Love Song

by Sophia Bennett

  I knew this moment would come eventually, and I thought I was prepared, but the punch to my stomach still felt as strong and hard as it ever did. Jez and Ria dancing. The look he gave me. The drink that fell from my hand.

  Special memories. Just the wrong ones.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  A warm hand on my arm. The girl beside me, with blue hair just like Ariel’s, looked worriedly into my eyes.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I said, numbing myself as best I could.

  Things get better, I told myself. It’s just another song.

  It was true. After three minutes and twenty-seven seconds of heartbreak, Angus launched into the driving, happy riff of ‘You Don’t Know What You Just Did To Me’. With Connor rock-steady on bass, Jamie pranced, preened and flirted with the crowd. George sat at the back with a huge grin on his face, hitting everything in sight with the force of a hurricane, perfectly sober, perfectly in control.

  Everyone around me threw their arms in the air and started dancing.

  They knew all the words to every lyric, and thanks to my sister, so did I. I gradually forgot that I wasn’t supposed to be here, and that I’d ever been humiliated to music. It didn’t matter any more. Anyway, after ‘Eden’, this gig could only get better.

  The music quickly became a physical thing, even for me. My chest and throat were soon tired from belting out the lines along with Jamie, but by now I couldn’t stop.

  Jamie danced across the stage. That boy could move. And that face. Those lips … that Mona Lisa smile. He was having his usual effect and I gave up trying to fight it. Right here and now it was too powerful to ignore. It was as if we were all linked up to him by our own private wires, feeling his power, sharing ours, buzzing with something like love, but bigger. And he absorbed all our energy like some kind of silk-clad, mole-cheeked lightning conductor, and fed it back to us.

  Yeah … so … Jamie Maldon. I got it now.

  When he sang, especially the slow songs, his expression looked transported. As he and Angus had written most of them, it was obvious they had a special meaning for him. They did for the fans too. Meanwhile, Connor held the beat and Angus showed off on his favourite battered Fender Stratocaster. His solos were like fireworks. He was furious and intense, but clearly loving it, as shown by the close-up of the half-smile on his face. Half a smile from Angus was worth a thousand grins from anybody else.

  But it was Jamie I kept coming back to. He was a showman and a songwriter, equally. How could a boy with lips like that, and hips like that, also have the soul of a poet? It wasn’t fair.

  Once or twice in each song he and Angus caught each other’s eye and decided to do something together. You could tell that although they’d rehearsed, there were moments when they’d take a risk and go in a new direction. There was no sign of their off-stage animosity. Right now, they were just having fun. They radiated it into the crowd, and we radiated it back.

  Jamie danced up and down the runway, throwing out towels and water bottles to the people nearby. The stage in front of him gradually became a colourful carpet, made out of paper flowers. It was a Pointer Sister tradition to throw them. Jamie picked a few up, kissed them and threw them back into the audience.

  The crowd went WILD. AGAIN.

  Angus was right: we were New York. There was nowhere else to be tonight.

  Song after song went by … and suddenly the lights went out and the boys quickly ran offstage.

  Nooooooooooo! It couldn’t be over! We screamed for them to come back. There was more roaring and stomping, and I realized I was roaring as loud as anyone. The crowd was a living, happy thing, and I just wanted to stay a part of it.

  Luckily, they were kidding and were quickly back for an encore. After an ear-melting rock rendition of One Direction’s ‘ What Makes You Beautiful’, and a blasting re-creation of Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall’, Jamie walked to the front of the stage and asked for quiet.

  ‘This really is the last one, guys. I want you to sing with me. You know how it goes ...’

  He stepped forward and sang the opening lines:

  She moves like a miracle

  So I sold up my guitar

  Spent the money on a golden ring

  Don’t get you very far

  We knew it instantly: the band’s first single, ‘Amethyst’. There was so much love and longing in this one that it wormed its way under your skin – even though the girl in question turns down the ring and he ends up writing the song for her knowing she’ll turn that down too.

  Amethyst for a heart of stone

  Amethyst you’ll always be the one

  It seemed a strange song to end on. But when Jamie got to the first chorus, he stopped singing and held his mic out to the crowd. We all sang back to him. The sound was unearthly.

  Amethyst for a girl that’s gone

  I can’t help my heart, you’re the only one

  He closed his eyes, listening, and we heard our voices too – so many thousands, all singing together, gently, from the girls standing at the barriers near the stage to the people high up in the topmost seats, near the sky.

  ‘That was beautiful, New York. One more time.’

  He sang, we sang. He crouched down, we sang quietly. He rose up, we got louder. His voice cracked with emotion, we all shared his pain. Angus and Connor played almost imperceptibly in the background. George’s brushes shimmered on the cymbals as the lights went down.

  Jamie reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. He held the lit screen up to the crowd. We got the message and held our phones back to him. Thousands of tiny lit-up screens twinkled around the stadium like stars. Jamie’s voice grew quieter and quieter, until there was almost silence.

  In this massive space, the quiet of the crowd was like a living thing. We breathed together so softly that we could hear Jamie gently humming. Everyone in the front rows stretched out their arms with a look of anguish and wonder. He echoed their expression, sharing the moment.

  Amethyst for a girl that’s gone

  I can’t help my heart, you’re the only one

  He sang those last lines one more time and Angus played three melancholy final notes on the Stratocaster.

  ‘Thank you, New York. You’re magic. Goodnight!’

  The stage went black.

  Shock.

  This time, it really was over.

  And yes, it was magic, and the magic still hovered in the air.

  I felt like something had been ripped away from me. How could four people do that? A whole stadium of fans, all connected, longing for it not to end.

  Four people, yes, but a tiny part of me had to admit that one of them had moved me more than the rest – inspired me, and transported me, and filled me with emotions I thought I’d lost for ever, the way a desert flourishes after rain.

  I was glad, for once, that he didn’t usually bother to talk to me. How could I find the words to explain what he just made me feel?

  The band were booked to play in Verona the next day and we all met up at the airport, ready to head back across the Atlantic less than thirty-six hours after we’d arrived.

  Any sensible person would have used the flight to get some sleep. Sigrid certainly intended to. She turned her seat into a bed, got an attendant to cut some cucumber slices for her eyes, put on one of her meditation apps, and instructed me to tell everyone she shouldn’t be disturbed.

  But rock bands are not sensible people. And when you’ve just played Madison Square Garden, the last thing you want to do is sleep. Nobody else seemed tired at all. Guitars appeared from nowhere. Boys and roadies took it in turns to play. Connor grabbed the nearest air hostess and started dancing. Jamie shimmied hips with Cath from wardrobe. George tried to dance with me. Even Angus asked me, but I knew my boss and reluctantly said no. I ended up doing a salsa with the manager.

  I was still living the gig in my head. The experience had explained a lot to me. Now I knew why Jamie was so distant much of the time, and why Angus was so rude. A part
of them must still be onstage, sharing a moment with all those people reaching out to them.

  And I understood the girls who lurked in hotel bars and corridors, hoping for any scrap of attention. Because if you thought you could re-create that experience in person, one-to-one … wouldn’t you?

  At one point during the flight, I noticed that Sigrid wasn’t wearing her cucumber slices any more. Her body was motionless under a cashmere blanket, but her eyes were open and she was watching us dance. I thought she might call me over and give me some pointless job to do, but that didn’t happen. She merely closed her eyes and turned her meditation app up louder.

  The hotel in Verona was so historic and beautiful it was like living in a Shakespeare play, or a fairy tale. Thick, plush fabrics coated every surface. Everything was red or yellow, and most of it was silk. Beds were four-posters. Mirrors had massive gilt frames. Staff bowed politely in carpeted corridors, and mysteriously knew everyone’s name – even mine.

  We arrived at lunchtime, with two hours to crash before the band were due at the open-air arena for the sound check. The boys, as usual, ordered pizza and sushi on arrival, and headed for their rooms. At least pizza was, for once, a relevant national dish.

  Once they had set off for the sound check, I supervised the unpacking of Sigrid’s cases. As Oliver had promised, everything had been beautifully packed in Paris. I didn’t need to worry.

  This time, the suite was red-swagged and tasselled, with a painted ceiling. If Renaissance princes had had TVs in their bathrooms, this is how they’d have lived. Through the open curtains, beyond the sea of girls holding candles dedicated to The Point, I could see people strolling past bright shop windows. The longing to explore this city was as strong as it had been in New York.

  Sigrid had hardly said a word since we got off the plane. She barely looked at me now. I put it down to jetlag when she retired to bed with a migraine.

  After what happened yesterday, I’d been hoping to see the band in the ancient stadium somehow. The atmosphere would be electric tonight – outside, in the warm Italian air, with the sense of history infusing Jamie’s songs with even more magic … but before she lay down in her darkened room, Sigrid insisted that I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes away by phone.

  ‘I might need you,’ she said weakly. ‘Stay close.’

  Good reminder, Nina. You are not a fan with a ticket to every gig. You’re working.

  I had a bad feeling about this. I wasn’t sure if the migraine had changed Sigrid’s mood, or if the mood had caused the migraine. But something was different. It had been different since the taxi ride in New York. And it wasn’t good.

  Never straying too far from the hotel, I spent a couple of hours wandering the narrow streets of the city with my camera, taking pictures of ancient buildings with crenellated roofs in the different styles of Montagues and Capulets, and of blue-and-yellow Pointer Sisters gathering in excited groups in squares and on street corners.

  For Mum’s sake, I risked a quick visit to the house with Juliet’s so-called balcony (a sign explained it was added in the twentieth century) and discovered that the outside walls were covered in graffiti and were, indeed, incredibly disappointing.

  At least – they were disappointing as history. As art, they were fascinating. Colourful names from around the world were scrawled in pairs on white plaster in every sort of pen imaginable. Big hearts and small hearts with names and initials inside, name upon name until they formed a thick tapestry of red, green, blue and black: Marco e Anna; Kurt + Katia; Susie & Lola; Amy and J.D. ...

  There was so much love there. So much hope. The more I photographed and videoed the graffiti the more it appeared to me as an artwork – anonymous and chaotic, unpredictable, and ugly at first sight, but ultimately beautiful.

  I couldn’t wait to download my pictures and play with them. I hoped it would take my mind off whatever Sigrid was up to, and what I’d be missing in the arena tonight.

  Back in my room, which was tucked away in the attics this time, I got out my laptop and lost myself in making scrapbook pages from the images. Cropping, enlarging, playing with the settings, and layering them on each other, I wanted the pictures themselves to give the same impression as the graffiti – confusing at first, but finely detailed when you zoomed in closer. I loved the shifting pattern of hearts; the endless names; all those love stories captured in a moment, but that we’d never really know.

  They’d make a perfect backdrop for one of Jamie’s lyrics, I thought. I experimented with layering some lines from ‘Unlock Me’ over the top, in thin gold lettering, to make his words stand out over the lovers’ writing. Meanwhile, Italian pop songs floated through the open window from a radio on a nearby balcony. Listening to the music, not understanding the words, I lost track of time as I finished one design and started another, trying to capture the magnificence of the Medici princess suite.

  Bang bang BANG!

  There was a sudden, furious knocking at my door. I ran to answer it. Sigrid was standing there, barefoot, in a hotel robe. Her eyes blazed into me.

  ‘What are you DOING? I’ve been calling you for HOURS.’

  I was shocked. ‘B-but … I had my phone on. It’s been beside me all day. I …’

  And then I remembered. I’d switched it to silent while I was closing Sigrid’s curtains for her and tucking her up in bed this afternoon. For once, I didn’t remember turning the ringer back on again.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Of course there is,’ she said, pushing past me into my room and standing in the middle of my floor with a hand to her head. ‘I woke up and it was TOTALLY dark and TOTALLY silent. I couldn’t remember what day it was, or where I was supposed to be. I was terrified. So I called for you and … nothing.’

  Meanwhile, I was fishing my phone out of my bag and checking it. Six missed calls and messages.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sigrid. But I’m right here. Can I do anything for …?’

  But she wasn’t listening to me. She was playing a new part this evening, and this one was Very Angry Boss. As usual, she was playing it with everything she had. She was a ball of dark fury and her eyes darted round my room, looking for trouble. Her glance fell on my open laptop.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just something I’ve been working on.’

  ‘But that’s a picture of my room! What is it doing on your computer?’

  Her voice was quiet, but deadly.

  ‘It’s just a private thing,’ I assured her, desperately. ‘I play around with my photos sometimes. I—’

  ‘No pictures. Don’t you know ANYTHING?’ She stalked across to my laptop and stood over it, shaking. ‘Show me!’

  ‘I – I don’t understand,’ I stuttered. It was as if she’d come here deliberately to find fault with me.

  ‘Show me everything. Everything you’ve been up to. Every picture you’ve taken.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to publish them. They’re just personal. I—’

  ‘SHOW ME!’

  It was impossible to reason with her. She made me show her every collage, gasping at every picture she saw.

  ‘There’s Jamie, practising guitar! Does he know about this?’

  ‘No. I don’t know … He might have seen me with my camera.’

  ‘You’ve been photographing us in secret? Omigod! There’s my peace tent!’

  ‘But Sigrid! You asked me to take pictures!’

  I realized too late that this was the worst thing I could say. She turned to me with venom in her eyes.

  ‘For ME! On MY phone!I decide what gets published. Jamie’s passionate about his privacy. Didn’t you sign the NDA?’

  ‘That agreement? I did, but this is private. I was only going to show my family.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She juddered with indignation. ‘That’s what you say. But I know girls like you. People would pay thah-sands for this stuff. Oh my God, there’s Jamie’s handwriting on a pizza box! Does he know you took it?’

 
‘No. He threw it away. It looked like a song. I just—’

  ‘What else have you stolen?’

  Stolen? At the mention of the word, my heart plummeted.

  ‘I haven’t stolen anything!’

  ‘YOU THINK?’ Sigrid shouted, slamming the lid of my laptop down. ‘I bring you here to do a specific job … I give you the chance of a lifetime … And all you are is a low-down flirt and a spy. You’re just some cheap groupie from Sa-af London.’

  By now my cheeks were burning. ‘I’m not! I’ve never flirted! I haven’t spied on any—’

  She pointed at the computer with a shaking finger. ‘Yes, you are. And the proof’s all there. I’m taking it.’

  ‘No!’

  I tried to stop her, but she grabbed the laptop and hugged it to her tightly. At the doorway, she turned back theatrically for a moment.

  ‘And just in case you were wondering, you’re fired. You can go back to your tacky family tomorrow. On a BUDGET FLIGHT.’

  Then she broke down in sobs, as if I’d just done something horrific to her, and ran until she was out of sight.

  Croydon seemed colder and greyer than ever after the warmth of the Italian sun.

  Just as I’d started to enjoy myself, everything was spoilt. But it was good, I told myself. It had all worked out for the best.

  True, I missed the end of the tour. I never got to see The Point perform in Poland or Budapest or Berlin, but I could focus on my last English AS level paper properly, and take it in the school gym, with everyone else. No more arranging karmic almonds, or jumping to attention when somebody said ‘Phone’. I’d never again have to sit in a room and watch George drink himself into a stupor in one corner, while Sigrid draped herself all over Jamie in another.

  Tammy was furious on my behalf, which helped.

  Early the next morning, the band had gone on to an open-air festival in Gdynia, on the Polish coast. It was the first time Sigrid got the requested personal private jet for her and Jamie, and I’d been forced to share it with them. Only then could Oliver arrange my journey home.

  It was, categorically, among the worst few hours of my life. The manager was there too. Sigrid had spent the whole flight showing them my artwork and telling them about my spying and betrayal. Her eyes dared me to interrupt her, and all the time her lips dripped poison.