by Nicky Wells
“Good,” Rachel muttered, somewhat astonished.
“No, you are absolutely right,” I repeated once more like a woman possessed. “So here’s the deal. I love the guy. I do. But we’re not going to get married now. I’ve had enough. We’ll just live together. Don’t you get to be common-law husband and wife after some time together anyway?”
Rachel shook her head to indicate she didn’t know.
“Well, anyway. Even if he asked me now, I’d just have to say ‘No’. Yup. ‘No.’”
Rachel was thoroughly confused. “What are you saying? You’ll break up with him?” she tried, hopefully.
“No, no, no. We’re not breaking up. I’m not going back out there to be single. But…” I paused for effect. “If that’s how he wants to play it, then so be it. We can save on all the expense and just buy ourselves some nice things and live happily ever after.”
“You don’t mean that,” Rachel objected. “You want a big wedding. A white dress, the church, the flowers, the works. I know you do. You can’t fool me. I’m your best friend. ”
I pretended to consider that for a moment. She was right, again. I did want a white wedding, but I suddenly felt that waiting for that proposal would spoil Tim’s and my relationship. Why not accept what we had, rather than wishing for more? “No, I mean it,” I emphasized, abandoning my reflections. “That’s it. We’ll go on, grow our relationship, and move in together, but if he asks me now, the answer will be no.” I shook my head, inwardly dismissing images of Tim proposing. Absurdly, I suddenly thought of a man whom I would never refuse anything if he asked me. I wondered what Dan might be up to these days? And what was he doing inhabiting my mind all the time? There he was again…
Dan sat down next to me on the sofa. His warm-up done, he wanted to relax a little before going on, and he looked at me with undisguised amusement, taking in my rather untraditional and now much skimpier than planned outfit.
“So, Sophie from Bristol, we meet again.”
I gulped. He was talking to me. I was supposed to be talking to him. What could I say that wouldn’t make me look stupid? That would make me sound streetwise and grown-up and perhaps just a touch seductive, but not saucy?
“Yup.” A valiant start, but not the sparkling repartee I had in mind. I cleared my throat. “Isn’t it great?”
Dan burst out laughing. “Well, it sure is. We didn’t think you’d come.”
“I wasn’t sure if you were serious. You know, about inviting me to come.” That was it, always out with the truth.
Dan considered this for a moment. “You know, I don’t know. Perhaps we were. Or perhaps we weren’t. It’s all a bit hazy. Either way, you never said you’d come.”
“Well, I couldn’t, could I? That would have been…loose.” Loose?
Dan burst out laughing. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Even if you’re a bit hasty in taking your clothes off, you’re not really a ‘loose’ girl, Sophie from Bristol?”
Ignoring the jibe and quelling a blush, I blithely dug myself a different conversational hole in which to hide. “Actually,” I couldn’t help myself, “I’m not from Bristol although I hang out there a lot. I’m from Newquay. You know, in Cornwall?”
A blank look. Did he care? Why would he?
But I forged on regardless. “But of course no one ever plays down there. I mean, let’s face it, it’s way, way out there, isn’t it? And so I traveled up to Bristol to see you. By bus. I was on summer vacation. You know, from university? In London?”
Gosh, how could I stop myself? “You know, I really couldn’t believe there were so few people there. I mean, I know you all explained about the really poor promotion that had gone on for the tour, and Bristol being your first gig and all…but there were so few people there.”
Dan winced as I reminded him.
“But you were great,” I hastened on. “Really. Great. Best show ever. Except of course for tonight maybe.” Go on, Sophie, dig your hole deeper. “And it meant I got to meet you all, which certainly made my day. My year, in fact.”
Dan smiled. “Aren’t you lovely. Refreshing. Certainly different from the girls that usually invade our backstage rooms. I…”
I never found out what he meant to say next because Mick got up and clapped his hands.
Chapter Seven
A few weeks later, my editor sent me off to New York to attend a journalistic conference. It was titled Responsible Press Coverage in Global Times of Crisis, or something similarly riveting, and I really didn’t look forward to going. Okay, so I would get a few days in the Big Apple, perhaps even an opportunity to go shopping, but I hated long-haul flights. My Visa was overstretched already, and I was but a standin for Rick himself, who had booked himself onto this conference but then discovered that he had to attend some kind of family wedding for a remote cousin up in Scotland. Moreover, Tim and I had just set into a cozy domestic rhythm that I was loath to interrupt. After the abortive marriage proposal on the Eurostar and my subsequent resolution to decline any potential forthcoming offers, I had managed to strike a much lighter tone in my relationship with Tim. Perhaps it was a kind of weird and convoluted counter-jinx, but for whatever reason, Tim continued to be attentive, and even sent me flowers to the office again—although Rachel thought that was just a plain admission of guilt. But then, she would!
Anyway, I had stayed at Tim’s continuously for almost two weeks. We had woken up together, left the house together, cooked dinner together, and snuggled up on the sofa to watch telly together every day. Marital bliss by proxy, perhaps, but it did the trick for me. I hadn’t raised the unfortunate absence of a ring at opportune moments, and neither did Tim. Plus—I was terribly proud of myself for this—I had womanfully restrained myself from searching for the telltale box in Tim’s wardrobe when he wasn’t in the house. Well, okay, I had looked in a few cupboards and under a few shirts, but I hadn’t done a real, all-out search. The important bits were the here and now, and those were good. I would be missing our new routine during my trip to New York.
Rachel, of course, was green with envy when I confessed. She ranted at the unfairness of life. Having just split up with her current lover, she would have relished an opportunity to nurse her ego with expensive treats in Bloomingdale’s or Saks, blissfully overlooking the fact that she was supposed to bring back important knowledge to the office garnered in what would be mind-numbing lectures. And she would have got away with all that, too, but no such luck for me. If I didn’t present to Rick a carefully typed summary of each and every lecture, he would probably deduct the cost of the trip from my next paycheck.
In keeping with my glum and miserable mood, the trip started out catastrophically. My departure took place on a Monday morning, and although I tried for the Tube at first—had to keep those expenses down—there had been some kind of track failure near Acton and the Piccadilly line had been suspended indefinitely in both directions. Panic stations.
Having then managed to hail a cab in rush hour, I soon sweated buckets in distress. Not only didn’t we seem to move along very much, but the meter was running up a truly colossal fare. Rick would have a fit at that expense item.
Things didn’t improve much at the airport. The checkin queue was so long that it almost reached the Terminal doors, and there were people, trolleys, and bawling kids everywhere. It would take me at least two hours to reach the front of the queue, by which time I was already supposed to be airborne toward JFK. All I could hope was that they would start pulling people out of the queue for their respective flights when it came close to closing the flights for boarding. Summoning up every little last ounce of patience, I joined the end of the queue behind a posh elderly lady with purple-tinged hair.
He caught my eye just as the lady started shuffling along, and I, too, had to push my trolley forward a few inches again. Damn it. I resisted the urge to twist my head and stare. I was pretty good at twisting my head, but even I couldn’t do a one hundred and eighty degree turn without dislocating a
vertebrae and looking pretty obvious in the process. Instead, I tried to figure out why he had caught my attention. After all, I had been queuing for over an hour, and there had to be five hundred people in the Terminal. At least by now I had reached the “proper” queue and was zigzagging my way forward between the obligatory red-ribbon barriers. Sandwiched between the purple-haired lady, who tutted angrily every time I came too close to her shiny brogues, and an Asian family of six, I moved east while the guy who had caught my attention moved west.
Anyway, it must have been the eyes. Or the hair. Or the long, distressed leather coat over ripped jeans—how very 1980s. Or maybe, just maybe, it had been the bright red shiny guitar case on his trolley. My head would turn at the slightest hint of rock-stardom in any kind of bloke I met, presence of Tim in my life notwithstanding. Rock guys were Viagra for my soul. There had to be something latent and unresolved here ever since that fateful night in Edinburgh with Tuscq…Oh, best not go there.
There he was again. The queue had half-snaked around a bend and we had both reached the apex of our respective turns, so now I faced west and he faced east. We were headed toward each other again, albeit in our separate lanes, and I took a long, hard look. Or two.
Definitely the eyes. A bright, piercing blue. And the hair. And the coat. And yes, the guitars. Plural. Not one, but three—this guy was serious. And short, actually. Very short.
Look at me, I begged silently. Come on, just look this way. Just for a few seconds! But my mental pleading didn’t seem to emit any tangible vibes because he resolutely kept his eyes down. Oh, oh, what now? Disappointment. He started rummaging in the pockets of his leather coat and extracted a mobile phone. The “vision” triggered another round of memories.
“Changing time! Anyone who isn’t the band, please leave. We’ll see you after the show.”
Right. Okay. Wow. I got up again and dutifully followed a few people out of the door, carelessly leaving my jacket, rucksack, and ill-fated jumper behind. I took a few moments to linger in the dark corridor. I was reeling from everything and needed to calm down. What had he meant, I was “refreshing?” Was that good? Bad? How about “different?” What about “refreshing and different?” Did he think I was a freak? And “invading?” Was that what I had done? I cringed, and then I cringed some more. Well, too late now.
The dressing room door opened and closed behind me, and someone bumped into me in the gloomy hallway, clearly not having expected a bodily obstruction right outside the door.
“Ooomph,” I went and toppled against the wall.
“Sorry! So sorry!” The guy picked me up by my elbow. “Hey, you’re Sophie. From Bristol, right? Are you going out to watch the show?” I nodded mutely. “Great. You got your backstage pass?” Shook my head. “Right. Oh dear. Hmm.” The guy had the cutest puppy dog frown. “Right, tell you what, I’m Richard, the sound man. Why don’t you come with me? Best place to listen is in my booth anyway, although you won’t be terribly close to the stage. But I can let you back here afterwards?”
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “That would be great.”
The concert was fantastic. It was packed, and I felt ecstatic to be there. The band were at their very best, spurred on by the cheers and sing-alongs of the massive crowd. Dan, Mick, and Darren did their legendary stage walk, and Joe performed an amazing dance on his drum kit. Somehow, having met them all backstage, every little gesture and every little joke had some kind of insider meaning for me. I felt the mad urge to run around shouting at people, “I know what this is all about, I’ve been backstage, whoopee!” But of course I did no such thing. I sat behind Richard, listened, observed, and exchanged the occasional look and thumbs-up with him. I was in heaven.
When the concert finished, the real fun was about to begin for me. Unlike everyone else, I wouldn’t be leaving the hall to go home. I would be going backstage to party. I wasn’t quite sure what form that party would take, and I was determined to figure out when I started to make a nuisance of myself so that I could exit gracefully. But I was sure to get in at least a few minutes of hobnobbing—and hopefully guzzling something sparkly—with the stars of the show. That, after all, had been my teenage fantasy for years. Okay, my fantasy hadn’t stopped there, but to expect the whole “being swept off my feet and carried to the altar” thing was probably going a bit too far. So just a half-hour rub with fame would do nicely, thank you.
Except…Damn. I had lost Richard. The lights had come on and there were oodles of people milling about, but they all looked alike and Richard had definitely disappeared.
“Bollocks,” I said with passion, much to the surprise of the big bloke next to me. He looked at me disapprovingly and I hastened to clarify, “Not the show…I just lost my friend.”
“Ah.” He grunted in sympathy and then turned away, disinterested.
“Excuse me, madam!” Someone seemed to be prodding my back. “Excuse me!” More insistent now.
I jumped to and turned around to face a very apologetic Indian dad.
“Please, would you push your trolley forward a little? The queue, it has bended forward, and you are causing an abstraction.”
An abstraction? Not a bad way to describe my state of inner turmoil. I believed I knew the guy with the guitars, but I couldn’t put my finger on the why, the where, or indeed the how of it. Then I noticed that the entire Indian family stared at me curiously, and I dutifully gave my trolley a good shove forward. From the corner of my eyes, I picked up that my delay had caught the attention of Mr. Mysterious as well, who regarded me with undisguised curiosity while talking into his mobile.
Those eyes. This wasn’t just an obsession, or an instinctive reaction to a prime trigger of sexual interest, this was recognition. Mutual recognition even, because Mr. Mysterious looked quite bemused himself.
My heart thumped away in my chest like a jungle drum. Calm, I told myself. Stay calm. Cool. Think!
On I had to shuffle, but any stress about time running away and missing my flight was fast forgotten. Another bend, another turn, another change of direction for him and me, and we passed each other again. This time, he anticipated my stare and was even breaking into a tentative smile before his mobile phone rang again. Just when he was within talking distance, we had been separated again and I cursed my ill fate. Yet things got worse. He had a thunderous look on his face and, still talking impatiently on his phone, retreated. He backed out of the queue, jabbering away into the phone and mumbling apologies to the people around him at the same time. No. No. No.
My every instinct told me to follow him, but I really, really needed to catch that flight. I was twenty-eight and in a steady relationship after all. I was way too mature to take off on a whim like that and jeopardize my career. Or so I told myself sternly.
Thirty minutes later I had finally checked in. In theory, I should have been on the plane already, but to add to the catalogue of inconveniences for the day, all flights from the States had been delayed. The plane that was going to take me to JFK was, in fact, still inbound. The friendly stewardess at the checkin counter said that I had another two hours or so to spare and cheerfully gave me a small meal voucher before dispatching my luggage onto the luggage belt and me back into the mayhem of the Terminal.
Never traveling light, and particularly not on business trips, I had brought both a small suitcase and a carry-on bag. The carry-on bag contained my most precious accessories that I could not afford to be lost in transit: hairdryer, shampoo, brushes, curlers, make-up, nightie, and other assorted creature comforts in the regulation minute quantities, ready packed in a clear plastic baggie to show to the security staff. No clothes, except the nightie, for emergencies, but anything and everything I needed to keep my face and hair looking reasonably presentable. I always marveled at the weight of all this stuff and so I refused to relinquish my baggage trolley.
My first stop, after two-and-a-half hours in the queue, had to be the loo. I had vaguely determined to go in search of my mystery man after heeding
nature’s call. After all, he had clearly been there for a flight, and I thought it unlikely that he would have left. So with my brain already filled with little plans to reclaim mystery man, I nearly passed out with shock when said male was waiting for me just outside the restroom facilities. Had he read my mind? My body was instantly drenched in a hot flush of excitement and, yes, embarrassment. And then I had to add a deep facial blush to my list of bodily discomforts when I realized the folly of my presumption. Of course he wasn’t waiting for me. He was still talking on his mobile phone, and he seemed quite angry. He had neither eyes nor ears for anything or anyone around him, and he had to have chosen his spot in front of the facilities because, in reality, it was the quietest place to be had in the entire Terminal.
Masking my discomfiture, I glanced neither left nor right as I pushed my trolley within touching distance of mystery man and entered the ladies’ room.
Safely ensconced in a cubicle, I took a few deep breaths. Just what on earth was happening to me? This was a complete throwback to being a star-struck teenager. I was blithely aware that I was behaving in the most ridiculous manner, even if hopefully this hadn’t become obvious to any standers-by yet. Although at the rate I was going, it wouldn’t take too long.
And what about Tim? Plain forgotten. I cringed as I admitted that to myself. Out there, eyeing up mystery man, I would have been—or still could be—capable of anything without any further thought of Tim. When I had first noticed mystery man, I hadn’t thought to myself, gosh, he looks like the kind of guy I might have fancied a while back, before I had my lovely Tim. And I hadn’t thought to myself, cor, he’s a looker, but he doesn’t score anywhere near my darling-hunk Tim. No. It had been all systems go. Find out who he is, talk to him—go girl.