Off the record.
From the beginning, I could see he wasnt what I expected. You see that same image, over and over, and you begin to get used to it; the cheerful grin, the bright gleam in his eyes, the perfectly coordinated outfit. But he was different right from the start.
Did I forget to mention that I live in London? Well I do. I was stupid and dropped out of college to follow my so-called Prince Charming, and I followed him all the way from New Somerset Bay, Massachusetts to San Francisco, then on to Ontario, and finally, London. And then my Prince Charming found himself a new damsel in distress and they rode off into the sunset together, leaving me all alone in a strange city with nothing but my credit card bills to comfort me. So when opportunity knocked in the form of an ad in the paper about a new magazine in need of staff writers, I went for it.
You see, I work for this magazine, Teen Dreams. Sounds cheesy, huh? Yeah, I know. Its a teenybopper mag. But I learned to deal with that once I realized that a nineteen year old girl with no experience or college degree wasnt going to be getting offers from anything more legit. So I had come to grips with writing mindless drivel about Britney Spears latest haircut or which Backstreet Boy is putting out his own line of cologne. That weeks assignment wasnt much better; an in-depth interview with Ritchie Neville of the boy band Five. The interview itself was supposed to take place in my office the next afternoon, which in itself shocked me. Usually one of these boy band prima donnas didnt want their busy schedule interrupted and I had to travel to whatever video shoot or concert hall they were at. But he had agreed to come to me.
But I guess he just wanted to get it over with, and at six oclock the evening before the interview was scheduled for, there was a knock at my door. I hurried from my kitchen, where I had been doing dishes and singing, albeit off-key, along with the soundtrack to The Little Mermaid. To say I was surprised to open my door and see Ritchie Neville standing on the stoop in the rain would be an understatement.
Tabitha? he asked uncertainly.
Yeah. . .um. . . I stammered. Ok, did I miss a memo or something?
No, sorry. . . he said with a half-smile. It was fake, I could see that right off. I didnt mind of course. By now I was used to that sort of thing. People like him, in the entertainment business, are all such fakes. We had a bit of a schedule mix-up and I wont be able to do it tomorrow. he continued. I stopped by your office to see if it could be done tonight instead, but you were already gone and your boss gave me your home address. I made a mental note to thank Gus, the short, fat, balding, middle-aged man who ran the magazine, later - with a swift kick in the ass.
Oh, all right. I said with a shrug. Cmon in, I guess. I was trying to be nice, but I was really pissed. I mean, first, I was pissed at Gus for giving out my home address to just anyone who asked for it. And second, I was pissed at this guy for just showing up at my house and expecting me to drop everything because he double-booked himself! And on top of all this, I looked like a shmuck, wearing flannel pajama pants and my senior class t-shirt, which was half soaked in dishwater!
He followed me back to the kitchen and I turned off the Disney tunes and searched a few radio stations til I found something tolerable - Less Than Jake. Im not really into the whole pop music thing. Kinda strange, considering what I do for a living, right? But oh well.
Ritchie patiently sat in a wooden kitchen chair as I tried to straighten up a little. The sink was still full of soapy dishes, but I just left it and cleared off the table.
I have to go get my tape recorder and a notebook, I explained as I walked towards the kitchen door. Ill be right back. He just nodded and watched me go.
There was something really off about him. I couldnt place it right away, but as I rummaged around my upstairs office in search of a tape recorder, I knocked down a few past issues of Teen Dream that I had been hanging onto for my portfolio, and seeing his face on the cover made me realized what had been bothering me. He wasnt smiling. In all of his photos, every time you saw him on tv, he had this cheesy grin plastered on his face. And his whole appearance too; I had gotten used to the image of him in a perfectly coordinated outfit, with his hair done up flawlessly, and that smile. But here he was, sitting in my kitchen, wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt under a dark blue flannel, wearing glasses, wet from the rain and completely expressionless. It was like he was a completely different person. The illusion was gone and he was real. Does that make sense to you? I know it sounds kind of strange.
I tried to rationalize it as I headed back downstairs. Of course he looked different. This wasnt some photo shoot with hair stylists and make-up artists and wardrobe people. This was just him, on his down-time. But it wasnt so much the clothes that bothered me, it was his expression. Or rather, lack of one. Completely blank. It was eery.
Do you want some coffee or something? I asked as I walked back into the kitchen, setting the tape recorder and my notebook on the table.
Tea, if you have it. he said. I nodded and filled the kettle, setting it on the stove then sitting across from him. I found myself at a loss for words. I didnt know what to say, how to start. I didnt have to worry, he spoke up again. You mind? he asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
No, go ahead, I replied, grabbing an ashtray out of the cabinet and setting it in front of him. I opened my notebook to a sheet of prepared questions. So, Ritchie, I began, but he cut me off.
Oh, call me Rich. Please. he said, lighting his cigarette with an engraved silver Zippo lighter. He snapped it shut on his leg and stuck it back into his pocket.
Oh, all right. Rich. I reached forward and switched on the tape recorder. So. . .um. . . I scanned the sheet of questions, realizing how completely stupid and repetitive they were. The same questions he answered in every interview in every magazine. Listen, Ill level with you here; these questions are really dumb and this whole interview is going to be completely brainless so please keep in mind that I didnt come up with them, ok?
Well who did then? he asked, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward a little.
My boss, I replied, grimacing at the thought of that creepy little man.
Oh, the chubby bald guy, right? he asked, and I nodded. You know, I always wondered why the majority of these silly magazines for little girls are run by middle-aged men. Strange, isnt it? I had to smile at that. It was funny, and it was completely true.
So lets get started, I said, glancing at my sheet of questions again. Just as I was about to ask him one, the tea kettle began to whistle. I got up to get it, leaving my notebook open on the table. I didnt notice at first, but when I got up to get the tea, Rich grabbed the notebook and started flipping through it.
It wasnt your average notebook. Id had it since I was a senior in high school. It had started out as your average five-subject notebook, but I just added so much to it over the years that it was really more of a portfolio of everything I had ever written. There were issues of my high school and college newspapers with articles I had written tucked into the pockets, along with essays and term papers I had been hanging onto . The college-rule pagers were full of ideas and phrases I had come up with and quickly jotted down as not to forget them, and there were countless papers from work and school alike tucked haphazardly inside. I had just grabbed the sugar bowl out of a cabinet when Rich spoke again.
Why do you work for this magazine? he asked suddenly. I turned to find him sitting there with my notebook open in front of him, different papers pulled out and set in front of his as well. He was awful nosy.
Pardon? I asked, grabbing the creamer and his cup of tea as I wondered whether or not I would get fired for slapping his hand and taking my notebook away from him.
These articles, the ones you wrote for school papers and stuff. Theyre good, he told me. And theyre all on such important subjects. . .pollution, politics. . .you even wrote about a teacher at your school failing people without real reason. This is, like, investigative reporting or something. Why do you write for something as shallow as Teen Dream Magazine when you obviously should be writing for an important newspaper or something?
Important newspapers dont hire girls with no school and no experience who will never get taken seriously because they still look like theyre twelve, I told him, shoving my papers back in my notebook and pulling it away from him after setting down his tea. I sat back down across from him and returned to my sheet of questions. Now, before we start, is there anything youd like to stay away from? Something you dont want to talk about?
Oh, right, Rich said, going into the front pocket of his flannel and retrieving a folded piece of paper. He unfolded his paper and read it, then glanced back up at me. Ok, we cant talk about that fight J got into last week, whether or not Abs broke up with his girlfriend, Westlife, or Steps, and you can only ask one question about whether or not I have a girlfriend and I can only answer it ambiguously. Ok? The surprise must have registered on my face, because he reached forward and tapped the sheet of questions in front of me and said, You have your orders, I have mine. Well, that did it. Not thinking, I just asked the first question that popped into my mind.
Do you always get told what to do?
On or off the record? he asked in reply.
On, I told him. It was Gus rule; never agree to an off the record conversation, because they youll get dirt you cant use.
Never. Five isnt like the other groups out there. We do what we want, were not some managers puppet, Rich said automatically, like it was a prepared response. I dont even know why I did what I did next. I reached forward and shut off the tape recorder.
Now off the record, I said.
Constantly, he admitted with a tired sigh.
So its all a lie then? I asked. Five being some hard, tough group that doesnt have to listen to anyone and doing what they want - its all fake?
Pretty much, he replied. I mean, sure, we get ourselves into scrapes now and then but on a whole, everything weve done, said, sang. . .it was practically scripted. If I had known it would be like this, well. . .I dont know what Id have done.
You dont like it then?
Would you? To know that the next few years of your life are completely planned out? To have to continually play a part in some soap opera for little girls? There was a look in his eyes I would never in a million years have thought I would see in Ritchie Neville; pure loathing and hate.
I guess not. I could tell he wanted to talk, so I just let him speak his piece.
I am Ritchie Neville, but hes not me. He doesnt exist. Hes just a character I play on tv. Does that make any sense? I know it must sound ridiculous. Its like theres this other being, who has my face and my voice, but hes not me and I dont control him.
Did you ever hear this song, on our second album, called Two Sides To Every Story? Scott and I wrote it, trying to get a message across but no one seemed to understand. Theres more to me then what you see on tv screens its make believe. Sounds pretty clear-cut, doesnt it? But no one comprehended what it meant. We fought like hell to get that song on the album and it didnt even do any good. Everyone still thinks Im good old soft and sensitive Ritchie Neville, always good for a stupid grin. And everyone still thinks Scott is the childish, hyper one. The only one of us whos able to let his true colors show is J, and even he is held back a little. Hes the oldest, the troublemaker type, so he can do more of what he wants. The rest of us, were all completely fake.
You know, I dont even like this kind of music? Pop. Its shit. Nothing I would ever have listened to on my own. I let it slip once, in an interview, that my favorite band was Pearl Jam. I got bitched at for a week for letting that one out. They wanted me to say something dopey like Take That or something. Because it would have fit well with the character they wanted me to play. And, god, when it got out I was in an alternative band once, they went through the roof! Im supposed to be the sweet little pretty boy. Ritchie Neville wouldnt have been into alternative and grunge rock.
See, you could probably relate to this. You said that no one would take you seriously in what you want to do because you look so young. I know exactly what you mean. Look at me, I mean, really look, He paused for a moment and stared straight at me. Until that moment, I had never realized how truly gorgeous he was. Perfectly chiseled features, his eyes an amazing shade of blue I had never even seen before. And I realized exactly what he meant.
So we got an audition once, that band I was in. For a talent scout from Trauma Records. You know that label? Its the one that bands like Bush are on. We were so stoked, and we were really good. Not to sound big headed or anything, but we were. And you know what the scout told me? Sorry kid, you may have the sound but you dont have the look. And then he left. We got screwed because Im stuck with this pretty boy face. The audition for Five wasnt long after that, and if we hadnt just been rejected from that agent, I probably never would have went. Maybe I shouldnt have. He paused again, staring at his cigarette butt in the ashtray before pulling a new one out of his pocket. There was an air of sadness about him now that I hadnt noticed before. I hadnt known to look for it, even.
So who are you then? Who is the real Rich Neville? I asked him.
A very sad, very frustrated, very lonely lad, he told me. Someone who wishes he could take it all back and never go to the auditions. Someone who wishes he could have just been himself from the beginning.
I think maybe I would have been ok with being in a lad band like this if I could have been myself from the beginning. See, Abs can deal with it because they let him rap a bit in songs and throw in something with a heavy beat now and then, like a house mix even. Thats what he likes. Hell, he was a DJ, thats what he listened to. But even he cant stand it so much anymore. He goes and DJs at some club every now and then. That was his little escape. But then they heard about it and made this big deal and now everyone knows when he does it and where he does it and it isnt the same for him anymore.
Who are they? I questioned. It was always they said or they did but he hadnt ever said just who they were. He smiled sort of sadly then, not his trademark poster pose smile, but a wistful one.
I dont even really know. First, I thought it was out manager, but I dont think its him anymore. Hes just like us, he gets his orders from someone else. Maybe someone in the record company. I dont know. Its almost like one of those creepy sci-fi shows. Theres just the powers that be and we do what they say for fear of losing our contract and the money and the lifestyles weve come accustomed to. Half the time I feel like someones whore. I degrade myself for money. Thats all Im in it for anymore. Sometimes its the fans, though. I almost quit once but I felt so guilty, felt like I was letting them down. Like they were the only ones who even cared anymore. Other times, I hate them more than anyone else, because they refuse to see me for what I really am, and if wasnt for their intolerance of us being human instead of some manufactured band, I might have something of a personal life left.
Is there any aspect of your life thats not dictated?
Not anymore. The clothes I wear, where I live, were I vacation. The words I sing the words I say. Hell, even the people I date.
I met this girl once. She was sweet and pretty and treated me like a human being, something that I hadnt felt in I couldnt tell you how long. And I wanted to ask her out and see if maybe there was something there, but they told me no. They said it wouldnt be good publicity. Because she was just some waitress in a pub and I was this celebrity, this thing they had created. That was months ago.
Yesterday, it was leaked to the media that Im involved with Carolina Duke. Itll probably be on the news tonight. Well have a press conference tomorrow where Ill admit to having been seeing her for some time now. Thats why I was supposed to hint at having someone now. But you know what? Ive spoken to her maybe twice. But her managers and my managers think it would be good publicity for both of us. I thought maybe my love life was one thing theyd let me keep as my own, but now I guess not. And now Ive met this girl, whos pretty and kind and seems to understand what Im going through. And shes been sitting here so patiently, listening to me complain about how awful my privileged life has become and I can see sympathy and understanding in her eyes. And even though Id love to do it, I cant even ask her out for coffee because as tomorrow, Im involved with some insipid actress who I barely know. I didnt know how to respond. A few hours ago, I had been sure this guy was some stuck-up pop star and now I realized that I had completely mis-judged him. He glanced at the empty cigarette pack on the table and the ashtray full of butts, then at his watch.
Oh, Ive kept you all night. I should go, he said, standing to leave. We hadnt done the interview at all, and he picked up my paper again. He grabbed a pen off the table and scribbled in some answers, then set it back down. I walked him to the front door, and he opened it, looking out into the rain. Thanks for listening, Tabitha. he said. Maybe Ill see you again some time. He had just stepped out onto the porch when I stopped him.
Rich? I called into the rain.
Yeah? he asked, turning back to face me.
Why did you tell me all this? He smiled that sad smile again.
I dont really know. Maybe I thought Id feel better if I could be myself around someone, just this once."
You should always be yourself, Rich. No matter who youre with. He smiled at me before he left. Not the fake smile, or the sad one either. His real smile.
I wanted to write an article that would let people know what he was like. To let everyone know just who the real Ritchie Neville was. But I couldn't. It was off the record.