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“The question is what mood will she be in with you because your name appears to have changed to ‘Fucking Jax’, today.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
Shit. “But apart from me, how is she?”
“Not as bad as usual for pre-gig, probably be worse later.”
Taking a deep breath, I saunter over. I don’t want conflict this early on and Ruby had better not talk to me like a kid, I’m not taking that shit.
Ruby’s slim frame is pronounced in black leggings and a sloppy red and black striped jumper. The colour of her hair and bright red matching lipstick accentuates how pale and unwell she looks. Ruby narrows her eyes as I approach.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask, straight off the bat.
In rehearsals, before we left, she was hit with gastro that’s lingering. She ignores me. “Where the fuck were you? We were supposed to meet at eleven!”
“Sorry.”
“Not a great start, Jax, is it?” Ruby says with a sigh.
I’m unsure whether to be relieved or worried by the lack of yelling; I pull my best apologetic face. “Yeah, won’t happen again.”
Ruby pulls hair from her face and twists it into a ponytail. “A chick?”
“No. Drank too much. Getting a little over excited I guess.”
The view from the stage stuns and terrifies me as I picture the crowd who’ll fill the space later. Last gig I went to at a stadium was Foo Fighters, where I threw myself into the action at the front. How can people stuck in the top seats enjoy concerts? What’s the point if you can’t dance?
“Your gear’s over there. Five minutes and someone was about to start sound-checking for you.”
I tense. Nobody touches my guitars. Bad enough I have to relinquish them to be driven from place to place with all the other gear.
Heading over to the edge of the stage, I grab the battered case, smoothing where the peeling stickers have been knocked in transit. Inside rests my new pride and joy; the Gibson Les Paul I bought with the advance from our record deal. Okay, a mid-list guitar, but this is the start of a collection to one day rival Jem Jones’s. Stroking the wood, I examine for damage but there’s none. Good.
Nate appears from backstage. He and Will are dressed identically today, black jeans and the new tour t-shirts, same blue Converse. Presumably this is to confuse people on purpose, something they enjoy. Years of knowing the pair and despite the fact they look exactly the same in every way, I know the subtle differences in their faces and mannerisms. Plus, he’s carrying drumsticks, which is a giveaway.
“Hey man, decided to turn up?”
“Sorry,” I mutter again, fed up with the constant apologising.
He shrugs. “Ruby was late and disappeared for an hour when she heard you were ‘delayed’, so we haven’t got far with the check.”
Sneaky. Ruby never told me that.
“Yeah, you gotta be out in an hour for Phoenix, so get your arse into gear.” A tall, muscular guy with a sour look indicates the speakers. “Sound engineer wants a break too.”
“’Kay.”
Curious and concerned about Ruby, I watch her as I head to plug my guitar in. She smooths her hair, and kneels as she tapes a set list to the floor.
“Ruby? We gonna do this?”
She looks over. “Right. Hang on.”
Ruby’s guitar rests on the floor near the mic and my concern grows at her lack of interaction. I’m fucking nervous about the first night opening for Blue Phoenix. Are her nerves so bad that she’s been terrified into a personality change?
Mid-way through the check, Ruby abruptly stops singing, sets her guitar down, and heads off stage without a word. I look back at Nate who pauses, holding his drumsticks in the air with a shrug. Throwing an apology to the now red-faced stage manager, I unhook my guitar from my neck, put it down, and follow.
The narrow backstage hallway lacks the sophistication of the main venue, concrete floors and plain walls. Ruby is nowhere to be seen.
* * *
