Lucy peers over my shoulder.
‘VIP drinks, bitch. It is going to kick off, you know, right?’
‘Just make sure the socks don’t fall out of your bra.’
‘Cow.’
By the time we get to the venue, there’s still a queue outside the large white building but we manage to flash our codes around and the security guard ushers us in kindly even when faced with an excitable Lucy, who grips on tightly to my shoulders.
‘You’ve missed this, eh?’ she whispers into my ear over the roar of the music, the intensity of the crowd.
Missed is an understatement. Gigs were my thing. Actually, they were mine and Will’s thing and with a jolt, I think about how it should be his arm hooked into mine, not Lucy’s. He would love this. From large stadiums to small jazz venues, we used to hunt down listings and camp in queues. We were experts in balancing pints, knowing where to stand for the best sound quality and how to navigate the trek to the toilets. As we walk into the hall, hundreds of flashbacks hit me, from the touch of his hand around my midriff (Ben Howard) to Will starting sing-offs (Stevie Wonder, Hyde Park) to trying to get to the front of the mosh pit (Red Hot Chili Peppers; it was a mistake, I got kicked in the face). Rap concerts are always a different crowd though, everyone looks younger and much cooler in a sea of black sportswear, midriffs or the waistbands of their underwear showing.
Lucy manages to drag us around to the VIP area and another bouncer looks at me suspiciously. I know my jeggings sag a bit around the crotch. ‘Do you know who she is?’ Lucy asks.
I cringe as she says it. The security guard doesn’t look too impressed.
‘Her baby is on the album and stars in the video. This is his mum.’
He doesn’t look totally convinced. Lucy gets her phone out and shows him a photo, meaning this is the second time I’ve shown a security guard baby pictures in an attempt to prove a point. He smiles but still looks at us like we’re mad. That said, the passes I have on my phone help matters and he lets us through a roped area where everyone stops to look at us. I use Lucy as a shield and she struts in with all the confidence I’m lacking. It’s a small bar area but the crowd is naturally trendy – music people and press here for the freebies, sipping at champagne. To my relief, it’s not overly rammed so we weave our way through the crowd to find the alcohol.
‘Beth?’
Giles. Thank hell for that. I launch myself at him in an awkward fashion. ‘So glad we bumped into you. This is Lucy, my sister.’
‘Oliver, my husband.’ There’s a trade in greetings and air kissing. Oliver is lean, and towers over me with designer glasses and a trendy undercut going on. And they’re both in matching black; so they got the memo about the dress code.
‘We’re glad you came,’ replied Giles. ‘Kimmie was keen to have you on the list, to say thank you. Joe was a big part of the covers, the video.’
‘Was I supposed to bring him?’
‘To a rap gig, maybe not.’ He and Oliver laugh at me in what I hope is an affectionate way.
‘Are you both British rap fans then?’ I ask, trying to break the silence.
They both give me a strange look. ‘Not our usual genre of choice. We’re not sure if we’re supposed to be dancing?’ Oliver whispers.
‘I wouldn’t,’ I reply. ‘Rap concerts can be quite intense. Like good intense. It’s mainly jumping and the young ones will take their shirts off and run in circles at the front.’ I point to the main stage where the crowd throbs in time to the music. ‘I’d stand there, firm head nod…’
‘Or a co-ordinated shoulder move, one hand in the air, it’s all in the pout,’ Lucy says as we both demonstrate. Both Oliver and Giles look at us curiously. It’s a sister thing. But give Lucy an hour and a few beers and she’ll have choreographed a routine. Oliver and Lucy seem to start some sort of strange dance-off as Giles comes over to stand next to me.
‘Do you know those two?’ he asks. I laugh. Our attention is suddenly turned to the screen as in amongst some strobe lighting and dry ice, Special K emerges.
‘Look at our girl, eh?’ Giles whispers.
She strolls up and down the stage. The crowd bay with immense volume and her face is projected over dozens of screens, the lyrics pouring out of her double time and thousands of people spitting out the chorus with her. It’s a young crowd – they look like they belong in my school. The girl commands the space, her star quality shining through. Why do I feel like a proud parent?
‘Can I ask what the lioness means in the video? What does it signify?’
‘It was just based off a conversation I had with her. She likes nature shows and in the wild, lionesses do all the work. They own the pride, they’re the real stars of the show. So we threw that in as a nod. And all the other symbols reflected that: youth, birth, female power. I knew the spotlight was going to be intense so I wanted people to look at the right things.’
‘It’s clever.’
We fall silent watching her as she pauses to let the crowd chant a line back at her. Lucy did this on a girls’ holiday once. She stood on a bar. No one repeated the line back and I think she tripped over a beer tap and split her lip open.
‘Look at all that spotlight though, I hope she has good people looking after her,’ he whispers.
I like how Giles shows genuine concern for Kimmie. At seventeen, I was sitting on park greens drinking cider and sneaking around Cineworld trying to watch 18-rated films.
‘How are you, anyway?’ He looks at me reassuringly. I can tell he’s different to most in his industry, that he looks out for people.
‘Getting there.’
‘I sensed some issues with Will when I dropped you off that time. Are you OK? You can tell me if it’s none of my business.’
I glance over at his husband, Lucy hanging off his shoulder and laughing.
‘How long have you and Oliver been together?’ I ask.
‘Wow. Sixteen years. Married for five.’
‘Then you’ll get how there are sometimes glitches in the system?’
‘I’d be more surprised if there weren’t glitches. Sometimes you need those moments for clarity. I get it. I hope you work things out.’
I’m grateful for his concern.
‘Also, interestingly, we had a call from Yasmin’s agent last week. It turns out she’s pregnant.’
I blush intensely and look out into the concert knowing I’m probably giving myself away.
‘You knew?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t say anything. It’s her business and I didn’t want her to be judged unfairly for it.’
‘Is she OK?’ Giles asks.
I’ve been sworn to secrecy but I feel Giles has her best interests at heart. The secret is out and I don’t think he’ll swing it about like gossip.
‘She’s on her own; Jethro left her. She’s just working some stuff out. I’d go easy if you have any work lined up with her.’
He nods. ‘I thought you two weren’t friends?’
I laugh. Would she be the first person I called in an emergency? Are we going out on the razz next weekend? We’re not even mates on Facebook but I care about what happens to her now, and that’s what matters, I guess.
‘I’m glad she’s got you on her side.’
Giles links arms with me as we watch Kimmie take a bow. A group to the left of us have got more animated and one gentleman in head-to-toe Armani and who’s partaken in quite a fair bit of alcohol bumps into me, spilling some of that alcohol down my front. It’s cold. It’s very cold and I shriek as it runs down my cleavage.
‘So coooooolllllddddd…’
I pull at my T-shirt as the man looks absolutely horrified. It’s ice cubes and liquor and it’s sticky, slick and frigging arctic. I dance around fishing it out of my front, in what looks like some badly timed interpretative dance move. Lucy stares at me strangely, wondering if this is alcohol-induced, but as ice flies about, she realises what’s happened.
‘Oi, mate. What the hell are you doing…
?’ she says, striding over, her hands up in the air.
Our small bar area goes quiet. Where did this girl get her front? Giles rushes around to grab at napkins while Oliver stands there, reluctant to get into a fight right now.
‘I am sorry. I am so so sorry,’ the man mumbles, his eyes transfixed on my chest quite awkwardly.
‘It’s fine. It was an accident. No harm done, seriously,’ I say, smiling.
Lucy’s not quite done with him though. ‘Well, you owe us drinks now. Our whole group. And that T-shirt, the coat will need to be dry-cleaned, you know?’
Oh, Lucy, don’t create a scene. I’ll fling this T-shirt in the wash at thirty degrees. It’s got baby puke stains on it that, embarrassingly, look like another sort of bodily fluid. The man looks me up and down, squinting to understand why I’m in the room. I know, mate, I know.
‘You’re that baby’s mum, innit?’ He embraces me tightly, his six-foot-something frame enveloping mine. ‘I’m Kimmie’s dad. Look at our babies together. It’s a beautiful thing.’
I can’t help grinning. ‘My boy is just the icing. It’s mainly your girl and her talent. You should be proud.’
‘You too, mama. She loves that boy, he’s her lucky charm. Champagne? I owe you. I’m a clumsy bastard at the best of times. We should toast these bloody brilliant babies of ours.’
I nod. Yeah, we should.
I’m standing backstage in a Christmas T-shirt with a dancing elf on it. Express Your Elf. It was this or a reindeer. Naturally, I didn’t pack a change of clothes so despite Lucy’s suggestion of turning a scarf into a boob tube, I borrowed this men’s size top from one of the bar staff instead.
Giles looks across at me and chortles. ‘You look so festive.’
‘Ho ho ho!’
The concert over, he’s guiding us through the venue. I realise this is a behind-the-scenes part of gigs I’ve not seen before. Normally, I’m out front just digging the music and drinking the alcohol but there are people in radio mics running about with ropes and clipboards; for them it’s a job, it’s their everyday. We head over to lines of doors and Giles knocks on one. It opens to a man eyeing us suspiciously. There’s a real party atmosphere inside, alcohol flying, music turned up and because my senses are so finely attuned to these things, I smell chips, meat, possibly a burger. Yes, I smell burgers. If you want to talk about superpowers I’ve acquired post-partum, this is one. It contains onions and barbeque sauce.
‘Yeah?’ says the man at the door.
‘Gillllles! I know him, Kyle, let him in!’ screams a voice from the back of the room. We see Kimmie, sitting down sipping from a tin of cherry Coke. She waves us in and we head over. I get the looks. The room is buzzing with what’s just happened on that stage, people singing and chanting her name. I have no experience that’s comparable to this, I really don’t.
‘God, it’s— Too loud— here…’ Kimmie shouts at us.
Giles and I nod, pretending that we know exactly what she’s said and she laughs and beckons us out of the room into the corridor.
‘I am so sorry. It is madness in there. I don’t know half the people either…’
Giles puts an arm to her. ‘You OK?’
‘I literally just shared the stage with the biggest rapper, like ever.’
It’s a lot to take in, I get it. Giles takes her hand, kissing it. I’m taken back to the moment I first saw these two sitting with their calamari sharing platter in a pub in my suburban neck of the woods. How are we suddenly here? The door of the room re-opens.
‘Giles, mate. You should come in. We’ve got plans for the next video.’ He’s dragged into the room by some music executive in a suit and I’m left there with Kimmie. Instinctively, I bring her in for a hug and she wraps her arms around me. She’s in just a cropped top, leggings and military boots in winter – have some of my body heat or you’ll catch a death. Her body is almost shaking under mine.
‘I met your dad earlier? He’s a joy,’ I tell her.
‘Oh my days, he is wasted. Was he completely embarrassing?’
‘He was a proud dad. And rightly so, you looked pretty amazing out there,’ I tell her.
‘You’re too kind. How did it sound though?’
‘Loud?’
She laughs. ‘I’m just glad Giles is here. I’ve got this whole section of my team in there who feel I should be taking what I do in a different direction. Like put me on a stage in my bra and a thong and have me thrust about, but that’s not what I want, you know? I want people to hear the words. I’m more than my body, right?’
‘You are.’
‘And if I have people spitting my lyrics back at me then this is about responsibility; it’s about telling girls my age to love and respect what’s in here.’ She taps at her skull as she says that, adrenalin carrying her rant. I’m in awe. When I was her age, all I had to worry about was the number of friends I had on Myspace (I had ninety-three).
‘One of your lyrics… it’s something about only a coward would spend their life in the hamlets. That’s Charlotte Brontë, yes?’
She looks up at me and smiles broadly. ‘You know Brontë?’
‘That’s my English-teacher brain talking.’
‘Not enough people know about Villette,’ she replies. ‘Usually it’s all Jane Eyre and Heathcliff with the Brontës but that book is all about independence, growth, loneliness. I get it.’
Oh, how I love this girl. Half my career is trying to get kids to be as enthusiastic about books as this, rather than them staring blankly at the walls or texting someone under a desk while I’m trying to teach them about Chaucer. But now, I’m having a literary conversation in the corridors of the Hammersmith Apollo.
Her eyes light up, maybe even more than when she’s on a set with a stuffed lion in the background. ‘Thanks for that Zadie Smith recommendation too, I loved it,’ she adds.
‘I’m glad. So you write all your own lyrics then?’ I ask her.
‘Yeah… I performed them as poetry to start and then I don’t know, I guess you could say it snowballed. My brother put it on YouTube and then people got in touch.’ She sips quietly from her can of soft drink.
‘So this was never the dream?’
‘It’s… something. I’ve had to put university plans on hold. It’s all been a bit of a surprise. One moment, I’m Kimmie from Tower Hamlets and now I’m the voice of black female youth in Britain. We had Beyoncé on the phone the other day.’
I laugh. I see that’s a big weight for such small shoulders, so I urge her to sit on the floor with me and relax for a moment. I don’t know what I’d do if Beyoncé called me. I’d sing her songs back at her including any Jay Z raps and attempt all the high notes in between, which would probably do the opposite of impress.
‘What were you going to study?’ I ask.
‘English literature I think, maybe creative writing.’
I smile and put on my professional cap for a second. ‘You know there’s still time for that, right? This here doesn’t define you. I have students do all sorts of gap years. I have some who have to stop school to work and earn money and they do their studies part-time or much later.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m going to assume you don’t rap 24/7. You have gaps in between to keep reading and you can go back to it when you’re ready.’
‘That’s true. I guess I’m just not sure if this is for me, forever. I’m still trying to figure out who I am.’
Her words ring so very true to me. I don’t think that ever changes. But I don’t want to freak her out by saying you can get to thirty and still not have a bloody clue what you’re doing with your life. The door suddenly flies open again and the tall gentleman who was guarding the door stands there, glaring at us.
‘Kimmie, you should be in here,’ he tells her. I’m not overly fond of the aggression in his voice.
‘She’s just having a breather,’ I tell him.
‘And who are you?’ he asks.
‘She’s my friend
, Kyle. Piss off.’
He slams the door shut and I worry for a moment about poor Giles as the music gets turned up.
‘That’s my brother. He thinks he’s a hard man but really he manages a phone shop and still lives at home,’ she says with the attitude only one can have when talking about a sibling. I study her face. I can’t quite tell if she’s happy or not. I’d imagine this is overwhelming, being yanked out of your everyday and then landing in something that you’re not one hundred per cent prepared for. I put a hand to hers.
‘I’ll give you my number later. We can start a book club,’ I joke.
‘I’d like that. Follow me on Insta? I want to see pictures of Joe, he really is so cute.’
‘I will.’ She’ll be the coolest person out of my followers, bar none. I’m mainly friends with people like my uncle Jack, who posts pictures of his allotments and boasts about the girth of his marrows. ‘And you know, thank you. I’ve told some of my students that Joe was in your video and now they think I’m marginally cooler than I was before.’
‘Excuse me, you’re totally Gucci,’ she says, defiantly.
I assume that’s some sort of slang because I’m totally high street. ‘Kimmie, your dad spilt a drink on me. I had to change into an elf T-shirt, at a rap gig. The elf is actually flossing.’
‘I just thought you were being ironic. Harry Styles is in there and he’s wearing pearls.’
We both laugh. Harry Styles is in there? Don’t tell Lucy.
‘You’re rocking it, Beth. You’re one of the few people in this game that I trust. You talk to me, not at me, not down at me. You’re just trill.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘True and real.’
‘I’ll take that.’
‘Will you sit with me for a bit longer?’ she asks. ‘I just want a timeout, is that OK?’
I nod. A timeout. I think about those words and take my parka, draping it on her shoulders.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 24
