‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You’re the rock journo. I loveRe:Sound. I should send you my new demo.’ Without waiting for me to respond, she downed half her beer in one go. ‘Right, I need to get moving. Not long till my set starts.’
‘Okay, catch you later,’ said Simon.
She took a couple of steps backwards then changed her mind.
‘Come and keep me company, Baxter. You were always great at calming my pre-gig nerves.’
Simon looked at me, as if to ask permission.
‘Go ahead,’ I told him. I wasn’t thrilled with this turn of events, but what else was I supposed to do?
Simon nodded, then followed Jess towards the stage door.
Great.
Alice and Pete had gone and now Simon. I was left by myself, feeling like a lemon in my yellow top.
Fun evening this was turning out to be. Why was I even here?
Professional curiosity was why. Jess had been a hell of a singer and I wanted to know if she still had it. And however much she’d intimidated me with her natural confidence when we were nineteen, I had to admit she’d had a spark that should have sustained a much longer career. And of course, she’d spent time with Marcie, even jamming with her during a couple of gigs. I knew because I had the bootlegCD.
The club had swelled with people and the music had gone up in volume, too, which meant we were getting close to showtime.
I usually like to stand in the centre, about halfway to the front – it’s where the acoustics are best, but tonight I didn’t care. Instead, I burrowed my way to one side, till I was flush against the wall. Everything sounded muted and dulled, almost as if the gig was happening in another room.
How different tonight was to the last gig I’d been to with Simon. We’d been fifteen and had snuck into the Electric Ballroom, giggling like the school kids we were, sharing a bottle of blue Mad Dog. I still had the ticket stub – The Angry Crickets, with special guests Silver Finger. I don’t remember what they were like because halfway through the first song Simon had rushed to the loo to throw up – the fortified wine had not agreed with him. Or maybe it was the four cans of White Lightning we’d bought from the offie beforehand.
Maybe a drop of cider would help this evening go a bit quicker. My wine glass was empty and I was about to go to the bar when I stopped still.
There was a man in profile leaning on the bar who looked a lot like Nick Jones.
Shit.
He turned his head in my direction and I slunk back into the shadows. He was the last person I wanted intruding on my Sunday night.
The music industry was a small world, but what would he be doing at a Jessica Honey gig? Could it be related to Marcie Tyler? I glanced back, but he’d disappeared. Or maybe I’d just imagined him.
A moment later, the lights went down, and figures stole onto the stage. A slow drumbeat began, accompanied by a thumping bass that I could feel from my soles to my sinuses. The club was only half full, but I could feel the tide of people being pulled forward, closer to the empty mic stand at the front of the stage.
I’d been to hundreds of gigs, and no matter who was playing, the few seconds just before show time were charged with an anticipation that always made me hold my breath.
A brilliant flash of light announced Jessica’s arrival and she bounded onto the stage, a ball of energy against a white backdrop that announced her name in jagged lettering last popular with eighties metal bands.
Lead and rhythm guitars joined the bass and drums, and then Jessica stepped forward and lifted up the mic. I’d forgotten how powerful her voice was. Even here, in the corner where it should have sounded muffled, the clarity of her voice gave me goosebumps. Without realising, I had taken several steps forward, as if pulled by a magnet.
And there in the front row was Simon, one fist pounding the air, beaming at her like a proud father.
No, his wasn’t the face of a proud father, it was something entirely different. He was smitten. The disappointment was like a shove in the chest.
I was being silly. Jessica was performing, it wasn’t the real her on stage, it was a persona, one she’d honed from hundreds of sold-out gigs.
She barely acknowledged the audience, singing with her head tilted back and her eyes half-closed, as if she was performing to an empty room. Her body swayed to the music, but I could tell she was nervous. Her hands gave her away. Her pale fingers were coiled tightly around the microphone, as if she were hanging on for dear life.
It took a lot of guts to put yourself out there. Lead singers needed swagger, but it was almost always bravado. They were often the most insecure person in the band. The spotlight hid as much as it revealed.
She sang four songs, and then to my surprise, she was bowing goodbye. She couldn’t have finished already, she hadn’t sung any of her hits. I hadn’t recognised any songs. Were they all new numbers?
She waved to the crowd as she headed off stage, but her smile faded before she’d disappeared behind the curtain. She looked sick with nerves. I felt a twinge of sympathy, but then she motioned for Simon to follow her backstage and the two of them were swallowed by the darkness.
