Page 20 of Sunshine Boy

They left the stage with the most deafening applause and cheers they had ever received. They were giddy as they stumbled through the backstage, up the stairwell into the greenroom. Mel was high on the night, the aftershocks of the music still thrumming through her insides and the cheers of the audience still echoing through her ears. They could hardly formulate coherent words through their effusive laughter. They’d all felt it, they’d all understood how special the moment had been. The moment that was over now.

Mel sobered slightly. The moment which she had clung to so fiercely had slipped away from her all the same. Time was funny like that. Rather, time was a bitch like that. As she was not usually prone to flights of fancy, she gathered up her fracturing self and forced a customary sardonic smile. She slapped Julian hard on his sequined back and said, “That was all right, eh?”

“You kidding?” Kwambe gushed, grin splitting his handsome face. “That was epic! That was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen -- no, that was the greatest thing period.”

“Did you see us?” Rahul said, hopping from one foot to the other like his body was too full of energy to contain, or like he needed a wee. “We were electric. We were magnetic. We were pulling shapes, laying down licks, painting angels. We were on fire!”

“Rahul, you bloody genius!” Julian cried, squishing Rahul’s face between his palms. “You were throwing in chords left and right and I was batting ‘em down like it was bloody Wimbledon! You were coming at me hard and fast and I was taking it loose and sexy, and they were bloody loving it out there!”

“That’s the best gig Smoking Nuns has ever had!” Kwambe agreed.

“What’s Smoking Nuns?” Julian asked, bemused.

“Uh, our band?”

“I thought we were the Non-Committal Sparrow,” Rahul interjected.

“Wait, we were supposed to be Menstrual Equality,” Mel spoke up. “We had a vote and everything.”

“Uh, I think you’ll find we’re Fish Attack,” Julian added, rather put out.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Rahul laughed, squeezing the place between Julian’s shoulder and his neck. Julian’s body seemed to sway in his direction. “Can we just come up with a name for this Goddamn thing and be done with it?”

Everyone began speaking at once, each giving their two cents and suggesting the name they’d set their minds on. Someone had just shouted “Penis Monkey” when the door banged open and silenced them all. Jugs, the club owner, stood there, his husky frame and excessive chest hair squeezed into a blue boiler suit. He tipped down his tinted glasses, either in greeting or interest, gnawing on a toothpick as he did so.

“All right, Jugs,” Julian welcomed insouciantly.

“You kids ought to get down there,” he told them in his gruff American accent. “Got quite the crowd waiting for you.”

“Cheers,” Julian also said.

Before the club owner turned to leave, he threw out, “Hey. I been meanin’ to ask, what should I call your outfit? Gotta put something up on that marquee now that you’re drawing in a crowd.”

“Call us…” Julian began confidently before he hesitated, looking round at his fellow bandmates. His eyes rested on Rahul’s. A moment passed between them, charged and meaningful.

“Electric Blue,” Rahul said. The smile Julian offered him wasn’t his usual, cheeky grin, but something small, almost shy. Mel could only hazard a guess at what was happening here, but she quickly decided she wasn’t interested. She’d had enough of her brother’s love life for one lifetime.

“All right. Electric Blue it is.” Jugs disappeared down the hallway and left the door open behind him like an invitation.

“I hear there’s people waiting for us down there,” Julian told them. His makeup was already smeared, fringe clinging to his damp forehead, but his grin was as fresh and invigorated as if they’d only just arrived. The others could only nod and grin back, as spellbound by him as their audience had been. Mel was grateful they’d made him the lead. If Julian was at the front, he could lead armies into the middle of the ocean with the power of his smile alone.

Down on the floor of the club, they were almost immediately mobbed by a throng of fans. Fans. Imagine that. Just a few months ago they would’ve been lucky to have a crowd stay until the end of their set, and now they were drawing repeat viewers and die-hard aficionados. Shoreditch teens and Dalston trendies swarmed them, one glossy dark head after another. They mostly swarmed Julian, who took them on with the grace of a queen bee welcoming back her drones. Rahul was never far behind him, with his own small flock of adoring followers but never with eyes for anyone but Julian.

They hadn’t been greeting their fans long before a man approached them who stood out from the eager youths. He was older, for one thing, and wore anachronistic aviator sunglasses and a broad-shouldered suit. He tried to engage Julian in conversation but the latter merely signalled he couldn’t hear him and herded Rahul towards the bar. Mel, her instincts piqued, sidled up to the man. He jumped when he noticed her suddenly at his elbow.

“You’re that bass player, aren’t you?” he yelled over the din of the club when he gathered himself. His smile was very straight and white in his tanned face.

“I’m a lot of things,” Mel said enigmatically. “What can I do you for?”

“My name’s John Polow, I’m with Fairfield Talent,” he said, producing a brilliant white card out of the air like a magician. “Your band was stellar tonight. I was trying to tell your frontman. You can do better than the Mango -- frankly, two dogs and a hula hoop can do better than the Mango. But I can help you with that. Why don’t you ring my office when you get a chance? I think we can help you get the audience you deserve.” He held the card out to her with the nonchalance of offering a cigarette.

She hesitated before taking it, but only for show. Secretly, she was chuffed to bits. She’d never thought their cock and ball band would amount to anything. She only ever agreed to join it to shut her brother the hell up. She’d only ever kept it up because, while they were booed off the stage practically every performance, it was a nice change to get out of the house and do something other than toking up and watching telly. She had to admit, though, that over the last few months their performances had really improved, to the point that they’d garnered this not inconsiderable following. Now there was a talent scout giving them his card, and Mel finally allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to do this band nonsense full-time. To travel across the country -- maybe even the world -- playing to adoring fans, making big stacks of cash, having their faces plastered over billboards and the kinds of magazines Julian always had his nose buried in. It sounded nice. More than nice. It sounded just like what Mel deserved.

Mel took the business card and slipped it into the back pocket of her trousers without breaking eye contact with the talent scout. He shifted from foot to foot under the intensity of her gaze. Good. The last thing she wanted him to be was complacent. If she could make him and his company feel as though they were the ones who needed her and her band, then they could negotiate a lower rate for their management services.

“We’ll think about it,” Mel told him unemotionally. He seemed to sag slightly but nodded. “Enjoy yourself while you’re here, John. It’s a party.” She patted him on the back and only started smiling once she was out of his line of sight.

While Julian and Rahul set up shop at the bar, passing out copies of their demo tape and holding court like two decadent young lords, Mel and Kwambe took to the dance floor, indulging in dance moves that were likely too energetic for the downbeat new wave tracks coming through the speakers. They were soon joined by fans who’d recognized them. A distractingly handsome young bloke cosied up to Mel. She let him set the pace and soon they found themselves dancing cheek to cheek. With a few (or seven) beers in her, she let herself be led out of the main entrance, heart set on another fun and distracting one-night stand. Kwambe wasn’t far behind them, brow creased in concern.