I’m doing a free online course in fiction writing. The piece below was the first writing assignment, inspired by the first thing heard on the radio. I heard Burn, baby, burn! Disco inferno!
DISCO pulled the curly platinum blonde wig off her head to reveal her own short, greying locks. She pulled a face at herself in the mirror, the same one that George the landlord had stuck lightbulbs all round the edge. “Just like a real dressing room in one of them fancy theatres, Dis,” he'd said. “It won't be long till you've got one of your own, one with your name on the door.” But that was 30 years ago, and George and the mirror and the lightbulbs and Disco herself were all still there. “All a bit tarnished now,” she muttered to herself ruefully.
She tugged a baby wipe from the tube on the dressing table and started cleaning off her make-up. Underneath the thick foundation her skin was pale and lined. She was tired, she realised. She'd been Disco Inferno for so long, singing the same songs, performing the same dances, she could barely remember her real name or the mousy girl who had hidden behind the stage make-up and Marilyn Monroe wig.
She was only 50, but she felt like she was 100 years old. It was her birthday; no one had wished her happy birthday, not even George. She picked up the rapidly warming glass of chardonnay and saluted herself. “Half a century and what have you done with your life?” She asked the reflection in the mirror. No career, no family, no husband. George had asked once. Convinced she about to hit the big time, she'd said no. He never asked again.
“We've seen some changes round here, ain't we, Dis?” George had said to her earlier that evening. She grunted non-committally. She didn't want to be reminded of the lost years, of how she hadn't made it out of Deptford, hadn't even made it out of the Dog and Bell.
She dropped the soiled baby wipe in the waste paper bin and tossed back the rest of her wine in one gulp. She buttoned her faux fur coat over the skimpy outfit she knew was too young for her. She pushed open the door into the bar; George was still wiping down tables. “All right, Dis?” He said. “Another drink?”
“No, thanks. I've got to get off home.”
“Course.” He smiled and his face lit up.
He's got kind eyes, she thought. I should have said yes, all those years ago.
“See you next week, then?”
“Yeah, next week.” She smiled back and left the pub.
There was no one about as she walked along Watergate Street, going in the opposite direction to her tiny flat. She stopped at the edge of the Thames and stared down into the dark water. Would it be cold, she wondered. Would her body go numb before the sodden weight of her coat dragged her into the murky depths? “I'm sorry, George,” she whispered into the night, and took one final step.
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