by Nicky Wells
Great, thanks mate, I couldn’t help but thinking. He’s already sending his most reliable drone and then he has to remind her to work hard and don’t play. Boo to you, too, sir.
I put Rick out of my mind and briefly considered calling Rachel, but I was too tired to make a call. And Tim…I looked at my watch. Two p.m.…Seven p.m. in the UK…on a Tuesday. Tim would probably be out at some accountants’ meeting, or whatever he did on Tuesday nights. Besides, I felt oddly disinterested in ringing him, but refused to analyze the notion. Instead, it was time for Sophie to sleep. I kicked off my shoes, got into my nightie, and crawled into bed while flicking on the telly.
Suddenly, a single thought possessed my mind. Water. Must have now! In a frenzy, I leapt out of bed again and ran outside to the water cooler—yes, in my nightie—and then back into the room to locate a suitable vessel. I nearly emptied a vase of flowers but found a jug in the kitchenette just in time. I filled it to the brim and guzzled the lot. Better, much better. Finally, I fell into a deep sleep with dreams that continued the weird, disturbing, and yet delightful string of flashbacks that I had been having ever since the night of the second anniversary disaster.
Dan looked at me, recognized me, and raised his eyebrows.
Slowly, he walked toward me, causing lots of screaming, of course, from the girls around me, who had no idea what was happening, that he was coming for me.
When he stood in front of me he whispered, “What are you doing out here?”
“Trying to get back to where you are,” I whispered in return. “Only I don’t have a backstage pass.”
“Ah,” he exclaimed. “Right.”
He looked at me again, then at the other girls, and smiled. Smiled just at me.
A quick turn to the security guard. “Would you mind letting my friend, Sophie, through? We have rather been looking for her.”
My world stood still for a moment as the words echoed round my brain, imprinting themselves in my memory forever more. My friend, Sophie...We have been looking for her.
The security guard looked me up and down and hastened to oblige.
“But of course.” He opened the fence.
I walked through.
I felt like I walked through in slow motion, like in a movie, every moment clearly registering with my brain. I saw myself simultaneously through Dan’s eyes, the security guard’s eyes, and, most importantly, through the eyes of those screaming, left-out fans out there. Yes, look at me, me, me.
I felt gigantically tall and graceful.
I was queen of the world. The chosen one. Me. Hand-picked by Dan out of the crowd.
I was beautiful.
I was cool.
I was…
Oomph! I fell! Completely un-queen-like, ungracefully, fell. I hadn’t reckoned with the metal supports holding up the fence and got my own clumsy size seven feet completely tangled up in them.
Unluckily, the whole ghastly, ungraceful fall also happened in slow motion, and I was still magically viewing the multiple external perspectives on myself, so that I clearly saw my mouth hanging unattractively open and my eyes cross in panic.
Ouch!
Worse, I fell directly onto Dan, who was obliged to drop his apple and catch me, all ten stone of me. Please, God, let the ground open up and eat me right now! What a way to launch yourself into the arms of the bloke you fancy!
But Dan laughed. “Easy now, there, tiger. You all right?” His arms were around me, and I could smell his aftershave. Yum. His chest exuded warmth, and his breath smelt of sweet apple. I could have happily taken a bite.
“You all right?” he repeated, now concerned, mistaking my swoon for a more serious passing out. Should I? Should I? Take advantage of the situation?
I couldn’t. I was too bad an actress. Inwardly sighing and completely reluctant, I righted myself under my own muscle power. Tried a shaky laugh. “I’m fine. Thanks for catching me, though!”
He smiled at me. “Come on then, let’s go back inside. There’s a party going on, you know!”
Could this night get any better?
I woke up at five a.m. like a new person. I felt refreshed, rested, and downright happy. The curtains weren’t drawn and light filtered in from the street outside. The muted telly was still on, and I wondered idly why I hadn’t turned it off the night before. Then I had an overpowering urge to pee and hopped it to the bathroom. No dizziness or nausea of any description afflicted me. My skin felt fresh, my eyes felt, well, like eyes, and my mouth had a normal-sized tongue in it. Miracle. I splashed my face with water—too early to have a proper shower—and returned to bed for a bit of a doze, but found that I was wide awake. So I decided to call Rachel. After all, it was almost lunchtime in the UK.
“Rachel,” I started. “You’re never going to believe this. I met someone.” Whoops, that came out all wrong. There was a long silence, then a gasp.
“You have? Who?” No shock, no recrimination, just encouraging interest—and approval. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because her dislike for Tim remained so obvious. Anyway, out tumbled the whole story, and Rachel was beside herself with excitement by proxy.
“So what happens next?” she wanted to know. “When are you going to go and hunt them all down? Can I come?”
I hadn’t actually quite thought that far, at least not consciously. “I don’t know,” I ventured doubtfully. “Do you really think I should? After everything that happened…or rather, didn’t happen, in Edinburgh?”
“Of course,” she promptly responded. “That was ten years ago. I can’t believe Darren recognized you. That is so cool. You must go.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promised.
“Bollocks,” Rachel retorted. “You’ll go. I bet you’re already plotting what excuse you’ll use to get a free evening from Tim.” Her insight into me was frightening. Because it was true, a plan—or rather, a whole battery of alternative plans, in the absence of any precise details such as where and when—had tentatively begun to spring to mind.
There was more squawking from the receiver.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I gotta go. Rick’s coming down the hall. Call me the minute you get back.”
“Will do. Oh hey, what about your shopping?” I bellowed before she could ring off.
“Oh, right…well, I’m running low on face care and on knickers. Exercise your judgment. Gotta go!” With that, she rang off.
I lay back for a few minutes and thought. Would there be really any harm in going to see the guys again? As far as I gathered from Darren, some of them were married, and I wouldn’t be going as the naïve nineteen-year-old I once was but just as a long-term fan. I acknowledged to myself that I really wanted to go. It would be a nice bit of spice in my life, just the occasional little thrill. Not that there was anything wrong with my life, but sometimes it was nice to do something different, wasn’t it?
And, I concluded, the safest way to keep me honest would be to tell Tim. No secrets, no worries. It wasn’t really that big a deal anyway. If Tim knew I wasn’t really going behind his back, was I? Yet when I spoke to him on the phone just a few minutes later, I couldn’t get myself to confess the whole Darren event. It would have seemed so strange to him—he would never understand. Perhaps it would be easier to relate the tale in person? When I could gauge his reaction? Good idea, I decided, and let myself off the hook. I wasn’t being dishonest here, was I? You didn’t have to share your every innermost fantasy with your man, did you? No, of course not.
The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. I attended the remaining conference and even took the odd note here or there. I spent an evening at Bloomingdale’s, ostensibly to get Rachel’s shopping, but as I was already there, I also had a look round for things that, well, that I might need. And it was a complete accident that I saw this delightful black tailored top with sequins in strategic places that would be perfect for going to a gig. The top was casual but with a bit of class, sparkly but not tacky…and it fit like
a glove. Tim would hate it, a little voice whispered in my head, but I silenced it right away. This was for me, it was me. I wanted it, and it was nothing to do with Tim.
And then, just about a week after I got back home to London, I happened to chance upon an announcement for a Splat! gig while reading a music magazine that just happened to have found its way into my handbag, after I happened to have stumbled across it and paid for it, completely by happenstance, at the newsstand by Tooting Broadway station, which I didn’t normally pay much attention to but just happened to browse, for no particular reason at all, on that particular Wednesday morning.
The gig would be tomorrow at a pub in Islington, starting at nine p.m. Three pounds on the door before nine, a fiver thereafter. It was time to mobilize the action stations.
Chapter Ten
Action stations:
Item #1: Think outfit
Item #2: Think appearance (go to hairdresser?)
Item #3: Talk to Tim (get him to come along if possible)
Item #4: Talk to Rachel (get her to come along, too)
I drew up a list of things to do in advance of tomorrow’s gig—hoorah—as the Tube hurtled its way down the tunnel, propelling me to work even though work was the last thing on my mind. Two days to prepare, counting today. The outfit was easy—jeans and that top that I had bought at Bloomingdale’s. Appearance was also easy—normal. No wild make-up, no special effort, except maybe I could do with a haircut? It had been a while. I would think about that, but I could confidently cross items one and two off my list.
Now then, talking to Tim. That would be a tricky one, but I guessed I would have to brave that tonight. Despite my best intentions, I had so far not mentioned to him anything relating to Splat! What a ridiculous name, by the way—much as I looked forward to seeing the guys, couldn’t they have chosen something more…inspired? I had told myself that there was no need, really, unless the gig became real, and now the time was upon me before I was prepared.
Talking to Rachel would be a lot easier, and I was pretty certain she would love to come along, although less so if Tim did indeed come as well. I could probably put that off until tomorrow, until after I had talked to Tim. So the most pressing matter of the day was what would I tell Tim? And how?
I rehearsed my little speech to Tim all day at work, even writing it out at one point and then being too embarrassed to print it off in the office. My copy suffered greatly, and Rick grumbled after he had to return an article to me not once, but twice. I ought to have gotten a grip, but my mind wasn’t really with it. And that in itself worried me, although I was trying very hard not to admit that to myself. Admitting that I had become sidetracked and distracted to such an extent over a silly little gig by some has-been rockers would have been admitting that there was more to it than I wanted there to be.
Instead, I left early, pleading a headache, and went straight to Tim’s to sort out some dinner. He had finally managed to get the codes for his three alarm systems into my thick little skull, and I was thus able to play at housewife at his place whenever the fancy took me, which had been often recently. His kitchen cupboards were always lavishly stocked, and I knocked together a little Italian feast of chicken lasagna, garlic bread, and fresh salad. There wasn’t enough time to make a proper tiramisu so I settled for ice cream instead. Did I plan to bribe him or merely to assuage my guilt?
As I was chopping, whisking, and baking my way round Tim’s kitchen, I wondered when I should broach the subject of the gig. During the main course, perhaps, when he might begin to mellow? During dessert? After dessert, when the wine would have done its trick? I imagined myself steering the conversation toward music and nonchalantly throwing in a comment on how I would really like to have a proper night out to let my hair down…um, no, not such a good strategy. Tim didn’t approve of letting one’s hair down. Maybe I could feign professional interest? But it would be hard to draw a connection between Splat! in Islington and my job on the news desk. “Eighties-revival rock band Splat!’s riot in Islington pub!” Hmmm. Nice idea but…
I went into the dining room to lay the table, candles and all.
“Tim,” I started rehearsing tentatively. Then, more confidently, “Tim. There’s a gig I’d really like to see tomorrow, and I’d really like you to come. It’s not exactly your cup of tea, but I’ve heard they’re very good and it would be such fun. Please?”
I liked the sound of that. Maybe straight and to the point would do the trick better than any ruse. I could combine this approach with subtle female means of manipulation, such as wide-open, innocent eyes and batting of eyelids? But no, he would see through that—best stick to the power of words.
“Tim,” I repeated, hoping that repetition would breed confidence. I placed a knife beside his plate and practiced my speech while I continued setting the table, punctuating each utterance with a further item of cutlery laid in position. “There’s a gig I’d really like to see tomorrow. And I’d really like you to come. Really. It’s not exactly your cup of tea, perhaps. But I’ve heard they’re very good. Very good. And it would be such fun. Please?”
I stood back and surveyed my handiwork. Perfect.
“Well, what is it?” I heard Tim’s voice from the door. I nearly jumped out of my skin and spun round in terror; he was home already?
He was indeed, and he had been watching my finishing touches and my rehearsal, all the while leaning amused against the doorframe.
“Sounds like this is really important to you. What is it? Where?” he asked again, as he came toward me and put his arms around my waist.
“Oh, just this band I’ve heard about,” I breathed, barely able to speak. He sounded amenable…interested, even. Was I in luck? “By the way, I’ve cooked you your favorite, chicken lasagna!” I offered as I saw him trying to identify the smells coming from the kitchen.
“You have brought out the big guns,” he grinned. “But I’m willing to be manipulated. So, what are they called? Who told you about them?”
Ah. The tricky one. What to say? It had to be a little white lie.
“Oh, everyone in the office is going on about them.” Note to self—remind Rachel that everyone in the office was indeed going on about them. “They’re called Splat! Tim gave a snort. “I know, a ridiculous name, but they’re supposed to be really good.”
“What do they play?” Tim wanted to know. Now that was a really good question. I had completely forgotten to ask Darren about that. He had just said play as though that was the most obvious thing in the world, and I had been too distracted to probe deeper. And I called myself a journalist?
“Err…eighties rock,” I improvised.
“You think?”
“Well, the program varies from gig to gig.”
“But you really, really want to go, huh?”
“Oh yes. And I want you to come too. Come on,” I cooed, “it will be fun.”
He still seemed receptive. “So when is it?”
“Tomorrow.” Please, please, please don’t let that be too short notice, I prayed with all my might.
“Tomorrow…,” Tim crinkled his brow, mentally checking his calendar. “All right, then.”
“Really?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Really, really,” Tim confirmed and grinned as I had a little dance around the dining table. I gave him a big exuberant kiss. A tiny part of me was disappointed, but at least I could shelve the guilt.
During the night, I was tossing and turning with second thoughts. Was asking Tim along the right thing? He would never in a million years enjoy himself at the gig, no matter how mellow he had appeared tonight, how well we had gotten on. Apart from, of course, the incident of the priceless heirloom baking dish that I had innocently ruined by baking the lasagna in it. Sigh. Anyway, I wouldn’t get much enjoyment out of the gig either if I knew Tim was moping round the bar, waiting for it all to be over. But then again, I was playing it above board—okay, mostly above board—and I didn’t have to have a bad conscience for
keeping things from him. Plus, I would have a chaperone, thus denying myself any possibility of lapsing into unthinkable and untoward behavior. Finally, at four a.m., I managed to convince myself that I would just have to let things run their course and I fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, I woke up with a strong sense of anticipation. I would do something special, something exciting, tonight. The feeling was both exhilarating and slightly disturbing. I fairly bounced into the office with more vigor than was warranted given my broken night’s sleep, ready to tackle the day’s work challenges in order to be able to leave at a reasonable hour. However, when I caught a look at myself in the ladies’ room mirror, I deflated like a balloon. I looked like I was wearing a shaggy wig. Something had gone very wrong with my hair. It might have been something to do with the fact that it hadn’t seen scissors for quite some time. There was no way that I could go out tonight looking like a second-rate scarecrow. I loped back to my desk and picked up the phone, calling my trusty hairdresser at the fancy salon down the road. Spring, who was born to two retro, would-be hippies on a sunny twenty-first of March, was the top stylist there. She had been cutting and rescuing my hair for years. I loved her to bits and was utterly dependent on her and her scissors, therefore also forever fearful that she would move to another salon in a location that would no longer allow me to skip out to see her during lunch hours. Occasionally I offered her little bribes to resist temptation, but at the moment, her continued presence was assured by a hot and steamy—and lasting, seemingly—romance with a movie script editor based in an office just above the salon. I blessed said script editor every month from the bottom of my soul.
Usually, I was quite good at negotiating with the receptionist, but today I needed an emergency measure, so I made out to be an urgent personal call and asked to speak to Spring directly. After much pleading and waiting, she finally came onto the line.
“Spring, it’s me, Sophie. I am desperate. Do you have any free slot at all today? Any time?”
Spring laughed. “What’s it today? Dinner with Tim’s boss? A big journalist meeting tonight?”
