Imogen Reed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greenevoices) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2017-09-08 12:09 pm
greenevoices) wrote in undergrounds2017-09-08 12:09 pm
Entry tags:
I could watch you a thousand times - open/closed
9 September, Evening - The Angelo (open)
Blues beat, slow burn. The lights turned way down low; just the spotlight on the singer and the dim glittering of the candles on the tables. The girl on stage looks so small and frail, all dressed in black, but when she starts to sing her voice is anything but.
"I put a spell on you...because you're mine."
She starts soft, low. This has always been more of a ballad than a power anthem. She sways with the rhythm, channeling the pain of a woman wronged.
"You better stop the things you do--I tell ya, I ain't lyin'.
Oh no, I ain't lyin'."
The rest of the set is a bit of a blur. Nothing original, nothing of her own, just jazz and blues standards. That's just fine. She can do standards. There's polite applause at the end of her performance; she didn't bring down the house, but it's the biggest audience she's had in months and she relishes it.
Imogen loves this. She loves performing. She loves the spotlight and the way people look at her when she sings, like they're seeing her for the first time. So what if she's not being showered with roses as she takes her bow? This is a good gig. She's going to savor it.
There's another set at 10, but in the meantime Imogen moves to the bar, ready to meet her adoring public.
12 September - The Angelo (Closed to Lydia)
"Yeah, Mum, I loved the flowers. Thanks so much." Imogen's got a new phone now, to replace the one she lost. Had stolen from her. By someone who, according to Find My iPhone, likes to hang out at cemeteries. Well, Daddy cancelled the account and had Apple remotely lock the phone, so Little Miss Cemetery Lurker has a very expensive brick now. Serves her fucking right.
Imogen still hasn't told her parents about being attacked; she just said she lost the phone while she was out in the West End. She's never been very good at lying outright--in fact, she's always been bloody awful at it--but she can embroider the truth all she wants.
Today's her birthday, and Imogen's going for birthday drinks with some people she knows later, but first she's got to drop by "work."
"No, Mum, I told you--I can't come by this weekend. I've got performances. Yeah, Mum. Thanks, Mum. See you later. Lots of love to Daddy. Bye."
She's too busy walking and talking to notice that there's a girl already waiting out front of Cesare's office. Not until she almost collides with her.
"Sorry!"
21 September - Redbright Institute (closed to Sylvia Redbright)
The letter had come in the second week of Imogen's residency at The Angelo. It was on fancy paper, with a letterhead for some school she'd never heard of, asking for a meeting. Imogen almost ignores it. After all, she's not exactly desperate for work right now. Not with Cesare paying her to sing three nights a week and lavishing her with expensive gifts. But she doesn't have anything else to do today, and she's bored. Might as well make the appointment.
The school's campus is a bit of a maze, so it takes a while to find the right door. Imogen knocks.
"Mrs...Redbright?"
Mid to Late September - Around London (open)
Even with a handsome millionaire paying the bills, a girl's still got to work. Imogen can be found busking around London, playing the new guitar that had been her birthday present this year. She still doesn't feel very safe after what happened last month, but she sticks to crowded areas and well lit streets and it's been okay so far.
She's drawing bigger audiences lately, and inspires more passionate responses to her music. Is this it? Is she on the verge of making it big?
Blues beat, slow burn. The lights turned way down low; just the spotlight on the singer and the dim glittering of the candles on the tables. The girl on stage looks so small and frail, all dressed in black, but when she starts to sing her voice is anything but.
"I put a spell on you...because you're mine."
She starts soft, low. This has always been more of a ballad than a power anthem. She sways with the rhythm, channeling the pain of a woman wronged.
"You better stop the things you do--I tell ya, I ain't lyin'.
Oh no, I ain't lyin'."
The rest of the set is a bit of a blur. Nothing original, nothing of her own, just jazz and blues standards. That's just fine. She can do standards. There's polite applause at the end of her performance; she didn't bring down the house, but it's the biggest audience she's had in months and she relishes it.
Imogen loves this. She loves performing. She loves the spotlight and the way people look at her when she sings, like they're seeing her for the first time. So what if she's not being showered with roses as she takes her bow? This is a good gig. She's going to savor it.
There's another set at 10, but in the meantime Imogen moves to the bar, ready to meet her adoring public.
12 September - The Angelo (Closed to Lydia)
"Yeah, Mum, I loved the flowers. Thanks so much." Imogen's got a new phone now, to replace the one she lost. Had stolen from her. By someone who, according to Find My iPhone, likes to hang out at cemeteries. Well, Daddy cancelled the account and had Apple remotely lock the phone, so Little Miss Cemetery Lurker has a very expensive brick now. Serves her fucking right.
Imogen still hasn't told her parents about being attacked; she just said she lost the phone while she was out in the West End. She's never been very good at lying outright--in fact, she's always been bloody awful at it--but she can embroider the truth all she wants.
Today's her birthday, and Imogen's going for birthday drinks with some people she knows later, but first she's got to drop by "work."
"No, Mum, I told you--I can't come by this weekend. I've got performances. Yeah, Mum. Thanks, Mum. See you later. Lots of love to Daddy. Bye."
She's too busy walking and talking to notice that there's a girl already waiting out front of Cesare's office. Not until she almost collides with her.
"Sorry!"
21 September - Redbright Institute (closed to Sylvia Redbright)
The letter had come in the second week of Imogen's residency at The Angelo. It was on fancy paper, with a letterhead for some school she'd never heard of, asking for a meeting. Imogen almost ignores it. After all, she's not exactly desperate for work right now. Not with Cesare paying her to sing three nights a week and lavishing her with expensive gifts. But she doesn't have anything else to do today, and she's bored. Might as well make the appointment.
The school's campus is a bit of a maze, so it takes a while to find the right door. Imogen knocks.
"Mrs...Redbright?"
Mid to Late September - Around London (open)
Even with a handsome millionaire paying the bills, a girl's still got to work. Imogen can be found busking around London, playing the new guitar that had been her birthday present this year. She still doesn't feel very safe after what happened last month, but she sticks to crowded areas and well lit streets and it's been okay so far.
She's drawing bigger audiences lately, and inspires more passionate responses to her music. Is this it? Is she on the verge of making it big?
no subject
"But she's getting a wig or a temporary dye job. Or a hat. I don't care how you do it. And if Damien sees anything else that's a problem, he can veto," Cesare says firmly, trying to make his rules nice and clear. He thinks he can be reasonable but he is far from a pushover.
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"She -" Lydia points furiously at Imogen - "just called me a psycho bitch and you're discussing band members? Are you serious, Cesare? I mean, are you really serious right now?"
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"Did you call Lydia a psycho bitch, Imogen?" he asks a little wearily. Would Imogen even be that wrong right if she said it? It's not as if Lydia is the perfect image of calm right now. But he's trying to be fair and nice to the two of them. As best he can at least. He would really rather it if they didn't fight.
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Lydia can't actually believe that her boyfriend is questioning her in front of this - this - Imogen, whoever she is. As if what Lydia says isn't true? You better get your act together fast, boy, cos Lydia is seriously unimpressed.
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In the back of his mind, he makes a note for the two of them to discuss this later, though he has no doubt that Lydia herself will be keen to do the same, albeit for different reasons.
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She glares at Cesare. If only he could read minds, he'd know about her fury, about how he can't expect her not to suspect these pretty girls who claim they're working for him are sleeping with him too. It's not fair that she looks like a psycho right now.
"I'm so not happy right now," she warns.
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"I am sure there's a misunderstanding. Can we not resolve this amiably?"
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"This does not mean we're friends." she snaps.
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Before either of them can complain, Cesare is already opening he door to his office and politely trying to slip away. He has no intention of staying in the middle of this for any longer.
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As Cesare beats his retreat, she shoots Lydia a small smirk. "That's fine by me. Drop by the show sometime, yeah? See what you think."
She moves to walk away.
"Bye, bitch."