by Nicky Wells
“No…,” I stalled, drawing out the word. Should I tell her? We knew quite a lot of rather intimate details about each other, and in terms of confidante status, Spring came second only to Rachel.
“It’s more…well, it’s a long story. We’re talking blast from the past here.” And as I said that, another piece of memory-jigsaw fell into place.
The overture to the real high point of the night came disguised as a moment of disaster for me.
“Let’s go,” someone said. And there it was, the moment I had been dreading. The beginning of the end, for me. “Let’s go.” Sure. But where would I go? Back to the train station, probably. Only, the last train would have left—it was well past midnight by now—but then again, that meant the first train would be in…oh, only four or five hours. I gathered up my coat and my rucksack and tried not to look like a spare piece of furniture. Was I supposed to go out the front or out the back? I hung back, trying to be inconspicuous. It was time to make a graceful exit.
“Right then, guys, it was lovely seeing you. Thanks so much for a lovely evening and for having me and all that. It was great.” I spoke to no one in particular, trying to be jaunty and aiming for a swift departure. “I’ll see you next time, maybe, right?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dan asked. “Aren’t you heading back to London?”
“Yeah, sure, course I am. Got a train to catch, you see.” Little white lie, but I wasn’t going to tell them the truth, right? Couldn’t be a bother to these guys, right?
“So? Aren’t you coming with us, then?”
“With you?”
“On the coach.”
“On the coach?” I started to sound like a sick parrot, my voice all high and squeaky with disbelief.
“Yes, with us. On the coach. We’re heading back there tonight. You’ll be in by morning. Right, guys?”
Going back. With the band. On the coach. Overnight. Now, I had really died and gone to heaven.
“Oh…” Spring cut into my daydream. She was just as excited and approving as Rachel would have been, had I got around to telling her yet. “I sense romance. Mystery. Excitement. But, what about Tim?”
“Can I tell you in person?” I offered, using the intrigue as my bargaining chip for shoehorning myself into her appointment book.
“Well…” I heard the rustle of pages as she flicked through the diary. “Technically I’m booked solid, but I can’t not hear the story now. I can squeeze you in in twenty minutes if you can make it?”
“I’ll be there,” I shouted and had already slammed the phone down, grabbed my handbag, and exited the office before she could change her mind. I bumped into Rick on the way out and mouthed, “Family emergency…can’t wait…back in an hour,” by way of an excuse before disappearing in the lift. Family emergency wasn’t technically a complete lie, just a creative interpretation of circumstances, and I would explain later. However, I made a mental note to dodge a face-to-face meeting in case he might notice my rather glammed-up appearance upon my return.
Chapter Eleven
Thankfully, Rick had left the office by the time I got back so I was spared the need for further explanation. I resolved to submit a double-whammy quality copy—not a difficult task today as I had a few juicy stories—to soothe his nerves and to prove that I had still done an honest day’s work. Plus, if I skipped lunch, I would actually make up the hours as Spring had exceeded herself in speed today, probably because her next appointment walked through the door just five minutes after I had usurped her slot.
However, the red light on my phone was blinking ominously, and when I checked my messages, I found that Tim had cancelled me for tonight. Apparently, an urgent meeting had come up with the CFO that he could not possibly skip. Tim would be sequestered all afternoon and probably quite late into the evening. I picked up the phone to return his call before his meeting started.
“Sophie, so glad you called,” Tim said enthusiastically when he answered the phone. “Look, I really am sorry about tonight. I will make it up to you, but I really can’t get out of this.” In all fairness, he did sound quite contrite.
“It’s fine,” I said, unsure whether I was frustrated or relieved. “Honestly. I know how these things go. But…,” I hesitated.
“But what, love?”
“Do you mind if I still go?”
“Of course not, you must go. And anyway, Rachel is going, isn’t she?
I breathed a very quiet sigh of relief. “Are you sure? I might be home quite late.”
“Course I’m sure you should go. I might be home quite late, too. But hey listen, if I get out earlier, I will try to join you there, okay? I promise.”
“Great,” I said with what I hoped sounded like enthusiasm. I had already gotten used to the idea of going on my own…well, and possibly with Rachel.
Great. Great. Forgetting my vow to skip my lunch hour and work like a slave, I sat back in my chair and reflected for a few moments. So now I was going entirely on my own after all, was I? I hadn’t invited Rachel to come along yet. In fact, she wasn’t even aware that the gig was happening. Had I set the whole thing up so that I would go alone? Had I secretly hoped that Tim would have to bow out at the last minute? I hadn’t really been surprised when I got his message, although I didn’t think he had invented a pretext. But had I relied on the fact that his workload might prevent him from joining me? All good questions, to which I had no good answers. And what about Rachel? Tim thought I would be going with Rachel and I had little intention of making that happen. I would ask her but…well, not for another few hours. If she was busy, that would be fate. And if she wasn’t, and came along, well that would be fate too. So really, I reassured myself, I’m leaving it all up to the gods and we’ll see what happens.
At a quarter to six, I made a big show of spotting the ad for the gig in the paper and called Rachel over excitedly. I pretended that Tim had cancelled on me for a dinner engagement and that I was therefore free to go. Would she come along? Not my best friend for nothing, Rachel regarded my carefully—but not too obviously—made-up face, new haircut, and the shiny black top that unfortunately just peeked out of the bag underneath my desk.
“So this is completely impromptu, yeah?” she asked. “On the hop. A spur of the moment thing?”
“Absolutely,” I confirmed. “Want to come?”
She didn’t respond to that. “So that would be why you raced off to the hairdresser this morning,” she concluded. “I wondered what that was all about.”
I touched my newly sleek bob self-consciously. “No, I was just desperate,” I tried to evade. “Bad hair day—a real emergency.”
Who was I trying to kid?
“I’m sure it was an emergency,” Rachel stated dryly. Then she grinned. “I’m so pleased you’re going. Only…I can’t come along tonight. I’m supposed to meet Jordan for a hot date. Our third.”
“No…already?” I gasped. I was a little out of touch with Rachel’s love life. “Jordan the gorgeous soap model?” I asked, just to be sure. “Where do you find them?”
“You know…here and there. They’re everywhere, really, if you look.” Rachel was only momentarily deflected from the conversation we had been having. “So…Splat! and you tonight, huh? Are you finally playing dirty?”
“Of course not,” I retorted indignantly. “If you must know, I had asked Tim along, and he was going to come, only then something came up. And I was supposed to have asked you all day, but what with one thing or another…,” I trailed off lamely here, knowing I was way too transparent and belatedly realizing that I had just blown the spur-of-the-moment impression.
Rachel burst out laughing. “A-ha…you’ve planned this all out, haven’t you? I bet Tim thinks I’m coming and, and now you can go revel all on your own.” A look at my flaming red ears confirmed that her theory was right. She punched me playfully on the shoulder.
“Good for you, girl. But next time, I insist on coming along. With you only, of course. Girls’ nig
ht out. Promise?”
What could I say? “Promise,” I chanted, and we high-fived each other.
I arrived at the pub at half past eight, having stayed in the office a little longer than I had originally intended but also having taken that chance to have some dinner on expenses. Half past eight was, in fact, the perfect time after all, I decided. Not too early, so I wouldn’t have to hang around on my own for too long, but not so late that I couldn’t get a good place to stand. I hoped. The pub was on the corner of a little alley giving onto Islington High Street, and thankfully it wasn’t too far from the Tube.
The place didn’t look amazingly big from the outside, but it was surprisingly well kept. There was even a banner outside announcing Splat! for the night. A short queue of people waiting to go in were being searched by two solid-looking bouncers. I joined the queue, feigning cool and even disinterest, but inwardly bobbing with excitement.
The inside was heaving—so much for me getting a good place to stand—and it took me almost fifteen minutes to get a little drink at the bar. At least I didn’t feel out of place in my black sparkly top and jeans, although I was probably among the oldest revelers that night. That in itself netted me lots of interested looks from a group of guys clearly on a stag do, but as long as the groping held off, I would be all right. Plus, I really had other things on my mind.
At ten past nine, with a respectable ten-minute delay, the lights dimmed and there was some action on the stage that was tucked over in the corner. It wasn’t the biggest stage I had ever seen—in fact, it wasn’t even raised and it barely looked as though it would take four guys in addition to the instruments that had already been set up—but I guessed that was part of the appeal of these more…what had Darren called them…intimate gigs.
I gently swayed my way toward the front so that I could get a better view. It was pretty dark, but as far as I could make out, the figures taking position bore very little resemblance to my guys from Tuscq. They had to be a warm-up band.
With a weary sigh—it would be a longer night than I had hoped for a Thursday—I made my way back toward the bar and was even able to grab a seat at the fringes of a table. Scanning the crowds wearily, I noticed that there were little monitors mounted on the ceiling, now displaying the action that was to take place on stage. Oh goody! I would be able to watch without being thronged, keeping fresh-ish until the big guns arrived.
Stage lights came on and guitars were being tuned and re-tuned. The ubiquitous “one-two-one-two-testing-testing” rose from the microphones, and the soundman—wherever he was hiding—was making a few last minute adjustments. They were taking things pretty seriously in here. Very promising.
I took another sip of my drink and surveyed the company at my table. Thankfully, nobody was paying me the slightest attention as two of the couples had their tongues deeply down each other’s throats and the remaining three guys were engaged in a beer-guzzling contest. I loved people watching and had to restrain myself from staring.
The first song came on. Idly, I kept my eyes on one of the monitors above the table. Four guys, dressed in black jeans and black T-shirts: short hair, age hard to guess, quite professional-looking.
And then the voice hit me.
I nearly fell off my chair and looked around me wildly. I would have recognized that voice anywhere. Dan. Where was he?
I was so surprised by the mismatch between the voice and the guys on the stage that it took me a little while to put two and two together. As Dan’s voice wormed its way into my consciousness, my mind struggled to make sense of things. I couldn’t see the stage from where I was sitting, so instead I found myself climbing on the table to get closer to the monitor. Could it be? Could it really be?
It was. It really was the four guys from Tuscq, but they had scrubbed up very nicely, thank you very much. The black outfit was smart and somehow suitable, but a far cry from the leathers, chaps, and unbuttoned shirts I had expected. The biggest shock, however, was the hair, or the absence thereof. I scrutinized the screen even more closely, ignoring the surprised and annoyed looks I got from the folks at the table. Yup, they all had cut their hair and it was genuinely short, except for Darren, who had contained his mane—which after all had given him away at the airport—in a tight ponytail that was barely visible from the angle at which the camera picked him up.
I flopped back on my seat and sat for a few moments, Dan’s voice floating all around me. I felt disoriented and elated all at the same time. By golly, I had found them!
They launched into their next number and the crowd went crazy. I downed my drink and fought my way back on the dance floor, eventually reaching a position where I could dance and ogle at the same time. Gone were the tired feet and any worries about a late night, tomorrow, Tim, or anything at all. All that mattered was being there, being close to them, to him, and figuring out what to do next. Because now that I had come this far, I couldn’t not take the next step and talk to them. Gone, thus, too, were any worries about what had or hadn’t happened ten years ago.
A few more numbers and it was break time. Dan dismissed the crowd with a friendly if cringeworthy “We’re Splat!, and we’ll be back in twenty minutes.” The DJ put a record on, and the dance floor started to clear. The guys were fiddling with their instruments, adjusting a string here, tightening something there. Now or never!
I walked up to the makeshift railing that provided a token division between the stage and the dance floor and leant over as far as I could manage. One of the security guards by the rear door saw me and gave me a penetrating stare, but made no move to stop me. Bless these more intimate gigs!
“Oi!” I shouted as loudly as I could, struggling to make myself heard over the disco music.
“OI!” I tried again. Then I tried to garner the attention of the one closest to me—Joe. “Oi, Joe!”
That finally got his attention. Joe looked up and looked around before finally looking at me. I waved frantically. He thought for a moment, considered my appearance, and then decided to come over. Of course he would be hesitant, I reminded myself. He had a family and two kids at home on the farm in Somerset.
But there he was, curious to see what this was all about.
“What happened to your hair?” was the first coherent thing I could manage. What an opening. It seemed to work, though, because it further roused his curiosity. I guessed the usual chat-up lines revolved around buying beers or more explicit offers of a different kind. I had to grin. Trusty old me, always setting myself apart by the unexpected kooky comment.
“My hair?” Joe repeated.
“Yup. All those gorgeous curls you used to have. And the bandana you used to wear.”
Joe narrowed his eyes and examined me more closely. I thought frantically, trying to remember something else that would trigger his memory.
“Oh, and the tank top seems to have gone too,” I continued, “…although I must say I like the dark, mysterious look.”
Joe stared a little more, and then broke into a grin. “Edinburgh!” he shouted. “The coach. You just disappeared in the morning.”
Cringe—did he have to go right back to the worst moment? Still, no matter, I was going places.
“That’s right,” I confirmed, nodding my head frantically. “That’s right.”
“Wow,” he exclaimed, “how have you been?”
“Fine, fine,” I shouted, leaning so far over the railing that I was bent nearly double,.
“Hey, listen,” Joe offered. “This is kind of awkward—we’re going off for a few minutes. We’ll be back for a second set, and then we’re off for the night. Why don’t you join us for a drink after?”
“Cool,” I bellowed. “That’d be great.”
Joe tipped his finger to his forehead in a pseudo-military greeting, which I interpreted to mean “all settled,” and returned to his drums. I walked away a little aimlessly, sensing it would be uncool to hang around now but not knowing where to go from there. I took refuge in a quick tour of the premise
s.
In no time at all, they were back on stage. And this time, they were back properly. Dan announced a change in style, and Mick chimed in that Splat! wasn’t just any old covers band, but rather, a Tuscq tribute band. A cheer went up from the folks on the dance floor, and before I quite knew what was happening, they had launched into their erstwhile and first number one hit, Don’t Rock Me Now.
I let out a high scream of delight and launched myself on the dance floor with a vengeance. A Tuscq concert, a proper Tuscq concert, after all this time. I swirled and bopped and head-banged and felt transported back ten years. The only strange thing was being surrounded by kids, who clearly had no idea what was going on. Didn’t they recognize the guys? Didn’t they pick up on the irony of the guys posing as their own tribute band?
After the set, which lasted twice the length of the opening covers set, the DJ had a hard time getting folks back on the dance floor for a while and I had free access to the railing again. Joe, Mick, and Dan were still fussing over their instruments, but Darren had disappeared. I was unsure whether I should make myself heard again or whether Joe would remember or…well, what I was supposed to do. I hung for a while, hoping for some kind of inspiration, and then noticed to my distress that the guys seemed to be filing off stage and disappearing without giving me a chance to attract their attention again. Damn! Double damn, how could I have been so slow?
I was still contemplating a plan of action when I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned around, a put-down ready on the tip of my tongue—only just managing to swallow it when I realized it was Joe.
“Hey,” he said. “How did you like that?”
I resisted the urge to fling myself around his neck and settled for a sober, “Great,” instead. Then I offered, with a little laugh, “More than great, actually. You left me a little speechless.”
Joe grinned. “Want to come backstage? The guys want to say hello!”
Did I ever.
And so I came to have Tuscq back in my life with no effort at all. Joe led me across the ground floor, up two flights of stairs, round a corner and through a door, and we were backstage. Well, backstage of sorts. It wasn’t the fanciest of dressing areas, just a pretty bare room with a couch, a few chairs, a mirror, and a large fridge-freezer. I entered almost shyly, half-wondering what to say, half-wondering what I was doing there—and wanting to jump up and down and wave my arms crazily.