by Wells, Nicky
We grinned at each other.
“Is he as gorgeous as you remembered?” I teased her.
“More so. Ruggedly handsome…” she gave a mock swoon, and I playfully prodded her arm.
“Get away with you, we’re meant to be working.”
So things somehow got back into their own swing, and it looked as though finally, finally, everybody’s life was back on track.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Oh yes, there was one more loose end. How could I not have mentioned this before?
It involved the small business of the single. The song, the one that had gone platinum. And Tuscq performing it at the big New Year’s Eve gig at The Arena.
Ever since my return to London, I had been looking forward to this gig. Actually, “gig” didn’t quite capture it—it was the end-of-year event to attend, and The Arena had been sold out for months. In honor of old times, Dan had put me on the guest list, and Steve, too. He had suggested turning up some time around five for the tail-end of the final rehearsal, just before the sound check. After all these years of knowing him, even after having been on tour with the band, the prospect still filled me with excitement. I guessed I was a rock chick at heart, and always would be. Steve jokingly said that I would probably still go out rockin’ with Tuscq when I was a granny using a walking frame, and we had both found the prospect hilarious; all the more so because it was most likely true.
At the same time, Steve had no hesitation or qualms about coming along and rockin’ out with me, and that was one reason why I loved him so very much. So we made our way to The Arena from his flat by Tube, in no particular hurry, knowing that we would be early anyway, knowing that we had a free pass to enter whenever and wherever we wished. I proudly wore my VIP pass around my neck all the way.
And still I was taken aback by the fact that there were literally thousands of fans camped out in front of The Arena waiting for the doors to open. Of course I knew that Tuscq was a global phenomenon—who better than me to appreciate the stature and glamour of the band first-hand? But there were always fans more keen, more eager than me, and it never failed to surprise me.
Steve took one look at the crowd and frowned. “Now what?”
I giggled. He was obviously new to the scene. I took his hand and whispered, “Follow me.” We skirted the crowd until we hit the security fence on the far side of The Arena, where I sweetly and confidently beckoned a security guard to come over. I merely had to wave my VIP pass in the air before he invited us to hop on over the fence and let us in.
The band greeted us with great cheers. However, the tension was palpable and I recalled that it wouldn’t be likely to ease until they were due to go on. We had arrived before the sound check but Dan insisted that he wanted to rehearse one more song, one final time. So the band surrendered to their leader and all of us obediently trudged on the stage, Steve and I included, just kind of swept along in their slipstream. If the roadies were surprised, they didn’t let it show and quietly relinquished the stage to the maestros. I made a move to lead Steve off stage and into the auditorium, but Dan motioned for us to stay where we were. Which happened to be a pretty awkward spot quite central on the stage, but still I didn’t latch on to his plan.
As the band launched into the opening chords of the final song Dan had so desperately wanted to rehearse, I hummed and swayed along. That was only natural—I was a huge fan, after all.
When a roadie pressed a microphone into my hot and sweaty palm, I accepted it without thought. And why not indeed. If I was already on the stage, I might as well—
Sing!
What me? Here? Later tonight?
In front of twenty-three thousand people?
I nearly passed out with shock as realization had finally hit me.
Stupid, of course. I should have seen this coming. It had been totally obvious. Even Steve thought I had realized Dan’s grand plan, which is why he hadn’t bothered to bring it up. He hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it, lest I should suffer from some kind of stage fright or something. He had thought I was okay with it.
Heck, I wasn’t.
Recording a single in the privacy of Dan’s studio had been one thing. But standing on this stage, opening my mouth and performing in front of actual people, thousands of them?
I opened my mouth and offered the only reasonable response. I threw up all over the stage.
There was a small moment of silence followed by a lot of blatant ignoring of my shaky condition. Someone appeared from nowhere with a bucket and mop while I stood petrified.
Dan was steely in his determination. I had never seen him like this before. He walked across to me, carefully stepping around the puddle around my feet. A roadie who was evidently familiar with the protocol relating to actual on-stage hurling proffered a bottle of water, and Dan took it, dampening a towel to wipe my mouth and making me take a few small sips. He looked at me, his eyes a clear, icy blue, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would sing.
I wanted to cry. Where were the compassion, the understanding, the sympathy?
One hundred percent absent, that was where they were. Sorry, Soph, no can do. Not on duty tonight. You’re on your own.
“Sophie, listen to me.” Dan’s voice was intense and his eyes locked and bored into mine. “You can do this. And you will. You will.” He raised my face to his by lifting my chin with his index finger, and the touch of his skin, warm and soft, against the clammy ice-cold of my face, drove home to me how scared I was. Yet that look in his eyes and his voice were hypnotic. It was like a visitation from The Mentalist.
“Sing for me, now,” he instructed. “There is nobody there now apart from us.”
I finally found my voice. “But there will be, later.”
Dan only shrugged. “You won’t see them. The spotlights will blind you and the din will be massive and they’ll all blend into one. They won’t matter. But what does matter is that you do this, for me, and for you.”
He pressed the mike back into my hand and so I sang, before the show. I opened my mouth and moved my lips. Afterwards, Dan gave me a big thumbs-up and Steve hugged me tight.
Two-and-a-half hours later, after the warm-up acts had done their thing and Tuscq’s show was nearing its end, I was waiting in the wings for my cue. The crowd was wild. Tuscq had just gone off after the second set, and the lights were low. This was the usual pretense that the show was over, and the fans rose to the occasion with loud and insistent shouts of Encore! Encore!
The band were, in fact, changing instruments and clothes and having drinks of water in the three short minutes that they were off stage. I nearly peed my pants in my position at the side, but I wasn’t going to be sick again. I was done with that.
Why am I doing this? I asked myself for the thousandth time.
Because you’ve always wanted to, I answered myself, also for the thousandth time. And it was true. All my life, I had dreamed about dating a rock star, and I had done that a few years back. All my life, I had dreamed about becoming a rock star, and I was about to have a go at it. So bully for me, and away with the nerves.
Right? Right.
The band was back, waving as the crowd erupted into delighted cheers. You could almost feel the excitement, and the adrenaline rush was totally addictive. Dan did his customary little bit of chat, which used to be my favorite part of the concert, but I couldn’t concentrate on it today. Joe counted the band in by tapping the drumsticks against the cymbals, and “Love Me Better” began.
My moment was imminent.
Dan came in on his part and sang in his beautiful throaty voice, his powerful vocals carrying clear and strong even at the end of the show. Until he hit my part.
Dan made a big show out of looking around, shielding his eyes, turning this way and that, with the band blithely playing on until he waved for them to stop. One by one, the instruments halted, on a discordant note here or a half a beat there. Totally rehearsed, of course, but it sounded real.
T
he crowd let out a groan.
“What?” Dan challenged. “What will you have me do? I can’t sing this song without Sophie.”
A great shout rose from the twenty-three thousand concert goers and within seconds, they were chanting again.
We want Sophie. We want Sophie!
Dan let this continue for the calculated minute or so, until he made the universal “calm down” gesture with his outstretched hands. When the hall was as quiet as it ever would be, he asked, as though requiring confirmation:
“You want Sophie?”
“Yes,” came the obliging response.
“I can’t hear you… You want Sophie?” Dan really was an extraordinary showman.
“YES!” the crowd roared as one.
The lights went out completely bar one spotlight.
“I give you Sophie,” Dan announced and the resulting cheer drowned out his voice completely. That was my cue.
The spotlight had come across right to where I was waiting in the wings, enticing me to come out. I took a first tentative step, and another, and the light followed me all the way. I was a little self-conscious, being dressed only in humble jeans and T-shirt, but Dan had thought it would be perfect.
Now another spotlight picked out Dan, and three more spots focused on one of the remaining band members each. The stage looked as though the sun was extending fingers of light through a dark thundercloud. Steve told me later that the effect was breathtaking.
On unsteady feet, my throat as dry as parchment, I walked across the length of the stage until I reached Dan, and he gave me a huge hug, lifting my right hand high in the air as though we had already finished and were celebrating.
The crowd lapped it up.
And of course, Dan had been absolutely right. With the lighting arranged the way it was and with the audience noise coming in a solid block, it was impossible to make out any faces or voices. In front of a crowd of thousands of people, it felt as if we were performing for ourselves.
Softly, softly, Joe counted us in once more and the song started over.
What can I say?
I did it. Oh my God, I did it.
It was one of the most amazing moments in my entire life. There was so much adrenaline in my body that I thought I would take off and float away. I felt elated and wired and high, and I was addicted to the feeling. I wanted to do it again.
The single was three minutes and forty-two seconds long, the extended remix another minute and a half on top of that. A live song was a different matter, though.
I was on stage with Dan and Tuscq for about ten minutes by the time we had gone through all the twists and turns and changes and repetitions, and yet it felt like a single second.
Dan kissed me and thanked me, and the crowd roared, and I laughed, and I cried, and then Dan invited Steve on stage as well to collect his fiancée, and the crowd cheered even louder at this hilarious turn of events; it was a great success.
The concert ended there, so I got to go out again for final cheers and we all trooped off to the dressing rooms.
Dan looked at me with eyes full of pride and admiration.
“That was a brave thing you did, Sophie Penhalligan. I don’t know if I could’ve done it, but you did great.”
I gave a great gasp of horror when it dawned on me what he had just admitted, and I bashed him over the head with a convenient cushion much to the amusement of the rest of the band. Steve stepped in between us like a mother separating fighting toddlers and bid us to apologize and make up, increasing the merriment factor even further.
The after-party lasted into the wee small hours of the morning and despite my best intentions, I did not get an opportunity to reflect on the year just ended. I was too busy feeling happy. I was too busy feeling like a star.
I was thinking of the future, though. Of my life with Steve, my wonderful thunderbolt-and-lightning man. My true love. This year would bring our wedding day and who knew what else.
This year, which started on an unbelievable high, would only take me to greater heights still. This year, I would have my husband, my best friend Rachel, and Dan the rock star all looking after me.
This year would be my perfect year.
Rock on!
Epilogue
Between them, Steve, Rachel, Mum, Dad, Dan, Jodie and Greetje organized the Jones-Penhalligan wedding without me having to lift a finger or make any decisions. Rachel, my bridesmaid, had also taken on the role of wedding planner, taking all the stress off me. She, who had so loudly declared that four months was an impossible timeframe, pulled together the perfect April wedding.
Before Christmas, very shortly after our joint return to London, she had sat me down and bombarded me with a long list of questions, not unlike a psychometric profile for a random job application. None of her questions had appeared to have any apparent context, and as we had been consuming vast amounts of wine in the process of answering them, I wasn’t now entirely sure what to expect of the big event itself.
Big or small? (Small)
Near or far? (Near)
Green or blue? (Blue)
Professional or home job? (Um, that would depend…what? Oh, okay, home.)
Over the top or au naturel? (Either)
Loud or quiet? (Dunno)
Long or short? (Long) (Or possibly short. What on earth are you talking about?)
Boho or hippie? (Neither, thanks)
John Lennon or David Bowie? (What? Okay, if I must…Bowie)
Garbo or Monroe? (Monroe)
Cups or mugs? (Mugs)
Favors or flavors? (Both)
And so it had gone on, pages and pages of stuff, until I hadn’t known whether I was coming or going. That was the last of it. I heard nothing further. I put my complete faith into my friends and family, not least my groom, and did the unthinkable—not plan my own wedding. I didn’t even choose my dress. Jodie made it for me, based on some of the bizarre questions whose answers Rachel had forwarded to her. Four months had passed, and today, all would be revealed. Today was my wedding day.
I was at my flat with Rachel and Mum. Steve was at his flat with his best man and Dad. Yes, we still had the two flats—but we had also bought a proper home for the two of us together, and we had exchanged contracts on a small but lovely Victorian terrace in Barnes only two days ago. In about four weeks, we would move into our first joint home.
Anyway, I was at my flat with Rachel and Mum, and I was already in my wedding dress which Jodie had delivered and fitted first thing this morning. It was stunning. It was a beautiful ivory organza-and-satin creation, with a tightly fitted bodice, thin straps and a long, flowing A-line skirt. It wasn’t dissimilar to my “perfect” dress, but much more weddingy. It was amazing. Jodie had done herself proud, and me, too.
Rachel helped me with my hair and makeup, keeping it simple and close to what I normally looked. She fizzed with anticipation but wouldn’t disclose any more detail. Then she changed into her own bridesmaid’s gown. It was a beautiful dusky pink and it suited her perfectly. Shortly afterwards, the florist delivered our bouquets and the men’s buttonholes, and once more, dusky pink featured alongside white and ruby red roses, dressed with simple greens and baby’s breath.
The wedding car arrived to whisk me off to an unknown location for the wedding ceremony.
No, I really had not had a rehearsal of any kind. Yes, I knew this was unusual. I was aware how weddings worked. So once more, no, there had been no rehearsal. I had met with no registrar or vicar. I had no clue what was coming, except I had been given a completely anonymous description of the proceedings which I had had to memorize. These suggested a church wedding but I wouldn’t know for sure until I got there.
You think this is strange?
You think I’m making this up?
Absolutely not. It was like a mystery wedding, except, of course, I knew the groom. And I loved it. It was romantic. Everybody had made such an effort to create the ultimate surprise party, and all I had to do was to enjoy it. The
re was no stress. I wasn’t worried about the flowers in the church, because I didn’t know whether there would be any. I wasn’t worried about the caterers, because I didn’t know what kind of food there would be. I wasn’t worried about any of the hundreds of things that could go wrong on a wedding day, precisely because I didn’t know what they were.
I was the world’s most relaxed bride. Short of getting out of bed in the morning and flying off to Vegas for a totally impromptu event, I couldn’t think of a better way for the bride to tie the knot.
The wedding car was a beautiful kit car, although I only knew that because the driver told me. He told me the make and the exact provenance, too, but I couldn’t recall them even a minute later. All that mattered was that it was shiny, old-fashioned and spacious, decorated with white ribbons and perfectly perfect. Dad and I sat in the back, Dad radiating pride, and the car gently drove off. Rachel and Mum followed behind in a similarly bedecked, slightly smaller car of the same make. We had our own little procession, and other drivers tooted their horns and waved at us as we drove through the sunny London morning.
The route was familiar and I guessed we were going off to Putney. My mind raced furiously over the possibilities and I suddenly guessed that we were headed for St Mary’s Church, Steve’s parish church right by the Thames. It was a gorgeous old church, squat, sturdy and solid. Sure enough, that was where the car pulled up after a swift and unencumbered journey, and my heart soared with joy.
Dad helped me climb out of the car without creasing my dress or stumbling over the veil. I straightened up and took a look around, taking in the gnarled old tree, still bare of leaves this early in this spring, but the blossoms of daffodils and crocuses dotted all over the lawn. Spring weddings, symbolic of new life, and life eternal. I was overcome all weird, but Rachel was by my side to give me final instructions. I took Dad’s arm and we moved slowly to the gate, him shortening his strides to match mine, me sticking out my knees first like a robotic doll, putting my feet down heel-toe as Jodie had instructed me. Rachel was chatting away next to me until we reached the church door where I was greeted by a kindly looking vicar, who did a lightning introduction, and—
