.’

‘I remember their faces plastered all over the sides of London buses at the time. Didn’t something happen to another member?’

‘Yes, a second member dropped out. Personality issues, dynamics, the reasons aren’t known openly. The judges voted that he be replaced by a runner-up, Danny Miller, an American.’

I look up as a woman from the cabin crew comes to my aid with another glass of champagne. I thank her gratefully. Meredith passes me a photo of the final group, when Rebel Heart was first formed. The band members are still in adolescence and look painfully young.

‘Their first single, called “Lovesick”, currently has nine hundred million views on YouTube. The fans call themselves Rebelles.’

I almost choke on my champagne for laughing. ‘Re belles ?’

‘As in, you know, like, beautiful rebels.’

‘ Riiight . Could be worse, I suppose.’ I point at one of the boys, the one with curly hair. ‘This one here… he’s supposed to be the ugly one, right?’

Meredith gasps, as though I’ve insulted a loved one. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to call him ugly .’

I raise my brow. I need honesty if I am going to do this job successfully. ‘Isn’t that what he’s famous for though?’

‘Caleb. Caleb Whitlock. Known as Cal. He’s Australian, from Sydney, or Bondi Beach to be exact. Not the best looking, but he’s got an athletic build, his dancing is off the hook and his singing voice is to die for. The judges on the show thought he didn’t have the right look but the public kept voting for him. Eventually the judges caved to public pressure and he went onto the LA finals, where he made it through.’

‘Did I read there was some drama on Twitter involving him a while ago?’

‘Oh yeah. The whole Bianca Lawson saga.’

My face goes blank.

‘Did you ever watch Growing Up Rich ?’ Meredith asks. ‘It was a reality show from a few years back.’

‘More reality TV,’ I comment drily, and I probably should work harder to disguise my contempt. ‘Never heard of it.’

Meredith doesn’t seem bothered by my complete ignorance. ‘Okay, so, this one was a series about the lives of four different American teenagers, all born into money. It was something like… one was the California Countess, one was the Alabama Duchess, one the Minnesota Empress, and Bianca Lawson was the New York Princess. It got cancelled after two seasons, but Bianca went on to do some modelling and became a social media star. Two years ago, she was at an after-show party in Manhattan, after the boys had played Madison Square Garden. She was pictured kissing Cal and the story got into the news. But after, she totally rebuffed him when she tweeted, “ Shame about the face ”, and the tweet went viral. So then # shameabouttheface became, like, this global thing. Now Cal hates her. He wants revenge. He even wrote a song about her, about how much he despises her. About how vapid she is.’

I pucker my lips. ‘Sounds like a nice girl.’ I lean forward and take the papers about Caleb Whitlock. Meredith is right about his body. He actually isn’t bad looking at all, though perhaps compared to his fellow band mates his face is rendered a little more ordinary. His hair is a mass of curls, though I consider him anything but ugly.

‘Okay, who’s next?’ I ask.

‘You pick.’

‘I’ll take the French one.’

Meredith shuffles through her papers. ‘Jean-Baptiste Peltier. More commonly known as J.B. His mother is from Morocco but he was born and raised in France. He’s now twenty-three. He became a father last year.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘He has a baby boy, Xavi, who recently turned one. Lives in the Loire Region with his mom and her parents.’

‘Jesus. Are J.B. and the mother still together?’

‘They were for a while. Not anymore. She’s beautiful. He’s known her since childhood. Audrey’s her name.’

I nod, reserving judgment. The man looking back at me in the photograph wears his shirt open to the navel, has a smooth chest and pillow lips, piercing eyes and dark, closely-shaved hair with a chiselled jawline. Of all of them, physically, J.B. is the most model-like.

‘Alright, next one. You choose for me.’

Meredith goes to the top of the pile. ‘Danny Miller. Everybody calls him Miller. He auditioned in LA but he’s from Phoenix, Arizona. Raised by a single father and then his older brother when his father passed. The judges loved his confidence and charisma. Incredible dancer, a real gymnast. Some people say he’s rude and arrogant, but really that’s not true.’

I study his photograph. He’s smaller than J.B., but the most masculine of the bunch, oozing rugged sex appeal, brown hair sticking out in all directions, tattoos snaking all down his right arm. His muscles are impressive. He’s obviously spent most of his spare time pumping weights in the gym. I turn the photograph around to show Meredith. ‘Let me guess, this is the one all the girls out there go crazy for.’

Meredith blushes again. ‘He has a huge fan base and the biggest social media following of any member of Rebel Heart.’

Perhaps it’s his facial expression, but I decide that Miller looks arrogant. ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

Meredith shakes her head. ‘Oh, no. None of them do.’

‘Wait, they’re all single?’

‘Right now, they are. Their schedule is intense; it doesn’t leave a lot of room for serious relationships.’

I hadn’t thought about it from that angle. I sip my champagne. ‘Right, hit me then, last two.’

‘Ravi or Aidan?’

I shrug. ‘Guess I’ll take Ravi.’

‘Okay, Ravi Bala. Real name Ravi Balakrishnan. Auditioned in New York but he’s Canadian-Indian. Born in Canada to Indian parents; they own a couple restaurants in Toronto. He’s the youngest of seven siblings. He’s known to be the shyest member of the group, but some fans argue endlessly that he’s the best dancer over Aidan or Miller. People say Ravi and Miller don’t really get along.’

‘Why’s that?’

She shrugs. ‘Personality clash, I guess.’

‘Nothing to do with Ravi’s Indian heritage?’

Meredith frowns. ‘Miller would never judge someone by the colour of their skin. No, they’re just not very alike.’

It occurs to me that it’s a little odd for Meredith to be jumping so quickly to Miller’s defence, but I let it slide. ‘If you say so.’

I sink back into the seat, looking down at the pile of papers in my lap, despondent, thinking of all the underpaid, overworked factory personnel in Bangladesh, and how I am no longer going to be able to give any of them a voice. At least not yet, anyway.

‘So, shall we do Aidan?’ Meredith ventures.

I puff out my cheeks. ‘Can we pause for a second? Give me Aidan’s summary; I’ll look at him later.’

Meredith hands it over as I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the stark overhead lighting accentuating every blemish, not least the bags under my eyes. My shoulder-length hair is already going flat amid the cabin’s pressurised air supply. It’s a moment, at least in my mind, that requires serious deliberation, though everything is happening so fast. It occurs to me that I’ll be spending my thirtieth birthday in November on tour with every teenaged girl’s fantasy: all five members of Rebel Heart.

It isn’t the band’s fault. I imagine they have about as much power as I do when it comes to these decisions. But theirs are the faces I’m going to have to look at for the coming months, and I can’t help but resent them for it, each entitled one of them, with their perfectly sculpted torsos, effortless hair and veneered smiles. I massage the skin on my cheeks, trying to increase the blood supply, reminding myself that millions of young women and girls around the globe still worship their existence. Most would cut off their right arm to spend a few moments inside a room with any of them, and now I am expected to get up close and personal with all of them.

How ironic then, that I have just been given the job that thousands of girls would be prepared to lose a limb for, and it’s a role that I couldn’t care less about. Splashing my face with water, I come to a decision in an airline lavatory: I will put my full effort into making this documentary, splice it all together like I’ve been tasked, deliver it on a platter to Vaughn Herrera and the good people at Silverpix, and then get back to highlighting some real issues of concern in the world.