[NEC, Birmingham, UK]

The applause and cheering gradually died down after ‘Hazed’, aka Hazel Donaldson and her backing band, had left the stage. Then the chants of ‘More’ grew until the stage lights went on again to reveal an empty stage apart from Hazel, a stool and an acoustic guitar. In the minute or so from the lights going out to now, she’d changed from her previous outfit into a simple white lace dress.

She used her arms to quieten the audience.

“Thank you for being such a great audience tonight.”
Some applause rippled around the packed arena.

“As you all know, this is the last night of my tour that has taken in nine countries and forty-six shows before tonight. Thanks to audiences like yourself, the tour has been a great success but also very exhausting.”

She took a deep breath and swept back her trademark, long, copper-coloured hair with one hand before continuing.

“You guys are the first apart from the guys in the band to hear this news.”

A wag in the audience shouted, ‘You are pregnant’. That got a lot of laughter.

“Speaking of the band, can you guys come on stage and take a bow?”

Slowly, the five members of her backing band appeared from the wings.

“Without these guys, the tour would not have been possible. Guys, please take a bow.”

They all bowed to the audience and trooped off the stage to a very good round of applause.

“Right, now back to matters at hand, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m not pregnant, but I am going to take a break from touring and recording. I’ve put out four albums and done three lengthy tours in the past three years. I need time to relax and to work on new songs. This last song is for all my fans everywhere. It is one that my late father used to sing to me when I was very young and when I wouldn’t go to bed.”

The arena went quiet as she plucked a few notes on the guitar to get the melody. Then she sang the song ‘Now is the time to say goodbye’. She sang it in Italian and English without any backing music.

At first, the audience was surprised, but soon, they were mesmerised by the sound of a single voice unaffected by autotune or other technical wizardry, filling the cavernous auditorium. Many were openly crying by the end. The few music critics who had bothered to attend the evening were busily rewriting their reports.

What got most people close to tears was the purity and range of her voice. Modern pop music has a very narrow range that is made worse by the use of autotune and other devices. Hazed eschewed them with a vengeance, but her music had been written for a particular audience, which was not entirely to her liking. The final song of her final show showed the world just how powerful her voice was, and as several journalists would report, she could sing properly, unlike so many other women in the business.

Hundreds of streams of the encore went viral on social media. Hazel didn’t care. Because of stalkers and hundreds of viable threats against her life, she had publicly denounced the platforms and deleted her accounts well before this third and final tour had even started.

When she finished singing, she got up from the stool, came to the front of the stage and did a simple curtsey to the cheering audience. Then the stage lights went out, and she walked off. As soon as she was backstage, the auditorium lights came on, telling the audience it was time for them to say goodbye to the arena and head home.

Hazel and her manager were already in a car and well away from the venue before the press started to gather at the artist's entrance. Jared Clarke, her manager, was as surprised as everyone else about the news, but the sheer beauty of her closing song had stopped him from asking any of the thousands of questions he wanted to. He’d known Hazel long enough to understand that her words were spoken from the heart and that it would take a seismic event to get her to change her mind.

News that a star as ‘hot’ as ‘Hazed’ was taking a break from both performing and recording was front-page news in all the national ‘Red Top’ class of newspapers and had even prompted a special edition of one of the celebrity gossip rags. Their front page was almost fully occupied by a black coffin with the words ‘Hazel Donaldson, Gone to Hell’. That didn’t go down well with social media, and a week after the edition was published, the editor was sacked. It didn’t stop the rag from continuing to slag her off at every opportunity, even if she had done nothing newsworthy since the last slagging-off episode. Hazel might not have been active, but her name still sold a lot of copy.

Their social media accounts were hacked multiple times until the owner of the publication publicly said sorry, and their ‘We hate Hazel’ campaign ended.

After leaving the NEC, Jared had driven Hazel to Knutsford Services on the M6, where he was told, ‘Get lost’ after a goodbye kiss on the cheek. She’d arranged for a friend to pick her up and take her north.

Jared disappeared into the night, knowing that Hazel was done with the business for the foreseeable future. When he put his own selfishness to the back of his mind, he understood her decision. He drove off into the night, still amazed by the song she’d finished with. For a battle-hardened music manager like him, her choice of song was somewhat poetic.

Hazel planned to go to ground and keep out of the spotlight for as long as possible. No one from her management team would have anything to add to what she’d told the world from the stage. All they could say was, ‘We have no idea where she is. We are sure that in good time, she will let us know where she is and that she is safe and well.’

A close childhood friend was waiting for her out of range of the CCTV cameras in the service area car park.

The news of her disappearance kept her face on the front pages for another few days, but sure as the sun rises in the east, another celebrity being caught cheating on his wife took over.

At that moment, Hazel was chilling out in a small cottage on the eastern shore of Loch Lomond, in Scotland. She stayed there for almost two weeks before making direct contact with her management team. That contact was short and sweet.

“I’m winding down the production and touring company. A team of accountants will be coming in to do that job for me. You will all get six months’ salary as a bonus. I’m not going touring or recording for the foreseeable future. When I do decide to get back on the bandwagon, the world will know. Thank you for all your hard work these past few years, but you all knew that it was not a job for life. Most artists in our line of work have a limited shelf life. I’m both physically and mentally exhausted from the past three and a half years. I’m going to do something very different with my life for a while. It remains to be seen if I ever set foot on a stage and sing to a live audience again.”

Needless to say, her record label was none too happy about the news. Their trigger-happy lawyers sued her for breach of contract. Hazel's legal team issued a statement defending their client and specifically mentioned the wording of the contract, which stated that 'Hazed' would produce at least three albums during the period of the contract. She'd released four million-selling albums. Hazed sued the label in retaliation. The label caved in, and by mutual consent, the contract was quietly cancelled, and all her legal costs were recovered, plus a small sum in damages for loss of reputation. That sum was publicly donated to a music charity. She didn’t care about the money, but more about the principle of the thing. She’d fulfilled her side of the contract and more.

Jared, her manager, hung around for a few more months, tying up loose ends, but to all intents and purposes, ‘Hazed’ was not a performer any longer. He had other artists to look after and make lots of money from.

Before he left, he persuaded her to give just one interview to a respected journalist about her decision to at least temporarily retire from the music industry. In that interview, Hazel talked about the mental fatigue that the endless cycle of recording and touring was causing her. She made it clear that she had never taken any drugs to keep going, and they were just not part of her life. Her final words were,

“If I feel able to tour again, then I might do so, but for at least a while, I want to be a normal person. To all those wannabe social media stars, keep well away from me. I’m not going to be doing anything worth recording, let alone selling. Besides, I have the last three series of ‘Bake Off’ to watch.”

The last comment drew a smile from the normally serious political journalist. He knew from her body language that she was done, and if at all possible, she would not be stepping back into the limelight anytime soon if she could help it. That was what she intended.

‘Hazed’ mania soon faded into the background. Other so-called singers readily filled her shoes, but none could get anywhere near emulating her last song in terms of public reaction.

Hazel had been nominated for the ‘Hall of Fame’. She politely declined, and the nomination was quietly dropped or forgotten.

The popular music industry does not stay still for very long. Music styles are always changing, and very soon, a different sort of music filled the airwaves. Within a couple of months, the ‘Hazed’ thing became a mere memory like Spice Mania and 90’s Brit Pop.

Her place of sanctuary was a cottage and some land, some 10 miles west of the Oxfordshire town of Banbury. Hazel Donaldson had bought it with the proceeds of her first hit album and tour. It wasn't in her name but that of her maternal grandmother, which Hazel had changed hers to, just to buy the place. Her new name, Dorethea Sinclair or Dora for short, was on all her official documents. No one in the music world knew of the name change.

Dora cut her hair fairly short, dyed it strawberry blonde and settled down to life in the country.

It didn’t take long for her to discover that maintaining the property and its more than 60 hectares was not a job for her on her own. Pottering around in the garden close to the cottage was one thing, but managing her ‘estate’ was not. The property had been a case of ‘love at first sight’ and was turning out to be a clear example of ‘heart over head.’ She needed help, and quickly.

Dora started to look for someone who could not only look after her property but who was capable of taking her bit of Oxfordshire to the next level. She wasn’t sure what that level was, but she knew that it needed changing.

Three months went by, and Dora was starting to get desperate when a visit to a flower show in Leamington Spa gave her an idea. One week later, she drove her ancient Volvo north and visited the RHS [1] flower show at Tatton Park.

While that visit proved to be interesting, she was no further forward in her search. The big positive to come out of the trip was that no one recognised her. For the first time in years, she had not faced a barrage of people filming her every movement. Dora went home pleased with that, but still no further forward in her search for the right sort of help at her home.

Unbeknownst to her, one of the people she'd spoken to at the show had made a few phone calls to a former employer who might fit the job that Dora had spoken about.

It was more than a week later that Dora received a phone call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” said Dora, thinking that it was a scam call.

She listened to the voice on the other end. It was only when the caller mentioned the Tatton Park Show that she relaxed a little bit.

“Can you send me your CV? I’d like to take a look at it.”

“That will do fine. I look forward to receiving the link.”

“Bye.”

Dora hung up and began to think.
With a shake of her head, she put the call out of her mind and returned to weeding the bed that she wanted to grow herbs in.

An hour later, her phone beeped. The caller had sent a link to his CV as a text message, as he promised.

Dora had by now toned down any hopes of finding the right person for the job before the end of summer. She’d been told by several people at the flower show that the time for the top garden people to move was after the last of the big flower shows in September. As it was mid-July, most of the available candidates would not be able to start until the Autumn at the earliest.

It was late afternoon before Dora had finished planting the last of the herbs. After getting something to drink, she clicked on the link in the text.

Dora read his CV twice before putting the phone down. She could not understand why someone like him was stacking shelves in a supermarket. That caused her to think long and hard. Should she call him and ask him why? Her problem was that she’d always been awkward around men. The only one she’d ever really had a relationship with was her old manager, Jared, but he was as gay as anyone she'd ever met.

Two hours of searching told her that something had gone badly wrong just after getting a Gold Medal at the Chelsea Flower Show. His CV was, to her surprise, 100% accurate.

Dora called him back.

“Tom, Dora Sinclair.”

“Yes, I read your CV. Why? Why aren’t you head gardener at some Stately Home or a leading nursery?”

“Yes, that’s why?”

She listened to his explanation with interest.
“Ok, but why? Why did they suddenly want you gone?”

As she listened to his answer, a small smile broke out on her face.

“Thank you for being honest with me. Why don’t you come and see the place for yourself?”

“Saturday is fine. I’ll send you a link to the online map. I’m at the end of a narrow lane that isn’t marked on most maps.”

“Thanks, and I’ll see you Saturday.”

Dora hung up the phone and smiled. To her, it was clear that he had some skeletons in his closet. That might be perfect for her long-term goals.

Dora's big fear was the release of her whereabouts and how she now looked on the various social media platforms. Her place of sanctuary would become public property. Deep down, she knew how much both her physical and mental health had improved since the beginning of the year. That alone made a return to the limelight a very distant possibility.

[Saturday Lunchtime]

“I was beginning to wonder if you had got lost?” said Dora as Tom got out of his tattered van.

“I didn’t account for the roadworks on the M1 south of Sheffield. Thirty-odd miles of 50mph slowed me down, but I’m here now.”

Dora stepped up to him and offered him her hand.

“I’m Dora Sinclair.”

“Tom Foster. This is a nice place that you have here.”

“Thanks. Shall I give you the grand tour? I have some lunch prepared for after the tour.”

“That would be great.”

“Ok, let’s go. I have a total of 67 hectares. One point five for the house and buildings. The rest is grass and woodland. It was a large smallholding about 15 years ago, but nothing has been done to the land since then.”

“That’s quite impressive. The person who tipped me off about the possibility of working here said that you had said that it was too big for you to manage and that you wanted some changes done. I can see that was a bit of an understatement.”

When she’d shown him the buildings and the equipment that was in the various barns and sheds, she took Tom out to the pasture.

“This is where I need help, even if it is just to make it more manageable, but… I’d like to make it a place of beauty. Quite what that is, I have no idea. That’s where someone like yourself would come in.”

The grass needed mowing as it was almost waist-high in places.

“Would it be ok if I had a bit of a wander on my own?”

His request took Dora a bit by surprise.
“Sure. My domain has a fence around it, or rather, it did when I bought it a few years back. I’m sure that there are places where it needs to be repaired.”

He chuckled.
“I’ll bear that in mind. I’ll come and find you in, say, half an hour?”

“That would be good.”

Dora watched him walk off. Every few paces, he’d stop and look at the vegetation or something else that attracted his attention. After a couple of minutes, she left him to it and headed for the kitchen.

It was agonising for Dora to wait for Tom. Several times, she got up and went to the kitchen door, only to turn around and sit down again. Even fiddling with the items for their lunch failed to keep her occupied. There was nothing for it but to sit it out.

Almost forty minutes had passed before Tom returned.

“Sorry to take so long. I got a bit sidetracked by a badger set.”

“Badgers? I didn’t know I had any.”

“It seems to be a new set that is still being constructed. There is a fairly recent breach to your fence nearby. The metal hasn’t rusted yet.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Dora, I have to say that you have a nice place here, and yes, there is a lot that can be done to it, but the question is… should you?”

“What do you mean? Are you not interested in the job?”

“Oh, I’m interested, but I think that at least half of your land should be returned to nature or as close to it as possible. It all depends on your grand plan.”

Dora sighed.
“Let’s eat, then we can talk things over.”

Tom looked at his hands. Dora smiled. They were dirty. To her, that was a good sign.
“You passed the boot room on your way in. There is a small toilet with a sink on your right by the back door.

Over lunch, the two of them discussed the property and the possibilities for the property.

After serving some tea at the end, Dora asked,
“On the phone, you hinted at the reasons why you were ‘let go’, as you put it, not long after winning a gold medal at the Chelsea show?”

Tom sighed.
“Some old photos of me surfaced once my name was in the press after the show.”

“They were that bad?”

“For some people, they were. The photos were of me at a Pride event when I was a student. My then employer is on record as having a rather dim view of LGBT people and culture.”

“Are you gay?”

Tom looked down at the table and shook his head.

“No, the photos were of me in drag.”

“Are you a drag queen on the quiet?” asked Dora with a grin on her face.

“No. I just like to dress up from time to time. As a woman, I mean. I wouldn’t do it here if it is a problem.”

Dora grinned.
“If you decide to come and work here, it does not matter to me how you present yourself while you are here.”

Tom looked a bit puzzled.
“Don’t you have a whole load of girlfriends and the like?”

Dora shook her head.
“Accept my offer, and I’ll tell you why that is.”

“Errr….? What offer?”

Dora laughed.
“The one in the envelope on the shelf behind you.”

A slightly red in the face, Tom turned around and saw the aforesaid envelope.

“I decided to make you an offer when you went off to look around on your own. That told me loud and clear that you wanted to make up your mind about the potential of this place for the long term without my influence. Even at that stage, it was already clear that you saw a different place to me.”

Tom fingered the sealed envelope.

“You can open it, you know. It does not bite!”

“Sorry. It has been such a long time since anyone offered me a job in horticulture. I seem to have been blacklisted, but no one would tell me why. That’s why I’m stacking shelves on the 10 pm to 6 am shift.”

“What I have in mind for this place is more agriculture than horticulture, but they come from the same root… Making the best use of the land as possible in an ecologically sound way. Please open it. I’ll be outside.”

Dora left Tom to look at her offer. She sat in the afternoon sun on the rocking chair. That chair, while rather old and well-used, was the thing that persuaded her to buy the place, provided the chair was included in the deal. It was also the place where she had written her second No. 1 song, 'Love at First Rock'.

Tom emerged from the house carrying the envelope. He didn’t look too happy.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dora.

“This is too much, far too much.”

“I happen to think that you are worth it. I did my due diligence on your career. That display you put on for Chelsea was well worth the Gold Medal. Then your bio just ended. It was almost as if you ceased to exist. Then you told me why that was, and while there are plenty of LGBT people in my former world, I know that in others… well, they are far more conservative.”

“There is a place for you to make your own over there,” she said, pointing to one of the outbuildings.

Across the courtyard was a self-contained flat that would be his for the duration of his employment. That alone was a huge step up from his current tiny home.

Tom went and viewed the flat. To him, it was huge but would be perfect for the job.

He returned to where Dora was sitting and looked out at her property for several seconds.
After a huge sigh, he said,
“Ok, I accept your offer.”

[to be continued]
[Author’s Note]
I wrote this story in early 2024, but this article reinforces the position taken by Hazel.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c1jd0e0ydywo