Izzy wrote something under the picture of the whale.
All good things are wild and free.
She must have known about the tattoo.
Another message came through now from her.
‘Hope Brazil was a blast. Am sure you rocked it! And thanks ten million for sorting out the tix for Brisbane. Am totally stoked. As we Gold Coasters say.’
There were a few emojis of whales and hearts and thanking hands and a microphone and some musical notes.
Nora checked her Instagram. In this life she had 11.3 million followers.
Andbloody hell, she looked amazing. Her naturally black hair had a kind of white stripe in it. Vampiric make-up. And a lip piercing. She did look tired but she supposed that was just a result of living on tour. It was a glamorous kind of tired. Like Billie Eilish’s cool aunt.
She took a selfie and saw that while she didn’t look exactly like the excessively styled and filtered photos on her feed, which had been for magazine shoots, she did look cooler than she ever imagined she could look. As with her Australian life, she also put poems up online. The difference with this life, though, was that each poem had about half a million likes. One of the poems was even called ‘Fire’ but it was different to the other one.
She had a fire inside her.
She wondered if the fire was to warm her or destroy her.
Then she realised.
A fire had no motive.
Only she could have that.
The power was hers.
A woman sat next to her. This woman wasn’t in the band, but she exuded importance. She was about fifty years old. Maybe she was the manager. Maybe she worked for the record company. She had the air of a strict mum about her. But she began with a smile.
‘Stroke of genius,’ she said. ‘The Simon & Garfunkel thing. You’re trending across South America.’
‘Cool.’
‘Have posted about it from your accounts.’
She’d said this like it was a perfectly normal thing. ‘Oh. Right. Okay.’
‘There’s a couple of last-minute press things tonight at the hotel. Then tomorrow it’s an early start ... We fly to Rio first thing, then eight hours of press. All at the hotel.’
‘Rio?’
‘You’re up to speed with this week’s tour schedule, right?’
‘Um, kind of. Could you just remind me again?’
She sighed, with good humour, as if Nora not knowing the tour schedule was totally in character. ‘Sure. Rio tomorrow. Two nights. Then the final night in Brazil – Porto Alegre – then Santiago, Chile, Buenos Aires, then Lima. And that’s the last leg of South America. Then next week it’s the start of the Asia leg – Japan, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Taiwan.’
‘Peru? We’re famous in Peru?’
‘Nora, you’ve been to Peru before, remember? Last year. They went out of their minds. All fifteen thousand of them. It’s at the same place. The racecourse.’
‘The racecourse. Sure. Yeah. I remember. Was a good night. Really ... good.’
That’s what this life probably felt like, she realised. One big racecourse. But she had no idea if she was the horse or the jockey in that analogy.
Ravi tapped the woman on the shoulder. ‘Joanna, what time’s that podcast tomorrow?’
