“Boy, is that girl into you,” said Yuki, patting Gabriel on the back, and I clicked the shutter to capture it.
Snap. Dead on.
“OK, so there’s quite a few tabloids with us today,” said the woman with the headset as we reached the end of the corridor. “Couple of music mags too, some bloggers. Give ’em some airtime, sign some autographs, then it’s back inside in ten for makeup. Got it?”
With a loud clack, she pushed open the fire doors and the band strode out to the frantic clattering of cameras. I followed behind at a distance, my finger poised on the shutter release, eagerly snapping as I walked.
We were standing in a fenced-off enclosure, hidden away around the back of the building. Penned in behind a temporary barrier were, on one side, a screaming group of fans, and on the other, a jostling scrum of journalists. Bouncers stood guard at either end.
Olly, Gabriel, Yuki, and Aiden walked over to meet them, and the fans surged forward, holding out pens, scraps of paper, books, and posters for signing. The press barked questions over their heads.
“Hey, Gabriel. Gabriel!”
Gabriel was busy signing a girl’s autograph book. When he’d finished, he leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and she bounced up and down with joy.
“Gabriel?”
Patiently, he returned the girl’s autograph book.
“Yup?”
“Tell us about you and Carla,” said a heavyset man with wiry, white-blond hair. “You guys together?”
“Yeah, Carla! Carla Martinez!”
“Are you an item?”
“Gabe!”
Gabriel raised both hands. “We’re friends, and that’s it. She’s cool, but we’re just … friends.”
There was a brief pause, journalists glancing at each other, then back at Gabriel. The clickety-clack of photographs began to swell, and Gabriel returned to signing autographs.
Seconds later, the questions erupted again.
“Where’s Barry King? Is he here?”
“Who’s the girl in Songs About a Girl, lads? Give us a clue!”
“Gabe, is it Ella Mackenzie?”
For a moment, I was transported back to my bedroom and the lyrics in Mum’s notebook. My face flushed red as I remembered how many times I’d watched the video for “Dance with You,” and the YouTube comment from gabrielsfuturewife. This song is so about me …
“Is it Ella, Gabe? Or Carla?”
“What about Tammie Austin?”
Tammie Austin was one of the biggest movie stars in Hollywood; Melissa and I had been to see her in a cheesy romantic comedy only a few weeks earlier. She was exactly the sort of girl a pop star actually would write an album about.
“Ella says she wants you back, Gabe!”
“Yeah, she definitely wants you back!”
The reporters weren’t letting up. Gabriel smiled roguishly and signed a fan’s poster with a flourish.
“We both know that’s not true.”
“Sure it is! Why did you guys break up?”
“Gabe! Gabe!”
I was in the middle of framing a shot of Gabriel posing for a selfie with a group of fans, when I noticed something over his shoulder. Pushing his way through the crowd was a tough, grizzled-looking man with patchy stubble and eyes like little black stones. He was shouting Gabriel’s name and shouldering people out of his way. When he’d made it to the front, he waved a digital recorder in Gabriel’s face.
“Tell us about your mum and dad.”
Gabriel stopped in the middle of a signature. “What?”
“Go on,” said the man, with a sniff. “Tell us about your parents.”
Gabriel lowered his pen. “I don’t talk about my family. You guys know that.”
The man’s nose twitched, like a rodent.
“Come on, mate. You said they’re living in the South of France. They must be proud of you, yeah? Their pop-star son?”
Gabriel finished the autograph and passed it over the barrier to a girl in a Fire&Lights hoodie. As he did with every fan, he was careful to make eye contact with her before moving on. Her cheeks turned red, and her eyes welled up.
“Next question.”
“Olly! Hey, Olly!” Attention swung across the yard, and the jungle of cameras and sound recorders pointed suddenly in Olly’s direction. For a second I kept my lens fixed on Gabriel, which meant I was probably the only person to see the look he was giving the pushy journalist. His brow was lowered, jaw clenched. Eyes unblinking.
I caught it on camera.
“We talked to Jake last week,” said a woman in a high-collared coat, thrusting a microphone toward Olly. “He’s still pretty cut up—what d’you say about that?”
Olly exhaled and stepped backward from the crowd. Beside him, Yuki and Aiden were scribbling autographs and posing for selfies.
“Jake’s a good friend of mine,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “He’ll be OK. He’ll bounce back.”
“It’s pretty bad, though, what happened. Don’t you think?”
For the briefest split second, Olly’s eyes flickered toward Gabriel.
“Jake’s cool; he’ll be fine.”
I lowered my camera. Was I missing something here? Who was Jake?
“Sorry, everyone, that’s time!” said the headset woman, herding up the boys with outstretched arms. They waved at the fans and walked backward toward the fire doors, girls screaming, journalists yelling questions, the man with the grizzled face eyeing Gabriel until the end.
“Charlie.”
Back inside, I was sliding my camera into its case when Olly took me aside. “We’re off to makeup in a bit,” he said. “You OK to make your own way to the green room?”
Olly gave me directions and said he would meet me there when they were done. As he talked, I couldn’t help but notice that while Yuki and Aiden were chatting behind him, Gabriel had, once again, disappeared.
“So how’s the camera working out for you?”
I snapped back into the room. Olly was waiting for my reply.
“Oh my God … it’s great, Olly. It’s perfect.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Hey,” he said, as the woman in the headset took him by the arm. “You don’t need to thank me. Honestly.”
She began to lead him away.
“Just try not to get lost,” he said, as I took in my surroundings. “This place is a labyrinth!”
Soon I was alone in the corridor, camera hanging off my shoulder, listening to the hum of the crowds outside. Slipping through a side door, I began to make my way through the maze of backstage passages, trying to remember Olly’s directions. I messaged Melissa as I walked.
So brighton is waaaay nicer than reading
What’s happening?? Any gossip?
I stopped and looked around. Predictably, I had already taken a wrong turn.
I pushed on.
Olly bought me a camera
WTF??!?!?
Yep, a canon EOS. Brand new
Hashtag dream camera!!
I know. I can’t believe it
I came up against a door marked “NO EXIT.” Turning around, I tried retracing my steps for a while, but it was no use. I was lost, and wandering the corridors virtually at random.
Wait … wait. Charlie. OLLY IS SO INTO U
Chill out, mel, he’s just being nice
Classic Melissa, I thought, as I watched the last bar of signal disappear from my phone.
Always fantasizing.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I tried a nearby door and, to my surprise, it opened. Behind it was a small, dusty room covered in fuse boxes and exposed wires. Walking through, I pulled aside a curtain and found myself standing in the wings at the side of the stage.
This was bad. I wasn’t supposed to be here yet, especially not on my own. I searched around for another way out.
And that w
as when I heard his voice.
14
The voice was deep and a little husky, and he was singing very quietly, as if to himself.
I knew the voice instantly, and I knew the song too. I knew it very well indeed.
It was “Cat’s in the Cradle.”
“Gabriel?”
He turned round, slowly, as if he already knew it was me.
“Charlie Brown. What’s happening?”
“My na … It’s Bloom.”
“I know,” he said, “but I like Charlie Brown.”
“Charlie Brown’s a boy.”
I blushed instantly. What kind of response was that? I waited for Gabriel to reply, but he said nothing. He just watched me, silently, from behind those dark, cascading locks of hair.
“I’m kinda lost,” I said, the lyrics to “Cat’s in the Cradle” now spinning through my brain. Gabriel smiled.
“You’re not the only one.”
“I mean … I shouldn’t really be back here.”
He shrugged.
“Neither should I. Wanna see the stage?”
Before I knew what was happening, Gabriel had taken me by the hand. I stammered out a halfhearted protest.
“I don’t really think I’m supposed to…”
But my words trailed away as Gabriel dragged me from the dark, through thick black curtains, and out onto the stage. Immediately my world lit up, a burst of blinding lights flooding my vision, bleaching everything white, and I lifted an arm to shield my eyes. When the glare had faded, I found myself standing in the center of an impossible scene, hand in hand with a pop star, like two tiny figurines in a snow globe. I gazed up at the high ceiling, and then over my shoulder, struggling to take everything in: the network of runways; the giant Fire&Lights banner hanging on the back wall; the gleaming bank of guitars, keyboards, drum kits, and microphones surrounding us on all sides. Finally, beyond the stage loomed the auditorium, vast and empty, ready to be filled by the crowds I’d seen queuing outside. Everything was pin-drop silent, awaiting the rush of thousands.
As we stood there alone, still connected at the fingers, I felt dizzy with awe.
It was breathtaking.
“Pretty special, huh?”
Rows and rows of empty seating fanned away from the stage, lighting rigs hung like scaffolding above our heads, instruments glistened, and the air tingled with anticipation. This, it dawned on me, was the view Gabriel had almost every night. This, but with thousands of girls screaming his name.
This was normal for him.
“How do you … I mean…” My mouth felt dry, the words stumbling out. “This is unbelievable.”
Gabriel let go of my hand, and his fingertips brushed against mine.
“We should take some photos.”
I laughed.
“Wh—what do you mean, take photos?”
His eyes were locked on me.
“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“So don’t you think you should be doing your job?”
I tried to smile, but my muscles wouldn’t move. Was he serious, or just toying with me?
“I don’t think so,” I replied, hitching the camera bag up my shoulder. I gave him a look that I hoped conveyed disapproval, but in truth I was still thinking about his hand wrapped around mine.
“I’m your boss, technically, so really it’s my decision.” He clicked his fingers. “Pass the camera.”
I lifted the camera off my shoulder and passed it to him. He unzipped the case, pulled out the Canon, and scratched his head.
“Fancy machine.”
“It was a present,” I replied. “From Olly.”
A shadow passed over his eyes.
“What?”
“I know—crazy, right? He just gave it to me, out of the blue.”
Gabriel stared at the camera. He seemed to be thinking, very carefully, about something. Then, switching it on, he closed the gap between us, held the camera out at arm’s length with the lens pointing back in our direction and began rapidly clicking the shutter release.
His palm was pressing against the small of my back. I wondered if I should step away, but for some reason, I didn’t.
“This is you,” he was saying, snapping and pointing at seemingly random angles. “This is you, onstage with a celebrity, and on Monday you can show this to all your friends at school, and—”
“I don’t have that many friends.”
“Nice, Charlie Brown. Nice.”
“But—”
“You can go into school next week, you can show these pics to all your friends, and everyone will think you”—he aimed one final shot at us, more carefully this time, and clicked the release—“are the coolest damn human being on the planet.”
I grabbed for the camera, but he held it out of my reach. He was studying the image on the screen.
“That’s not bad,” he said. “Take a look.”
Slipping the strap around my neck, I stared down at the screen and saw myself—Charlie Bloom of 33 Tower Close, Reading—standing next to Gabriel West from Fire&Lights, alone onstage in an empty venue.
“So what d’you wanna do now?” he asked, as if we were the only two people alive on earth.
“Well … shouldn’t you be in makeup?”
“Makeup? Like they could improve on this?”
He made a circular gesture round his face with one finger. I crossed my arms.
“What, I’m kidding,” he said, running a hand through his wavy hair, sending the dark locks tumbling. I didn’t answer. “You know the whole arrogant-pop-star thing is an act, right?”
I shrugged.
“Unless … don’t tell me you believe everything you read on the Internet?”
“If you mean gossip sites,” I said smugly, “I don’t read them.”
“Yeah, well. That’s good. You shouldn’t.”
Talking about gossip seemed to rile him. I decided to change the subject.
“That song,” I said, nodding back toward the wings. “The one you were singing when I found you…”
Gabriel said nothing. He just watched, and waited.
“Why were you singing it?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets.
“It’s kind of a warm-up.”
“Right, but … why that song?”
“Why any song?”
I bit my tongue. It was maddening, the way he kept dodging me.
“Shouldn’t you be warming up with the others, though?”
“Well, I don’t … I mean … it works better on my own.”
Unusually for Gabriel, he seemed flustered by this. Was he embarrassed that I’d busted him? The great Gabriel West, too important to warm up with his bandmates?
“I used to listen to ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ when I was a kid,” I said, casually. “It’s a great song.”
Gabriel nodded, and I tried to read his strangely blank expression. He was either disinterested in my questions or spooked. And what exactly was I planning to say to him, anyway? Hey, Gabriel, it turns out you like a song that my dead mother also liked, once. It would have sounded pretty random to anyone else, but in my head … in my head it felt like a piece in a puzzle that I hadn’t realized I was trying to solve.
“Follow me.”
Suddenly, Gabriel was striding up a nearby runway toward a square, railed platform, high up above the main stage. I trailed him along the steep ramp, peering down at the instruments below me: the glistening cymbals, the rows of guitars.
Gabriel reached the platform and sat down on the edge. He raised his chin at me.
“You joining?”
Hanging my camera on the metal railing, I lowered myself down and threaded my feet through the rails. We sat there in silence for a moment, our legs dangling over the side, the great empty space staring back at us. Dust motes floated in the black.
“Best seat in the house, huh?”
Gabriel’s voice floated out into the yaw
ning silence.
“It’s all right,” I said, with a smile.
“Well, I like it.” He looked at his feet. “Calms me down.”
I leaned my elbows on the railing.
“So come on, seriously … what were you doing back there on your own?”
He sniffed.
“Stalking victims, mainly. Did I mention I’m a vampire?”
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” I said dryly.
“I don’t tell jokes, Charlie Brown.”
“Just as well.”
I adjusted my hat.
“It’s a bit weird, though, don’t you think? Hanging out here on your ow—”
I cut myself off, as Gabriel didn’t seem to be listening. He was lowering himself, backward, to the ground. Soon he was lying completely flat against the platform.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up at me.
“Lie down.”
“Excuse me?”
He made a flattening gesture with his hand.
“Lie down.”
I obliged guardedly, watching him from the corner of my eye.
“Now look up.”
He pointed upward, to the ceiling, and I followed the line of his finger into the vaulting recesses of the building. Above our heads was a complex network of metal poles, on which hung a dazzling array of stage lights in a rainbow of colors, dotting the black expanse like stars in the night sky.
My lungs filled with air.
“Pretty cool, right?”
“Right,” I said breathily, blinking in the glare. It was stunning.
Gabriel pointed over to the right, where three yellow lights hung in a curved row.
“That, Charlie Brown … is Orion’s Belt.”
I smiled, and he moved his pointing finger back over to the left.
“That big guy on the end, that’s, like, Jupiter or whatever … and that”—he indicated a tight cluster of lights, some red, some blue—“that is, um … Ursa Major.”
I laughed.
“You are so full of it.”
He tilted his head toward me.
“Do you want to learn or not?”
I turned my face to his. In the distance, very faintly, I could hear the screaming of fans.
“What’s your deal, Charlie Brown?”
I drew my head back slightly.
Songs About a Girl Page 11