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Two days in Wales and my rash decision to leave the tour hits home. Returning to Phoebe's place in London wasn't the best option, considering how easily I'd be tracked down, so I returned to Mum and Dad’s. The converted farmhouse in the Pembrokeshire countryside, which Bryn bought them, is big and gated. Not big security gates but fences tall and secure enough to stop the dogs running out. The three Labradors my mum dotes on enjoy standing at the gates; the chances of anybody sneaking through are slim. I wouldn't want to come face to face with barking dogs and neither would the press.
So, yeah, I'm stuck at home for the first couple of days, which isn’t a whole lot different to being trapped in a hotel.
Social media speculation hit the evening after I left Vienna. A picture of me arriving at Heathrow on my own soon appears online, next to pictures of Jax out partying with Will and Nate. When I study the shots, I’m annoyed by the misrepresentation — these were clearly taken in the club in Portugal. Two days later, images of a different place and different girls surface, and I intently study the pictures gauging the girls’ proximity to Jax. How can I tell if these are recent? If they are, the press doesn't have the picture they want. Jax isn't touching any of the girls.
A Skype session with Jax is my ritual each night, I wait up until I hear from him. The time difference helps and he normally calls when he's offstage — before he starts drinking, I suspect. After this, I can head to bed happy he's thinking of me and hoping thoughts of us stay with him when he goes out.
The amount I miss Jax surprises me. I’m used to being around him, spent more time alone with him than with any guy in the past; and since we parted, there’s a space left I never realised he filled. Not just my empty bed where I lie and crave his arms around me, but his presence. Without Jax, there’s a piece of myself missing I left with him, a hollow feeling that grows as the days pass. I never missed Scott in this way, even after we spent weeks apart.
Staying inside and dwelling on this doesn’t help. I escape and drive into town. I wish he was with me and we could do ordinary things together. Would life ever contain anything ordinary with Jax?
Mum was relieved when I arrived home, but she always is. I'm her baby, the child she frets about most. Unfortunately, I'm also the one who endangers herself most. Even before my sisters settled down with kids and husbands, none of them was as adventurous as me. I see their domesticity and it doesn't appeal. At all.
As predicted by Tina, and to my surprise, the press do back off. The social media barrage doesn't and somebody leaks — or is paid for — pictures of me. The unflattering shots from school days are bad enough, but one bastard who I met in Thailand when travelling, sells pictures of me. The worst of those is one of me on a beach in a bikini, suffering a wardrobe malfunction after being caught in the waves.
Yes, the whole world has now seen my tits.
When the bikini picture hit the internet, Mum lost her shit and there were heated exchanges with Bryn on the phone. I have no idea what she expected him to do; once a picture is on the internet, it's there for life. I'm fucking furious; and if I had a way of getting hold of Ryan, I’d have him by the balls.
End result: I'm not much better off in Wales because I’m still under self-imposed siege but without Jax.
30
AMSTERDAM,NETHERLANDS
JAX
Last time I came to Amsterdam with the boys it was a disaster. Or one of the best weekends of my life, however you want to look at the resulting chaos. Chances of a repeat performance? Highly likely.
We sit outside, in the secluded grounds of the Amsterdam hotel, indulging in the first of what will undoubtedly be many drinks, beneath an umbrella in the March spring sunshine. I tap my fingers on the table as Will and Nate devour their chips and mayonnaise. Yeah, mayonnaise. Who the hell puts mayo on their chips?
I yawn and pick up my beer. Now the excitement has subsided and we're back to the everyday grind; all this is no different from small tours in the UK. Sure, the transport and accommodation is a lot more luxurious, the venues and money better, but gigging is hard work. Arrive somewhere new, set up, play, relax for an evening or two — or get wasted — and move on.
Will licks mayo from his lips. “How you feeling about this evening? TV spot!”
I grimace. “We're only performing, right? No interview.”
“Dunno. Nate?”
Nate shrugs and pokes at his food. “Dutch talk show. Reckon they'll speak English?”
“I don't know any fucking Dutch so they better had!” retorts Will.
“Grumpy bastards,” replies Nate. “This is our first time on TV. This is huge!”
“It's not the States or UK, doesn't count,” I reply.
Will laughs. “Oooh, listen to you, Mr. Big Shot! A year ago nobody knew who the hell you were.”
“Yeah, now it fucks things up because they do.”
Will glances at Nate. “Is this sulking because the delectable Tegan fucked off back to Wales?”
“No,” I lie. “Just other shit. Tour stuff.”
“Is Tegan coming back or are you guys done?” asks Will.
Three days apart and the ache in my chest from her absence grows. “Next week.”
