The bus meandered up the long hotel driveway, its headlights illuminating snatches of mown lawns and manicured hedges, and pulled up outside the building’s grand façade. Pistons sounded as the suspension lowered.
We were stepping off the bus when a figure approached us from the dark.
“Gabriel … hey, Gabe!”
Gabriel stepped down onto the tarmac, and his bodyguards closed in around him. A wash of light from the hotel lobby passed over the figure’s face, and I felt a dart of recognition.
I’d seen him somewhere before.
“Gabe, mate, Paul Morgan from The Record. Listen, I—”
“No press,” said one of the bodyguards, warding the man away with an outstretched hand. I studied his face—the scruffy stubble, the small, beady eyes—and it came back to me. He’d been in the huddle of reporters outside the venue in Brighton, pushing Gabriel about his parents.
“Come on, mate, I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Mr. Morgan, it’s two o’clock in the morning.”
Gabriel kept his head down and, flanked by the rest of the band, pushed on toward the hotel entrance. I followed a few paces behind.
“Gabe, come on!” called Paul, across the driveway. “Tell us about your family. The people want the full story, just give me ten mi—”
“Back off.”
Three bodyguards had broken away from the band and formed a triangular barricade around the journalist. Trapped behind them, he looked small, vulnerable, like a rat in a cage.
“Don’t make us call the police,” said one of the guards sternly.
Paul threw his hands up in surrender. “Jesus Christ, fine, keep your wig on.” As he backed away, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted in our direction. “Sleep well, boys…”
The bodyguards stood their ground until Paul had retreated all the way back to his car. As we crossed the threshold into the lobby, he clicked open the car door, dropped inside, and drove off into the night.
The hotel lobby was spectacular. It had a high, arched ceiling and a sweeping staircase, all cream-colored marble and polished brass, complete with ornate mirrors and glittering chandeliers. A bustling band of hotel staff arrived to show people to their rooms, and before I knew it, my luggage had been loaded onto a posh-looking trolley, and a man in a smartly pressed uniform was holding the lift door open. I said good night to the boys and was shown to my room, high up on the fifth floor.
Five minutes later, I was standing barefoot at the window of my hotel room, bathed in a deep, rich silence, the golden eye of a lighthouse pulsating in the distance. Flashes of that night’s concert came back to me: the roar of the crowd, the thundering of drums, the sound of the boys’ voices united in harmony. I’d spent the whole show waiting for someone to break, for Gabriel or Olly to turn on one another, but it hadn’t happened.
Perhaps they’d got it out of their systems.
Perhaps this was just what tour life was like.
You awake?
I looked down at Gabriel’s message, and my mouth curled up into a smile.
Nope, I replied. Fast asleep
In my head, this made him laugh. I waited for the reply.
Soooo … I’m looking at my schedule
Sounds riveting, I wrote back.
And tomorrow afternoon is wide open
I left him hanging. After a few seconds, my phone pinged again.
You + me, chilling out … whaddya say?
What did you have in mind?
Dunno yet. I’ll think of something
I glanced up from my phone, through the window, at a cluster of stars twinkling in the dark. Perhaps if we spent some proper time together, I could finally confront Gabriel about his lyrics, away from the others. Somewhere private. Just like Melissa said.
I’m in, I replied.
3 p.m.?
3 it is
Night, charlie brown xx
Night x
I wriggled my toes into the deep, luxurious carpet. Dad and I had occasionally stayed in hotels on holiday, but I’d never been in one this expensive, and certainly not on my own. I had a stunning sea view, an en suite bathroom with dark slate tiles, a fluffy bathrobe, and a huge double bed. Holding up my phone, I stood back against the window to take a photo and then sent it to Melissa.
Oh SHUT UP
I know
Melissa had stayed up late, sending me message after message. I imagined her curled up in bed at home, the house cloaked in darkness, the bluish glimmer from her iPhone lighting up her face.
I cannot believe your life right now
It was true. I couldn’t believe my life right now either. Back at home, there were things waiting for me that twisted my stomach: Aimee Watts, the lies I’d told my father, the whispering in every corner of the school.
But out here, for the next two days, I was free from all that. I could forget it all, if only for forty-eight hours.
A tide of relief washed over me.
I fell backward on to the bed and spread out like a starfish.
* * *
When I awoke, a crisp, wintry sun was slicing across the center of my room. I had slept late, past one o’clock, unable to budge from the impossibly comfortable bed, and my limbs felt satisfyingly fuzzy. I rolled out of bed and crossed over to the glass table in the corner, where a huge bowl of fruit and a glinting coffee machine sat next to a basket of cookies, muffins, and fancy chocolates. Sliding one of the muffins from its plastic packaging, I plucked out a soft, gooey chunk, popped it in my mouth, and padded to the window.
Our hotel was perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a bay. Small waves crested in the choppy, turquoise sea, and in the distance, birds hovered above the water, feathers flapping against the wind.
The hotel to your tastes, ma’am?
A message from Olly. I sat down in the large bay window and typed my reply.
It’ll do. Though i don’t appear to have a butler
How awful. My people will fix ASAP
A pause. His speech bubble was pulsating.
Wanna hang out?
I checked the time. If I got moving, I could spend at least an hour with Olly before meeting Gabriel.
I smiled and took a big bite from the muffin.
Hell yeah. Gimme 20, I wrote, before bounding off into the shower.
* * *
When I opened the door, Olly was looking sheepish, and a little tired.
“Hey. You all right?”
He cleared his throat.
“I feel kind of bad about yesterday.”
He had a guitar strapped to his back, which seemed unusual. I had no idea he could play.
“Why?”
“That dumb standoff I had with Gabriel. It was childish. I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t—it’s fine.”
“No, I do. I was acting like a jerk. I shouldn’t have let him suck me in. It’s just … God, he really winds me up sometimes.”
Tell me about it, I thought.
“Last weekend, too, in the piano studio. I think I was a bit … off with you.” He squinted one eye. “Forgive me?”
“That’s sweet, but you haven’t done anything wrong.” I nodded at his instrument. “Why the guitar?”
“You’ll see,” he said, with a crooked smile. He glanced over my shoulder at the panoramic sea view. “Fancy a walk on the beach?”
* * *
Our hotel had its own private stretch of sand—a picturesque, semicircular cove nestled at the foot of the cliffs. Unsurprisingly, on a chilly day in November, it was entirely deserted.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do when you finish school?” Olly was saying as we wandered along the shoreline. Our feet were leaving shallow imprints in the damp sand, and they disappeared as we walked.
“A bit,” I said, tightening my scarf. It was cold down by the water. “My dad asks about it sometimes. He’ll say things like, ‘This is an important year for you, Charlie,’ and I know he’s right, bu
t … y’know.”
“Yep,” agreed Olly, “parents can be a pain. My mum and dad were cool about me auditioning, but they never expected it to go anywhere. Dad wanted me to be an architect.”
We both laughed at this: Olly Samson, the architect. Though, when I thought about it, it was easy to imagine Olly living a normal life, with a house, a dog, and a family. He was much better than Gabriel at forgetting to be a pop star.
“Are your parents musical?” I asked.
“My mum used to be an actor, but she never got anywhere. Actually, I think that’s why Dad wanted me to get a sensible job. They know how hard it can be.”
I kicked apart a pile of sandy pebbles.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t listen to him, right?”
Olly shrugged.
“He was just trying to protect me, that’s all.”
I thought about my father, the secrets in his study, and the distance that he kept between me and my mother. Maybe he was only trying to protect me, too.
I just wished I knew what he was protecting me from.
“So anyway,” said Olly, veering away from the sea. We were heading in the direction of some sand dunes at the base of the cliffs. “I have a favor to ask you.”
“Oh?”
“There’s this new song I’m working on, and … well … I wanted to play it to you first.”
“Me?”
We arrived at the dunes and, lifting the guitar off his back, Olly sat down on a little tuft of grass.
“Sure.” He smiled. “You can help me figure out whether it’s any good.”
“But I don’t know anything about songwriting.”
I joined Olly on the ground, dropping my camera bag beside me. Olly unzipped his guitar case.
“That doesn’t matter. I just need someone I can trust.”
We barely know each other, I wanted to say, but then I realized that wasn’t what he’d said. He’d said “trust.” And it felt like we did trust each other, even though we’d been friends for less than three weeks.
“I didn’t know you played an instrument,” I said, as Olly tweaked the silver knobs on the head of the guitar, tuning the strings. In the distance, the sea washed up and down on the shoreline. Gulls barked overhead.
“I’m not that good yet,” he replied, laughing at himself. “So go easy on me.”
Stumbling a little at first, Olly started to play. He was concentrating hard, forming the chord shapes very deliberately and wincing at small mistakes, but though his fingers sometimes slipped, and though he clearly hadn’t been learning for long, the sound lifted me up; it spread out inside me like wings.
As Olly’s hands danced around the strings, the chords singing out in the cold, salty air, I thought about everything he’d done for me this past month. The new camera, the VIP passes, making up a story to get me here in the first place. He’d broken the rules for me. He’d taken me away from home, from school, from everything ordinary, and brought me here, to an amazing place at the edge of the world where I never imagined I’d be.
And that was when he started to sing.
Olly’s voice was different from Gabriel’s—cleaner, with softer edges—and it melted into the music, curling around the chords. It sounded even better up close than on the records, or even live onstage. Unamplified, untouched, it sank into me like sunshine.
I tried not to read too much into the lyrics he was singing: I’d made that mistake before. But the song was sweet and moving, and I could imagine the band performing it; I could hear it on the radio. As the final guitar note faded away, I searched my head for a response, but could only think of clichés.
“That was … incredible,” I said inadequately.
“God, thank you,” he replied, relieved, tapping a foot on the sand. “You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Thanks. That means everything, it really does.”
“Like I said, I don’t know anything about music … but I thought it was beautiful.”
“Sometimes you just need something to write about.”
I was sitting there, heart beating in my throat, wondering if he was talking about me, when Olly laid down his guitar, shifted across the sand, and settled next to me on the crest of the dune. His eyes were the same color as the sky.
“I like you, Charlie,” he said, with the ocean behind him. “I really, really like you.”
The sound of his song was still in my ears as my gaze fell into his. Gabriel had eyes you could get lost in, but, somehow, Olly had eyes that always found you.
“Aaannd once again Harrison beats Roberts to the finish!” came a dramatic cry from overhead as, amid an arc of spraying sand, Yuki and Aiden crashed into our peaceful little scene, tumbling and laughing and gasping for breath.
Olly and I were left staring at one another, baffled, his bandmates writhing in a pile between us.
“Um … hi, boys,” said Olly, rescuing his guitar from the scrum. Yuki sat bolt upright, his sand-covered hair sticking out at fifteen angles.
“Well, look who it is! My favorite photographer and, erm…” He arched an eyebrow at Olly. “One of her stalkers?”
Olly flicked sand at him, and Yuki toppled backward.
“We were racing,” explained Aiden breathlessly, retrieving one of his shoes from a nearby shrub. “I nearly beat him this time.”
“The thing our little Irish friend here fails to acknowledge,” explained Yuki, “is that I have the willowy limbs of a gazelle, whereas he…” He considered Aiden for a moment. “He has the athletic prowess of a slightly asthmatic dachshund.”
Aiden scoffed at this and kicked Yuki in the shin.
“That’s mean!”
“Cool your boots, Roberts. It’s your brain I’m attracted to.”
Yuki slung an arm around Aiden’s neck and ruffled his hair. Aiden laughed cheerfully, and turned to us, brushing sand from his jeans.
“So what are you guys up to?”
Olly and I looked at each other but said nothing.
“Wwwait a minute,” said Yuki, wagging a finger at us. “Did we gate-crash some kind of romantic scenario here?”
My mobile buzzed in my pocket.
“Very funny,” countered Olly, and I rolled my eyes, pulling out my phone.
“We were just hanging out,” Olly added, “playing some guitar…”
I glanced at the screen, and five little words stole my heart.
Meet me downstairs, charlie brown
“Weren’t we, Charlie?”
I realized all three boys were looking at me.
“Huh?”
“Everything all right?” asked Olly, after a pause.
“Um … yep, yeah. Fine.”
I attempted a casual smile, but Olly looked unconvinced. He turned to the others.
“I was just playing Charlie my new song, actually.”
“Nice,” said Yuki, picking the guitar up off the sand. “Though I doubt it compares to my latest masterpiece, which I like to call ‘Yukemian Rhapsody.’”
He strummed a clumsy chord on the guitar and sang his name in a high voice.
My phone vibrated again.
Stop raiding the minibar and get down here
“So what do you think, Charlie B?” asked Yuki, arms crossed on top of the guitar. “Is Olly the next Chris Martin?”
And again:
I promise it’ll be worth it
“Charlie?”
I looked up. I had lost track of the conversation.
“I just … I think I…” Staring at Gabriel’s message, I stumbled on my words. “Olly, can I talk to you for a sec?”
Olly nodded and, retrieving his guitar from Yuki, slid it into its case. I stood up, flicking the sand from my clothes.
“You’re not off, are you?” asked Aiden, looking crestfallen. Behind him, Yuki slid on a huge pair of sunglasses. I lifted my bag onto my shoulder.
“Y-yeah, I think so. I’ll catch you guys on the bus later.”
The
boys waved good-bye, and Olly and I began walking back to the cliffs. After a few steps, I stopped in front of him.
“Listen,” I said, above the sound of the ocean, “I’m sorry I have to go, but I kind of have plans … with Gabriel.”
“Yeah,” he said, his hair lifting slightly in the breeze. “I figured that.”
“What you said, just now…” I touched a hand to his arm. “I like you too, Olly. I think you’re amazing. And I know I’m being unfair to you, I just … I promised Gabe I’d spend some time with him this weekend, and I don’t…”
My words were swallowed by the bubbling wash of the sea. Olly nearly reached out to me but clenched his fists instead.
“The thing is, he’s not … I mean, Gabriel’s not…” He ran both hands through his hair. “You don’t know him like I do, OK?”
I frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s angry, Charlie. I see it sometimes, in his eyes. He’s angry about something. And, you … you deserve the best, all right?” He sighed and shook his head. “That’s all.”
His eyes dropped to the sand. A small flock of birds rose up into the air above us, scattering as they flew.
“If you have to go,” he said finally, lifting his head, “just promise me something.”
I pulled my coat tight around me.
“What?”
“Be careful around him, will you?”
It seemed a strange thing to say. What did he think was going to happen?
“I … promise,” I said, and, with heavy shoulders, Olly turned and walked away. When he reached the dunes, Yuki and Aiden mobbed him like excitable puppies, laughing and tugging at his clothes. I watched them for a while, play-fighting on the sand, then climbed the winding steps back up to the hotel, a growing weight in my heart.
In the building’s sweeping driveway, Gabriel was sitting in the driver’s seat of a stunning open-top sports car, wearing aviator shades and a Jim Morrison T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I pointed at the gleaming bodywork.
“Whose car is th—”
“Been for a walk?” he interrupted, looking back toward the ocean.
Songs About a Girl Page 19