by Wells, Nicky
And then what, exactly? I didn’t know. I would have to think of something.
To fill the next ten minutes, I wandered into the kitchen and made myself a cappuccino. I went all out, right down to grinding coffee beans rather than using pre-ground and frothing the milk into a luscious stiff whip. My shiny new Gaggia gurgled and spluttered temptingly, and the scent of brewing coffee lifted my spirits.
Mission accomplished, I headed out to my tiny improvised roof terrace overlooking Paultons Square. It was a beautiful May day, and the sun shone warmly onto my third-floor inner-city sanctuary of potted grass, chilli plants, flowers, and one dwarf bay tree. The space was barely big enough for a small table with two folding chairs, but Nate had loved sitting out here at night, even in January and February, wrapped in coats and scarves, and drinking mulled wine. I used to have to shush him lest he woke all the neighbours, but we had a lot of fun. One time, he even insisted on trying to sleep out here, but I declined to join him. It was simply too cold. After a couple of hours, he agreed with me and woke me up by crawling into my bed, all frozen fingers and toes, and begged me to warm him up.
I sighed and sipped at my cappuccino. We had only gone out for about six months, but the wistful memories were coming plentiful and fast. We had had something special before I let myself get wound up by the music obsession. Which, in retrospect, actually seemed quite harmless; well, apart from the noise, of course. But still. Why did I send him away when he had loved me so? Why didn’t I realise that I loved him back?
‘You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, that’s why.’ I found myself quoting a line from one of his favourite songs, and I smiled ruefully. ‘Never has a truer word been spoken. Still…’ I consulted my watch. ‘I suppose now that I do know, I’d better get you back. Answer your phone now, come on!’
I rose and took my cup and saucer inside, setting them down in the kitchen sink before embarking on my last attempt to phone Nate. It took me a few deep breaths before I dared to pick up the handset and dial. What if he didn’t answer again—what would I do?
The ringing tone was both soothing and terrifying. I had heard nearly a hundred of them this morning, probably more. I momentarily lost all sense of space and time as the dull sound penetrated my eardrums. But oh, oh!
Hi. This is Nate...
Yes! The answerphone was back on. My heart beat fast and furious. What was I going to say? This was my twenty-second bid at grabbing his attention.
…not here right now. If you’d like to leave a message, I may or may not get back to you. If you sing me a message, I’ll call you right away. Go on. Do it. Beep.
‘Nate. NATE!’
In my great excitement, I practically shouted down the phone line. It occurred to me thatI might as well do as instructed and sing, just this once. I had never sung him a message before, but maybe if I did, I would get through to him.
‘Na-aate, hi, it’s Mmmm-leeeee.’
With a bit of luck, using his pet name for me would tug at his heartstrings. Even though it had been a joke initially, he had lovingly called me ‘his sweet Mmm-leee’ whenever he was in a good mood.
‘I’m very sorry about everything, I really am. But listen, listen, you won, you won! You won those tickets for MonX, and they’re here! I have them in my hands!’
I rustled the papers and laminated cards against the handset for emphasis.
‘I can-not believe you put-them-in my naaa-aame but all the saaa-aaame, why don’t we go? You and meeeee, together, forever, like we were meant to be-ee-ee….’
Oh God, my time was almost up, I could feel it. Singing was all very well, but it simply took too long. I opted for a speed talk to end my message.
‘Nate, I mean it, I’m sorry for everything, and I can’t believe you put those MonX tickets in my name, they’re right here, I want you to have them, I want to go with you, please say you will, I—‘
Beep.
Damn. Talk about the rubbish message of all rubbish messages. I hadn’t even managed to mention the date. Saturday next week. Seven days from now.
‘But I suppose you already know the date,’ I muttered out loud as if really speaking with Nate. ‘Please say you’ll come.’
For a microsecond, I debated leaving another, more eloquent message right on the heels of this disaster, but I decided against it. I would give him some time to respond. How much time, though? Ten minutes? An hour? A day? Was he at home screening his calls, or was he away? Had he been in all the while and switched his answerphone on when he left, or had he been out and returned, and flicked on the answerphone on his way to bed? Was he, in fact, right now peacefully curled up under his duvet?
The thought that Nate might be in his flat—and therefore eminently reachable—nearly proved too much to bear. Maybe I should drive round there and ring the doorbell? I could always take some chocolate and wine?
I raked my hands through my hair and paced the lounge again. My downstairs neighbour would think I was harbouring a herd of baby elephants, but I didn’t care.
‘Going round there is not a good idea, at least not now. Maybe later. Give him some time. You can’t expect him to burst with joy because you’ve suddenly decided to get in touch again.’
True, true. I sat down momentarily but jumped right up again. I was too restless to stay still, and I would go crazy sitting by the phone, waiting. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go for a walk. Some fresh air would do me good, and I could do some window-shopping on the nearby Kings Road. Hopefully there would be a message waiting for me when I got back.
Chapter Seven
Alas, not. Three hours later I returned to my flat in something almost akin to high spirits, only to find no change. No message, no text, only silence. The bottom dropped out of my world.
I had spent the afternoon convincing myself that of course Nate would ring. How could he not, once he knew that I was in possession of the most coveted backstage tickets ever?
I had reasoned and argued with myself. I knew I had hurt him badly, even if it had taken me several weeks to work that one out. More fool me! But I had made a mistake. People made mistakes all the time. Surely I could grovel and beg his forgiveness? Nate was a good guy. He wouldn’t be impervious to my apology once he realised that I really, really meant it? Right?
I placed the silent phone back in its cradle, gently this time, and walked across to the French doors leading onto the balcony, the very place where I had sat so full of hope this morning. I leaned my head against the window and sighed. The coolness of the glass against my forehead was soothing, and coherent thoughts began to form in my mind. Why, oh why, hadn’t I felt this way when I was in the throes of sending him away? Why had it taken me so bloody long to figure myself out?
I rested my back against the door and let my body slide down until I sat crouched on the floor. I concentrated on breathing and had a go at disentangling my emotions.
Truth was, I was hurt and piqued by the fact that he hadn’t rung immediately upon hearing my voice. But why would he, given the way I had thrown him out?
I was also confused. I had really, truly believed that the tickets would get him to jump over his shadow, if only for one day, one night even. One night in which I would convince him that I was truly sorry, and that I loved him still.
At that precise moment, the shrilling of the phone nearly made me jump out of my skin. I leaped up and crossed the lounge in one fluid motion, snatching the handset before the second ringtone had time to emerge.
‘Nate?’
‘Um… No. Emily? It’s Mum.’
Mum!
‘Mum,’ I repeated weakly. ‘Hi. How are you?’
Oh God, now I would have to make small talk. And I was blocking the line. What if Nate rang back right now?
‘You all right, sweetie?’ My mum’s voice was full of concern. ‘You sound a bit breathless.’
‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘I’m waiting for a call from Nate.’
‘So I gathered.’ Mum laughed
. ‘Do you want me to ring back later?’
‘No, it’s okay. He can leave a message. What’s up with you guys?’
So Mum launched into a description of my Dad’s latest DIY project—he was rebuilding the garden shed—and how he was driving her potty in the process. I laughed at the requisite places and asked all the right questions, and inwardly I counted the seconds and hoped and prayed that Nate would ring while my line was engaged. That would be better than hearing nothing.
‘So will you come for lunch tomorrow and see for yourself?’
‘What?’
‘Tomorrow. You’re supposed to join us for lunch, you and Nate. You still up for that?’
‘Of course. We’ll see you at noon.’
Ouch. You’ll have to tell her the truth someday, a voice whispered in my head.
Not if I can fix this first, I whispered right back. Besides, Nate could always send his apologies for being busy in the studio at the last minute, couldn’t he? Mum wouldn’t question that excuse. She was in awe of his musical genius; it appeared she appreciated rock music more than I did. But that was neither here nor there. By going along tomorrow and making a pretext excuse on Nate’s behalf, I would buy myself a little more time for telling the ugly truth some other time. If that should even be necessary.
‘Great, we’re looking forward to it.’ Mum blew me a kiss.
‘Me too.’
We hung up on each other, and I felt exhausted. It was hard, keeping up appearances. Yet speaking to Mum had broken the spell of indecision, and I resolved, quite abruptly, that I would drive round to Nate’s house and grovel in person.
‘Nothing like a bit of face-to-face interaction to convince him you still love him,’ I told myself. In great haste, possessed by the compulsion to see Nate, to see him now, I grabbed the MonX tickets off the coffee table, stuffed them back in their envelope, and bounded out of the flat and down the stairs.
In ever greater hurry, I retrieved my Lexus from its allocated parking space and set off. Vivaldi’s Gloria poured from the speakers, and the soaring violins instilled in me a sense of optimism and anticipation. I was taking constructive action. Soon everything would be okay.
Chapter Eight
After five rounds of furtively driving past Nate’s building, I wasn’t so sure that everything would be okay. Located on the second floor of a warehouse conversion, his place looked strangely abandoned from the outside. I couldn’t quite explain why, but I was getting a strong ‘deserted’ vibe. All the windows were shut, but the curtains were wide open. There were no lights that I could see. And okay, it was the middle of May at six o’clock in the evening, so there wasn’t much need for artificial light, but Nate usually had one lamp or another switched on, especially in that cavernous open plan lounge-bedroom of his.
Obviously, I tried ringing him again, but there was no response. On my fifth drive-by, I actually pulled up outside his house and lowered the car window while I rang through. I could hear the ringtone from within—just—but nothing else.
‘He’s not there. Where is he?’
I nibbled my thumb anxiously, at a loss as to what to do next. An impatient tooting sound suggested that the driver in the car behind me desired to move on. I lifted my hand toward the rear-view mirror in a gesture of apology, put the car in gear, and embarked on my sixth drive-by round the block and past his house again. Should I park up and ring the doorbell? Should I stuff the envelope with the tickets in his letter box? Should I simply wait? Why, oh why, hadn’t I insisted on having a key to his place when I had the chance? Because you didn’t want to be pushy, I reminded myself and sighed.
‘It could be hours until he comes home,’ I continued talking to myself. ‘You don’t know where he is. If only there were a convenient coffee shop to stage a stake-out…’
But there wasn’t, and I wasn’t comfortable sitting in the car watching his flat, always assuming I could actually park anywhere. Somebody would ring the police and report a suspicious female lurking about. Well, maybe not, but you never knew. This was central London, after all.
‘You could put the tickets in his letter box though,’ I suggested, waggling my head from side to side while I thought this option through.
‘But if he’s gone away for whatever reason and doesn’t pick them up or if, God forbid, he takes somebody else, you have gained nothing, no more excuses to get in touch.’
Very true, very true. I nodded as I rounded the corner and began driving down the road again. I wouldn’t leave the envelope. I would leave another message and try texting again, but I wouldn’t hand over my only bargaining chip yet.
As before, I slowed to a halt and cast a look at his windows. No lights, no movement.
‘Oi, you!’
A loud shout and a sharp knock on the driver’s window shook me out of my reverie. I snapped to and was faced with an angry-looking elderly man wearing, bizarrely for the season, a felt hat and a scarf. He rapped on the window again.
‘Wha’d’yer think yer doing? Tha’s six times ye’ve gone past ‘ere now. I’ll be callin’ the filth if yer keep ‘angin’ abou’.’
Neighbourhood watch in action. I was mortified. I pressed a button and lowered my window by an inch, enough to be able to converse without shouting, but not enough for him to get a hand in. I also surreptitiously engaged the central locking, just in case.
‘No need to call the police,’ I issued sweetly. ‘I’m concerned for my boyfriend because he isn’t answering his phone, but I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll be off now. Ta-ra!’
Ta-ra? I never said ta-ra for farewell. Maybe I was losing my marbles.
At any rate, I buzzed the window closed again before my unfriendly neighbourhood snoop could ask more questions, and I drove off.
Needless to say, neither Castle nor Vivaldi could cheer me up that evening. Thoughts went round my head like mismatched socks in the washing machine. Where was Nate? Would I ever get another chance? What was I supposed to do with those tickets?
I kept getting stuck on the issue of the tickets. I couldn’t let them go to waste. If Nate found out, he would definitely never, ever speak to me again. But what should I do with them? Apart from Nate, I didn’t know anyone who would like them.
I snorted. That was ridiculous. MonX were the phenomenon of the decade, surely somebody would take the tickets off me?
‘I could sell them, I suppose.’ I tried to visualise myself in the role of ticket tout and laughed. Moreover, there was the small problem of my name on the package. Not on the concert tickets, as such, but on the VIP backstage passes.
Emily Trenden.
Guest of Emily Trenden.
This would render them useless for anyone but me, for sure.
I picked up the laminated cards for the hundredth time and turned them over in my hands, feeling for seams or cracks in the plastic. I had read about doctoring IDs, but these seemed tamperproof. They were laminated and embossed. Even if I managed to get the passes out and magically fiddle with the names, maybe Photoshop the lot and make another set of passes with different names… Even if I could accomplish this, there was no getting around the embossed laminate. No way I could recreate that.
Experimentally and on a complete whim, I put my pass around my neck. The thick red cotton band lay soft against my skin, and the pass itself dangled just so in the dip between my boobs. I got a little jolt, as though a door had slammed somewhere or the ground shifted under my feet.
In a daze, I rose and took a few slow steps towards the fireplace. As though seeing myself for the first time, I examined myself in the mirror above it. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to the VIP pass around my neck. It seemed to glow. The pass, and my neck. In fact, all of me seemed to glow. If I had been in a cartoon, the artist would have drawn flashing red ziggedy-zag arrows all around me. I could practically see them.
Look here. Emily Trenden, high-flying career girl turned wanton rock chick.
I laughed, and the bizarre vision dispersed.
�
�What a ridiculous notion. Me, a rock chick? And a wanton one, at that? Where on earth did that come from?’
But the idea stuck in my head like the sweet memory of a chocolate truffle on my tongue. The hint of possibility was tantalising and mesmerising. Emily Trenden, wanton rock chick.
I laughed at myself some more, but another idea formed in my head. A concrete, obvious, possible one.
‘I suppose… I suppose I could simply go.’
The words hung in the air, and I shrugged uncertainly.
‘I could go on my own. It would be better than letting the tickets go to waste. It would be better than selling them or giving them to someone who…who…’ I paused, reluctant to finish my thought but forcing myself to do so anyway. ‘Who doesn’t mean anything at all to Nate. And maybe…well, maybe he’ll come to his senses and come along. And if he doesn’t, at least I can tell him, one day, that I honoured his gift. Maybe that’ll mean something to him. Who knows?’
I paused in my musings, dizzy with the implications of this plan. Going to a rock concert, and by myself at that, was so unlike me that I might as well have decided to scale Mount Everest or run the London marathon, or perhaps volunteer for a mission to Mars.
I had absolutely no idea what it was like to go to a rock concert. I didn’t even know what to wear to a rock concert. I had nothing but bad preconceptions: noise, long-haired rockers and bikers in leather jackets, women in leather bras with tattoos on their chests and wild greasy hair, drugs—yes, drugs, lots of them, everybody did them at these events, it was practically the law, right? Drugs, and booze, and vomit, and vulgar language, and violence, and more noise…
I shuddered. It sounded like a living hell. And yet people went, even relatively normal people. Teenagers. Heck, kids, even, if the news were to be believed. Maybe I had got all this wrong. Perhaps my prejudiced disdain for all things rock and the demise of the best relationship of my life were causally related.