by Jessica Ashe
I take a long walk back to the arena. Everything seems different during the day, and the fresh air clears my head a little. My security pass gets me backstage despite having expired last night and I find Kevin out back overseeing the unloading of crates from a lorry.
“Damon, there you are,” he says, grabbing an envelope from inside his jacket pocket. “Holy shit, what happened to you?”
I take the envelope from his hand and slip it into my jeans’ pocket. “On the way home last night, some local gentlemen decided they would like to see the contents of my wallet. I decided I didn’t want them to.”
Kevin laughs deeply. “Good for you, son. They must have been completely trolleyed to think they could take you on.”
“I doubt they’ll make the mistake again.”
“No, I bet. Listen, I didn’t just ask you to come over here to collect your pay.”
Kevin was my boss for the last couple of days, but he’s not anymore. I don’t need to listen to any lecture about not walking in on celebrities getting dressed.
“I’m kind of busy,” I say. “I have to be at my mum’s for lunch soon.”
“You’re not scared of drunk thieves, but you are scared of your mum?”
“You would be too if you met my mum.”
Not really. Mum’s a huge softy, but I’m desperate to get to her place as soon as possible. She needs to clean me up before I see Emma.
“Fair point,” Kevin concedes. “Anyway, I heard from a few of the lads that you worked like a beast these last couple of nights.”
I shrug. “All part of the job.”
“Did I also hear that you tuned a couple of the guitars?”
“Yeah, they were all out of whack. I play a bit in my spare time, so it wasn’t difficult.”
“How would you feel about staying on for the rest of the residency? It’s another couple of months’ work.”
A couple of months guaranteed income sure would be nice. I’d have to spend a whole lot of time avoiding Naomi though, and there’s a decent chance she’ll have me fired the second she realizes I’m working full-time.
“You’ll get paid more,” Kevin says, as he notices my hesitation. “And between you and me, once you’re part of the team you’ll have a lot of fun. Did you ever meet Naomi’s dancers?”
I shake my head.
“Blimey, you’re in for a treat. They’re hot, flexible, and gagging for it, especially when they’re coked up to their eyeballs.”
Kevin’s grinning at me expectantly, but he doesn’t realize how much his words put me off the job. It’s not just the drug-addled dancers, although they do bring back bad memories. I can’t work in close proximity to Naomi. In theory, getting close to her should be next to impossible, but I know we’ll keep bumping into each other somehow. As much as I’d like to help her de-stress, we clearly aren’t a good match. We’ve barely exchanged a kind word and I’m fairly certain she hates me. She wouldn’t be the only woman to hate me, but they don’t usually figure it out so quickly.
“Sorry, but I’ve already taken work elsewhere,” I lie. “I’m sure it won’t be as good as this gig, but I’m a man of my word.”
“Fair enough,” Kevin replies. “I can respect that. Let me know if you change your mind—but do it quickly.”
I nod, and walk away. Mum’s house is closer than mine, so I just head straight there. I touch my swollen cheek and it still hurts like hell.
I’m in so much trouble.
* * *
“What the hell happened to you, son?”
Dad ushers me through the door, as if he doesn’t want the neighbors to see me battered and bruised on his doorstep.
“Had a little disagreement with some chaps at the pub last night,” I lie. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Good, because it looks bloody awful. Your mother’s going to go ape-shit.”
“Tell me about it.” We head through to the living room where I can hear my mother stirring a cup of tea. The sound of the spoon banging against the china sends shock waves through my head. “How was Emma last night? She behave herself?”
“Of course she did,” Dad replies. “She’s as good as gold that one. God only knows where she gets it from.”
“Her grandmother,” Mum says as she walks in slowly holding two cups of tea. Fortunately, she doesn’t notice my face until the cups are safely down on the coffee table.
“Hi, Mum,” I say, forcing a big smile as if that might distract attention from the cut lip, and swollen eye.
“Don’t you ‘hi, Mum’ me. What the hell did you do last night?”
Before I can answer, she disappears to the bathroom and comes back with cotton pads and disinfectant.
“It’s nothing. Couple of guys got drunk and we exchanged words.”
“I’ve exchanged a lot of words in my time and none of them have ever caused bruises or cut lips.”
“It was all a big misunderstanding and we shook hands after. Don’t worry about it.”
“What is Emma going to say when she gets back from school and sees you like this? You’re supposed to be setting an example now.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I reply.
“Well it should be the last,” Mum scolds. “You’re twenty-six years old, Damon. When will you learn not to solve arguments with your fists?”
“When I’m thirty.”
Mum dabs alcohol all over my face until she’s satisfied she’s done all she can. “I’m serious, son. Things are tough enough for Emma as it is. She’s already lost one parent; she doesn’t need to worry about you as well. The poor girl has enough on her plate.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Has she said anything to you about school recently?” Mum asks.
“No. Typical kid really. Every time I ask her about it she just says ‘fine’ and goes to her room.”
“I think she’s being bullied.”
The word is like a dagger to my heart. Emma is a little quiet at times, but she’s always had plenty of friends. I can’t imagine a single reason why anyone would bully her.
“Are you sure?”
“Your father thinks so.”
I turned to look at Dad who’s sat on the armchair looking uncomfortable.
“I saw her walking home from school the other day,” he says. “I was on a construction site and called down to her, but she didn’t hear me. Anyway, I kept an eye on her, and saw three girls approach. I couldn’t really hear what was going on, but it looked like she ended up giving them money.”
“Shit.”
Mum would usually jump on me for swearing, but this time she lets me off. It doesn’t take much effort on my part to imagine what she’s going through. I was bullied as a kid as well—although I was a little older than her. I soon found a way to deal with bullies; I don’t want her to have to do the same.
“That’s it, I’m going to send her to Forth School,” I say authoritatively.
We’ve been discussing it for a while, but it’s expensive and Emma’s been doing well at her local school. However, if she’s being bullied then I’m getting her the hell out of there and sending her private.
“Are you sure?” Mum asks.
I nod. “Positive.”
“Your mother and I will help out with the money,” Dad says. “We can’t afford the whole thing, but I reckon we could contribute £1,000 every term. What else do we have to spend money on these days?”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“Stop being so proud,” Dad says. “Work’s been good lately and we’ve a little tucked away. Besides, we’re not giving you money; think of as repaying that loan we owe you.”
“That wasn’t a loan. I told you I was giving you that money.”
“And I told you we were going to pay it back. This is our granddaughter we’re talking about here.”
“Thanks,” I say sincerely. I still don’t intend to take the money from him, but I’m not going to argue about it now. If I can scrape to
gether all the money by myself then I won’t need it. Mum and Dad do more than enough for their granddaughter as it is. They’re almost full-time babysitters and they work on short notice.
“You’ll still need to find at least two grand per term,” Dad says. “Do you think you can find that sort of money?”
“No, not on my current earnings.” Playing guitar twice a week in the pub doesn’t pay a lot. Most of my money comes from songwriting royalties, but there isn’t much of that these days. Mum told me I should set money aside when times were good, but of course I never listened to her.
In addition to the royalties, I pick up manual labor whenever I can get it. The heavier the lifting the more it pays. If I’m not dripping in sweat by the end of the shift then I don’t want the job.
“I might be able to get you some work on the construction site,” Dad suggests. “It doesn’t pay a lot, but it will be cash in hand.”
“That’s okay,” I reply. “It just so happens I know where there’s a job going.”
Looks like I might not have seen the last of Naomi after all.
Chapter Six
Naomi
This is the last concert for a week. The stadium’s booked for a soccer match and that will always take precedence over a pop concert in this country.
Can’t complain about some time off, although Katrina has me doing a one-off gig in Birmingham during my break. London’s been good to me, though I haven’t seen much of it. I went shopping this morning, but even that felt fake. After the events of the other night, Lance doubled security on me, so now when I go outside no one can get within ten feet of me. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but it does feel a little weird to be in a busy, bustling city and yet be in a protective bubble the entire time. I’m not getting the real London experience.
I never did thank Damon for helping me out. I’m sure he’s still a complete prick, but he did save my ass. Literally. I shudder as I think of that creepy guy touching my bottom. He wouldn’t have stopped there either. It’s my fault for going outside alone. I just wanted some space, and some fresh air. That shouldn’t be too much to ask for, should it?
I hang around in my dressing room after the concert instead of going straight back to the hotel. I tell Katrina—and myself—that it’s just to help me relax, but a part of me is hoping a certain stranger bursts into my dressing room again.
No such luck.
He’s not even working here anymore. I owe him a thank you at the very least. He probably thinks I’m an ungrateful bitch. Maybe I am.
Speaking of ungrateful, I’ve not been a great daughter recently. When was the last time I spoke to Mom? Nearly a week ago. We used to speak every day. It’s the middle of the afternoon back there, so I grab my phone and give her a call.
This won’t be a fun conversation, but I need to get it over with. We haven’t spoken since I split up with Kenneth and Mom’s never shied away from asking questions about my relationships.
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom says as she answers the phone.
“Hi, Mom, I’ve just finished up a performance and thought I’d give you a call.”
“How did it go?”
“Fine. Not had any complaints yet.”
“I didn’t realize you were going to breakup with Kenneth.”
Straight to the point as always. I think Mom knows my relationships aren’t entirely genuine, but we usually skirt around that discussion.
“Neither did I,” I reply.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, honestly.”
I’ve already moved on from Kenneth less than seventy-two hours after we broke up. Now I only think about him when I see his name in my notifications feed.
“Maybe you shouldn’t rush into the next relationship. Why don’t you take some time to be single? Play the field a bit. Have some fun.”
“I can’t ‘play the field,’ Mom, and I can’t believe you’re encouraging me to do that.”
“Oh come on, I was young once. You don’t think your father was the first man I—”
“Yes, I do actually, and I’d quite like to keep thinking that.”
“All I’m saying is that you should have fun with a more low-key man. You keep dating all these guys who are as busy as you; I can’t imagine you see them that often.”
“It’s easier to date other famous people.”
“Easy isn’t always good where relationships are concerned. What about your dancers? Some of them are male and probably single.”
“I’m not hooking up with my dancers.”
The manual laborer on the other hand….
“Okay, okay. Just a suggestion. Might help you de-stress a bit that’s all.”
“Mother, you sound just like…uh, never mind. Anyway, enough about me, how are things with you?”
“You want to know about my sex life?”
“God, no. Just in general.”
“Good. Obviously next week is going to be difficult, but I’ll manage.”
Next week. My dad’s birthday. That’s always a difficult day for the two of us. There’s so many difficult dates. His birthday. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Mom’s anniversary. The day he died.
“I’m so sorry I can’t be with you this time,” I say softly. This year will be the first time since Dad died that I’ve not been with Mom on his birthday. “I wanted to fly home during this break, but Katrina went and booked an extra day because ticket sales were strong.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. You don’t need to be here. You know he’d rather you were out there doing your thing, keeping all your fans happy.”
“I’ll be thinking of him.”
“I know you will.”
I swallow and wipe away the tears forming in the corner of my eyes. Maybe one day I’ll be out to talk to Mom about Dad without crying; today is not that day.
Mom changes the topic to my concert and I give her a detailed rundown of the performance. Whenever I tell her the attendance figures she always seems to be surprised, as if it’s the first time I’ve performed in front of huge crowds. I don’t think she’ll ever get used to my fame.
Then Mom gives me the run down on what distant family members are up to. I tune out at this point, and start doing my makeup. A few pieces are missing, because apparently Wembley Stadium organizers can’t keep on top of this stuff. I suppose I can cope without moisturizer for one evening.
Once the call is over, I leave my dressing room and Lance escorts me up to the top of the stands where not so long ago people had been singing along to my songs. Lance reluctantly gives me some space after checking that the place is completely empty other than a few cleaners sweeping the aisles.
The stage looks so tiny from up here. These are probably the ‘cheap’ seats, but it amazes me that people will pay at all to sit so far away. They’d be better off watching on television. I suppose it’s all about the atmosphere and being part of the occasion.
I pull out my phone and take some pictures of the empty stage. I quickly post a picture to Twitter with the words ‘I’m gonna miss this place,’ and a picture to Instagram with a longer caption telling my fans how much I love them, etc., etc.
That stuff comes so naturally now. Managing my public profile used to take effort, but for better or worse I now do it all without thinking. Maybe that’s a bad thing. Are all my decisions motivated by public perception? Maybe I only came up here because deep down I knew I wanted to take a photo for my fans.
God, that would be sad. I must have some free will left.
My phone’s on silent, but notifications constantly pop up at the top of my screen. If I had any sense, I’d turn the notifications off, but I need them. I need them like a drug addict needs crack. I need to know that fans are constantly engaging with what I’m putting out there.
Was I always so needy?
Screw it. I turn my phone off. I haven’t done that since… I’m not sure I’ve ever done that. The second the screen goes dark, I feel like I have freedom again. Whatever I do ne
xt, I know I’ll be doing it because it’s what I want to do and not because there’s a good photo op involved.
What do I want to do with my newfound sense of freedom? I look behind me and see the executive suites, many still with the lights on. I know, I want a drink.
I walk up to the nearest suite and step inside. The table is full of empty bottles of wine, and beer bottles are casually strewn everywhere. I’m not so desperate that I want to drink the dregs of someone else’s beer. In the corner of the room is a small table functioning as a bar. Behind the table I find a bottle of whiskey that’s only half empty.
I’ve never been a huge fan of whiskey. I don’t like any spirits, but I understand the point of them. Vodka, tequila, sambuca, they all have a point. You drink them in shots with the sole purpose of getting drunk.
People frown on you for drinking whiskey that way. You’re ‘doing it wrong.’ Whiskey burns as it goes down my throat like other spirits do, but with whiskey you’re supposed to enjoy that sensation. Why? It’d be like enjoying getting my legs waxed. Maybe I’ve just never had a good whiskey before. I guess one of these days I’ll splash out on one of those stupidly expensive bottles of thirty-year-old stuff.
The whiskey brand isn’t familiar but I guess it’s good enough to satisfy the rich folks who rent out these suites. You have to be loaded to afford these executive suites, but at the end of the day they’re just here to drink, network, and watch me perform.
I pour a glass of the whiskey and sit down on one of the padded leather seats. There are small televisions on the walls that broadcast a feed of my performance. No one has to go to the effort of straining their eyes to see me on stage.
I wonder what happened here tonight. Who was in this room? Was it a group of rich men drinking, being merry, and groping waitresses? Maybe a company hired it for a networking event? Were any deals struck while I sang? Katrina used to do the networking thing a lot in Los Angeles. After becoming my manager, she got invited to networking events and had clients lining up outside her door. Fortunately, it didn’t take long before I blew up and could afford to pay Katrina to work for me full time.