Songs About a Girl

by Chris Russell

  “This is how the video’s going to start,” Olly explained, over the music. “We’ll get lowered down on a moving platform, and then the voice-over kicks in. It’s going to be epic.”

  “Aiden Roberts … Yuki Harrison … Olly Samson … Gabriel West…”

  I could feel Olly’s leg brushing against mine and the bass pulsing inside my chest. It felt like the whole building was coming alive.

  “… Ladies and gentlemen, Fire … & … LIGHTS!”

  Then, in one spectacular flash, the lights burst open and the song kicked in, and the bass drum was pounding, and Olly’s foot was tapping next to mine, and everything was smoke and noise and color and madness.

  “Hey, hey! What the hell’s going on?!”

  Downstairs, one of the engineers was shouting over the soundtrack. “Who’s mucking about with the rig?”

  Olly ducked down behind the barrier, pulling me with him, and pressed a finger to his lips. The engineer sounded annoyed, but Olly was enjoying himself. As we crouched there, he touched a hand to my forearm, and my skin instantly warmed.

  “Danny!” the man called across the dance floor. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Sorry, Steve,” replied a sullen voice from below. The music was fading away. “It was a test. I’m done now.”

  “You’re a bloody liability, mate,” said the man, and Olly made a guilty face at me, as if to say “oops.”

  When the music had stopped, we both stood up again and dropped into adjacent seats. A few little wisps of dry-ice vapor were winding their way toward the ceiling.

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling at Olly. “That was super-cool.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied. Then his mouth twisted up at the side. “Though this does mean I have to take Danny to the FHM Awards next Thursday, and that guy is a giant pervert.”

  I laughed, and Olly’s eyes sparkled.

  “So listen,” he said, sitting up straight. “About this fan blog fiasco…”

  “It’s fine,” I said, playing it down. “It’s just some dumb photo.”

  “Actually, I know about the trolling. I know people have been harassing you online. It’s awful.”

  I pulled at a strand of hair that had escaped from my hat. “Oh … right.” I tucked it behind my ear. “I guess I just didn’t expect you guys would read your own fan blogs.”

  “We don’t, normally. But I wanted to keep an eye on things.”

  So my instinct had been right. Olly was looking out for me.

  “I’m kind of embarrassed you know about it, to be honest,” I said, but he held up one hand to stop me.

  “You shouldn’t be. You’ve done nothing wrong. Plus … I sort of understand what you’re going through.”

  I fiddled with the strap of my camera bag.

  “You do?”

  “In a way. I mean, just over a year ago, I was a totally normal teenager, right? Then all this happened, and boom … I’m famous. I love it, don’t get me wrong, but it changes your life. And you can’t undo that.”

  An image of Olly, pre-Fire&Lights, flashed up in my mind. His hair fluffy, shirtsleeves hanging past his wrists.

  “Having everyone talk about you all the time sounds fun, but it can be pretty exhausting. And I know exactly what that’s like.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You and I, we’re not that different, really.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, with a laugh. “Half the world knows who you are.”

  Olly shrugged.

  “Still, if something like this happens again, you can always call me. Any time. We’re friends now, right?”

  I smiled at him. I felt lighter than I had in days.

  “Right.”

  He extended his hand, formally, and I shook it, both of us nodding solemnly, like businessmen. He held on to my hand for just a microsecond afterward, before letting go.

  “So,” I said, shifting in my seat, “I was chatting with Yuki and Aiden downstairs, and—”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that.”

  “Me neither,” I said, and Olly laughed. “But the thing is … they said that what you told me about management wanting young people on the team … they said it’s not really true.”

  “Ah. Right.” Olly paused, and touched his palms together. “I figured that would come out eventually.”

  I cocked my head at him. He thought for a second and brushed some dust off his jeans.

  “A few months back, the head of music at Caversham asked our management company if there was anything I could do to help that school band, Diamond Storm. I wasn’t sure at first, because the industry doesn’t really work like that, but everyone at school was so supportive of me in the early days, I wanted to give something back. So I said I’d take a look at their website, and that’s when I found your photos.”

  He was looking straight at me now.

  “They were amazing, Charlie. Like, easily as good as some of the photographers we’ve worked with, and those guys are pretty much the best in the business. I remembered you from that presentation in assembly, how you wanted to make a career from it … and it’s so hard to get ahead in this industry … So I figured, I can’t really help Diamond Storm, but I can help you. And I didn’t know whether you’d take me seriously, so I made up that story, and maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but—”

  “I’m glad you did,” I interrupted, and Olly smiled, suddenly relieved.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Only…” I dropped my head, hands balanced on my knees.

  “What?”

  “Well … if it was your idea to bring me here,” I continued, tentatively, “then I was right about your management team, and your stage crew. They must just think I’m some random groupie with a camera.”

  I almost laughed at myself. Random groupie. Even I was saying it now.

  “No, they don’t,” said Olly, firmly. “Honestly. I explained to them why I wanted you here, and they were cool with it. If they’re giving you the cold shoulder, it’s nothing to worry about. They’re just looking out for us. Truth is, most girls who manage to get backstage, they’re only really interested in one thing. But you … you’re different.”

  He paused to look at me. I tightened my grip on the camera bag strap.

  “Besides, as soon as they start taking notice of how popular your shots are with the fans, they’ll change their tune. They’ll see … they’ll see what I see.”

  We shared a few seconds of silent eye contact, and I thought about the strange sequence of events that had led us here, to the empty balcony of an old London theater. The photos of Diamond Storm, the presentation I’d never wanted to give.

  The local boy in a famous pop band.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “No, I mean … thank you for everything. For helping me out, for the backstage passes, the new camera. It’s just so nice of you.” His perfect blue eyes met mine. “You didn’t need to do all this.”

  Olly thought about this for a moment, and the building seemed to fall silent.

  “Actually, I did.”

  “Here you are, Olly! We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  A woman in a pink tracksuit was standing in the entrance to the upper circle.

  “We need you for warm-ups.”

  “Yep, I’m there,” replied Olly, gathering his things.

  “Where’s Gabe?” asked the pink woman. Olly craned his head over the balcony.

  “Still in the piano studio, I think.”

  “Great. We’ll grab him in twenty. Let’s do this.”

  As she led him away, Olly pointed back at me.

  “We’ll do some pictures before the shoot starts, OK…?”

  “OK,” I said, watching him go, the woman touching a manicured hand to his back. They disappeared through the doorway, and I could hear Olly talking as they walked down the stairs, his voice soft, his laughter warm, uplifting.

  Alone again, I clutched my camera c
ase and looked out through the exit. Peering into the dark, I could just about make out a sign across the corridor that read: “REHEARSAL STUDIOS: AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.”

  I stood up.

  If I was going to confront Gabriel, now was the time to do it.

  19

  At the top of the first flight of stairs, a sign read “PIANO STUDIO: SECOND FLOOR,” so I kept climbing. Soon I could hear music and the sound of Gabriel’s voice.

  When I reached the door, I peered through the grubby glass panel into the room. It was small, with dark purple walls and a leopard-print sofa, and in the far corner, Gabriel was sitting at a battered upright piano, playing a song. A large, round mirror hung on the wall above him.

  Cautiously, I turned the handle and stepped inside. He stopped singing and glanced into the mirror.

  “Charlie Brown.”

  I stood there, listening to the sound of my own breathing. Eventually, Gabriel spun round on the piano stool.

  “I didn’t know you played the piano,” I said, lowering my camera bag to the floor.

  “Most people don’t.”

  I stuck close to the wall, my fingers fidgeting in my sleeves. Did he have any idea what had happened to me online? Had it even registered in his world?

  “So apparently I’m supposed to get some pictures of you,” I said, opening my case. We both listened to the angry tear of the Velcro.

  “What if I’m not in the mood?” said Gabriel, provocatively.

  “Where do you want to be?” I replied, ignoring him. “In here?”

  He tinkled a couple of notes on the piano.

  “I’m shy, Charlie Brown. Plus my hair … it’s just not working today. Shouldn’t have slept in my rollers. Maybe we—”

  “Why did you do it?” I burst out, staying tight to the wall. Gabriel frowned.

  “What?”

  Everything was twisting in on itself inside my head, like tangled tree roots: the humiliation at school, Gabriel’s lyrics, the way he was acting like nothing had happened. I closed my eyes, wishing I was still on the upper circle with Olly, hiding from the grown-ups.

  “That photo of us, from Brighton. It’s been posted online. I’m being trolled, people won’t leave me alone, and I don’t—”

  “Charlie, slow down for a second.” He closed the lid of the piano and stood up. “What are you talking about?”

  He walked toward me, and I fought the threat of tears.

  “Someone leaked the photo on a fan blog.”

  “What photo?”

  I glanced up. He looked genuinely confused.

  “The photo of us, onstage, in Brighton. The one I sent to you. No one knew about it apart from us, but some fan blog has posted it online, and…”

  Gabriel closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.

  “Wait. I think I know what happened.”

  He stepped back from me, hands interlocked on the back of his head.

  “Carla came round to my hotel suite last Sunday, asked me out for coffee, and I … I don’t know, I’d sort of had enough, so I told her I wasn’t interested. I guess she’s not used to hearing that, ’cause she went off the rails a bit. Kept going on about how we were the perfect celebrity couple.” He ran both hands through his hair. “Anyway, she talked about you a lot. Asking why you were always around, why I was hanging out with someone who wasn’t even famous, stuff like that. Then I get a call from Barry. I was in the bedroom for ages, talking to him, and when I came back, she was gone. My laptop was open on your e-mail.”

  His eyes glazed over.

  “She must have found your message, stolen the photo … and leaked it.”

  I chewed my fingernail.

  “But … that doesn’t make sense. Why would Carla want everyone to think we were…”

  I didn’t say together. It felt too ridiculous.

  “Because … I don’t know, because she figured it would make your life hell. Carla knows how the press works. If you’re getting trolled, you can bet she knew that would happen. She probably started it herself.”

  I dropped down on the arm of the leopard-print sofa.

  Of course it was Carla.

  The way she’d sized me up at the after-party. The way she’d looked at me when she found me with Gabriel, calling me a “random groupie,” just like in the article.

  “But why would anyone do that? It’s just so … mean.”

  Gabriel ran a hand down one side of his face.

  “Carla’s a bit like that. You’ve read Teen Hits, right?”

  “No.”

  He lifted his chin and half smiled.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. You don’t read gossip.”

  I crossed my arms.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “it was a stupid mistake, and you shouldn’t have been dragged into it. But don’t listen to what idiots say about you on the Internet. I never do.”

  Gabriel came closer again. I glanced up at him.

  “You really think she would do that to me?”

  “She’s done worse to other people, believe me.”

  “But … I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “Carla’s famous. She’s on TV. Me, I’m just…”

  Gabriel looked at me, amber light shining in his eyes.

  “Charlie, trust me. You’re not just anything.”

  The only sound in the room was the careful swell of my breathing, falling in step with his.

  “Hey, wanna hear a song?”

  “Huh?”

  He gestured at the piano.

  “A song. Something from the new album.”

  “Um … sure,” I said, with a sniff.

  Gabriel walked back to the piano, lifted the lid, and sat down. He placed his strong, tanned hands on the keys, but just as he was about to play the first chord, I stopped him.

  “You have to tell me something first, though.”

  He twisted round on the stool.

  “What are your songs about?”

  Gabriel stared directly at me, right down inside me, until I felt a murmur in my bones.

  “Just things around me,” he replied, and began to play.

  Gilded by the light from the tiny window, Gabriel’s hands moved deftly across the keys, and the big, echoey sound wrapped itself around me. Deep, thunderous notes and high, fragile chimes. He started to sing, and his voice hung magically in the air, strong and pure yet dark and hard at the same time. When he reached the chorus, my pulse began to beat double-time.

  One day she will run away

  When she doesn’t want to be found

  I’d be the one to keep her safe

  But there are too many ways to escape from this town

  There are too many ways to escape from this town

  All the breath was rushing from my lungs.

  His lyrics were ringing in my ears, filling my mind, and he was inside my head again, singing about my thoughts, my fears. My life. It was impossible, but it sent a buzzing heat right through me.

  The song ended, and for a very long time, I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re a tough crowd, Charlie Brown.”

  I shook my head and put a hand to my mouth.

  “No, God … no. I loved it. I loved it. It’s just … did you…”

  Gabriel smiled oddly and leaned back against the piano.

  “Did I what?”

  I couldn’t say it. I didn’t know how to. It would sound crazy.

  It was crazy.

  “Nothing,” I said, pushing the thought from my mind. “It’s … nothing.”

  There had to be a simple explanation for all this. There had to be.

  “So, do you play?”

  Gabriel tapped a fist against the scratched wooden panels of the piano.

  “Me?” I laughed. “No, no way.”

  He patted the space at the end of the piano stool.

  “Come here. I’ll teach you something.”

  Watching him, doubtfully, I crossed the room and slid onto the piano stool. Our leg
s pressed together, and he touched his fingers to the keys.

  “How about a chord? Reckon you can handle one chord?”

  I raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

  “OK, so this is how it goes…”

  He curled his hand over mine and lifted them both to the keyboard. I stared at my fingers, white and small, hidden beneath his.

  “Your thumb, here, that goes on middle C…” He was carefully positioning each of my fingers against the stained ivory. “And then, every finger has its own key … no, like this.”

  He smirked at me.

  “You have to relax, Charlie Brown. You’re all tense.” He leaned an elbow on the upturned piano lid. “You know, playing the piano is a lot like making love to a beautiful woman.”

  I glared back at him. His face, at first perfectly serious, soon broke out into laughter.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Concentrate,” he said, “or you’ll never make it as a concert pianist. Now, you want to play these three keys here … yep, those three. At the same time.”

  Timidly, I pressed down the keys, but the notes all rang out at different times. The chord sounded fragile and thin.

  “Was that good?”

  Gabriel rocked his hand from side to side.

  “I’ve seen better.” He smiled. “You’re not Rachmaninov yet, but it’s early days.”

  I placed my fingers back on the keys and tried the chord for a second time. Once again, it came out weak, uneven.

  “Hey, what’s that?”

  I stopped playing. Gabriel was staring at my neck.

  “What’s what?”

  “That mark.”

  I brushed a lock of hair across it.

  “It’s just a birthmark,” I said.

  “It’s amazing,” said Gabriel, fixated. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It kind of looks like a … flame.”

  “I’ve always hated it.”

  “Oh.” Gabriel thought about this. “You shouldn’t.”

  He leaned backward a little and looked at me like he was searching my face for something. Studying me.

  “Don’t you ever let your hair down?”

  I folded my arms.

  “Yeah, course … I’ve been to loads of parties.”

  This was a lie.

  “No,” he replied, laughing at me. “I mean literally. Let your hair down.”