by Wells, Nicky
‘I…no. Yes!’ A shuddery breath escaped from my lungs, and Mike put an arm around me. ‘I do. But it’s over, and it’s killing me.’
We sat together for a few moments, and Mike started to shake. His shoulders heaved, and his whole body trembled.
‘What’s so funny?’
More shaking and trembling, and a nodding-shaking of head. It took Mike a minute before he could speak. ‘I don’t believe it. I’m your rebound guy.’
I opened my mouth to protest for form’s sake but thought better of it. ‘I suppose you are.’
‘I’ve never been anyone’s rebound guy before.’
‘I’m sorry. I…the last thing I wanted was to upset you.’
‘No, no! I’m not upset. I’m intrigued. It feels weird. Interesting.’
‘You don’t mind?’ I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
‘Well, I do a little. Because I do really like you, and maybe it would have been nice to meet you under different circumstances. Not-rebound-circumstances. But.’ He shrugged. ‘It is what it is, and hey, I’m an opportunist. If you’re fine with it, and the sex is great, and I’m okay, then where’s the harm. Right? Plus—’ He put a finger on my lips before I could say anything. ‘I get to have stunning company and play games. What’s not to love?’
I grinned. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. ‘You’re sure you’re sure? No strings attached? No hurt?’
Mike curved his lips into that sweet little lopsided smile. ‘You love having sex with me. Don’t say you don’t.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the rest of the band staring at us, and I nudged Mike sharply. ‘Keep your voice down, we have an audience.’
‘Never mind them,’ Mike whispered. ‘But you do, don’t you?’
‘I do. I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t understand myself, but I do.’
‘It’s simple.’ Mike shrugged. ‘Lust.’
‘What?’
‘You’re in lust. Not in love, in lust. It’s good. I feel the same way. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.’
In lust. I shivered. ‘How terribly hedonistic of me.’
Mike belly laughed. ‘And that’s what I mean. You’re different. I don’t think any groupie would ever use the word “hedonistic” in a throwaway comment like you just did. Besides,’ he winked at me, ‘nothing wrong with a bit of hedonism here or there, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘At least you’ve tried it. You can’t ever look back and think, “cor, I wish I’d had rampant sex with that gorgeous hot rock singer when I had the chance”, because you are.’
My turn to belly laugh. ‘You don’t exactly suffer from low self-esteem, do you?’
‘Ha. You’d be surprised. But seriously, I’m only trying to lighten the mood. You’re here, I’m here, we’re both free and available, why not live a little? Don’t overthink this, Emily. I have a feeling you’re an over-thinker.’
‘You do have me figured out,’ I teased, but inwardly, I quaked. He had me figured out. ‘So all right, we’ll have lots of sex, and at the end of the week, it’s goodbye and see you around?’
‘Um. Well, it sounds terribly crass when you put it like that, but yes. I suppose.’
‘How would you put it?’
‘Me?’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘Err…no.’
‘You’ve never heard the classic saying? The ultimate justification for all rock band excesses? The excuse, the absolution, the reason for being?’
‘Um, no. I’m a rock virgin, remember?’
‘Ah. Of course. So here goes.’ He inserted a pause laden with meaning, suppressed a smile and took my hand. He looked into my eyes and whispered into my ear. ‘What goes on tour, stays on tour.’
I giggled. ‘Really? You guys really say this? I thought this was just an urban myth.’
‘So you have heard about it.’
‘I’ve read about it. In a novel. A romance novel, actually. Featuring a rock star and a girl next door. My sister gave it to me and insisted I read it.’ I shook my head at the memory. It had been a captivating read entirely out of my normal comfort zone. ‘Oh God, this is too weird. I can’t believe you just said that.’ I nudged him. ‘Go on, say it again.’
Mike raised his eyebrows but obliged. ‘Emily. What goes on tour, stays on tour.’
‘No holds barred?’
‘Whatever rocks your world.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Groupies Suck, But Not What You Think.
The headline on the tabloid newspaper grabbed my attention, and I picked up the crumpled morning edition with shaky hands. It was Tuesday afternoon, and I was installed in a leather chair at a top-notch hairdresser in Liverpool waiting for the dye to do its magic while MonX were being interviewed by a TV crew at the venue of that night’s show.
After a surreptitious look left and right, I began to read. The article was a vicious diatribe against female fans stalking rock and pop bands and sucking the life and creativity right out of them. It was badly written, factually wrong, and entirely misleading, and I felt personally affronted.
Yes, I was sleeping with Mike, every night. Yes, I enjoyed it. It was different from any kind of sex I had ever had before, and the slightly illicit thrill was addictive. But no, we weren’t interested in a relationship. Yet I wasn’t leading him on, nor he me. And no, I was definitely not having wanton sex with the rest of the band. And still, according to the article, I was the worst kind of groupie. Destructive and divisive, only after the trophy sex, with no respect for the music, and heedless of the damage I was causing to the fabric of the band.
I gulped.
‘It’s not true,’ I reasoned with myself. ‘You do care about the music now, a lot. You know all the songs by heart, the entire set. You could probably get up on that stage and sing right along with Mike without missing a key change. You love that music. You’re not destructive.’ I folded the offending article away and put the paper down. Two round blue eyes regarded me sombrely in the mirror, and I tried to smile at myself.
‘You may be a lot of things, but you’re not a groupie. You’re not destroying MonX. They’re doing that all by themselves.’
Oops. Where had that come from? I gulped some more, but yes, it was an accurate observation. It was evident in almost every utterance between the band backstage, and it explained the way Adam had warned me off. Something was terribly wrong between those musicians, but they were each and every one of them sticking their heads in the sand and playing ostrich. Yet the vibe was there.
‘Three more days,’ I reminded myself. ‘Liverpool today, Bristol tomorrow, Sheffield on Thursday, and that’s it. You’re out of there.’
In truth, I had mixed emotions about seeing the end of my little road trip. I revelled in my unusual freedom, and this was hands-down the best holiday I ever had, even though I felt exhausted every morning. The ‘on tour’ mantra was powerful, and I didn’t want it to finish. But the real world very much beckoned after my week’s leave was over, and I would have to go back to who I was before.
‘Well. Not quite.’ I sneaked another look at myself in the mirror and grinned. It would be impossible to go back to who I was before, both on the inside and the outside. On the inside, something wild and free had been unleashed that I doubted would go willingly back into its cage. And on the outside… On the outside, it was doubtful that anyone would recognise me. I hardly recognised myself.
My clothes were different, for a start. Today’s outfit consisted of a fresh pair of boot-cut jeans with a deep purple lacy ribbed-cotton vest top, something I wouldn’t have been seen dead in a week ago but which actually rather suited me. I had also accessorised myself with bangles and necklaces. I didn’t exactly look like your typical rock chick, but I was a far cry from the buttoned-up Emily that had left London on Sunday morning.
And now I had braved the final frontier: my hair. It was gone. This morning I had suf
fered a strange compulsion to have it cut short. Hence my presence at the upscale hairdresser with the most expensive stylist I could find. Named Mario and hailing from Belgium of all places, his eyes lit up when I presented my request for something chin-length, young, and funky, and he had stood for five whole minutes in complete silence while contemplating the best style. Apart from the basic spec, I had given him carte blanche.
Two hours later, his work of art was done. I felt quite emotional as I was allowed to examine the final result. Gone was the long, thick length of blonde hair that used to spill down my back and be forced into a chignon for most of my waking hours. Instead, my face was framed by a swish and sleek layered bob. Feathered strands accentuated my jaw and seemed to caress my face with every move. Mario had added both high and low lights, and the result took my breath away. My eyes looked bigger, my cheekbones rivalled Angelina’s, and I looked younger, more fun.
‘Wow.’
Mario beamed delightedly. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Do I like it?’ I shook my head gently, and the ‘do swished delightfully. ‘It’s divine. I had no idea I could look like this.’
‘Well, my darling, I’d say this was long overdue.’ Mario patted my shoulder affectionately. ‘Do you know how to look after this new style of yours?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose I wash it and blow-dry it somehow.’
Mario flinched. ‘No, no, no. You don’t just wash it. You wash it with the right product. Then you condition it. As for blow-drying… Come here.’ He took my hand and pulled me out of the chair to lead me across to the product section. He lined up an array of different types of brushes whose prices made my eyes water. I hadn’t known that you could spend so much money on hair accessories. Still. I had the cut, I might as well get the equipment to recreate the magic.
On my way back to the venue, I stopped by every other shop window to admire my new self. My head felt strangely light and weightless. Speaking of weight, Mario had insisted on putting the hairy off-cut on the scales—he kept scales just for that purpose!—and I was amazed that all that growth only weighed in at slightly over one hundred and twenty grams; barely a quarter of a pound!
Nonetheless, it felt like I had shed kilos, and I bounced along happy and carefree. Never mind the tensions between the band and all the possible groupie recriminations that might be held against me, the whole experience was life-affirming and amazing, like I was living a movie. I could practically see myself in the role of the little ugly duckling who turned herself into a swan. The scene played out clearly in front of my eyes even while I lived it. Quite bizarrely, a movie narrator—one of those blokes with an impossibly deep voice—had taken up residence in my head, offering a running commentary on the action. Was it even possible to experience something and see it from an out-of-body perspective at the same time?
Excited beyond belief at showing off her new and improved self, Emily walked towards the stage door, or so the movie man in my head began.
Was I going mad? Was I having a twisted kind of déjà vu?Whatever it was, I found myself walking towards the stage door and listening to my story as it unfolded.
She—me!—was swinging her handbag exuberantly and bobbing her head from side to side, humming a little tune under her breath. Just before she reached the door, she stopped to listen to the music emanating from within.
‘Sounding good,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘They’re nearly done. I’m right on time.’
She pulled open the door and stepped into the darkness beyond. The band was on stage, going through the motions of their soundcheck. There was intermittent drumming and singing and a lot of laughter and ribbing. Emily grinned as she stood to observe. The ritual had become familiar, almost comforting, to her even in the short time that she had been tagging along with the band.
Absent-mindedly, she noticed that a handful of equipment cases were still scattered across the floor, but the roadies were already busy wheeling them out.
‘Hey ho! Look what the cat dragged in. Is that you, Emily?’ Mike called out from his position on the stage. Emily waved and strode jauntily across the hall.
‘Hey guys,’ she returned Mike’s greeting. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘It’s fine. We’re nearly done.’
‘Cool. I’ll sit myself down and—’
Emily tripped over a cable and teetered on one leg, arms flailing wildly, before crashing to the floor with a resounding thud. Her body sprawled across the concrete, and her head hit the corner of an equipment case.
Complete silence enveloped the hall. For a split second, Mike remained frozen on the stage. At last, he jumped off the elevated platform with a flying leap. He rushed to Emily’s side and knelt down next to her. Carefully, he took one of her hands into his. With his free arm behind her back, he tried to support her as she struggled to sit up. She looked dazed and confused, and Mike’s face creased with concern.
‘You okay?’
‘Um.’ Emily rubbed her face and shook her head. Instantly, a thin trickle of blood ran down the side of her face from a gash in her temple that Mike hadn’t noticed before. It looked bad. It looked really bad.
‘Jesus, Emily, you’re bleeding. Here, let me help you.’
Mike produced a tissue from his jeans pocket and gingerly dabbed at Emily’s wound.
Emily laughed shakily but didn’t swat his hand away. ‘So sorry. This wasn’t quite the entrance I’d hoped to make.’
‘Don’t worry. It was a spectacular entrance in its own right,’ Mike tried to jest. ‘You okay? Hey, wow, what happened to your hair?’
‘My what?’
‘Your hair. It’s all short and swishy.’
Disorientated, Emily uncertainly ran a hand through her new hairstyle. ‘Oh that. Yeah. I had it cut. Does it look good?’
‘Does it look good? Is that really all that’s on your mind after a terrific fall like yours?’ Mike chuckled, gently admonishing Emily while he helped her to her feet. ‘But yeah, I think it looks good. Let’s go fix up this little gash so that I can take a proper look.’
He held on to Emily’s arm firmly, noticing with dismay that she seemed very shaky, and led her towards the backstage area.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Here, try this.’
Mike handed me an ice pack and helped me hold it loosely against my temple. The lump around my cut was rapidly swelling to golf ball proportions, and the incessant throbbing in my head was nauseating.
I was laid up on the sofa in the green room with Mike and Adam fussing over me. The rest of the band had completed the soundcheck and disappeared off to have dinner somewhere. But Mike had remained by my side, his eyes full of genuine concern. Adam had also remained by my side, tutting and puffing and worried I might bring a health-and-safety suit against him.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?’ he asked me for the twentieth time.
‘Sure I’m sure.’ A yawn crept up on me and incapacitated me for a few moments. Lying down, I suddenly felt weaker and shakier than I had done immediately after the impact of my fall. I guessed the adrenaline had worn off, and shock was setting in.
‘It was my own stupid fault,’ I continued when the yawn eventually subsided. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘That case shouldn’t have been there. Anyone could have broken their neck.’ Adam was seething, and I sensed there would be trouble.
‘Let it go,’ I mumbled. ‘It was my fault. The roadies were packing up, I simply was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ I tried to turn to smile at him in a reassuring manner, but the movement caused an explosion of stars in front of my eyes, and I groaned.
‘Lie still,’ Mike ordered firmly. ‘You might not think so, but I think you should see a doctor. You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I’m fine.’ My protest sounded feeble even to me, but I meant it. ‘Please don’t fuss. Let me rest up for a while, maybe have a little sleep…’
‘No. No!’ Mike’s voice cu
t loudly through my hazy consciousness. I had already half closed my eyes and was happily giving myself up to the arms of Morpheus, but this vehement exclamation startled me. Mike’s face was right in in front of me, and he bored his eyes into mine. ‘Don’t sleep. You mustn’t sleep.’
‘Why not?’ Adam and I spoke in unison, equally surprised. Mike straightened up and sighed.
‘If she’s concussed, she shouldn’t sleep. Let’s call a doctor.’
‘I don’t want a doctor,’ I insisted again, but I was overruled. A few short minutes later, a paramedic first-responder appeared by my sofa-side. He pulled up a chair and started talking to me while Adam and Mike hovered in the background.
‘Hi, you. I’m Joseph.’ His tone was light and conversational, and he picked up my wrist to check my pulse while he spoke. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Emily.’
Joseph checked his watch and looked at me. ‘Emily who?’
‘Emily Trenden.’
‘Good. Emily, do you recall what happened to you?’
‘I tripped and I fell, that’s all.’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘Of course I know what day it is. It is…’
Heck, what day was it? I had been on tour with MonX since Sunday—or Saturday, depending on how you looked at it—but everything was so extraordinary that the days had lost their normal feel. Yet I knew what day it was. I knew I knew. I had thought about it only a few hours before at the hairdresser’s.
‘Emily? What day is it?’ The paramedic looked at me more intently.
‘Tuesday.’ Finally.
‘Okay. What did you have for dinner last night?’
‘Um.’ How was I supposed to remember these things? ‘I don’t remember. But I can tell you that we were in Manchester and that we stayed in a hotel.’
‘What hotel?’
‘The…er… I don’t know what it was called. Mike, help me out here.’ I tried to catch Mike’s eye, and he stepped forward a little, but Joseph held up his hand as though to stop him from speaking.
