Rising Star

by JS Taylor

  “Ireland is quite a rural place,” he says, stepping easily across the deck, and grabbing hold of the mooring rope. “You’re never too far from a river or a coast. Even in the city. And there’s pirates in my family history,” he adds with a dangerous grin. “So you could say it’s in my blood.”

  He unloops the heavy moor rope as though it weighed nothing. Then he moves to the other side of the boat, and begins winding a lever.

  Adam looks so at home out on the water. I find myself gazing at him admiringly as he expertly tends to the boat.

  “Is that the anchor?” I say, peering curiously out over the boat.

  “That’s right,” says Adam. “It’s good that you’re paying attention. Because you’ll be sailing this one day.”

  I give him an uncertain smile, thinking he must be joking.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Of course I am,” he says, moving away from the raised anchor to kiss me. “A girl of mine has to be able to sail with me. Else I’d worry about you.”

  This touches me deeply. The fact he’s thought so far ahead. That’s he’s seeing us together long term.

  Adam reaches down and pulls out a life jacket, and fits it carefully over my shoulders.

  “There we are,” he says, approvingly, adjusting the straps. “It suits you Summer,” he adds. “You look right at home of the water. Ready to go?”

  I nod, and Adam moves towards the mast. His strong arms wind up a variety of complicated looking levers, and the sail fans impressively into the wind.

  In moments, the boat is propelled forward, out into the Thames.

  I close my eyes, letting the cool breeze drift through my hair.

  “This is lovely,” I say, as the boat moves to its own gentle rhythm. “Really lovely.”

  Adam smiles, leaning against the side of the boat.

  “Isn’t it?” he says. “You can really get away from it out here. But you’re in the thick of it too.”

  He raises his arm to point.

  “See there? That’s the top of the millennium wheel. We’ll see it in a moment. When we turn this next bend.”

  Adam moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my body. I lean back, letting him envelop me.

  “Isn’t this perfect?” he murmurs into my hair. “You, me and the river.”

  “It is,” I sigh, turning slightly to touch my cheek to his. “Completely perfect. It’s like a dream”

  And dreams never last.

  “You know what would make it just that bit more perfect?” adds Adam. “Besides you being naked of course?”

  I laugh. “What?”

  “How about a glass of wine?” he asks. “I’ve got a few good bottles in the little cabin. “Or champagne?”

  “Oooo champagne would be lovely,” I admit.

  Adam kisses my ear.

  “Wait there,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

  Adam vanishes through a tiny door, into the small cabin. And I turn to stare out at the water. I breathe in deep.

  London looks so peaceful from this vantage point. So much less busy and intimidating. Adam is right. I’ll feel differently about the city, now I’ve experienced it from the water.

  The wind has whipped a little higher now. There’s an ominous creak, and I turn to look at the sail.

  Is it meant to sound like that?

  The bow seems to be shaking.

  It’s just the wind, I tell myself. You just don’t understand boats, that’s all.

  Suddenly Adam appears from below deck.

  “Summer!” he shouts. “Get down!”

  In the shock, I barely take in what he means. But my eyes suddenly fix on the sail. It’s seems to be pulling strangely. I just have time to register that it’s given way, when the bow comes flying towards me.

  What the…?

  Time seems to stand still, as it comes directly at my face. I’m frozen like a rabbit in the headlights. My muscles are locked solid, in the hazy fear I hardly follow what happens next.

  Instead of smashing into my face, the impact takes me far lower down that I expect. I’m hit square in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me, and driving me to the deck.

  “Are you ok?”

  I blink up, to see blue sky, and Adam’s body on top of my, shielding me.

  It takes me a full moment to realise, that he must have wrestled me to the deck just in time. The bow arcs ominously over us, casting a dark shadow.

  Adam glances up at the unsecured sail, and then his strong arms are helping me to a sitting position.

  “Summer? Are you ok?”

  I nod dumbly.

  “Good. Wait there. Don’t try to stand.”

  Before I have the chance to reply, Adam springs to his feet, and grabs the bow with both hands. He wedges his feet against the deck, and pulls, wrenching the flying sail back, inch by painful inch.

  I start to move, thinking I should help him. The sail is taking the full impact of the wind, and looks impossible to master.

  “Get down Summer!” shouts Adam. I hesitate.

  “Now!” he bellows. This time the fire in his voice is enough to make me obey instantly.

  Panting, Adam drags the flapping sail in line with the boat. Then in a dexterous manoeuvre, he grabs a free rope, and flings it over the bow.

  My breath is held, as I watch him secure it with effort. Then he winches the sail back, unleashes the ropes, and lets it fall.

  I breathe out.

  “It’s safe now,” says Adam. “I have a spare rope. I can fix it, so we can sail back.”

  He frowns. “I don’t know how that could have happened,” he mutters, walking over to me, and pulling me to my feet. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “No you’re not,” says Adam. “You’re shaking.”

  He pulls me into his arms.

  “It’s nothing,” I say, willing my body to calm. “I’m ok now. Honestly.”

  Adam pulls me away to face him, running his hands over my hair.

  “You could have been badly injured,” he says grimly. “That bow was moving fast. A broken nose would have been the least of it.”

  His face darkens over suddenly.

  “Summer,” he says. “Don’t you ever disobey me again. If I tell you to get down, you get down and stay there, ok?”

  Shit. He’s completely furious.

  I nod dumbly. Adam looks so angry. He raises his hand, and I flinch.

  To my surprise, the anger in his face vanishes like a cloud before the sun, replaced by utter horror.

  “Summer,” he whispers, “you didn’t think…”

  He sinks his hand back slowly, his face still a picture of shock.

  “I was just moving my hand to push my hair away,” he says, “surely you didn’t think I would ever raise my hand to you in anger?”

  I don’t reply.

  Of course I think that. Isn’t that what I deserve?

  “Did you think I would hit you?” he asks.

  Adam’s face is so utterly devastated, that it prompts me to speak.

  “No,” I blurt. “I know you’re not like that. It’s an old instinct, that’s all.”

  Suddenly I realise I’ve said too much.

  Adam scans my face for a long moment. I know he’s too clever not to work things out.

  “Your ex-boyfriend,” he says, with unnerving discernment. “The one you mentioned at the party last night.”

  I say nothing. But he must know by the shame in my face he’s judged right.

  “He hit you. Didn’t he?” Adam’s tone is soft.

  I bite my lip, not sure how to respond.

  “Didn’t he?” says Adam.

  He takes my face in his hands.

  “You flinched,” he said, “Like you were expecting to be struck. Summer, tell me. What did he do to you?”

  Adam’s voice is so warm, so caring, that I feel it suddenly pouring out. The truth.

  “It was never serious,�
� I blurt. “Nothing to leave marks. It was just… Dez lost his temper sometimes.”

  The fury in Adam’s face it so strong that I can’t stand it.

  “It was mostly my fault,” I whisper. “I… I’m not the girl you think I am Adam.”

  The fury in Adam’s expression twists to a pain so deep, that I wonder for a moment if he’s physically hurting from fixing the boat.

  “Summer,” he says, “you must never say that. A man who hits a woman in anger is not a man. Do you understand? It wasn’t your fault.”

  Part of me feels his words like an ocean wave, washing me clean. But another part of me is so mired tight in shame, that it locks down again.

  “We don’t have to talk about it now,” says Adam, sensing my shame. “But Summer. We do have to talk about this.”

  He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  I nod.

  “Ok,” he breathes. “We’ll wait until you’re ready. My God,” he adds, with an anguished expression. “If I’d have known…”

  He doesn’t say anything else, just holds me tight in his arms. And something occurs to me, bound tight in him.

  “Does that happen often?” I ask, “with the boat?”

  Adam shakes his head.

  “No.” He pauses for a moment, as if wondering whether to go on.

  “The rope had been partly cut,” he says, after a moment.

  I freeze. Every part of my body is on high alert.

  “Hey, Summer.” He squeezes me tightly. “Don’t worry. I left it moored up on the docks. Probably some tearaways thought it would be fun to vandalise the boat.”

  “But,” I say, my frightened eyes resting on him. “Wouldn’t kids just have… I don’t know. Drawn graffiti? It seems a bit extreme to cut a rope.”

  Adam shrugs.

  “Disillusioned kids can do some horrible things,” he says.

  The look on his face is so dark it frightens me. And once again I’m struck by the certainty that his past carries bad memories.

  “Did something happen to you?” I whisper, momentarily forgetting to be concerned about the boat. “When you were a kid?”

  Adam gives a sardonic kind of smile.

  “Let’s just say I know what teenagers are capable of,” he says. His expression is hard, and I look away.

  “Don’t worry about the boat, ok?” Adam says, his voice turning to its usual gentle lilt. I blink into his blue eyes. They’re warm again.

  But I can’t help but worry. Because I’m thinking all kinds of things.

  Could Dez have sabotaged the boat? Does he know about me and Adam?

  I dismiss these thoughts as ridiculous. No-one knows about us. Apart from Tammy and George. And they certainly wouldn’t tell Dez.

  Besides. Dez might be have a violent streak. But cutting the rope could have killed someone. And for all his faults I don’t think he’d take things so far.

  Would he?

  But as Adam helps me off the boat and leads me back to the studio, I’m not so sure it wasn’t Dez. Not so sure at all.

  Chapter 8

  My mind is still racing with this thought as Adam drops me back at the studio. But I don’t have time to think it through properly. It’s time to collaborate on our music video. And since we only have days, we need to give this our all.

  I’m heading back to meet Tammy and George when my mum calls. I debate calling her back later, since I don’t want to be late. But I’ve got a few minutes, so I connect the call.

  “Hi Mum.”

  “Hello love!”

  “You sound excited,” I laugh.

  “Of course I am,” she says, “we all are. Ben hasn’t stopped asking for your TV appearance to be replayed.”

  I grin at the thought of my irrepressible five-year-old nephew.

  “That’s so cute,” I say. “Is he there now?”

  “No, not this morning,” says mum. “He’s with Sam.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she’s much better nowadays,” affirms my mum. “She’s growing into a proper mum. She had him so young, you know…”

  It’s a popular refrain from my mum. The truth is, my sister Sam can be a little selfish. We all make excuses for her, but she’s the baby of the family, so we’re used to taking care of her.

  “Sam was going to give you a call, after you got through to the next round,” says my mum quickly, remembering my sister hasn’t called to congratulate me. “But she’s had a lot on, you know.”

  A lot of TV to catch up on, if I know my sister.

  “That’s ok,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll call when she’s got a minute.”

  My mum hesitates.

  “Yes,” she says. “Sam’s very proud of you Summer, in her own way.”

  “I know mum.”

  “So what’s the plan now?” asks my mum. “Will there be another song for the next show?”

  “Um. There’s a quick-fire video round next,” I say. “We’re teaming up with a garage music band.”

  “Garage music?” says my mum, her Welsh accent sounding more strongly. “I’ve seen that on the MTV music channel. Don’t let them put you in a bikini Summer. Keep your self-respect.”

  I laugh.

  “It’s not like that mum,” I giggle. “I won’t be draped over a car in a gold thong.”

  “You’d better not be,” she warns, only half joking. “It would give your poor dad a heart attack.”

  I check the time, and realise I’m a few minutes away from running late.

  “Listen mum, I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll call you later. I’m needed in the studio.”

  “Ok love. Well you take care. We’re all thinking of you down in Wales.”

  “I know mum. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I arrive in the nick of time for our video session, but Dev.as.station have not yet arrived.

  And we have to wait another twenty minutes before they turn up.

  George is openly glowering as the Dev.as.station crew walk into the room.

  Their lateness has confirmed what George already thought. That they’re unprofessional and unreliable.

  “Hey!” Cher waves a friendly hand. Tammy beams back. Since we met Cher at the start of the contest, I think Tammy has a slight friend-crush. They’re similar in many ways. Both from the same part of London, from immigrant families. But whilst Tammy has learned to lay low and keep her talent hidden, Cher seems at ease with herself. And although Cher is stunning to look at, with a tall willowy frame, sooty-lashed eyes, and long dark hair, I think it’s her confidence which Tammy most admires.

  “Hey girls.” Dushane smiles at us. He has less of an arrogance about him today. I have a sudden feeling that underneath his gangster posturing, Dushane’s an uncertain boy, trying to make it in a grown-up world.

  George, however, does not see this.

  “You’re late,” she snaps, in her snootiest voice. “This is a professional contest. How are we supposed to work together if you can’t show up on time?”

  Dushane’s smile vanishes, and a ripple shudders round the rest of the group. Aside from Cher and Dushane, there are four more boys, all clad in the London gangland uniform of super white trainers and baseball caps. They look so similar under their low caps, that it’s hard to tell them apart – or see what they’re thinking. But something tells me they have not reacted well to be balled out by a posh girl.

  There’s an uneasy silence.

  “Sorry,” says Cher after a moment. “It’s difficult to get this lot in the same place.” She beams a sincere smile, and George’s annoyance melts a little. “Shall we get started?” adds Cher. “Make up for lost time?”

  “Ok,” says George begrudgingly. Her upper-class accent sounds so totally at odds with Cher’s African-Cockney lilt, that I find myself wondering if this collaboration is a good idea after all. Maybe we just won’t mesh.

  “Dushane has some ideas,” adds Cher, turning to him to draw him in.

  Comic
ally, Dushane’s bravado seems to totally desert him, now he’s called upon to share his ideas publicly. He looks lost. I feel a sudden urge to give him a hug.

  “Yeah, well,” Dushane starts, his eyes glued to the floor, and his white trainer tracing an invisible circle on the floor. “I just thought, y’know. A dance-off would be good.”

  George snorts loudly. I glare at her, but she doesn’t get the message.

  “A dance-off?” she says derisively. “With a garage band? How original.”

  “It wouldn’t be like, a regular dance-off,” mumbles Dushane. “I was thinking we’d do something original. A different dance style.”

  “Look,” says George. “You might be all into your breakdance, or whatever you call it…”

  A member of Dev.as.station sniggers.

  “But we’re not street dancers,” continues George. “We can’t…”

  “Different dance styles?” says Tammy, interrupting her, and landing a gentle gaze on Dushane. “Like what?”

  Dushane rubs his hand under his cap, and adjusts the brim to sit a little higher on his face.

  “Like… I dunno. Something unexpected,” he says. “Maybe that dance they do on TV. Ballroom, or something.”

  I consider this. It’s not such a bad idea. Certainly the concept is original. And it might be a way to bring our two styles together with a little humour.

  I picture two bands facing up for a dance off, and breaking into unexpectedly classical moves. I find myself smiling.

  Tammy catches my face and grins.

  “George does ballet,” she says, turning to Dev.as.station. “How about that?”

  “Yeah,” agrees Cher. “That could work.” She ponders for a moment. “I did ballet too,” she says. “As a little kid. All the boys are really fit,” she adds proudly. “We could easily teach them some ballet moves.”

  Dushane is smiling now.

  “The boys could dress in those tight ballet costumes, but still keep our caps and trainers,” he adds. “That would look funny. Right?”

  “It’s not a comedy,” complains George. Although she’s sounding less sure of herself now. “We’re not in it for laughs.”

  “But a little humour could work really well,” I say, adding my voice to the discussion. “After all, we’re from quite different music disciplines. It’s a good way to gently poke fun at the collaboration. And we could do some really cool stuff with the changes.”