Perfect Timing

by Owen Nicholls

  He swallows as he tries to get the next bit out.

  “Someone incredibly dear to me once asked me what the secret to good comedy, good music, and good relationships is. I figured it out the other day. It’s—”

  “Timing!” yells out Brandon, to laughter from the audience.

  “Yes, Brandon. Timing. Now’s the time for new things to start. The time for people to start saying what they believe. With that in mind, here’s a song with actual words, that hopefully says something.”

  To three simple chords and a pensive melody, Tom hunches over the piano and sings. It’s not a voice for karaoke, it’s not smashing ranges, but my God there’s absolute emotion in every word. I truly believe every syllable he utters. His lips press up to the wiry frame of the microphone. And the words flow forth.

  All again

  I’d do it all again

  Wrong steps and revelations

  Time after time

  I’d do it all again

  Hours lost

  Seconds found

  Treading water, above the ground

  I’d do it all again

  A leper, a volcano

  The first of spring, the last of snow

  For you

  With you

  I’d live it all again.

  Tom steps away from the mic, the applause exploding around us all, and takes a bow. “We’ve been The Friedmann Equation. Thank you and good night.”

  40

  Hold On

  Tom

  South Bank, London

  After the show

  The adrenaline running through my body could power a lightning storm. I feel invincible. Like I could take on any empire. Send all the king’s horses and I’ll turn them into glue. The backstage area is like a party. Alan, our manager, is there handing out little party poppers. He gets flustered when we arrive and yells to everyone to make them go bang. A pathetic stream of paper spurts from fifty or so little pieces of plastic. The smell of mini-pyrotechnics manages to overpower the other smell of smoke in the room.

  Alan comes bounding up. “That was amazing! Like, one of the best shows I’ve ever seen!” His enthusiasm is very Alan, but even allowing for that, he’s right. It was a once-in-a-lifetime show.

  “Thanks, Alan.”

  “It’s all right,” he says meekly. “It’s just a few party poppers.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean, for everything. You took a chance on us years ago and you fought for us and—”

  He throws his arms around my waist. Which considering the size of him and the size of me must look pretty peculiar from anywhere else in the room. Once he releases me, instead of heading straight for the spirits and drinking until morning, I make a conscious decision that I’m going to hold on to the memory. I’m going to make it count.

  And to do it, to really make it count, I need to find Jess.

  41

  And Yet

  Jess

  South Bank, London

  After the aftershow

  Dom and I arrive in the actual backstage hangout and I immediately send him on a mission to get me some Dutch courage. I need to give Tom his present and get out. I need to go home and start “de-shitting my path.”

  The room is tiny and run-down with chipped paintwork, big iron radiators, and one big ratty sofa. The whole thing is filled with smoke—legal and otherwise—and it’s quickly apparent why they don’t bother keeping on top of the furnishing. I see him. I see Tom on the other side of the room, talking with a woman who has to be a model. If she’s not, her careers adviser gave her terrible advice.

  He looks up, sees me, and gives the beautiful creature in front of him the international “Sorry, one minute” mime. It might be my imagination, but it feels like he’s actually running over to say hi.

  “Tom, wow. That was…amazing. You’ve just been holding that in your arsenal until the last week of shows, yeah?”

  He blushes and beams at the same time.

  “I was so convinced you wouldn’t make it. Or something would come up. Or I don’t know. I’m really glad you’re here.” The model gives me a death stare from across the room and I feel incredibly powerful right now. Tom notices and asks if I want to get out of here. Go somewhere a little quieter.

  “There’s a backstage to the backstage to the backstage?” I ask.

  “Sort of. Follow me.”

  I check to see where Dom is and find him flirting outrageously with Jenny Helen, both of them stroking each other’s arms in turn. Go, little brother, I think as Tom leads me out of a door I hadn’t noticed before.

  After a few more stairs we’re back on the main stage staring at an empty concert hall. We pass a technician wrapping cables as a couple of cleaners sweep up the sea of empty plastic pint cups. After less than a minute, they leave us completely alone in the huge room, our voices echoing when we talk.

  “I like coming back down here after shows,” he says. “It’s a completely different place. Like when you take down the decorations after Christmas.”

  “I feel like jumping down and dancing to Cat Stevens, like Penny Lane in Almost Famous.”

  “I love that movie.”

  Of course you do, I think. Not allowing myself to fantasize about him and me curled up on a sofa, watching Cameron Crowe movies and feeding each other popcorn and his hands on the small of my back…and goddammit this is going to be tough.

  He tells me, “They’ve taken the mics away, otherwise I’d ask you to do a set for me.”

  “The early, funny stuff, you mean.” Which, if I’m honest, is a little mean considering how he’s made it clear (clear for Tom, anyway) that he isn’t a big fan of my recent material. That makes two of us.

  Even though my last sentence had an edge to it, nothing seems to be harshing his buzz. Nothing fading his grin. He looks like a kid at Christmas. Maybe it’s a post-gig glow, but whatever he has going on, it’s luminous.

  “So?” he asks.

  “So?” I reply. Then before he can answer I turn my back and stroll around the stage. “I’m sorry to hear about you and Cara.” Elaborating no further in case an even bigger lie escapes my lips. “Was it your choice or hers?”

  His face lights up a fraction. “You know, you’re the first person to ask that. Even Scott just massively assumed I was the dumped. What’s with that?”

  “I mean…society? She is breathtakingly beautiful.” I’m very nervous about asking this next question but I find the courage. “So…you broke up with her?”

  He looks shocked at the information in the question. Like he’s only just realized he did.

  “I did.”

  “And how are you feeling about that?”

  He looks confused and replies, “I’m good with it. Especially now.”

  He steps toward me. The hope in his eyes. I have to put a stop to it.

  “Tom.”

  “Jess.”

  He kisses me and I melt into him. I knew this would be a night of firsts. His touch. His taste. I don’t believe wild horses could drag me backward right now.

  And yet.

  And yet.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I break away from him and watch as the only word he wants to say forms on his lips.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know!” I cry. “I just…it’s not right. I’m not right. I don’t know who I am or where I am or what I’m doing.”

  None of my non-answers are helping him. I can see his hurt turning to anger.

  “What do you want, Jess?”

  “I…I want some time. Just a little more to sort myself out.”

  “So, it’s like before Australia all over again? Someone’s whispered in your ear, have they?”

  “That’s not fair! That was different. That
was you and Julia deciding for me. This is me, knowing what’s best for me.” I try again to take his hands in mine, but he won’t let me. “And what’s best for you, Tom. I’m not it. Not now.”

  “You get to decide for both of us, then.”

  He’s turned petty. Sarcastic. The look I give him must be withering because he’s started to chew his cheeks. He’s ready for a battle and I’m ready to give him one.

  “Maybe you’re not as grounded as I thought you were.”

  “Grounded!” he yells, his voice echoing off the concert hall walls. “Me? Don’t be cruel, Jess!”

  “I’m not being cruel!”

  “And I’m not grounded! I’ve lost my band. I’m alone. I’m afraid to be me. But I feel like I can be me around you. You’re the one thing—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  There’s enough harshness in my voice to make him stop. I don’t want to be cruel. This is supposed to be kind. But I can’t stop myself from saying what I think is true.

  “If you think I’m the only good thing in your life, then maybe you’re not ready for us yet either.”

  The cruelty is contagious. I can see it in his eyes. There’s no pause before he says the next bit, it’s not thought about. It’s said on instinct.

  “And maybe you’ll never be ready, Jess. Because then you’d have to accept some happiness in your life.” As soon as the last word is said, he turns and leaves.

  Dom walks onto the stage, calling Tom’s name as he exits it. He gets no reply. In one of his hands he’s carrying two pint glasses, pinched together. In his other hand I see he’s holding a phone number. But the smile those digits might have brought him is lost when he sees my tears.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “Oh, you know,” I say, wiping away tears. “Just classic Jess, hurting people with her words again.”

  He takes a step toward me and I hold out my hand to stop him.

  “Please, Dom. I think if you’re nice to me again I’m going to completely fucking lose it. No more hugs.”

  “You want to get home?”

  It’s the first question I’ve been sure of all night.

  “I do.”

  But before I can, there’s one more thing I need to do. Just one small thing I have to deal with. Something I should have done on the first of January 2017. I find the band’s dressing room, locate Tom’s old familiar coat, the one I first saw in Edinburgh, and place inside it the diary that belonged to his grandfather, the diary that belongs to him now. I scribble a dozen words on a piece of paper and tuck it into the first page. I hope, whatever the future brings, Tom finds some comfort in it.

  42

  What If

  Tom

  Rutland Street, Edinburgh

  June 10, 2018

  I am ill-equipped to cope with loss. My grandad’s death was my first real encounter with it, although my parents often tell a story of when I was two and I had whooping cough so bad I turned a horrific shade of violet. With nobody in the hospital room to help, my dad was forced to stick his fingers down my throat to remove the gunk that was choking the life from me.

  I’m thinking of loss (and of the past and of my grandfather) because the last week has felt like the last three years have been erased. I’m back in Edinburgh in the none-more-temporary accommodation of a three-star hotel. I’ve lost my band. A girlfriend. My identity. Jess. The confidence I gained from finding my success is gone. I could barely look at the face of the checkout girl as she bagged my bottles. My little oblivion-giving bottles.

  The film I was supposed to be working on has been “pushed back.” I tell myself I can’t write music to footage if I don’t have any footage to set it to. I tell myself there’s nothing to do. There’s too much void in my life to fill it with reason and so I am unreasonable to myself. Years ago, when we first started living the “band life,” Scott and I made some promises together.

  First was, we would not drink alone. Second, we’d take at least one day off drink in a five-day period. All rules I’ve broken when I choose to. And alone—alone there’s no one here to see these promises kept. I make more anyway. I begin by telling myself I won’t drink until the evening. Then the goalposts are moved to the afternoon. Every rule I make is made to be broken. And now it’s noon, and in front of me sits a small can of beer. That’s all it is. A small can.

  I once saw a video of a centimeter-high domino knocking over another over two meters tall. In between the smallest and the largest were ever-increasing sizes. It was shared around social media with comments about the power of the individual and what we’re all capable of. To me, it was a frightening thing. A question of “What if the first domino is wrong?”

  The what-ifs of my life have always been negatives. “What if I fail?” “What if she laughs at me?” “What if I can’t hold on to my thoughts?” But this next one, this next might save my life. I see two versions of my future play out, like I’m watching them on a cinema screen.

  Version One—I pull back the opening on the can and drink greedily. I begin to read the diary Jess left and ignore her note. My grandfather’s words from the great beyond are the only ones I listen to. I don’t know what I expected, what I hoped for, but the words in it are gray, scared, lonely.

  The first drink is done in no time at all, but there are another five in the fridge. The small numbers on their sides encourage me to keep going; they tell me there’s no danger inside them, that they’re just a treat. But even these small numbers make me feel lonelier, while at the same time tricking me into thinking a greater amount of them will reverse the loneliness. Their purpose is to drown me.

  I switch off the stereo that keeps me company. The hum of the empty fridge, the only sound in the flat. The small drinks are gone but they were just the support act. I’ve seen this gig before, and the headliner is waiting. I fill another glass with something stronger, bigger numbers, and empty it almost as quickly. I lie down hoping this will be the start of the rest I need. I wait.

  My head feels heavy. Like it’s filled with rocks. With the sleep not coming, I stagger into the bathroom and search for something else. Anything else to make the rest come and the pain stop. Anything to help me sleep.

  A darker image fills my head. Where the small can of beer once stood, now there’s a bottle of pills. The only thing left standing as the fallen bottles and cans litter the table and floor. I scan the label. My vision is blurry but I can make out it says to take two. I watch myself ignore this advice. I try to find Jess’s words. They’re lost to me now.

  My head feels worse. Like the rocks inside my skull are sliding down a ravine and back up the other side. A Sisyphean perpetual motion machine. I’m woozy and panic fills my blood. Real panic. My eyelids suddenly feel like anvils are attached to them, pulling them to the ground.

  I keep watching as we shift location. I’m walking up the path toward my parents’ house, each step like the summit of Everest. The pills swirl with the alcohol. The main ingredients of both swim in my bloodstream. Soaked through in the twelve steps from the taxi to my parents’ front door, I press on the doorbell and wait.

  My father answers, takes one look at me, and pulls me in out of the rain. It doesn’t take long for his face to show the panic mine can’t. I want to tell him I’ll be OK. I just need a rest. But the words won’t come out. He screams for his wife to call someone as I sink to the floor. He asks me repeatedly to tell him what I’ve taken. I see the outline of my mother on the phone, pacing up and down at the bottom of the stairs. She says words but I only catch the numbers and my dad’s reaction to them.

  And for the second time in thirty years, my father has his fingers down my throat, trying desperately to figure out a way to animate my lifeless body. He cries like I’ve never seen him cry before.

  But this is only one version of events. Because I’m still staring at that first small
can. Unopened. A ring of water creeping from its base.

  Version Two—the one I will ultimately choose—begins with the can returning to the fridge and instead of my grandfather’s diary in my hand, it’s the note Jess left me. I read it over and over again. I pin it to my wall. Then I shower, get dressed, and go for a walk. I fill my days with trips to record stores, visits to the cinema. I work on music that is mine and when work is finally asked of me, I do it to the best of my ability. I shop and I buy food that makes me feel good. I call my parents and offer them apologies. I finally see that his father’s death had more of an impact on my dad than on me. That I’m here if he wants to talk about how he feels. We arrange to meet more. I visit Scott and his family and I become a real “uncle.” I don’t date yet; I’m not ready. But I know that one day I will.

  I will never tell anyone, because I don’t think they will believe me, but I do. I firmly believe I owe my new life to Jessica Henson and the note inside my grandfather’s diary that reads…

  Choose not to be afraid. You are you. And. That’s. OK.

  Part Six

  BEGINNINGS (II)

  43

  I’m Trying

  Jess

  The Quays, Salford

  August 16, 2018

  I’m nervous. I never used to be nervous. When I was younger, I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. Genuinely. Then when I was pretending to be the Queen of WhoGivesATossville, there was no need for nerves. It wasn’t really me up there. At least that’s what I told myself. Now, though, now I feel like me. And it’s making me very scared of what people will think.