She is on-stage. Singing. She is wearing a wonderful silver outfit, covered in spangles. The band is phenomenal. Two guitars, drums, synthesiser and a stonking front line of three trumpets, four trombones and five saxes. They sound like liquid silk. Any one of the three glamorous girl backing singers, swaying in time to the rhythm, could be a soloist in her own right.
But the spotlight is on Lori. And the applause, when the song ends, is hers alone, the audience in the packed auditorium on its collective feet, chanting her name... “Lori, Lori, Lori.”
She moves into the wings, exhilarated by the adulation. The audience doesn’t stop. “Lori, Lori. Lori.”
A young man in his twenties is standing backstage. He is tall and slim, with slicked back blonde hair and dark glasses. He is wearing a snakeskin jacket and a string tie with a diamond scorpion at the throat. He takes Lori’s shoulders and turns her around. “Get back out there babe,” he says. “They can’t get enough of you.”
Lori takes her bow, drinking in the ecstatic faces, the hands reaching up to touch her, bathing in the glow of celebrity.
She is a star. And it feels wonderful.
Then she is back in her dressing-room. She is Lori, but not Lori – the reflection in the theatrical mirror, surrounded by lights, is almost luminous. A thick, shiny waterfall of highlighted hair, sparkling eyes outlined in kohl, cheekbones emphasised with pearlised powder, soft shiny lips.
The man in the snakeskin jacket is looking over her shoulder. His voice in her ear is sensuous, seductive.
“You like this, Lori?” says the voice. “You like being a star?”
“Oh yes,” says Lori. “Oh yes.”
“What would you give if this were real, Lori, if this wasn’t just a dream?”
“Anything,” says Lori.
“Anything?”
“Anything!!” she says.
And she means it.