by Jessica Ashe
“Well, it was nice dating you,” William says. He hugs me and gives me a kiss on the cheek for good measure. “I know you keep saying there’s no chance with you and Damon, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you.”
“Thanks.”
William heads out and leaves me alone in the studio. This is one of the few places where I get any kind of privacy. When I’m in the studio, it can be just me, the booth, and hundreds of dials that I don’t understand. I take a deep breath and enjoy a moment of peace and—
“How’d it go?” Katrina asks as she bursts.
“All very amicable,” I reply. “No need for a big statement. I’ll just post something on Twitter later, and so will he.”
“I know it’s not really my place to say, but I don’t want you dating guys just to boost your profile—or theirs—anymore. It’s not good for you.”
“Are you saying that as my manager or as my friend?”
“Both, but mainly as your friend. You need some time to yourself after what happened with Damon.”
I’m fortunate that I don’t come across many men named Damon, because every time I hear the word it’s like a dagger to my heart.
“I’m not going to argue. I’m happy to be single for a while.”
“I wasn’t necessarily saying you have to be single. Why don’t you call him?”
“I told you what happened. He kicked me out of his house. If he wants to get back together, then he has to call me. I know I sound like a stubborn teenager, but it’s true. Anyway, it’s too late now.”
“No it’s not.”
“He thinks I’ve already started dating other guys, and I can guarantee you he’s out there dating women. Well, maybe dating is a strong word, but you know what I mean.”
“Damon will have spotted how fake your relationship with William was from the second he saw the two of you together. And he hasn’t dated any other women.”
“How do you—oh God, have you got people spying on him again?”
“Think of it as concerned friends who keep an eye out for you.”
“Concerned friends that you pay?”
“They are compensated for their time and expenses, yes. Anyway, what do you care how we got the information? He’s single and celibate, and that means he still has feelings for you.”
“I think I preferred it when you were warning me off him. What happened to the ‘he’s just using you for his own gain’ paranoia?”
“I saw how happy he made you and how happy you made him.”
“He might not be so happy when he hears the song I’m writing at the moment.”
“Oh, I like the angry songs. They sell well. That reminds me, I have a song for you.” Katrina hands me a USB stick. “You’ll like this one.”
I’m not against singing songs written by other people, but they tend to be a last resort. When I’m writing an album, I do the best I can by myself, and then if I need a few more tracks to make the album complete I pay for content written by other people. Those songs are the ones I tend to leave off the tour. There’s something weird about singing a song I haven’t written. It’s too impersonal.
“I’ll consider it,” I promise.
“Don’t consider it; look at it today. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
Katrina winks and then walks away, leaving me alone in the studio again. I put the USB stick to one side, but after an hour of achieving exactly nothing, I pick it up again and slide it into my laptop. There are two files—a simple word document with lyrics, and an MP3 file with a guitar track.
The songwriter didn’t provide his name, but he didn’t need to. One glance through the lyrics and I realize who wrote it. The song is a story in three acts. The first verse tells the story of a man who likes a woman, but the woman rejects him. It’s a pop song, so the lyrics are relatively clean but full of innuendo. It’s very obvious at the beginning that the man’s actions are being driven by a desire for sex and little more.
The second verse is the couple getting together, with the woman unable to resist the man’s ‘enormous talents’ and his ability to make the woman scream like ‘30,000 fans at a pop concert.’
Then comes the breakup. The man acts like an idiot and loses the woman. The upbeat tempo of the song, and the cheeky nature of the lyrics, hide the otherwise sad ending to the story. The couple never gets back together and the man lives in regret.
The lyrics to most pop songs go unanalyzed—generally for the best, since they’re usually trash—but mine tend to get a little extra attention. I’ve not been afraid to write about important parts of my life, including men, and my fans and critics are desperate to find hidden meaning in my songs.
Damon’s written a good pop song, but I don’t know if I can sing it. I can’t sing about a man propositioning a woman without remembering the time Damon offered me sex in my dressing room. I can’t sing about a couple getting together without remembering my first official date with Damon, playing darts in a pub, and taking him back to my hotel room. I can’t sing about a couple breaking up without remembering what happened to Emma and how Damon ordered me to leave.
I transfer the guitar track over to the studio’s computer, and start playing it through a set of Bluetooth headphones which I take with me into the soundproof booth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine he’s sitting next to me playing the guitar like the time he helped me record a song about my father. If I can sing about Dad, I can sing about my time with Damon.
I print out the lyrics and hold them in front of me, messing around with the tone of my voice and speed at which I sing until I find something that matches the music playing in my ears. After two hours, I’ve recorded a version I’m happy with. I’m not great with the editing software, but I know enough to splice together a rough cut which my producer can tidy up later.
Katrina is waiting for me in the car when I leave the studio. I’m outside for barely ten seconds, but still managed to get photographed by that annoying paparazzi woman who works for DMZ. Lance has spotted her as well, judging by the evil glare he gives her as he watches me get into the car. Lance has made his feelings towards the paparazzi perfectly clear over the years, but there’s not much he can do about it. People are free to take photos in public so long as they don’t get up in your face. This woman usually manages to keep her distance.
“I recorded the song,” I tell Katrina.
“That was quick. I thought I’d have to spend weeks convincing you to record it.”
“You could’ve told me who sent it.”
“Would you have looked if I did?”
“Fair point. Anyway, I recorded it, but I don’t want it to be on the next album.”
“Why did you record it then? Therapeutic reasons?”
“No, definitely not. There was nothing therapeutic about singing that song. I’m going to release it. Let’s make it one of those songs where all the proceeds go to charity. I don’t want to earn a penny from it.”
“Okay,” Katrina replies. “I can get on board with that. You have a charity in mind?”
“One that treats drug addiction.”
Katrina nods and makes a note on her phone. I can tell she’d prefer the money go to a children’s charity or something a little less controversial. Drug addiction charities aren’t ‘sexy’ and don’t get the funding they need, but I know that drug addiction leaves children without parents. Emma is forever without a mother because of drugs. Damon’s song is great and has the potential to earn a lot of money. It’ll help make a difference.
I can’t make money from Damon’s song. It wouldn’t feel right. Not when he’s not in my life anymore. It doesn’t sound like he ever will be. The story in the song didn’t end on a positive note after all. He doesn’t see us getting back together. It’s not going to happen, and I have no idea what to do with that.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Damon
“She’s so beautiful.”
I don’t notice Mum sneak up on me. I quickly change to a new tab on my internet bro
wser, but it’s too late.
“Too late, son,” Mum says, “I saw that. I’ve not seen you ‘alt-tab’ so quickly since you were fourteen.”
“You made me jump.”
“Do you look at that kind of stuff a lot?”
“Too much,” I mutter. I don’t have the energy to lie to Mum right now. “It’s hard not to.”
I’ve become one of those people who goes on celebrity gossip websites for pictures of Naomi. I just want to see how she’s doing. Naomi’s single now. I’ve considered calling her. I’ve been one button tap away from calling her so many times. Instead, I end up looking at her Twitter feed, where she’s made it perfectly clear she’s not looking for a boyfriend at the moment.
“You never used to look at pictures like this,” Mum says. “Why are you seeking them out now?”
I reopen the images on my browser. I don’t know why I’m looking at them. I feel guilty for looking at these websites. I’ve even installed an ad blocker specifically to avoid giving them money. Not the most ethical thing I’ve ever done, but not the worst either.
“It’s just weird, you know, seeing her go about her life as normal.”
“There’s nothing normal about her life.”
“I suppose, although in some ways she’s a lot more normal than you think.”
Mum sits down next to me and looks at the pictures. “I don’t like these at all. They feel so invasive. She’s just going to the gym, and yet these people are hounding her and taking photos. Are they paparazzi?”
“I guess so. I’m not sure that’s what they call themselves, but it’s what I call them. This one’s the worst.”
I point to a picture of the girl who follows Naomi around. The one who questioned me in the pub. She’s so attached to Naomi, that she often pops up in other paparazzi’s photos of Naomi. Here, she’s in a picture on the DMZ website which is attached to an article about Naomi putting on weight. She’s not gained a pound—I know exactly what her body looks like and she’s just the same as I remember.
“This woman follows Naomi around,” I explain to Mum. “She’s in almost as many of the photos as Naomi.”
“That’s disgusting. Don’t these people have anything better to do with their lives?”
“They earn hundreds, sometimes thousands, for each photo. Seems stupid, but if there are enough idiots like me who look at them then I guess there’s a market for it.”
“You aren’t an idiot, son. You’re a man with a broken heart. Everyone acts a little crazy in those circumstances.”
I keep looking through the photos, although I know I should stop. I see quite a few familiar faces. Katrina is often next to Naomi, and Lance and his team are rarely far behind. I’m pleased to see he’s still looking after her. I’d rather it was me keeping her safe, but better Lance than nobody.
“I read in my TV guide that Naomi is going to be on The Graham Norton Show this weekend.”
“She’s back in the country?”
For all my cyber-stalking, I hadn’t picked up that Naomi was back in England. Maybe she’s keeping it quiet. If so, why? Is she worried that I’ll try to see her?
“I guess so. You know, they film that show here in London don’t they?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And if I’m not very much mistaken, I believe they film it on Thursdays. It’s not broadcast live. I remember, because sometimes the guests accidentally refer to the wrong day.”
“I have no idea, Mum.”
“Today’s Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mum, today’s Thursday. Do I detect some scheming on your part?”
“Why don’t you pop down there and see her?” Mum asks. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
“I doubt it. Besides, I can’t just pop down to The Graham Norton Show. You need tickets. And even if I do get in, I can’t just stroll up to her.”
“They’ll let you in. The security people still remember who you are.”
“Lance and I have had some disagreements.”
“Damon, I’ve stayed out of your love life for twenty-six years. I’ve watched you screw around, and have your fair share of fun. I’ve never said anything then, but I’m saying something now. You need to get off your arse and go get the girl. Think of it like those stories on her music videos.”
“You want me to chase after her in the rain? Bad news, Mum, it’s going to be dry and sunny all day.”
“You know what I mean.” Mum stands up and puts her hand on my shoulder. “The best relationships often take a little effort. Your father and I wouldn’t be together today without a big gesture.”
“I didn’t take Dad for the romantic sort.”
“He isn’t. I’m the one who made a big gesture. I had to show up at his construction site one day and flash my boobs before he agreed to take me out for dinner. Stubborn git.”
“That’s lovely, Mum.” She pats me on the shoulder and walks away leaving me alone in front of my laptop, still staring at pictures of Naomi.
There’s no way I’ll be able to see Naomi tonight. She’s going to be in a BBC studio, and it’s not like you can just walk in there unannounced. And then, even if I did somehow manage to blag my way in, I’d have to try and get close to her. That means going through Lance and his security team. I can probably take them, but romantic gestures are less romantic when you beat up a load of her employees on the way.
I keep flicking through photos of Naomi, hoping to see a new member of the security team who I can trick. With any luck, he’ll recognize me and assume I’m allowed access to Naomi. No luck. They all look the same. Lance, with his two full-time staff, and a part-time employee. All good blokes, and all sworn to protect Naomi.
Lance still hasn’t learned how to blend into the background. On even the nicest days, he’s often pictured near Naomi in a full suit and tie. He looks like he’s guarding the president, not a pop star. He even accompanies Naomi to the gym wearing that outfit. If you look closely at pictures of Naomi during award ceremonies, Lance is often in the background keeping an eye on things. Compared to all the tuxedos, he almost looks casual at those events.
Lance is ever-present. Where Naomi is, he is. I’ve no idea where the guy finds the time to sleep. Christ, he was even down the hall when Naomi and I were having sex in her hotel room. Poor bloke.
I’m still flicking mindlessly through the photos when I find one without Lance in it. The shot is taken from at least one hundred yards away so you’d expect to see Lance in the photo. Instead, his second-in-command, Calvin, is escorting Naomi to her car. I know the day this photo was taken from what Naomi is wearing. It’s a day I’ll never forget.
Naomi is walking to her car and is clearly emotional, trying not to cry. It’s the day Emma nearly got kidnapped. It’s the day I asked—no, told—Naomi to leave.
Why isn’t Lance there? Naomi had texted him to tell him that we needed more security on Emma. If anything, the entire team should’ve been outside my house that afternoon.
An uncomfortable feeling rises in the pit of my stomach, and before know it I’m dialing Naomi’s mum. We’ve only spoken a couple of times. I don’t even know what I want to ask her, but I know she has information I need.
“Damon?” Naomi’s mum asks, clearly surprised by my call.
“Hi.” There’s a long pause before I finally realize what I want to ask. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but the man who tried to kidnap Naomi five years ago—do you have any description of him at all?”
“No, sorry. We didn’t see his face.”
“What about size, weight? Anything really.”
“It’s not very helpful, but he was just average height really for a guy. Probably average weight, or maybe a bit above. It was hard to tell because he was wearing a baggy hoodie. Is everything okay?”
Lance is average. Average height, not much more than average weight. For a security guard, he’s always looked somewhat underwhelming. He’s tough though—I saw that the day he helped me beat up
those guys who were hassling Naomi.
Sure, Lance fits the description of a guy of average height and weight. Problem is, lots of people do. That’s kind of why it’s the average.
“Why did you hire Lance?” I ask. “I mean, I know you needed help looking after Naomi, but why Lance in particular?”
“He was well-qualified. He only lost his job with his previous employer because she wasted all her money and ended up bankrupt. That’s hardly his fault. To be honest, we couldn’t really believe our luck when he approached us.”
“He approached you?”
“Yes, we hadn’t actually gotten around to looking for anyone when he offered his services. Lance actually offered before the attack, but we turned him down. He contacted us again after, and that time we accepted obviously.”
“You didn’t advertise anything?”
“No, that’s not really how it works. If you advertise for that kind of position working with Naomi then you would just get a load of crackpots applying. You have to go through the right channels. Like I said though, Lance made himself known to us before we even got that far. Are you going to tell me what this is about? It seems strange for you to ask on today of all days.”
“Today?”
“It’s the five-year anniversary of my husband’s death.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Gladys. I had no idea. I didn’t mean to spring these questions on you. It’s just… well, I’m thinking of getting into that kind of work myself. When Naomi and I first started dating I think people thought I was her security guard. Figure I might as well look into it.”
“Oh. That’s a shame. I mean, it’s a shame that things between you and Naomi didn’t work out differently. I’m sure she’ll help you get a job if you want one.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she will. Thanks, Gladys.”
When I hang up the call, I realize my hand is shaking and I feel sick to my stomach. There’s something else. It’s easy to overlook, but things have been going missing from Naomi’s dressing room. Just small stuff: make up, moisturizer, clothing, a wig… and chapstick.