by Nicky Wells
I grinned back. A fellow conspirator. I just hoped that Joe would still like me even after what was bound to happen sooner rather than later.
Mick and Darren took a little longer to open their respective doors, and both looked very much worse for wear. Jack’s invitation didn’t go down quite as well. There was a lot of subtle swearing and consternation. I maintained a mysterious, innocent air and sent them off to the showers. Which left me with Dan. I felt a little apprehensive about knocking on his door. His front door on top of that, rather than the connecting doors that we had favored so far. What if he had company?
I squared my shoulders. Well, so be it. I wasn’t worried about being hurt. Rather, I wanted to spare him and me the embarrassment. But if that was what he had been up to, and if he had been foolish enough to take her—whoever she might be—to his hotel room, then so be it. Although somehow I doubted that he would have been that stupid. I had no illusions about what he had been up to the previous night, but I very much doubted that he would…how did they say? Soil his own nest?
“Wakey-wakey,” I trilled once more, hammering out the same old tattoo on his door. In fact, I was actually a little surprised that he didn’t open immediately given the ruckus I had had to cause to get Mick and Darren to wake. But no, no sign of a response.
“Dan, wake up!” I yodeled. “It’s a beautiful morning. Rise and shine.”
I heard a thump. A-ha, a sign of life, I concluded and decided to follow up with more noise. “Mis-ter Hun-ter,” I enunciated carefully, putting on a fake Eastern European accent just for a laugh. “Theez eez your vake up kall. Pleez open door so I kaan vake you up.”
I was just putting my ear against the door to listen for any more signs of life when it opened rather more abruptly than I had anticipated and I nearly fell into Dan’s arms.
“Sophie,” he barked in surprise. “What the heck?”
“Hey,” I grinned, breathless. “Morning, you.”
I took in his appearance, looking for any obvious signs of his nocturnal transgressions. Other than rather dark shadows and a distinctly red-eyed look, he seemed quite normal for first thing in the morning. There was only the faintest aura of booze wafting around him and I thought he looked quite well, considering.
“What’s up?” he mumbled, taking my arm and trying to pull me inside.
“Band meeting over breakfast in Jack’s room. Fifteen minutes,” I announced once more, using my most annoying airy voice. The one that really grated on others when they were hung-over or grumpy.
More expletives came my way by way of Dan’s response. I was popular this morning.
“What the heck is Jack cooking up now?” he wanted to know. “Won’t you come in?”
“I don’t know,” I replied to his first question, “I have to go and set up my camera” to his second.
“Camera?”
“Yeah, I’m going to be documenting this cozy family event,” I declared and whisked around to retreat back into Jack’s room where my camera and laptop already sat at the ready.
Twenty-five minutes later, everyone had assembled around the breakfast table that Jack had organized in his suite. It was arranged in a corner of the room just by the big French windows and was laid for six—the band, Jack and I. There were croissants and fresh juices, coffee and tea, and an assortment of breads, hams, eggs, and cooked meats and sausages. Anything an Englishman might like after a boozy night out. In deference to the family theme, this was no silver service. Instead, the table top was bare pine—no idea how the hotel had come up with the goods at such short notice—and the cutlery and crockery was quite rustic, like you might find in someone’s house. Jack was excellent at stage-setting.
The guys were munching heartily, by now reconciled with their fate of having been woken rather too early, and cheerily enjoying the goodies on offer. I had grabbed most of what I needed before they had arrived, so now I snapped away and took notes to maintain—for Jack’s benefit—the semblance that my prime interest in this little charade had been the family angle. So far, not much was being said as everyone worked to take the edges off their hungers and their hangovers. Jack looked at me questioningly, as if to enquire whether this was what I had had in mind. I waggled my head and shrugged my shoulders, hoping he would read this as “a little more conversation would be great.”
He did, bless him.
“Guys,” he began. “This is great, you know. I think we should do this more often. Get back into the habit of being a group and all that. Don’t you think?”
His forced gaiety sounded false even to me, but it was a valiant attempt at kick-starting the cozy chat we were after.
“Nah,” Mick threw in immediately. “It’s too early. Although the grub’s good.”
“What’s the band meeting about, then?” Joe wanted to know.
“Oh, just this and that. How you felt yesterday went? How you felt the tour went? How you feel about the Arena?”
That hit the mark more accurately, and all of a sudden there was animated chatter. The guys started talking pretty much at once, winding each other up about this, teasing each other about that, sharing anxieties about the last gig and frustrations about the recording session of the previous day. I wrote furiously and actually congratulated myself on this little ruse. Even though it had been a diversionary tactic to get me out of breakfast alone with Dan, this was great material. I would be able to write a whole separate column that hadn’t been planned, but that would offer an intimate insight into the band’s more private side—within reason, of course. I wasn’t about to give away dirty laundry here.
The only thing I noted, with a little sense of amusement, was a complete absence of discussion of everyone’s whereabouts after the end of the recording session. I debated with myself—should I or shouldn’t I stab into this particular hornet’s nest? The little devil in me commanded that I should. And so I did. I felt I was entitled to a little private laugh.
“So,” I chimed in at an opportune moment. “How did you all unwind after the session yesterday? What did you all get up to?” I looked around the table with innocent, wide eyes. Bingo. There was a sudden silence as nobody quite knew what to say, then everyone started at once.
“We went out for dinner,” Joe stated diplomatically, omitting to elaborate whether they went together or individually.
“I came back to the hotel to crash,” Darren confessed at the same time with a little wink, immediately contradicting Joe in the process.
“Couple of beers,” Dan mumbled without looking at me, also contradicting Joe’s statement.
“Oh, this and that,” Mick offered noncommittally.
I laughed. “Blimey, that’s quite a catalogue of activities there. Asking purely as your chief tour chronicler, I’m sure your fans would love to know whether, after a session such as yesterday’s, you all need some time away from each other? Or whether the group likes to stick it all out together? You know—how much space do you all need from each other, sometimes?” Although hiding behind my official duties, but I actually asked a serious question that had puzzled me for a while. How did they maintain such good relations when they were always cooped up together so closely? “Surely tensions and tempers must run high on occasions?” I elaborated.
Lots of contemplative chewing round the table while everyone considered a response.
“You know,” Joe eventually said, “that’s a really perceptive question, but I don’t know that I have a good answer. As you probably gathered, we all did different things last night after we left the studio.” He and Dan exchanged an embarrassed look, and then Joe ploughed on hastily.
“You see, we’d been in there together for twelve hours without a break, and everyone needed to let off steam separately. But that’s not always the case. When we’ve had a good day in the studio, we often feel like celebrating together. Not that we had a bad day in the studio yesterday...,” he trailed off.
“You just had already spent so much time together on the tour that you
all needed some space?” I ventured.
“That’s exactly right,” he breathed gratefully.
“So, sometimes the pressures of the tour can really get on top of you, and of the band?” I probed further, now in proper interviewing mode.
“Absolutely,” Mick agreed. “I mean, most of the time, we’re like a big family. We can even sometimes read each other’s minds, sort of.” He laughed uncertainly. “If you know what I mean…we spend so much time together. But anyway, every now and then you just need some space. And last night was such an occasion,” he added, almost defensively, shooting another look at Dan.
It was sweet how they were all sticking up for each other and trying to look out for Dan. Or, it suddenly occurred to me, maybe they were looking out for me? I certainly had gotten the impression that Joe was a little cross about what Dan had got up to last night. Bless him.
Still, I couldn’t resist digging further. I hoped the others understood that I was merely digging into Dan, not into their own private lives or misdemeanors.
“So…it’s probably hard to keep a secret from the rest of the group?” I posited quite innocently. “You know, when you practically live in each other’s pockets?”
“Argh,” Mick uttered. “You got that one right.” Another dark look going in Dan’s direction. I enjoyed this tremendously, but perhaps I had gone far enough. It was time to change the subject.
“What are you all going to do with your days off before the big Arena gig? Joe, will you see your family?”
Joe’s face brightened immediately. “Oh, totally. I can’t wait. I’ll go home to Somerset first, and then Lucia and the kids will come down with me on Wednesday for the rehearsal. I’ve told the kids they can each bring their best friend, so it’ll be madness in the flat. But they love it. How could I have said no?”
“Just be sure you still get some rest and you come to rehearsal,” Jack chided gently. “You know I don’t like distractions for you all before a big event.”
Collective moans round the table. In some ways, it struck me that Jack had the role of a football coach—always trying hard to ensure that his players remained on top form, but also having to make concessions so that the pressure didn’t mount up quite too high.
By now, it was midday and time to leave. The limo was due to pick us up in a few minutes so that we could catch our flight. As the day in the recording studio had rather upset the schedule, Jack had made alternative arrangements and had booked a private little jet to take the band home. Naturally, his decision hadn’t been driven purely by convenience or concerns for the band’s comfort. No, a private jet was still the ultimate in glamour and glitz, and there would be a huge photo shoot as the band arrived.
“Success in this industry,” Jack confided in me quietly as we walked down the corridor, “is all about appearances. Outrageous displays of glamour and confidence. The public buys it. The competition buys it. The press buys it. And I can literally ‘buy’ success for the boys. Not that they need it,” he corrected himself hastily. “But we do want to make a rather dramatic comeback, and keeping up the required pretense can never hurt.” I nodded sagely, making a mental note of this nugget. But once again, he read my mind. “That was a personal comment,” he pleaded. “Don’t print it. I can see you want to.”
I had to laugh. He was a wily one. “Of course, I wouldn’t print a thing like that, although it had crossed my mind. Such a juicy inside insight. But trust me, your tactics are safe with me.”
“I’m glad we had you along for the tour,” Jack thanked me earnestly. “You made a lot of difference. Your column was great. I hope everything works out for you.”
I grinned at him. “Thanks for the compliments. I’m sure it will,” I replied easily. He gave me a searching look, but I was happy and quite content, so he didn’t press further.
Chapter Forty-Three
Jack had gone all out for the photo shoot, and there were dozens and dozens of photographers when the limo pulled up outside the private jet. We had headed for the charter terminal of the airport and were allowed to drive up directly onto the airfield. Flashbulbs were going off as we arrived and, despite the bright day, it almost felt like we were caught in a thunderstorm. The band started posing and chatting to photographers amiably while I kept my distance, trying to get snaps of the band, and of the band being mobbed by the paparazzi. It was sweet to see how much they all thrived on the attention and adoration, and I mentally congratulated Jack for setting up this opportunity. This would provide a great boost to the guys’ egos before the final show, and a great boost to publicity at the same time.
Although we were supposed to take off by one p.m., we didn’t actually board the plane until half an hour later. The atmosphere was filled with a distinct buzz of enjoyment and success as we finally settled into our seats. The jet was quite small, and done out like someone’s lounge rather than an aircraft. There were leather seats and sofas, and once again I felt like I had entered a set for a movie, perhaps stepped onto “Air Force One” or some other infamous plane. I kept snapping away, knowing already that these pictures would be an integral piece of my penultimate article, and I had a great time. Gone were all the apprehensions and worries that I had harbored earlier in the morning about confronting Dan, so I relaxed for the first time that day.
Relaxed too soon, it turned out. Having concluded my snapping activity, I grabbed a seat right at the back of the plane to get some peace, but also to keep observing the band—rather than mingling—as was my proper role on these occasions. But Dan decided that it was time for a talk, and without asking, he plonked himself in the seat beside me. I looked around frantically—there was nowhere to go without being rude, and I certainly didn’t want to make a scene. Unwittingly, I had set myself up so that Dan could corner me for a private chat as the drone of the aircraft was loud enough to grant us intimacy unless we raised our voices. I noticed that Joe sent us an anxious glance—anxious for me or anxious for Dan, I couldn’t be sure—but I knew we were being watched. I squirmed in my seat uneasily.
Dan gave me his most dazzling smile.
“Morning, Sophie, love,” he said easily. “We haven’t had a chance to say good morning to each other properly yet.”
He leant over as though to kiss me. I turned awkwardly, and instead of hitting my mouth, he caught the side of my eye. Cringe and double blush. I bent down as though to brush some fluff off my trousers—the oldest ploy in the world and Dan saw right through it.
“What’s up?” he asked gently, and there was worry in his eyes. I shifted in my seat once more. I really didn’t want to have this conversation here and now.
“Nothing much,” I croaked. “I guess I’m just a bit tired.” I resorted to my all-time-favorite fallback response. I had never been the most inventive white liar.
“Rubbish,” Dan retorted instantly. “What’s up?”
“I’m fine,” I objected, just a touch petulantly. “Really.”
He gave me a long, searching look, and then tried another smile. “Did you enjoy the tour?”
This, I could answer honestly. “I certainly did. It was great.” My eyes probably shone with enthusiasm because Dan heaved a little sigh of relief. “Okay, the trauma around Dad’s heart attack spoilt it a little bit, but he’s okay, and so I can honestly say I had a great, great time. The best. A dream come true.”
Dan smiled again. “You said that about me, too.”
“Said what?” I responded, slightly perplexed.
“That I was your dream come true.”
Oh lordy. Me and my big mouth. Had I really said that? I guessed I had. How to extricate myself from this particular tricky spot? I looked around frantically yet again, but by now, everyone else was studiously ignoring us. They probably thought we were having a lovey-dovey chat after our day apart. Or maybe they thought that we were having a lovers’ tiff. They had to be thinking something because, as I had so cunningly uncovered this morning, secrets were impossible to keep on tour and they were b
ound to know. About the engagement.
“You were my dream come true,” I managed eventually, ever honest little me. As I had said it before, there was probably no further harm to be done in confirming it again. The use of the past tense was completely involuntary, but Dan didn’t pick up on it. He settled back into his seat contentedly for a minute. Then he sat bolt upright again and gave me his devastating, boyish grin.
“So, what are we going to do with ourselves in London for the next few days?”
My heart lurched and nearly fell out of my chest. My resolution wavered. All my good work nearly went out of the window as I thought of the amazing, unbelievable things that were within my reach if I only took them. Normal things elevated to new dimensions by being done with a glamorous, famous person. Going to the cinema or the theatre, going to the zoo, just going shopping. Extraordinary things that couldn’t be done without a glamorous, famous person in my life—expensive dinners, exclusive access to nightclubs, and cruises in stretch limos.
Oh, I wanted!
I wavered some more.
But I made myself recall the obstacles to Dan and my true happiness. The fame, for one. My possessiveness. His penchant for pretty women. I recalled that just last night he probably had… Well, no need to dwell on that further, but I was back on firm ground.
“Rest?” I suggested in response to his question, trying to sound as casual and unambiguous as possible. “I have some stuff to take care of in my flat, you know…I’ll probably go and see Rachel…”
“Rest?” Dan repeated incredulously. “Tidying the flat? Seeing Rachel? We’ve got things to announce.” He grabbed my left hand and made to plant a kiss on it. Then he noticed. I could feel the color drain from my face as he stared at my hand, at my face, and then at my hand again.
“Soph?” he asked, very quietly now, inadvertently—and for the first time—using the pet name that only the people closest to me ever used. “What’s going on?”
