by Natasha West
‘I’m not trying to say it. I am saying it’ Mack replied.
‘Just cos your bird’s preggers and you’re all married and shit, it don’t make you superior.’
‘Alright, mate, relax. I was just kidding’ Mack said. He turned to Phoebe. ‘Tell him I was kidding, would ya.’
Phoebe shook her head vehemently. ‘I refuse to play Mum to this band anymore. Sort out your own squabbles.’
‘Christ’ Mack said to Joe. ‘Who is this Yoko?! She’s causing arguments and you haven’t even been out with her yet.’
‘She’s not a Yoko, you cheeky bastard. She makes pottery!’ Joe said, inexplicably.
Phoebe stood up, done. ‘I’m going to get a drink.’
‘But we’re on soon!’
‘I’ll be back for the gig, I just need a bit of space from you two idiots.’
She left the tent. After she’d gone, Mack turned to Joe. ‘She’s annoyed now. And it’s your fault.’
‘You started it!’ Joe cried.
Outside the tent, the sound of Phoebe’s bandmates going at it faded to a distant roar. She kept walking until she couldn’t hear them anymore. She needed some space and a large drink of anything with a proof.
Twenty-Seven
In Megan’s flat, six minutes after the one nighter left - just as Megan was considering whether to take wellies with her – the doorbell went. Megan rolled her eyes. If Nicole had left her knickers behind, then tough shit. She wasn’t getting in here again.
The doorbell went a second time. Megan shook her head, digging her heels in further. Let her ring forever. That door would not open.
And then a voice called through the door. ‘Megan?’
Megan’s head flew around to look at the locked door, knowing it wasn’t Nicole. But the voice was familiar, very familiar indeed. She got up and went to the peephole, looking through. When she saw who was on the other side of the door, she jumped back from it.
‘Megan, I know you’re in. I can hear you moving about.’
Megan took a deep breath and opened the door to a middle-aged woman who had Megan’s dirty blonde hair and green eyes. Linda, her Mother. ‘Hello’ she said.
‘How do you know my address?’ was the only thing Megan could think to ask the woman she hadn’t seen since she was nine.
‘I went to the old house. There was a woman there wearing too much make-up. She gave me your address.’
Megan looked at the floor. ‘Fucking Kelly.’
‘Presume she’s your Dad’s squeeze?’
Megan looked back up. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Your grandad died.’
Megan shrugged. ‘My grandad died ten years ago.’
‘No, I mean my Dad.’
‘I barely remember him, haven’t seen him since he came to pick you up from the house. Do you remember that?’ Megan asked with naked hostility. ‘I guess he found it a bit difficult to maintain a relationship after that.’
‘I guess he did’ Linda replied, ashamed. But she barged on irregardless. ‘Well, he’s dead.’
‘Is that it? You’ve come to see me for the first time since I hit puberty to deliver a random death notice?’
‘He wanted me to give you something’ Linda said and she began to root around in her bag. ‘Here’ she said, handing Megan a small box. ‘It’s a ring, belonged to his Mother and he always said he wanted it to stay in the female line.’
‘Then why don’t you keep it.’
Linda gave Megan a serious look. ‘Because I’ll just lose it like everything else.’
That stopped Megan cold. ‘Go ahead, lose it’ she said and handed the box back.
‘Megan’ Linda said. ‘I didn’t just come to give you a ring.’
‘No? Got a bracelet for me too? Maybe a necklace?’
Linda shook her head. ‘You’re just like your Dad.’
‘Well that makes sense when you think about it’ Megan said dryly, trying not to react. She didn’t want to give her Mother the satisfaction.
‘Megan, I’ve made mistakes. I know that.’
Megan sighed, long and loud. ‘What is this? Your Dad died so you’re doing some whole re-evaluating-your-life bollocks?’
Linda looked embarrassed. ‘Perhaps I am. I know you must be very angry, but I wanted to know if you might want to talk? Maybe we could get to know each other again.’
‘Sorry, Mum. No sale’ Megan said, slamming the door in her face. She waited for a minute, to see if her Mum would knock again. But there was just the sound of heels walking away.
Megan went to pack, as she worked on deleting the last five minutes from her mind.
Twenty-Eight
In the beer tent, Phoebe stood alone, hoping not to get recognised. She could cope alright with it most of the time, but there were just some moments that you didn’t want to make nice with a stranger. Now was one of those moments.
It had been a long tour, eighteen months. And they weren’t at the end of it yet. Still two more weeks of listening to Joe and Mack bickering like toddlers. The stupid thing was that they were best friends. She supposed that was why it was easy to argue. It was their routine. But it was taking a toll on Phoebe. Listening to those two pillocks squabble was like being twelve again, listening to her parents going at it downstairs. She kept waiting for the argument that went too far, an argument that would end the band, much like her parents had ended their marriage a few years ago, once she’d left home and they’d had nothing to focus on but one another.
In the case of her parents, it was long overdue. But in terms of the band, it wasn’t what she wanted at all. They’d been together for twelve years, forming just after they’d all graduated from the same music school. They’d spent years and years toiling in obscurity, playing grubby places for bad money. But then they’d broken out, gotten a hit, followed by a successful album, followed by the tour. They were doing better than they ever had and Phoebe was waiting for the bubble to burst. Might it come in the form of Joe and Mack having a punch-up over something stupid?
Maybe. Or maybe people would just get over them and the success would dry up. Or maybe they’d start making crap music but they’d keep going, trying to pretend they were still any good until Phoebe, sickened by selling out, would start taking heroin and then she’d be found in an alleyway, dead at thirty-five, a footnote in rock history.
These were the thoughts she had as she contemplated her drink. Her phone went and she looked down. It was a text from Emily, her girlfriend.
‘Good luck with the gig. Wish I could be there but you know, bloody work! Grr.’
Phoebe didn’t actually mind that Emily wasn’t coming to the gig. In fact, she’d been relieved that Emily couldn’t get the time off work. Emily was a dentist, that’s how Phoebe had met her, sat in her chair, getting a filling. But it made it strange, trying to mix her normality with the music world. It made Phoebe feel like she didn’t know which Phoebe to be.
She texted Emily back to the effect that she was disappointed but what could you do?
And then it was time to go back to the boys. She finished her drink and put the plastic cup down on the bar, heading out of the rowdy drunk tent. She wandered through the festival, taking in the sights and sounds – not to mention the smells – of the place. It was her third festival of the summer and it was the same sort of crowd at all of them. People enjoying the music but enjoying the booze just as much. She was sick of them.
As she got a few feet away from the backstage area, she realised she was in a serious funk.
And then she saw a pile of leaflets on the ground, dumped there by someone. It was the listings for the festival. Maybe that was what she needed. To go and see some other bands perform, get out of her own head and enjoy music again.
She checked the listing, going down the acts, noting a few that might be worth a look. She was just about to put the leaflet in her pocket when she happened to glance at the bottom, at the acts in the comedy tent. A name jumped out at her.
> Megan Hunter.
Phoebe felt a lurch in her stomach at those four syllables. She hadn’t seen Megan in seventeen years, not since…
She screwed up the leaflet and threw it on the ground, feeling guilty for littering but deciding just this once, she was going to give herself license to be a little naughty.
She walked on, trying to think about the set list for tonight, trying to think about the next stop on the tour, trying to think about Emily. But they wouldn’t stick. Her brain felt like it was in a washing machine, on the spin cycle. Her thoughts were flying around, while she tried to ignore the thing caught dead centre by the centrifugal force. Megan.
After a few minutes of fighting the memory off, Phoebe gave up, letting it take her over. It smashed into her brain feet first, still vivid. That summer. Sleeping with Megan. Confessing love. And then that terrible row.
Phoebe wondered if there was a chance they might run into one another. It was a horrible thought. It would be awkward, strange. But everything that happened, it had all been so long ago, hadn’t it? Megan, whose career as a stand-up she was aware of, probably barely remembered any of that. It was only Phoebe that thought about things like that. It was only Phoebe that spent insomniac nights remembering the worst times, the bad things, the regrets. Phoebe supposed Megan had to take a top ten spot on that list.
That friendship, once her touchstone of calm in a nervous youth, had ended practically as soon as they’d slept together, Phoebe recalled. That was obviously the mistake they’d made. Sex. If they’d never gone that far, they might still have kept in touch now. The odd phone call or email, the occasional dinner to reminisce about the old days. She didn’t have that because of a stupid error, a lapse in judgement. Which just proved what Phoebe had always suspected. The slightest mistake could cost you everything.
And now they were at the same place, at the same time. But there was nothing else to connect them except some dusty memories. Phoebe hoped greatly they wouldn’t bump into each other. But the festival was huge, thousands of people filled the field and the surrounding woods. What were the odds of it? If she didn’t want to see her, then she didn’t have to.
Even as Phoebe told herself that, she had a feeling that it wasn’t true.
Twenty-Nine
Megan threw her case down on the hotel floor and flopped onto the bed in the cheapish room, tired from the drive. She wondered if the music acts had to stay at this place, miles from the festival site. Probably not. Because they were the main draw at this kind of festival, not the comedy acts. But Megan tried not to be bitter. A gig was a gig.
She could afford to be somewhat picky these days, she’d had a few spots on the panel shows and she could usually fill most of the seats in a small theatre. But she could never get a fifteen hundred capacity room filled. She didn’t have her own sitcom. She didn’t have any endorsements. She was still on the low side of mid-level.
She thought about her start, with the Pickle Pickers. In retrospect, they’d been a shaky band of performers. But somehow, they’d trundled along, getting just about enough work to keep going. Megan had taken day jobs when the work fell off but she hadn’t minded because she had her eyes on the prize, going full time with comedy. But eventually, the gigs dried up completely and the group disbanded.
That had been scary at first, Megan had felt like she didn’t know which way her compass was spinning without the group. But in the end, it had been for the best. It had given her the push to make the natural jump to stand up. It had been harder than she’d thought it would be. She’d done a bunch of open mics to start and she’d died on her arse every time. Luckily, she’d been young enough to take it on the chin and keep going.
Eventually, (very eventually), she’d started to get better and had to fight less for ten minute spots at comedy clubs. She’d even started to make a tiny bit of money at it. And then five years ago, her break came. She was spotted by a more established comedian who’d taken a chance on her, letting her open for him on his tour. After that, it was still an uphill slog but the gradient got less steep and now she was making a living of sorts. Even though she wasn’t where she wanted to be, when she thought about where she’d started, it was a miracle that she’d even gotten to this point.
And she was on tomorrow, Saturday, headlining. That was always exhilarating, when she didn’t have to think about paying the bills or where her career was or how to get to the next level. When she just did what she did. It always felt good. It felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be, if only for a few glorious minutes.
But tonight she was at a loose end. She’d come a day early because it had taken hours to get to Deepwood and she didn’t like to perform the same day as she did such a long journey. She had a pass to the festival, she might as well go down and take a look, see some acts, check out the competition.
As the cab pulled up to the entry gates, she slid out lazily and paid the driver. Pasted outside the fence was an enormous billings list. Megan automatically scanned it, looking for her own name, checking its size in comparison to everyone else. It was bigger than the other comics but smaller than the bands, which…
Just as she started to go down a rabbit hole of insecurity versus ego, she saw a band name that broke her thoughts up quickly. Subatomic. Well, well, bloody well. That was Phoebe’s band, wasn’t it? Phoebe Fitzgerald. First love. First broken heart. First person she’d slept with. First real friend. All in all, it was a lot of Megan’s firsts that Phoebe could claim as her own.
Megan went through the main gate, trying to shake off the unease that Phoebe’s presence was causing her. She refused to give it any weight. It was all just a silly thing that had happened a long time ago. In fact, she’d used it for material once upon a time, dressing it up as a laughable incident, an embarrassing virginity tale that the audience ate up, a story about how she’d waited years to get with a girl and then screwed it up inside a day. She’d gotten ten minutes out of it and no more. So now that time was nothing more than a funny story to Megan. And that was precisely how Megan liked to see it. Just a story.
And if it was only a story, then how better to get some new material than to add a postscript to it? She could go to the gig, maybe try to catch up with Phoebe afterward. They could laugh about that silly time in both their lives. And if they didn’t, if it was weird, it became a better story. Megan couldn’t lose, she decided.
She realised they were already playing on the main stage. She ran deeper into the festival, following the signs to the stage, wending her way through the various tents. The paths were crowded with revellers in their festival outfits, a girl in a tiara and wellington boots began to throw up a green liquid that Megan couldn’t identify as anything you should consume. She hopped around the vomit, finding the direct route to the main stage. She dashed toward it and a sound began to drift toward her, growing louder with every step. Music. Faint at first under the crowds, it was just noise, but as Megan entered the enclosure of the main stage, it washed over her, full and rich. She looked up at the stage and there she was. Phoebe Fitzgerald, singing lead vocals, a guitar in her hand.
Megan experienced a violently powerful sense memory, of being twelve, handing Phoebe her Dad’s guitar, watching her play for the first time. And then the last time, at that holiday camp, in the green lycra, somehow beyond the pappy covers and the sad crowd, making every note count, filling them with complexity.
And then Megan was looking up at Phoebe, here and now. Somehow, Megan had drifted through the crowd and she was at the front, pressed up against the metal barrier. She was ten feet away from Phoebe and she looked up at her, agog. She’d googled Phoebe a few times over the years and knew how she looked now, but a 2D image didn’t do her justice. She looked phenomenal. She’d always been a pretty girl but she’d come in to her own in her thirties and she was objectively beautiful now. That straight red hair fell down her back, thick and sexily wild now, almost at her perky, round bottom. The thin, tall girl had grown into pure womanly
curves. Megan was horrified by her own reaction to seeing Phoebe in the flesh for the first time in seventeen years. Her face flushed, a single drip of sweat ran down her neck, her chest palpitated. It was like she’d come down with flu.
As she stared up at Phoebe, pumping out loud, angry notes from her Stratocaster, she knew she’d made a stupid mistake in coming to see her play. This was not a story. She’d loved this person when they’d been young. And this person, this magnificent woman, had loved her. And she’d dumped her for a chance at a career in comedy. There wasn’t anything funny about that at all. There never could be.
Megan began to try and back out of the crowd but she was packed in, tight. It was heaving with fans, dancing, whooping, singing, jumping around. They were like the walls of a prison that Megan could not escape. She turned back in the tight space, thinking maybe she could squeeze along the barrier, get out at the side. But as she pressed herself down the line, she chanced to look up.