by Nicky Wells
“Hey,” came the appreciative hello from Darren. “Good to see you again. How was New York?”
“Hey,” I shouted back. “New York was great, thanks. Although the conference was a bit boring. How was Chicago?”
“Okay,” Darren grumbled. “When we finally got there.”
Under cover of this opening blessedly provided by Darren, I had confidently walked into the room and found myself standing among my four teenage heroes.
“Want a beer?” Mick offered. “Or something stronger?” He pulled open the fridge door to reveal an amazing array of chilled beers and liquors.
“Uh, a beer would be great,” I said. I hated beer, but I didn’t want to be uncool or make a fuss or something. Everyone else was drinking beer.
Mick threw me a bottle, which I just about managed to catch, and I seized upon it gratefully. Then the guys went back to discussing the gig and how it had gone and how the crowd had reacted to Tuscq’s own songs. I let myself fade contentedly into the role of background observer, like always. I needed to catch my breath and capture my cool. Now that I was there, they were there, and nobody seemed to have any intention of leaving any time soon, I could afford to try to relax and regroup a little. Somehow I knew I had to make the most out of this occasion, to play it just right such that I could see them again. And again. Because that was what I wanted to do. A little pet project for excitement in my life. Extracurricular activity, if you wanted. Hobby: groupie to Splat!/Tuscq. Or hobby: chief Tuscq admirer. A bit anoracky, perhaps, but it beat trainspotting or bird-watching.
Conversation was still going on when Dan threw me a casual, “What do you think, Sophie?”
Well, what did Sophie think? “I thought you were…amazing. Just like you used to be. Except…you look different, of course.”
Nodding heads, delighted looks. Stroking egos wasn’t difficult.
“But,” I continued, “Do you know what really got me?”
Shaking heads this time.
“Nobody seemed to recognize you. I mean, you do look different…but Dan’s voice you could make out anywhere, and anyone with half a brain should realize.”
Dan laughed. “That’s very sweet of you, but it’s not surprising that no one recognizes us. Not even the venue management realizes what we are doing here.”
I must have looked at him blankly because Mick chimed in and continued, “We pick our venues quite carefully, looking for a young audience that probably wouldn’t have known us, or at least not seen us, first time round. We want to know whether we go down well.”
“Yeah,” Joe butted in. “Call it…what do you call it? Market research.”
“Market research?” I repeated.
“Yup,” Dan resumed. “We’re thinking of regrouping. You know, our own little revival. But we don’t want to make complete fools of ourselves. So while the record company is thinking about it, we’ve launched a little undercover mission—being our own tribute band.”
“I think that’s bloody brilliant,” I enthused. “Weird. But brilliant. But…don’t you find it strange, doing your own thing without getting the credit, and on such a small scale?”
A small silence. Had I put my foot in it already?
“No…this is fun!” Joe declared. “This is our practice, but with all the fun of a live audience and a few squids on top. Not that we need the money…but playing the small clubs is the best way to get back into things.”
“And,” Mick threw in, “we are getting quite a reputation. The crowd here tonight had definitely heard of us before. It gave me such a kick when they cheered at the Tuscq tribute part of the set. We’re building a whole new reputation for our music.”
“Absolutely,” Dan confirmed, with a peculiar nostalgic look. “And,” he made a sweeping movement around the room, taking in the lumpy couch and peeling paint, “…this is kind of how we started out. So this feels right, somehow.”
I nodded my understanding. Yup, I could see how this might feel right.
“Well, I think you ought to be all systems go,” I affirmed, taking another giant sip on my beer, then getting it all down the wrong way and spluttering all over the place. I even had beer coming out of my nose. What a great way to create an ineradicable impression.
“Easy, there, love,” Mick crooned and patted me heftily on the back. Eyes streaming, face hot and bothered, I couldn’t stop coughing. The guys collapsed in laughter. Well, at least I had entertainment value.
“Cor,” Dan declared eventually, taking off his shirt. “I’m hot!” He rubbed his chest vigorously, and then grimaced.
“My nipple hurts.” He looked round pitifully. I was glad that I was still bright red in the face from my spluttering episode, otherwise no doubt I would have flushed and embarrassed myself right there and then, again. Twenty-eight and still a prude, I admonished myself.
“No, it really does!” he repeated. “I had a stiff nipple all the way through and the strap of my guitar…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but Mick and Darren winced sympathetically.
Say something, I told myself, say something. Something funny! Do something!
“Err…” I fumbled wildly in my handbag. “Have some of this. Helps me any time.” I handed over a small jar of lip balm.
Dan took it skeptically. “Yeah? And what does this stuff do?"
I took it back off him. “Well,” I started, “it’s Vaseline. Good for sore skin, chapped lips, and all that. What you do is…” I opened the tub up and dipped my finger in it, scooping up a little gloop of cream. “You take some of this, and then you rub it in.”
And before I could stop myself, I found myself applying cream to Dan’s permanently erect nipple. Wolf whistles and cat calls came from the other guys, while Dan and I stared at each other in amazement.
I pulled my finger back like he was a red-hot iron. Red-hot was also what my ears were like, and I felt faintly weak with, I didn’t know, shock? Surprise? Attraction?
“Err…and then you’re done,” I added softly, so softly, in fact, that only Dan could hear it.
“Is that so?” he asked gently, then rubbed the cream in a little bit more. I felt like we were having sex without having sex. “That’s good,” he continued, and I had to sit down before my knees gave way.
“Glad to be of help,” I said weakly. “In fact, keep the stuff.” I proffered the jar.
“Oh, cut it out you two!” Joe called out while Mick was making fake retching noises.
Dan gave them a dazzling smile. “Now, now, wait in line guys…”
And then the whole interlude was over, having taken no more than twenty seconds. To me, it felt like a lifetime. I wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened there, but somehow I knew that it wouldn’t be the kind of thing to share with Tim when I told him about the gig. Gosh, how different things would have been had Tim been here.
Suddenly exhausted, I kept sitting where I was and let the guys get on with their band stuff—drinking beer, dissecting the gig, planning their next show. The journalistic part of my brain stored all this information away for future reference. The freshly rekindled teenager in me just stared and soaked up the atmosphere. I would examine my behavior later, I promised myself. I was here now, and Tim at least knew I was here. Well, not quite here, obviously—I didn’t recall going into detailed plans for Sophie’s behavior in the backstage area—but at least in principle he could guess that I might have been here. And I wasn’t going to do anything—other than the damage I had maybe already done.
Another hour passed, and then it was already past midnight. I needed to make a move, not least because of work tomorrow. The guys looked set for the night—it turned out that one of the perks of this venue was unlimited beer until closing time at three a.m., but I could barely keep my little eyes open.
So, rather rudely, I cut into their talk. “Guys, I’m gonna have to split. I’ve got to be at my desk by eight tomorrow morning, and I really need my beauty sleep.”
“Nah, you don’t need no beauty
sleep,” Darren declared instantly. And, at the same time, Dan wanted to know, “At your desk? So what do you do, then?”
I flashed Darren a smile and answered Dan’s question with as much glam as I could muster. “Oh, nothing exciting. I’m a journalist for Read London. On the news desk. You know, boring.” Glam had been my aim; how did I get to boring?
But Dan nodded indulgently. “Sounds cool. Do you get to travel loads?”
“Err…here or there,” I mused, reluctant to share the true extent of my travel, which was nil, beside that one trip to New York.
“Cool. So I shall look for your byline, yeah?”
From bad to worse! Now I would have to get something on the front page, just on the off chance that Dan wasn’t kidding about looking out for my byline, which, of course, he was…kidding, I meant…because he wouldn’t be reading Read London. Would he? Nobody important did. Only people stuck for something else on the Tube or train. But still, I would have to get my name up there somehow in order to keep face.
“Err…sure. I mean, I don’t get an article out there every day…you know how it goes.” Feeble attempt at damage limitation. And seriously, this was the least glam job I could have had. Why couldn’t I have been a writer, a model, or something else exciting? Or why hadn’t I made something up? It wasn’t that I wasn’t proud of my job, but somehow, admitting to these guys that I had a desk job was admitting that my whole life was…well, a very ordinary affair. And the last thing I wanted to be, in their eyes, was ordinary.
Anyway, I needed to get out, and fast, before things got worse. And my exit was my last chance to play it cool.
“Right, I’m off then. Thanks for a great evening… See you,” I twittered and fled before I could get any more questions, before I considered pecking them on the cheek—or other places—or hugging them—and never letting go—or, God forbid, ask the questions that had been driving me insane the past hour, when and where can I see you again?
At least I got one victory over myself, then. Or another one, as it were. Because, as Joe had recalled so promptly, I had disappeared off that coach that fateful morning.
As we settled in the lounge area of the bus—a U-shaped expanse of squashy sofas on the top floor at the back, complete with a low table in the middle—I found myself squished between Darren and Dan. Darren, the man with expectations that I wouldn’t honor, and Dan, the man with whom I would have liked to honor Darren’s expectations. Never mind Dan’s reputation as a womanizer. Tonight, I wouldn’t have cared.
It suddenly occurred to me that I had been on the road all day with little opportunity for personal hygiene, and I was worried that I might…well, smell.
“Err…is there anywhere a girl could freshen up round here?” I whispered into Dan’s ear. He looked at me, only slightly surprised, and told me that there was a little toilet-cum-washroom downstairs. Everyone had to get up as I tried to leave my happy position on the sofa—I only hoped I could reclaim it in a few minutes—and then I gratefully retired to the washroom. It was basic but I nicked a bottle of fresh water from the galley and had a quick, if rudimentary, wash. Thank goodness for my mini overnight kit. Now at least I wouldn’t have to worry about smells, although my looks had somewhat suffered. Still, it was dark upstairs and everyone was getting quite drunk, so I didn’t really think it mattered. I gave my teeth a quick brush for good measure and returned upstairs.
The constellation in the sofa area had changed somewhat. Joe had put a video in the VCR; E.T. of all things. Mick sat on the table rather than on the sofa. Darren had stretched out on the length of the back sofa. Dan was perched at the front, looking expectant. He got up and pulled me in as soon as I came up the stairs. Had he been waiting for me?
Mick decided it was time for some more champagne and opened another bottle. His timing was impeccable, the cork popped just as the coach lurched around a particularly bendy corner—we hadn’t quite made it to the motorway yet—and the champagne spilled all over the place. Most of it gathered in the little round indentations designed to hold cups or bottles safely on the table and… “Oh, slurping competition,” the band exclaimed as one. I stared in complete fascination as each of them whipped out their wallets, plucked out a random bank note, rolled it up into a makeshift straw and began to slurp.
“Don’t you want any?” Dan proffered his straw.
“Err…” What to say? I thought it was funny, but no way was I going to disgrace myself again by not managing the art of slurping through a twenty-pound-note straw. “Err…” I picked up the bottle. “I think I’ll go for the big one instead.” And I lifted the bottle to my lips and had a deep, satisfying glug. The first bit of alcohol I had that night, actually, but I didn’t think anyone had noticed.
Dan collapsed in peals of laughter. “Atta girl, you go for it. Mick, do we have another bottle?” And thus I had secured myself exclusive rights to the best part of a nice bottle of champagne.
The mood calmed down after another hour or so on the coach, as the adrenaline wore off, the alcohol kicked in, and the gentle rocking motion of the coach did its bit to lull everyone to sleep. Mick was the first one to crumble, retreating to his little bunk toward the front of the bus. Joe followed shortly after. That left Darren, Dan, and me. Darren, who had designs on me. Me, who had designs on Dan. And whether Dan had any designs of any description, I didn’t dare guess. Either way, I didn’t have a bunk to retreat to, so I would have to sit it out, come hell or high water. The situation felt a little awkward as Darren and Dan eyed each other over the table. Were they fighting over me? Was I imagining things?
“So, Darren, how’s that cold of yours? You still feeling rotten?” Dan eventually asked quite innocently.
“Well, you know…feeling much better, thank you.” Darren responded, somewhat stiffly.
Silence.
I cast around furiously for something to say, but by now the atmosphere could be cut with a knife and, to be honest, I was curious to see what would happen next. It wasn’t often—well, never really—that two gorgeous rock stars fought over the right to sit up with me, was it? Darren and Dan continued their staring contest.
Finally Darren gave up. Whether his cold got the better of him, whether he lost interest, or whether he was outranked by the lead singer, I didn’t know. But he folded abruptly and disappeared to his bunk, shooting me a sad glance before he left
Chapter Twelve
I got home just before one o’clock, having chanced taking a mini-cab outside the pub and praying that it was licensed rather than black-market. There were four messages on my answering machine. Three were increasingly frantic messages from Tim.
“Hi, I’m back from work, it’s eleven p.m., are you at home?”
“Hi, it’s midnight, where are you?”
“Hi, I guess you must be running late, call me when you get in, no matter when…”
The last one was from Rachel. “Hey, Soph, what are you doing? It’s half past midnight, and you’re clearly not home yet because Tim has been ringing here every twenty minutes. I almost caught the phone the first time before the answering machine cut in, and then I would have blown your cover, so I haven’t been answering the phone at all and your boyfriend is going mental. Hope you’re having a good time, and call me when you get in! I’ll be waiting up…Jordan is still here too,” followed by muffled giggles in the background.
Glancing at my watch, I decided that it was still acceptable to return Rachel’s call to let her know I was all right.
Tim, I couldn’t face. Plus, he would have to be up even earlier than me, so I thought a text message would be the decent thing to do. That way, he would know I was safe but I wouldn’t wake him up.
Tim love, sorry it got so late, am safe back at home, gig was great, missed you, love you, XXX Sophie.
That should do it, I thought, as I hit send with only the tiniest little twinge of guilt.
Over the weekend, I managed to regain a grip on reality. Telling Rachel all about the gig had damn nearly se
nt me over the edge. Yet toning things down dramatically for Tim, spending the weekend with him tending the garden, and going to the cinema put things beautifully in perspective. Tim was my main man, as they say in the movies. Thus I found the weekend tremendously reassuring. Of course, that may have had something to do with the fact that I did spend an inordinate amount of time actually snoozing and dozing on Tim’s sofa while he did other, Tim-things like polishing his entire collection of model cars.
Monday morning found me fresh and sane. And that lovely state of mind lasted for precisely half an hour until, at nine-thirty a.m., my phone rang. I could see that it was an outside line so I trilled my usual greeting, “Read London news desk, this is Sophie—how may I help you?”
However, I wasn’t in the slightest prepared for what came next.
First, a small silence, which had me worried because every now and then I received crank calls.
Then, “Hey, Sophie…how are you?” the voice said.
His voice.
How on earth had he managed to find me? How had he got my number? Why was he calling me?
“Dan?” I shouted, much louder than I had intended. At the next desk, Rachel looked up, eyes like saucers. “Dan?” she mouthed, as I nodded my head enthusiastically. She abandoned her task and rolled her wheelie chair next to mine, but I gave it a kick and mouthed, “Shove Off.” I couldn’t do with any distraction.
“Dan,” I stated again. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” He hesitated. “It was great to see you on Thursday.”
My heart did a little dance. “I had a great time, too. It was lovely to see you again after all this time.” Watch it Sophie, watch it. Don’t go overboard here. “All of you, I mean. Hear you playing, and all that.”
