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“The way you treated our neighbour.”
“He wants you. It pissed me off.”
“He doesn't want me.” I eye roll, sighing loudly. “He's a nice, friendly neighbour who now thinks you're a bit of a twat. What's with the jealousy anyway?”
“I'm not jealous.” He drains the last of his beer. “I don't like him.”
“You didn't even give him a chance,” I point out. “You didn’t say two words to him. We've got to live with this guy; why can't you be nice?”
Alex stares at me for a moment. I can vaguely hear the chatter of the departing crowd coming from the club, but in here there's simply silence. I'm guessing the rest of the band are waiting—as I am—to hear his response.
We don't have to wait for long.
He puts his hand on my shoulder, drawing me closer. “I'll go down tomorrow and apologise to him.”
“He's a nice man, give him a chance. He's new in the country and has a daughter he misses like hell. The last thing he needs is a neighbour with a grudge. Anyway, even if he did fancy me, it's not like I'm going to run downstairs for a quick shag while you're doing the washing up.” I may sound flippant, but I'm not feeling that way. “You sound as if you don't trust me.”
He lifts a hand to his forehead, rubbing it with his fingers. “I do trust you, babe. I’m a dick, I'm sorry.”
When I look into his eyes I can see he means it. Stage Alex finally seems to have gone, taking his sharp tongue with him. I want the bad feeling gone, too.
“I happen to like your dick,” I joke, trying to bring some levity back into the situation. I hear Stuart sniggering behind me. Without bothering to turn, I give him the finger.
“My dick happens to like you, too,” Alex murmurs, pulling me against him, kissing the top of my head.
“Get a room, will you? You look like you need a good shagging, Al,” Carl the bassist jeers. This time Alex flips him the bird, but he's laughing into my hair, and I find myself joining in, the atmosphere thankfully lighter.
“Great set, lads. Oh hi, Lara.” The band’s manager walks in, somehow breaking up our row and dismissing me all in the same breath. Alfie Kane has been managing the group for a few months now, and though Alex swears he is amazing, and has lots of connections in the industry, there's something about him that grates on my nerves.
“There were a couple of A&Rs out there tonight. They looked impressed. One of them asked me to give him a call on Monday.” He brandishes a business card as if he's won a golden ticket.
“Which label?” Alex grabs the card and reads it. “Zephyr? Cool.”
Stuart and the others join them, talking in loud voices about the gig, saying which songs went well and what notes were missed. I vaguely hear Alfie talking about some bookings; a couple of festivals and a possible tour, and I tune out their voices, retreating into my head instead. I grab a bottle of water and sit down on the sofa, chugging the liquid down, trying to ignore the fears that nag at me. I've always been a worrier; I can't seem to help it, no matter how hard I try, and since we've had Max, money—or the lack of it—has been my number one anxiety.
Even with my wage and Alex’s casual earnings, we only just get by. If he stops working on sites, things are going to take a tumble pretty fast. The rent is bad enough—anybody who lives in London knows the cost of living is crazy—but it's all the baby things that are tipping us over the edge. Nappies, clothes, nursery, it's like having a second lot of rent to pay. Even though we are just about managing to tiptoe across the tightrope, financial failure looms beneath us; one little stumble and we could all plummet.
“You ready?” I look up to see Alex standing in front of me. His hair is curling at the ends, though dryer than before. “Let's go home, baby.”
I take his hand and smile, swallowing down the unease. “Sounds good to me. Let's go.”
5
I stood alone, waiting for an hour the first night we met. The band finished their set, and the crowd was dispersing, leaving behind an atmosphere soaked with the stench of sweat and beer. For a moment I considered standing in the exact same spot, alone in front of the stage, but even in my boozed-up state I was too self-conscious to stand out like that.
In the end, I went to the bar and ordered a lime and soda, trying to look surreptitious as I sipped carefully at it.
“You coming?” I looked up to see Grant Sharp. A fellow intern, he had the sort of cocky attitude only years of expensive schooling can buy. We’d paired off a few times, though his ability to do much more than kiss and fumble was always compromised by his consumption of whiskey.
“I’m going to stay here for a while.” I glanced over at the stage again. Roadies were unplugging guitars and dissembling the drum kit. No sign of the band. “I’ll catch up with you on Monday.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. I’m all good.”
The band walked over to the bar a few minutes later. I’d finished my drink and was considering leaving, second guessing myself about whether or not the singer had been talking to me. I’d managed to down more than a bottle of champagne that night¸ what if it had been my imagination?
But then I looked up and it was there again. That stare, the connection, the way I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Unlike me, he’d changed into some fresh clothes; his red-and-black checked shirt buttoned up to his neck, revealing only the merest hint of tattoo. His jeans were tight, clinging to his legs as though they were a second skin. But his hair was still wet—damp and slick—brushed back and high.
