Face the Music

by Marianne Levy

  Their lyrics are predictable

  Their music’s oh so bland

  I don’t like the boy band

  I want to be here, I thought.

  Oh poor sweet boy band

  Your music makes me heave

  Exactly here, exactly now.

  You poor sad boy band

  Soon one of you will leave

  Forever.

  And if you think you’ll be remembered

  Then you misunderstand

  RIP the boy band.

  I couldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop. We roared it, again and again and again.

  Can’t . . . stand . . . the . . . boy band

  Can’t . . . stand . . . the . . . boy band

  Can’t . . . stand . . . the . . . boy band

  And as they chanted, I pulled the microphone up, and it came away from the stand so easily, and I shouted,

  ‘This is for real music! No more manufactured rubbish! No more overproduced tracks, no more autotuning! No! More! Boy bands!’

  A spotlight swung across the audience. As the beam swept through I saw that everyone was cheering. Except . . . the light caught a face. Lacey. She was watching me with eyes that burned.

  ‘No more boy bands,’ I said. And then, finally, I let my guitar drop.

  ‘Thanks very much. Goodnight!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  With one leap I was in the wings. Wings?! It was like I had wings. It’s such a massive cliché, but really, I was bouncing, floating, a sort of human hoverboard, surfing high on the applause, hugging my guitar to me, feeling like Christmas morning and the end of exams and glittering swimming pools under summer skies, only a million, billion times better.

  ‘That was brilliant!’

  ‘Oh my God, thanks!’ I panted at the darkened face, which smiled and moved out into the light and became . . .

  Kurt.

  Kurt from Karamel.

  If I’d been a hoverboard, I would have run out of batteries. As it was, I sort of went, ‘Uhhhh.’

  He was younger than I’d thought. No, that wasn’t it. I hadn’t really thought of him being any age, because in my head, he hadn’t had an age, because of not being a proper person.

  Now, though, I saw that he wasn’t much older than me, and not hugely taller, either. He was much better looking than me, though, like his eyes and nose and mouth were all fighting to be the best thing on his face. Of course, it didn’t help that my eyes were still funny from the spotlights, so one second I was looking at his nose and then it turned into this swimmy burst of yellow, and then back into a nose.

  ‘I’m not saying I loved the last number. But the rest was great. I can’t believe that’s only the second time you’ve played live. I was puking from nerves for at least my first twenty gigs.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, my voice far steadier than my legs, which were wibbling all over the place, ‘I did puke. Before I went on. You can’t smell it, can you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Phew.’

  We stood there, listening to the cheers turn to claps to the sound of people picking up their jackets and stuff, and I tried to process the fact that I’d just led two hundred and fifty people in an anthem against Kurt from Karamel and then asked him whether or not I smelt of sick.

  ‘So, look,’ said Kurt, ‘I’ve got to go, my car’s here. But see you tomorrow night, yeah?’

  I gaped at him, feeling as stupid as I’ve ever felt, which, let me tell you, is really quite stupid. ‘What’s happening tomorrow night?’

  ‘Your turn,’ said Chris, who was also still there, as it turned out. ‘We interviewed Kurt when you were doing all your “I hate boy bands” business. Such a great visual. And then we’ll do your interview while he’s singing his single. Tomorrow night at the O2.’

  ‘Right, yes. Um, see you tomorrow. And – oh, Tony! Hi!’

  Tony Topper had his hand on my elbow, guiding me towards a different door, leaving Chris and Kurt to melt into the darkness. ‘Come on through, come on through.’

  ‘To where?’ I was still holding my guitar.

  ‘Your party,’ said Tony. ‘Nothing big, just a few people from Top Music, bit of press, the guest list . . .’

  We went through a heavy door, straight past a woman with a clipboard, and into a room that was completely full of people.

  And – oooh. I put my guitar down. Because there was a waiter, with a tray. Of things.

  ‘Can I?’ My stomach was feeling very empty.

  ‘Sure.’ Then Tony saw that I’d taken three chicken-satay sticks. ‘Although we really must have that chat about a personal trainer.’

  ‘KA-AA-T-IEEE!’ Paige came exploding in like she’d been fired from a cannon. ‘You were AM-AAAA-ZING!’

  ‘You were pretty good,’ said Savannah, just behind her. ‘Except at the beginning, which was ropey, babes. You need to work on that.’

  ‘Um, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘And –’ Savannah stopped, and wrinkled her nose. ‘Can you smell sick? I can smell sick.’

  Then, thank goodness, Mands and Mum were racing across the room.

  ‘You were brilliant!’

  ‘So amazing.’

  I glowed. I actually glowed.

  ‘Although –’ Mum had her hand on my arm – ‘the song about your father . . .’

  ‘I’ll write one about you too,’ I said. ‘For the album. It’s only fair.’

  ‘That’s not what I . . .’ She sighed. ‘And . . . I just . . . Do you have to be so angry, Katie?’ She looked out across the party. ‘Everyone was so angry.’

  ‘It’s just a genuine expression of my dislike of the way the music industry is going,’ I told her. ‘What used to be real has become a corporate machine designed to manipulate young people and I want to bring things back to the music. Enough greed . . .’ I tailed off. ‘Are those tiny Yorkshire puddings?’

  Mum didn’t look especially convinced. ‘You sounded great, but all this rage, it’s not you. And if you say things like that, you’re giving the other side a licence to hate you.’

  ‘Then let them,’ I said. ‘I can handle it.’

  She pulled me into a sudden hug. ‘But you’re still my little girl.’

  ‘I AM NOT.’ I decided to focus on the important bit of the conversation, which was that I’d sounded good. If Mum couldn’t handle my impending adulthood, that was her problem.

  Sofie was taking selfies with pretty much everyone in the room. Savannah was messaging frantically, while Nicole and Jaz were throwing miniature samosas off the balcony. And Lacey . . .

  ‘Hey, BF,’ I said, to the lone figure lurking by the coats.

  ‘Oh.’ Lacey looked up and attempted a smile. ‘Hey! Well done.’

  ‘Thanks. Did you have fun?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for inviting me. I mean, I still don’t like that last song. And the one about your dad was a bit full on. But the rest was ace.’

  ‘OK, well, we can agree to disagree, right?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘Ooh, are those mini pizzas?’

  ‘Pesto flatbreads,’ I told her. ‘Go get ’em, girlfriend.’

  I stood, and watched, feeling weirdly outside of everything, seeing as how it was supposed to be for me. Flat. Flat as a pesto flatbread.

  ‘Oi! Princess! Over here!’ Dad’s arm wove around my back. ‘You rocked my world tonight.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘So hard. You are a great talent, my girl.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Those lyrics! That tune!’ He swiped up my guitar and began to strum ‘My Dad’. ‘Phenomenal.’

  The people nearest us were beginning to turn around, and for a second, I started to feel embarrassed. Only then, as Dad’s fingers rippled up and down the strings, and everyone started to smile, and tap their feet, I remembered.

  This was Dad.

  And when Dad plays, it’s like your ears are filling with sunshine.

  A circle was forming around him, so I moved back and out of the
way.

  ‘Well now.’ It was Tony. ‘It seems you have tapped into something, Katie. I’m not often proved wrong. But this time . . .’

  ‘So I’m forgiven?’

  ‘Make the top ten and you’re completely forgiven.’ He laughed.

  ‘When does it go on sale?’

  ‘Midnight tonight. And . . . you’re sure? You don’t want any production on it whatsoever? Because we can ramp up the bass, smooth over the vocals, no one ever need know.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘I mean, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I want the sound raw. Unmixed. Real. True.’

  ‘True,’ repeated Tony. ‘Maybe that can be the name of your album?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I like that. Katie Cox: True. You’re really good at this!’

  ‘I know,’ said Tony.

  Dad looked up from his guitar and gave us a wink.

  ‘I’ve had a few emails from him,’ said Tony. ‘More than a few.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘He wanted to send you his demo.’

  ‘And he did,’ said Tony. ‘Several versions.’ We listened for maybe twenty seconds, as Dad slid from ‘Hotel California’ into a jazz version of ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’. ‘The surprise is, he’s good.’

  I had this moment of relief, which turned into a thud of guilt. What had I been expecting? Dad was a professional. Too much time around Amanda, that’s what it was. ‘Of course he’s good!’

  ‘Have you heard of Papaya?’ said Tony. ‘She’s fresh from kids’ TV, making her first album. I could put him on it.’

  ‘Could you? That would be fantastic,’ I said. ‘I know he’s looking for work at the moment. When would he start?’

  ‘Recording’s in a few weeks’ time. Nice little studio in West Hollywood. I’ll get the contract over . . .’

  Dad was beaming as his hands danced an impossible dance across the frets, and I remembered the feeling of finding him on the doorstep, the smell of him, how he’d held me, tight, against his jacket. And how far away Hollywood was. How very far away.

  The party seemed to freeze, as though we were in a film or something, and in my head, I walked over and looked Dad in the eyes, and tried to say goodbye again. Had a proper, honest go at sending him back to California and Catriona mark II, whoever she might be. Soon I’d stop remembering quite how his face moved, let alone the way he’d grab me for a sudden hug, or . . .

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea, actually,’ I said. ‘Dad’s had a few problems.’

  Not what Tony was expecting. ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I said, lightly. ‘Personality problems. It’s kind of well known that he’s a bit . . . unreliable. You’ll be expecting him in the studio, and instead he’s off on a plane to the other side of the world, without even –’ I caught myself; where had that come from?

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ said Tony. ‘Papaya’s a busy girl. She can’t wait around for some no-show guitarist.’

  ‘Better that you know now,’ I said, bagging another satay stick from a passing waiter, as Tony drifted away.

  The waiter didn’t move, though, so I took another stick, and then another, swallowing hard down a throat that had gone painful and dry.

  Anything to keep Dad here.

  Anything.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It’s good to know what your strengths are. My particular strengths, in no particular order, are:

  • pizza (eating, not making)

  • music (making, not eating)

  • sleep.

  The morning after the concert, I was really giving it some on that last one. In fact, I only woke when a pair of knickers hit me in the face.

  ‘Murhph?’ I removed them, and opened my eyes. ‘Urgh! Manda, your pants went in my mouth!’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Mands. ‘They’re clean.’

  I sat up to see that every inch of the room was covered in her clothes. And her phone was blasting out Alanis Morissette.

  Seriously. When it comes to sleeping through things, I’m the bomb.

  ‘Rise and shine, superstar.’

  ‘Isn’t it Thursday? Why are you not at work?’

  ‘Day off,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m having a clear-out.’ Alanis finished and her phone started playing something by a very famous band who I am not allowed to name. ‘Hey, Dad’s on this.’

  ‘IS he? I thought they did all their own guitar.’

  ‘So did Dad. Apparently not.’

  We stopped and listened for a bit. Now that she’d told me, it was completely obvious that Dad was playing. The notes were sliding up and up, more like a voice than an instrument. Dad can make a guitar sing.

  ‘It’s been funny, having him back again,’ said Mands, holding a navy top up against her chest. ‘There’s loads of stuff I’d forgotten that he did.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked.

  ‘Like that dee-dah tune he hums in the shower. The same one, every morning.’

  ‘Oh, yeah!’

  ‘And –’ Amanda chucked the top into a pile and reached for a floppy cardie – ‘that jangly thing he does with his pockets. Or how his socks never match. I wonder what else I’ll forget?’

  ‘Why would you forget anything else? He’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Not now, but –’ she set the cardie down on to the bed, smoothing down the arms as though it was a frightened animal – ‘you know he can’t stay forever, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind giving up the den. We never go in there.’

  ‘It’s not good for Mum and Adrian,’ said Amanda. ‘And . . . it’s not good for us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’

  Amanda did that thing she does where she goes from being this cool friend-type person who happens to look a lot like I do, to becoming a kind of cross between a headmistress and the Queen. ‘Katie. Listen to me, because I know you. And I get that you and Dad are close. But the way you are when he’s around, that song you did last night, it’s like you’re in love or something.’

  ‘You’re saying you don’t love Dad?!’

  ‘Of course I’m not saying that. All right, not in love, but you go all starry-eyed and it’s like you can’t see when he behaves in a way that is completely unreasonable.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Um, OK. So, for example, Mum and Ade are pretty hard up right now but Dad’s not offered them a penny.’

  ‘He’s broke. He spent everything he had renting the dolphin flat and—’

  ‘Exactly! He frittered his cash away renting somewhere totally unsuitable and now he’s back and on the scrounge! You have to tell him to go home, Katie. He listens to you.’

  ‘This is home.’ I got up and made for the door. There’s only so much a girl can take before breakfast.

  ‘It’s your home. It’s not his home.’

  I was almost out of there, but I paused in the doorway, just long enough to say, ‘It’s our home. And he’s our dad.’

  Me, Lacey and Mad Jaz had parked ourselves on our special bit of grass behind the labs. Lace had her legs stretched out in front of her, attempting to get a bit of a tan. Jaz was sitting in the shade. Sometimes I think Jaz carries the shadows around with her, the way other people might have a big handbag, or BO.

  ‘What was your favourite thing about last night?’ said Lacey. ‘If you had to choose one thing.’

  ‘The bit where I pinged Amanda’s bra strap,’ said Jaz.

  ‘You pinged Amanda’s bra?’ Manda–Jaz relations were bad enough already. ‘What, are you seven or something?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jaz, looking very pleased with herself.

  ‘I liked it when you got into the music and stopped shaking,’ said Lacey. ‘Until then I was worried you were going to puke.’

  ‘That was a good bit,’ I agreed, feeling my phone buzz in my pocket.

  A text.

  Can’t wait for the interview tonight. Car will pick you up at 5.30 and take you str
aight to concert. Ten o’clock news here we come! Chris

  Oh, yes. That. The Karamel concert. It might be nice to bring a bit of moral support. Even if the support thought that I was without morals.

  I glanced over to Lace and opened my mouth. Only, Jaz spoke first.

  ‘So, when’s it out?’

  ‘The single? It’s out now.’

  ‘I might get it later,’ said Jaz.

  Now, Jaz isn’t one of the world’s greatest shoppers. By which I mean, she’s great at choosing stuff, but she seems to have a bit of a block on the paying part of the process. So the idea of her parting with proper cash was really quite exciting.

  ‘If you buy it on CD then I’ll sign it,’ I said. ‘Vox Vinyl’s got loads. What about you, Lace?’

  ‘Join the dark side,’ said Jaz.

  ‘So,’ said Lacey, in what was the most obvious change of subject in the whole history of changing subjects. ‘Are you going to ask Dominic Preston out, then?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because of being in love with him.’

  ‘I am not in love with him,’ I said, making our private motion for shutting up at her, because my love life (or lack of it) wasn’t something I much fancied getting into around the madness that was Jaz.

  ‘You said you really liked him,’ said Lacey. ‘And he seems to like you, and the disco is next week. So, ask him out!’

  ‘Only if you ask someone out too.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Um . . . Devi Lester?’ I suggested.

  ‘Katie, I don’t have to go out with someone just because you are. We are different people.’

  ‘But I’m not going out with anyone,’ I said, trying to picture asking Dominic Preston out, and finding it very, very easy to imagine him saying a big fat no. ‘I’m . . . I’m too busy with my music right now. You know. Writing my album. Also, it’s not like I need a man to give my life meaning.’ It occurred to me that it would be good if Lace had a boyfriend; if nothing else it would take the heat off me. ‘But you should totally get together with Devi.’

  ‘So I should go out with someone because my life is so very empty and meaningless,’ said Lacey. ‘Thanks, Katie.’