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  Holding Out For a Hero

  VICTORIA VAN TIEM

  PAN BOOKS

  Close My Eyes Forever

  Ozzy Osbourne and Lita Ford, 1989

  For my forever Eighties friend,

  Joe (Lynch) Grassi,

  1970–2014

  Contents

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1

  The Breakfast Club

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘Pretty in Pink’ Psychedelic Furs, 1981

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Who’s That Girl’ Madonna, 1987

  CHAPTER 4

  The Brain

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘West End Girls’ The Pet Shop Boys, 1985

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘Are We Ourselves?’ The Fixx, 1984

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘If You Leave’ Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, 1986

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘True’ Spandau Ballet, 1983

  CHAPTER 9

  The Athlete

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Shout’ Tears For Fears, 1984

  CHAPTER 11

  The Criminal

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘Tainted Love’ Soft Cell, 1981

  CHAPTER 13

  The Princess

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Talking in Your Sleep’ The Romantics, 1983

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Burning Down the House’ Talking Heads, 1983

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go?’ The Clash, 1982

  CHAPTER 17

  Devil Inside INXS, 1987

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Weird Science’ Oingo Boingo, 1985

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘St Elmo’s Fire’ John Parr, 1985

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ Bonnie Tyler, 1984

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ Simple Minds, 1985

  Epilogue

  A note from Victoria . . .

  Love like the Movies

  Prologue

  My birthday hangs over my head like a noose.

  I’d rather just skip it and take the day off. I’m like Cameron in Ferris Bueller: overwhelmed, wound up and seriously pessimistic about the whole idea. Ollie, my best friend’s older brother, and I used to debate this movie non-stop when we were teenagers. He swore the entire day was a delusion created by the very sick and depressed Cameron.

  ‘It’s a crazy theory that’s been floating around, but I stand behind it,’ he’d say with absolute certainty. Oliver liked nothing better than to argue.

  I liked nothing better than to wind him up. ‘Sure, he was miserable and the timeline of events impossible, but it doesn’t prove Ferris was a figment of Cameron’s imagination. Was everyone fake? And why would he do that?’

  I could hear him pacing, and imagined him at the other end of the line, wide-eyed and gesturing. I loved it when he got that way. I loved everything about him.

  ‘They’re real, Libby, just not in the context of Cameron’s fantasy. He created Ferris, or at least that version of him, because he had to. He needed a hero.’

  Right now, I need a hero. Seriously: where’s my white knight upon a fiery steed? He doesn’t need to be strong, fast, or fresh from the fight, he just needs to be larger than life and capable of saving mine. It’s a mess. But there’s no way I could’ve predicted the position I find myself in right now.

  No one could.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Breakfast Club

  Two weeks earlier

  I’m more or less successful, and more than likely screwed. No wonder I don’t have an appetite.

  ‘Libby, you gonna eat that?’ Dora asks, leaning, unbalanced, to stab my untouched pancake with her fork. Normally she’s slender and leggy even though she’s short, which completely baffles me. It’s like her top half had one idea and the bottom another. But pregnant? She’s a Weeble, she wobbles, and she needs to sit back down. It’s that bad.

  Dora gives a closed-mouth smile while chewing, then eyeballs my side of turkey sausage. Whatever, it’s not like I want that either. I shove the plate over.

  Huddled round the table are Dora, Dean, myself and Finn. Aside from Dean, we basically grew up together. Well, and Ollie, Dora’s older brother – but on Saturdays it’s just the four of us. Shermer’s on East Broadway has become something of a breakfast ritual, and it’s always an event. Our once-a-weeks, fuelled by New York’s finest short-stacks, usually involve news – and not just any random bits of gossip, but something fantastical and life-changing. Today, unfortunately, is no exception.

  ‘So, Libby, where should we have your big birthday event?’ Dora asks after an oversized swallow. Her round cheeks flush pink with excitement. It could also be the hormones.

  Leaning back in my chair, I adjust my stack of plastic bangle bracelets and eye her with suspicion. I know they’ve already planned it. ‘Birthdays in general aren’t my thing, as you very well know, and turning thirty-three isn’t even a milestone you celebrate, so why bother? Besides, we’re still two weeks out and have more important things to focus on.’ I give a nod to Dean beside her. ‘Like the baby and your wedding.’

  Dean smiles and lifts Dora’s hand to show off the custom sparkly ring that has finally arrived. It’s a channel-set diamond halo, and it’s simply stunning – if you’re into that sort of thing.

  Finn eyes the bauble with indifference. After all, they didn’t go with his fabulous recommendation. Personally, I’d like to recommend an iron to Finn. I mean, my God, his shirt looks like he balled it up and shoved it in a drawer straight from the dryer. And his blonde hair, normally gelled back in a perfect pompadour, is seriously bedraggled. My guess? Mr Social hasn’t slept yet. Usually he’s a fashion-forward New York attorney, but this morning he looks as if he needs one.

  Dora narrows her eyes, ignoring his grump. ‘And what should our theme be?’

  ‘For the baby shower or the wedding?’ I ask, taking a sip of my sparkling water, knowing she means my party. The one I’m not planning on having. The one I know she is.

  Dora’s on round two of the matrimony cycle, and I haven’t even had a go at one. I actually dream of lying on dates, wishing I could say that I’m badly divorced – somehow that seems better than explaining the alternative. Never married. People just don’t understand my absolute lack of interest. My fictitious ex is called Rupert. He was a bear of a man, but devilishly handsome. I couldn’t resist his charms until . . . the story changes from there, depending on how much I’ve had to drink.

  ‘Forget the wedding,’ Dora says, then quickly backtracks apologetically to Dean, who was only half paying attention. ‘For now. Plenty of time for us, right?’ She scootches close, pushes her dark bobbed hair out of the way and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek, leaving a faint red lip print.

  ‘The theme should be rebirth and renewal,’ says Finn, dramatically. He’s a bit of an instigator, only happy when stirring things up.

  Dora steals a bacon strip from Dean’s plate, nods to Finn, takes a bite then points the remaining bit at me. ‘And it needs to bubble with fun.’

  ‘I don’t bubble, Dora.’ Unless I’ve been outdoors too long: then my fair and freckly completion reacts violently and blisters in the sun.

  ‘Right. And you’re hardly fun,’ Finn says with a head-bob. ‘But you absolutely must embrace this turning point, Libbs.’

  My stomach is what turns. Something’s up. They’re all looking at one another and nodding. I take another sip, too fast; the fizz climbs up my nose.

  ‘OK, the thing is . . .’ Dora’s hand reaches for mine. She pats it. ‘I’m not sure how to start, actually.’ With a staggered breath, she gives it a firm squeeze. ‘We
just . . . Well, Libbs, we understand, of course, but every year around your birthday –’

  ‘You’re antisocial and glum,’ Finn grumbles.

  ‘And it’s not getting better,’ Dora continues, speaking fast but methodically, almost as if she’d rehearsed. ‘In fact, over time it’s gotten worse. And after chatting with you the other day about your lack of love life, we’ve been talking amongst ourselves, and, well . . .’

  My eyebrows hike. I’m poised on high alert. Everyone’s leaned in and is giving nudges for her to continue.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Finn growls in frustration, plops down his fork and straightens. ‘The thing is, Libbs, we love you madly, but we think you’re stuck.’

  ‘The neon clothes –’

  ‘The super-big hair –’

  ‘No wonder you’re single.’

  I’m hit from all sides. Everyone is talking at once. I lean back, arms crossed, not sure what to say.

  ‘Consider this . . .’ Dora looks around again, and then all together they chime, ‘An Eighties intervention.’

  I blink. ‘A what?’

  Dora snorts. ‘An Eighties intervention.’

  ‘We simply cannot –’

  ‘Will not –’

  ‘Must not –’

  ‘Allow you to enter another year while stuck in the Eighties. Things have to change.’ Dora points at me with a chubby finger. ‘You said so yourself.’

  ‘And it’s for your own good, really,’ Dean adds.

  ‘And ours, ’cause I really can’t take any more of the Madonna’s-early-years look.’

  ‘Shut up, Finn.’ I smack him. ‘And look at you. What’s sprouted from your jaw? Seriously, someone could hide in that thing.’ He’s sporting a full-on beard, not even remotely scruff-like or sexy.

  ‘It’s a men’s movement, a modern trend, so obviously you wouldn’t understand.’ Finn narrows his eyes and scratches at it.

  ‘You guys do understand I own a vintage retail store, right? We sell clothes, music and collectables from the Eighties, so I’m not stuck in that decade. I profit from it.’ I huff a fast breath when no one says anything, adjusting my bangles again. ‘It’s for work. It’s what I do.’

  ‘It’s what you’ve always done,’ Dora says, arching her brows. ‘You worked at Pretty in Pink when we were in high school.’

  ‘And I bought it, and grew the business right after,’ I say in my own defence.

  ‘That’s true,’ Finn says, and receives an irritated look from Dora. He receives a grateful one from me, although it’s short-lived. ‘But this?’ He reaches to my Rick-Astley-red hair and picks at a curl. The entire side lifts in tandem. ‘I’d say Aqua Net, but I don’t think they even make it any more.’

  ‘They absolutely do, and I’m never gonna give it up,’ I say, a tad cheeky.

  ‘Well, it’s gotta go or they’ll run away screaming,’ Finn says, missing my clever wordplay. ‘The Pretty Woman big-hair thing is done, sweetie. Even Julia has her locks straightened.’

  I look to Dean, but he only wrinkles his nose, shoves a monster bite of omelette in his mouth and bobs his head in agreement. Really?

  Wait . . . ‘Who will run away screaming?’ I smooth down the stray lock just as Dora reaches to pull up another. I swat her hand away. ‘And who cares what Julia Roberts does? It’s easier this way. Plus, she has stylists.’

  ‘And so will you,’ Dean laughs, mouth still half-full. ‘I kind of like the curls. Maybe just soften the crunch a bit?’

  ‘Eh, no.’ Finn’s shaking his head. ‘She needs a complete makeover.’

  ‘A life makeover,’ Dora adds. ‘That’s what you said, Libbs, your own words, “I need a life makeover”, so no more dating the same type of guy.’

  Yeah, I said that, but . . . My brows push down. ‘I haven’t even been dating.’

  ‘Which is the problem. But trust us – when you do, he’s always the same type.’ Dora hands Dean a much-needed napkin.

  ‘Completely unavailable, just off a divorce, or only recently separated. In other words . . .’ Finn waves his fork as a baton. ‘A poor, tortured soul.’

  ‘I’m the one being tortured, you guys,’ I huff.

  ‘Here’s the thing. Based on what we know and what you said, we’ve made a pact,’ Dora says, halting the roast. ‘We’re going to break you from your Eighties rut and drag you into the twenty-first century—’

  ‘Kicking and screaming?’ I give a closed-mouth smirk, not sure if I should be amused or irritated. I might be both. Lifting my glass, I chug down the rest of my drink. I may need a real one. ‘One, that was a private conversation, Dora, and two, aren’t we supposed to be planning your wedding today?’

  ‘Oh, plenty of time for that.’ Dora and Dean nod to one another, decidedly. ‘But your birthday? That’s in two weeks, and this year the gloom and doom stops. Mark my word, Libbs, there will be a party.’

  ‘And you need a viable date,’ says Finn, nodding, to which they all agree.

  Dora’s in Dora mode now; there’s no stopping her. ‘First, five dates of our choosing, all completely different types, all open and available for a real relationship. And hopefully you’ll be open and give one a real chance. That way he can escort you to your party.’

  ‘The party I don’t want?’ I say to remind them.

  ‘The party you’re having,’ Dora mutters back.

  My head shakes fervently. ‘Forget it, Dora, OK? Last time you fixed me up, the guy was a Trekkie. A Trekkie,’ I say again, demonstrating Spock’s lame hand sign.

  ‘How do you even do that?’ asks Dean, trying to form the V with his fingers.

  I can think of a better sign to show him. All of them. I’m officially peeved.

  Dora lifts her chin, determined. ‘Fine, then bring Jasper. He adores you. And I know you like him.’

  ‘Which is exactly why she won’t go out with him,’ Finn adds. ‘He’s available, likes her, and it could actually lead to something.’

  ‘No, that’s not why,’ I say, defensively. Jasper maybe has a small crush, but yeah, there’s no way. ‘He’s younger than me, works for me and likes Green Day. Really, does there need to be more?’

  Dora pops her brows high, looking smug.

  I lower mine, exasperated.

  ‘Look, you have to say it in a way Libbs will appreciate. Eighties-speak.’ Finn smiles mischievously and leans over the table, zeroing in. ‘It should be said in the simplest terms and most convenient definitions, right, Libbs?’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Dean says with a shrug, looking around for hints.

  ‘Ah, but she does, and that’s the problem.’ Finn’s smile widens. ‘So, dear girl, you will break from the tragically unavailable and date –’

  ‘A brain,’ Dora says, as if on cue.

  ‘An athlete,’ Finn says.

  Dean looks around. ‘Oh, me? Yes, OK: a basket case.’

  ‘And a princess,’ Finn says, with a finger raised. ‘Or at least a metro-type guy – unless . . .?’

  ‘No.’ I narrow my eyes, shaking my head. ‘Noooo . . .’

  ‘Don’t forget the criminal,’ Dean says.

  ‘Oh, and we’re in charge of the makeover.’ Dora waves a hand to indicate herself and Finn.

  ‘Who, you and the unofficial fourth member of ZZ Top?’ I smirk, pushing my teased hair from my exaggerated shoulders. Even if Finn usually is the ‘Sharp Dressed Man’, I don’t need his advice; and maybe I did mention wanting a new look to Dora, but I don’t need a complete makeover, do I? I really can’t believe they’re doing this to me. Who gave them the right to pass judgement? ‘Yeah, not gonna happen,’ I say with conviction.

  ‘Looky here, Libby London . . .’ Dora chomps a bite, but that doesn’t stop her. ‘I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for you. We all are. We love you, and it’s about bloody well time you were happy.’

  ‘I was happy, until about twenty minutes ago,’ I say under my breath, then look to my so-called friends: slightly eccentric, b
ut socially superior Finn; easy-going Dean, and finally the evil mastermind, hormonally charged Dora.

  She pouts her lips and shakes folded hands over the table. ‘Please, please, please . . .’

  God. She’ll just keep pestering and making me feel guilty until I cave. My massively padded shoulders collapse with a guttural sigh. ‘Fine. God, fine.’ Agreeing to it and following through are two different things. I just want this conversation to stop.

  ‘Goody!’ Dora claps, then stands, excusing herself to the ladies’ room. I half expect her to raise her arm and make the iconic fist pump as she struts away, like Judd Nelson did in The Breakfast Club.

  I wake, frazzled, and at once realize I’m crying. Damn it. Not again. Stupid nightmares. I’m all fizzy and agitated. Once up, I stumble to the kitchen for water and ibuprofen, the tears in constant flow. Opening the cupboard, I find the extra-strength and take two, wishing they were something stronger and could knock me out, but knowing they aren’t and won’t.

  My mind spins an endless loop. Pretty in Pink, my vintage thrift shop, is in the perfect Lower East Side location, and in New York City that’s no small feat. I’m being forced to move. My stomach coils at the thought. I mean, how am I ever going to find affordable space? How is this even happening? How is it my fault Crafty Cath’s, the hobby shop I sublease from, went bankrupt? It’s not. But unfortunately my lease was with them, not the actual commercial property owners, and they want me out.

  I don’t want to move my store. I also don’t want to do Dora’s Breakfast-Club-Eighties-intervention date-and-makeover thing, and I certainly don’t want a pointless birthday party. Why does everything have to change?

  With a pillow across my lap and a box of tissues by my side, I sit and stare at my opened unicorn Trapper Keeper notebook. I’ve written two lines.

  Dear Dr Papadopoulos,

  I accepted your challenge to write an essay of who I think I am, but . . .

  That’s all I have. Why’d he even ask me to do this? Other than this afternoon, I hadn’t seen him in almost six months; I didn’t need to. But with the stupid legal notice about the store, my birthday stalking me, and today’s intervention thing, I found myself back at his office.