The intent is clear. This is it.
I try to get lost in his eyes, to forget my brain and what it knows.
And yes, he has the most beautiful eyes; greeny-blue with flecks of golden brown. I have dreamed of those eyes. I have longed for the chance to touch his skin. I feel a sudden gear-shift in his head. And now, right now, his hand is behind my head, his fingers wrapped in my hair, pulling me to him. And my senses are exploding as he kisses me.
It becomes an angry kiss. I am angry with him, I realise. And he is angry with me too. This is not fair on either of us. This is wrong. We should have a choice but we don't anymore.
Everything is so screwed up. And there is so much hurt and fear and betrayal. Suddenly we feel it all... and it burns. Like everything that's wrong in the world is passing in front of our eyes.
I am thrown back onto the sofa. His jeans are quickly kicked off, his top comes off, and my robe gets lost. His face is set in concentration. We get messy with each other, hands, lips, tongues, fingers, until I can't hold back for a second longer. I want him inside me and at the same time I want to hurt him, I want to scream. And as he pushes into me, my back is shoved painfully and then rhythmically against the arm of the sofa and I almost want to shout STOP. We are doing a terrible thing. We both know it. And it's spoiled. It's incredibly wrong.
Something inside my heart feels like it 'gives' all of a sudden. I almost cry. My heart softens.
We slow it down. We look into each other's eyes, knowing that it's not his fault or my fault and to stop now is to prolong the agony. And I know he is thinking that perhaps the only way to end this torture is to see this through. To love each other, to hurt each other, to finish this. So I claw and I attack and he pounds and he grabs and he bites.
And when we're done we are both crying and it's awful. God it's awful. I love him. I want to hate him for ever being born and causing me to feel this way.
"I am so sorry," he's saying, over and over and he carries me over to the bed. And he's gentler, much gentler and I am too. And I am crying into his chest and my tears are on his belly and he is showering my face, neck and arms with tiny fluttering kisses of apology.
And then, only then, we make love. And it is such a sad kind of love. As we work up to the moment of release, I close my eyes to a vision. I imagine I am floating upwards to the sky and then my nails are ripping through the soft skin on the inside of my arms and opening up my veins to the moonlight. But instead of blood there is just white light coursing out of them. And some power from beyond is drawing the light - my soul - upwards to become a cold, hard star in the night sky. And right now, I would choose that over being alive.
In that moment I truly wish I was dead.
I open my eyes to see he looks scared. I think he saw it too.
"Is this too much?" I ask, searching his face for an answer. "It feels like..."
"I know, I guess it's just hard to handle all these feelings..."
And suddenly I understand. It's like I was warned. The phrase "Cannibalistic Vampires" comes to mind.
Joel looks confused. There are no answers. There is no right way out.
We talk late into the night, about how we first started to see visions of each other, about our childhoods, about what we will face tomorrow, with all eyes on our strange new relationship.
"They will be looking for something to gossip about," he states. "Life on tour is like a soap opera. We have to be whiter than white."
I look at the clock. It's late, too late to talk or to fight anymore. All I want now is his comfort. I don't want to be alone. We snuggle up. He smells warm and gorgeous and perfect. This should have been perfect. It should have been.
And after we can't stay awake for a moment more, tangled up and spooned together like one person under the sheet, we sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Beth
Phone.
Ringing.
Arrggh –
I go to answer it, then stop myself. It's not my room, it is Joel’s. It could be his wife. Joel grabs the handset. "Huh... Hello?"
"This is your wake up call." I hear the automated voice. He hangs up with a sigh and then rubs his eyes and clears his throat. He relaxes back and I lie against his chest.
Then he turns my face to his and he kisses me, defying morning-breath etiquette. This must be serious, I think. My brain starts to wake up and it feels like there is so much to do.
"I have to go home, get some stuff..."
He looks at me, perhaps questioning the wisdom of going back to the house I share with my husband midway through an illicit mini-break just because I don't like the clothes my mum packed for me.
"I can lend you some things Beth, t-shirts, you know, or send for some new stuff?" He offers sweetly. Genuinely wanting to spare me the upset, I realise.
I am about to turn him down. However, the temptation of having a shirt to remember him by is just too great. He hears my thoughts and goes to his suitcase, pulling out a couple of shirts that might not be too huge on my petite frame.
"These," he says almost reverently, "are too good for girls," he smirks and he looks so attractive that my body stirs with desire, "but you are my girl."
The second he says it, he knows he made a mistake. I know he says it to her too.
I take a shirt and turn away to put it on.
After breakfast, we decide to bite the bullet and go to Abbey Road together. Joel calls for a taxi and I get ready for the lie of my life; to act professional in the face of uncontrollable, lustful possession. And still, I leave my phone off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Beth
I am invisible, which is as it should be. No one even noticed that Joel and I arrived together, hidden amid the band and the hangers-on, hurrying across the iconic Abbey Road crossing so we don't ruin anyone's photo. There are so many people milling about and enjoying the sunshine, in groups queuing in conga lines waiting for a gap in the London traffic so they can march across in formation while a friend waits by the memorial to take their photo.
I consider that it's probably quite a dangerous tourist activity, probably more injuries per thousand than great white shark cage diving. After all, the British roads are a million times busier than they were in the 1960s and the traffic is rather more impatient. Quite a few attempts to cross in the style of George, Paul, Ringo and John are thwarted by near accidents. The buses in particular must be sick of the hassle, all day, every day, I think.
And here we are, on the busy London street outside the studios in the beautiful morning sunshine. Joel looks suitably awed, like he's soaking up the history of the place. Deff and Stevo look like they have found a little piece of heaven.
Abbey Road Studios doesn't look like I imagined. It's a beautiful double fronted white house, possibly Georgian in style, set back from the road with wide steps up to the front door and a posh in/out driveway in the shape of a semi-circle.
A low, whitewashed wall divides the tourists who pound the Abbey Road pavement from the studio premises. The wall is absolutely covered in marker pen graffiti; mainly Beatles-related. We take a moment to read the myriad of messages, to try and understand this very modern pilgrimage.
"Peace and love," reads a colourful, bohemian script in purple and pink.
"I am the walrus - Max was here 2010!" states another.
And, of course, "People say that I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one." This one has squiggles of green and brown around it. I stare at it for a moment, hearing the haunting lyric in my head and feeling it makes sense to our particular predicament.
Then the tourists’ cameras start to turn towards Joel as a murmur spreads and someone yells his name from across the road. It's time to move. The band members are the 'somebodies'; every eye is trained on them.
I am just another 'anybody'. I turn to follow Joel. A skinny girl next to me, who hadn’t given me a glance before now, regards me curiously. I can read her expression; she is judging, evaluating whether I could be wi
th the band and what value she should place on me. She is unmistakably a tourist; yellow shorts and a white strappy top, plimsolls on her feet and sunglasses sat casually on her head, a rucksack slung over her shoulder. She steps back when Joel meets my gaze, her mouth forms an O shape. I feel her awe and with it I become untouchable too. It's like there's an invisible line dividing the band from the fans and I just crossed it. I feel a little embarrassed to step out from what is now a throng of camera phone-wielding tourists and walk straight up the drive. I just concentrate on walking without tripping up.
"Oi Joel!" One Londoner shouts. "Give us a wave!" Joel obliges, rewarding the bystanders with his zillion watt all-American smile for a split second, before bounding up the steps, leaving them wanting more. I follow like a traitor, feeling almost feeling responsible for the fans' disappointment, which I understand all too well.
But not today. I am more than a fan today.
We are ushered through a smart reception, down a corridor to the main studio. The studio is vast, much bigger than the outside of the building would suggest. It is absolutely full of people. There is an orchestra setting up, technicians working on the equipment set up. No one here bats an eyelid when the band strolls in. They are obviously used to celebrities.
I nod to Joel, and then break away from their group to take a seat towards the back of the room. For the next half hour I absorb myself in people-watching. Every now and then I steal a glance at Joel. He maintains his practiced professionalism and doesn't look at me once. But I know what he is thinking a lot of the time which makes me feel a bit special, a bit less like a hanger-on.
I watch his body move as he walks, leans, carries, drinks, talks. He has expressive hands and a really cute bum. His mannerisms are so familiar to me in the way they feel but it's a real treat to really see them in action. I keep smiling. I must stop smiling...
Sometimes Joel laughs and I feel a bubble of pleasure tickling my throat. When his nerves take hold I feel a fluttering in my tummy. Watching him, it's actually really nice to understand what the trigger is for a change. Usually, my moods alter with no warning, or I'll feel sensations without knowing why and I'll have to interpret them as best I can. However, being able to watch Joel means that I am reacting with him, so I can understand and can follow what's happening in real time. I can just go with the flow, it's much more relaxed.
Then a thought rises to the surface and ‘pops’ in my mind. It’s a little disturbing. I could 'become' Joel. Since this started to take me over, I have realised I no longer 'feel' like Beth so much.
When was the last time I followed my desires, or at least desires that did not involve Joel? When was the last time I did something for me?
He hasn't mentioned once feeling my emotions, he just reads my mind. Does Beth have such little influence? Is she of no consequence? If we are twinned, have I lost myself?
The thought that my life may be secondary to his is interesting to me... I mull it over while I watch, until I reabsorb myself in what Joel is doing and forget my worries.
It takes over an hour to get the equipment set up. Then finally they are ready to sound check. And this is it. Oh how I wish I could record this. The drummer counts them in, the music hits me like a wall of sound and Joel starts to sing. My heart soars. His voice sounds huskier than I thought it would. Harsher. Sexier. There is a tremor to it that resonates entirely on my frequency. I am alive again.
Oh this is heaven. It feels like Joel is singing for me.
At the end of the first song, remembering my supposed purpose, I take out the jotter pad and biro I nabbed from the hotel room. I'm here to do a job after all. I start to write. I write about what I see and what I hear, what I feel and what surrounds me. I write so the reader will feel like they were here too, privy to this intimate, exclusive experience. Because that's what a true fan wants, to be close, to be special. I am so lucky.
Joel has pretty much ignored me all morning and quite rightly so. When it comes to the song that means the most to me, he turns towards me and seems to direct his vocals to where I am sat. It's flattering but at the same time I don't know where to look, others' eyes are on me too now, wondering who I am and what I'm doing there. His eyes bore into me and when he gets to the chorus, he is screaming the words and his distress is palpable. He's really feeling the lyrics.
I feel uncomfortably warm. I start to feel like my head is going to explode from feeling too much, hearing too much. Suddenly I am breaking out in a sweat, so hot I need to get some air.
This is all too much...
Not again!
Black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Beth
Wow it’s hot. The dry heat burns my lungs. We are walking through the heat of the desert and I am at the point of collapse. My guide says it is not much further. He hands me some water. The warm-ish liquid soothes my throat and a slight breeze in the air cools my burning skin. I hand back the empty bottle and he swaps it for a cloth. I wipe my face and neck.
Ahead of me I see the canyon's edge and a huge red rock formation, in the shape of a bird taking off. It’s truly remarkable.
"This is the place," says my guide, “Eagle Point.”
We continue to walk towards the rim of the canyon. The view is awesome. Godly. Majestic – My eyes soak up the beauty of the view. The colours. The vast silence. I try and think of what I am doing here but my head won't process anything other than right now. No memories, no internal monologue. Red rocks, a sheer drop and the winding Colorado River some 2,000 feet below.
My guide stops right at the edge, a couple of steps closer than I dare to stand.
I am breathing heavily but he hasn't even broken a sweat. He turns and reaches for my hand, taking it in his hand. Then he points his other hand toward the distant eagle formation.
"Eagle Point. The soul’s release," he says, motioning in the air with his arm.
We look out across the chasm to Eagle Point beyond.
"There you are free," he adds, as if I should understand what he is going on about.
And it’s the strangest thing. I don't even think. I just step forward to the edge and past it, ready to meet the space beneath me –
"Wake up! Wake up!"
I open my eyes to someone patting my hand, it's an African lady. She has colourful beads, yellow and red. They are fabulous. Where am I? Oh, I’m at Abbey Road studios. Memories flood back and replace the dream. I am horrified to realise that I must have fallen asleep. Self-consciously I wipe my mouth.
"Are you OK?" She asks, "You passed out I think Miss? Try not to fall off your chair... steady..."
I see Joel across the vast room looking concerned as he mops his brow and I feel him thinking, nervously. He is wondering if I have some sort of serious head injury from the car accident. I give him a wave and a half smile while I awkwardly re-settle myself in the chair. The lady hands me a half empty bottle of mineral water. I remember the vision. I take a clumsy sip then have to wipe my mouth again with the back of my hand. God I am a mess.
I remember my manners. "I don't know your name," I say.
"Precious," she says with a smile. "Pleased to meet you."
"Thank you Precious," I say. "Sorry, I was in an accident yesterday and I should be resting I think."
"Well then why are you here?" She says, kneeling next to me.
"I'm writing an article on the band."
Precious pulls a face, "These rock stars, they think they are all this," she makes a sweeping gesture with her hands, "You watch yourself girly, they take what they want, and they don't care about people like 'us'..."
"Oh I'm sure I'll be OK," I say, wondering who she is and why she would say such a thing. "I'm just a journalist," I add. "Do you know the band then?"
A look passes her face like she is mentally checking herself. "No... Just a cynical old woman's opinion my love, what do I know, huh?"
Precious gets up.
"Can I get you anything?" She asks as she leaves. "More water, some
chocolate maybe?”
"No, I'm fine thanks, Precious," I say, smiling. I really do feel a little better.
But I notice that, as she walks away, her face contorts as she throws a mega-evil stare to Joel. I wonder who she is and what her problem could be. I try to read Joel’s thoughts but for once they are a closed book. He walks off to talk to a techie.
I start writing again. The day passes in a blur of music and words. And for a good few hours I feel quite like my old self again. I get a decent amount of words down. I read it back. Fine as a review, I think but there certainly isn't the punchy, Machiavellian edge that Marcus so desires.
When the band decides to stop recording at about five thirty pm, I choose to bite the bullet and check my phone messages. I step outside into the warm evening air and stand just far enough from the whiff of the bins to be able to concentrate. I hold down the ON button until the phone shudders to life.
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