The Lost Gods (14 page)

Was this her chance to get famous, too? That would be fun, wouldn't it?

She trudged downstairs, stepping over prone bodies lying in heaps everywhere.

‘I need you to sign a consent form,' she said to Clare.

Clare scrawled a signature without reading the letter.

‘Turn up the music!' she shrieked. ‘Let's PARTY!'

‘Bye, Mum,' said Freya. ‘I'm off to the Ritz.'

‘Now this,' said the Goddess Freyja, surveying her large suite at the Ritz, the scurrying concierges, the room service and four poster bed, the stripy mauve and green velvet sofas and tapestried chairs, the floor-to-ceiling windows with views over Green Park, the blue-marbled fireplace, the festooned floral curtains and Turkish carpets, the crystal chandeliers and silver candelabra, ‘is more like it. Still
far
too small, but it will do at a pinch.' She reached over and grabbed a handful of chocolates from the overflowing cut-glass bowl on the lacquered black side table, and stuffed them in her mouth.

Thor picked up the chilled champagne bottle and downed it in one gulp.

‘What's this stuff called again?' he asked.

‘Champagne,' said Freya.

‘We wasted our time drinking mead,' said Thor. He picked up the phone.

‘Room service?' barked Thor. ‘Bring me an ox. Roasted rare. Yes, you heard me, a whole ox. And more champagne.'

‘Go easy on the drinking,' said Veronica. ‘You have a football try-out coming up.'

‘What's football?' asked Thor.

Oh wow. Just in time Veronica remembered her deep breathing exercises.

‘Google it,' she said.

‘Freya!' bellowed Thor. ‘What's Google? And what's football?'

‘I'll show you,' said Freya, sitting down in an ornate gold chair at one of the suite's laptops. She was overwhelmed by the luxury all around her. The thick linen sheets on her enormous bed. A marble bathroom bigger than
her bedroom. A wardrobe filled with stylish new clothes. I could get used to all this, she thought, admiring her new Stella McCartney dress. You could forget all about frost giants living in rooms like these.

‘Ah, the magic tablet,' said Thor, beaming. He studied the screen. ‘So I grab the ball, run, and kill anyone who gets in my way?'

‘No,' yelped Freya. ‘No killing.'

Thor frowned. ‘But that's obviously the best way of keeping the ball.'

Freya looked at Veronica. ‘I really don't know—' she faltered.

‘Not to worry,' said Veronica, ‘we'll get a football coach round for a few lessons this afternoon. My assistant will sort it.'

The Goddess stretched out on the green damask chaise longue and nibbled on more sweets.

‘Lay off the chocolates, please,' said Veronica. ‘We're taking you round to the top modelling agencies and I'm worried about your hips.'

Freyja looked at Veronica and shoved another handful of chocolates into her mouth.

Her funeral, thought Veronica. She glanced at her list.

‘Woden, you'll be auditioning for
FAME: Make Me a Star
so you need to prepare a few songs. The vocal coach will be here in an hour.'

Woden surveyed Freyja's suite.

‘Why,' he demanded, ‘does she have a fruit bowl in her suite and I don't? Freya. RING THE CONCIERGE.'

Well well, thought Veronica, her new charges had certainly discovered their inner divas way ahead of schedule.

She sighed.

Never mind. At least they can pay for it, she thought.

Tottenham Hotspur's coach Harry Cray and scout Des Osmond watched the prospective footballer as he raced down the pitch faster than any player they'd ever seen, eluding all attempts to snatch the ball. Harry gasped as the ball sailed into the net, straight past the flailing goalkeeper.

‘Where did you find this guy, Des?' he gasped. ‘I've never seen anything like it. He makes our boys look like … amateurs. My Gods, he's not even out of breath after running like that. He tackles like a tank. He's the whole package – looks, fitness, agility. Except for looks. Must have had a troll for a father. But who cares
when he can run like that.' He shook his head.

Des tapped his nose. ‘Tip-off. I've got my sources.'

‘Has anyone else seen him?'

‘Nope. Spurs is the first.'

‘And he's
Icelandic
? Do they even
play
footie in Iceland? Ha. Ha. Joke. I've never seen him in their premier league.'

Des shrugged. ‘He seems to have sprung out of nowhere. He's never played professionally before. He's a bit sketchy on the rules, it's true, but I've never seen such raw talent and such strength. Maybe it's all the herring they eat there.'

‘And his name really is
Thor Bluetooth
?'

The scout nodded.

‘Who's his agent? I want him signed TODAY before anyone else sees him.'

Des picked up his mobile and dialled.

‘Knock 'em dead, honey,' said Veronica, as the black cab pulled up outside a freshly painted building in Floral Street, Covent Garden.

The Goddess looked at Veronica, and her extraordinary cat eyes gleamed.

‘She doesn't mean that literally,' said Freya, wincing.

Gods, you could not be too careful with these clients, thought Veronica. Note to self: watch the jokes.

‘Just remember what I told you: you are here to
impress
these people,' said Veronica. ‘If they don't like you, that's it.'

The Goddess shrugged.

‘Everyone loves me,' she said. ‘It's the story of my life.'

Veronica watched as Freyja tottered through the snow into Starburst Models, trying not to fall over in her high heels. Freyja had wanted to wear some five-inch studded gold stilettos, but Veronica was firm that until the flaxen-haired Goddess practised walking in high heels, the lower the better. Freya trailed unhappily after her. The Gods had refused to relent: she needed to be with one of them at all times, and Thor was practising on the football pitch and Woden was singing and didn't want to be disturbed.

Veronica and the model booker exchanged big kisses. Freya tried to make herself invisible but the booker didn't appear to even see her.

‘This,' said Veronica, ‘is my new discovery, Freyja. Don't take too long saying yes, Pierre.'

The skinny booker with floppy brown hair and thick-rimmed black geek glasses eyed Freyja critically. ‘Well, you're tall, that's great, and the hair's lovely, and your face is beyond
gorgeous, but honey, those hips.'

Freyja stiffened, and drew herself to her full height. She towered over Pierre, who took a step back.

‘Don't you “honey” me,' said Freyja. ‘I am the Goddess of Beauty, and you're saying I need to … lose weight.' She fixed him with her glittering agate eyes. The man blinked.

‘No, no, of course not …' he stuttered.

‘… and that my hips are too
big
?' Freyja's husky voice dropped to a menacing hum. ‘My body is strong and powerful. I am beautiful beyond the dreams of mortals.'

‘You must have mis-heard me,' said Pierre. ‘What was I saying? You're gorgeous. Hips are in this year. Let me just take a few photos. If you could stand by that backdrop.'

Freyja wobbled and tripped.

‘Walking can be fixed,' said the booker. ‘We'll work on it. You'll be strutting down that catwalk and on the cover of
Vogue
in no time.'

‘What's
Vogue
?' said Freyja. ‘And why would
I walk on cats?'

‘You kidding me?'

‘Freyja's had a very sheltered upbringing
abroad
,' explained Veronica. ‘You know, one of those communities like the Amish,' she added. ‘No electricity, no computers, no anything modern.'

‘Let's get to work and grab some pics,' said Pierre, taking a few fast snaps.

Freya watched as the Goddess stood still for a moment and gazed at Pierre. Then her presence began to glow and she scorched the room with her glorious beauty.

Pierre put down the camera.

‘Wow. Looks great,' he said, awestruck. ‘Wow.' He took a few more pictures.

The Goddess scowled.

‘What are you pointing at me?'

Pierre looked at Freyja as if she were a lunatic.

‘Does she think I'm snatching her soul or something?'

‘She's never seen a camera before,' said Freya.
‘They're forbidden in her community.'

‘What, I am supposed to stand here while he clicks at me?' said the Goddess. ‘
That's
how I will regain my fame?'

‘Yes,' said Veronica.

‘Ah, I understand,' said Freyja. ‘Instead of carving a statue for one of my temples, he is drawing my picture in the click silver box.'

‘Something like that,' said Freya.

‘Whatever it takes,' said the Goddess, yawning.

Freya stared at the thousands of gaudily dressed, shivering fame-seekers slowly snaking their way round an endless maze of snow-covered crash barriers set up outside the vast O2 arena. There were food trucks, portable loos and patio heaters dotted about, while people with megaphones paraded up and down, organising, prodding, numbering and interviewing.

And that was just the contestants. Thousands more queued to be in the audience, to watch the fame hopefuls strut and fret for their moment in the spotlight.

Woden, in his tunic and hairy cloak and battered blue hat and mad staring eye, fitted
right in with all the other flamboyantly dressed wannabes, thought Freya. Veronica's stylist had decided Woden's ‘look' was so original he should keep it for the
Fame
auditions.

Snot, his bodyguard, stood rigidly by his side. Veronica had insisted he could not wear his bear skins, but Snot said he'd kill anyone who tried to remove them, so there he was, scowling and snarling at anyone who approached. Several photographers had already taken his picture but Veronica, shuddering, had refused to let him be interviewed.

Woden surveyed the hordes, all desperately hoping that today fate would be gracious to them and grant them their dreams.

‘They look like frozen cattle,' he said. ‘Waiting to be slaughtered.'

‘Exactly what they are,' said Veronica briskly. ‘Luckily not our fate.'

She guided them to a special desk set apart from the others and spoke a few words to the organiser, swaddled in a heavy coat and
scarf, who stuck a number on Woden's tunic, a yellow rubber band round his wrist, then pointed them to a door marked Private. The organiser looked enquiringly at Freya. For a mad moment she wanted to holler, ‘Me too. Let me have my chance to be famous. Give me a number and let me on that stage!'

Oh, to be famous. Who cared if it was for singing, dancing – now that would be something, given she had as many left feet as Sleipnir – or just famous for being famous? Wouldn't that serve all the mean kids right when she swanned back to school with her entourage, to present a prize or sing a song, basking in the admiration and the cheers, their faces grotesque with gratitude because she'd brushed past them and somehow
they'd
become more real because they'd breathed the same air as her for a few seconds and touched her coat.