AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I send Kallie a quick text letting her know I’ve put the car in a long-stay until she gets back. Oh, and I also tell her:Do not give in if she finds and interrogates you!
Within a couple of minutes, Kallie has responded:Switch your fucking phone off already!
I do just that, right after sending Sharon a message:He’s safe. See you Tuesday.
My phone is off before she can call or text again.
Leaving my phone on top of the microwave, I head for the living room. Dropping our mugs of tea on the coffee table, he smiles and mouths his thanks. I’ve caught him reading one of the books off my shelf. It’s about all the musicians who died young and joined something widely know as “The 27 Club”. Such as Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison to name but a few. The myths surrounding them, because they all died at this same age, are really quite fascinating. However, having witnessed Albie’s treacherous lifestyle, not to mention the stresses and strains, it’s obvious why musicians have a tendency to buckle under the pressure unless they are properly managed.
“Fucking miracle I’ve made twenty-nine, right?” He tosses the book onto the coffee table with a slap, but doesn’t look to me for any kind of response. Picking up his mug, he slurps, then stares out of the window between the blinds.
I put the book back on the shelf, then take the armchair opposite his. “It wasn’t a miracle, actually. I think you’ll find that was me.”
He looks into my eyes and smirks. “Right. You’re right.”
I started working for them two years ago. Two years in which I got him to hospital twice before he got his wish and died on us. I’ve confiscated countless drugs he probably thought I’d never find. I’ve restocked his condom stash at every opportunity. Made him go to clinics for various things. Watered down his spirits. Made hair appointments. Spa appointments. Anything to make him feel human again.
The most daring thing I might have done, actually—is read through his fan mail, responding to as many letters as possible with free bits of merch, or this and that. Plus, the fans who wrote in and said they were on their deathbed and only wanted to meet Albie before they died—I arranged a number of visits that gave him back some sense of self-worth.
Sharon always laps up the PR spin that comes with all that, but truthfully, she’d have never taken the time to read his mail and set up things like I do. It wouldn’t enter her tiny mind to do somethinggoodfor his fans, since it’s his fans that made him.
“What’s Shazza gonna say when she finds out you’ve stashed me?” He’s back to staring out at the busy street down below. We’re on the second floor of a gigantic Victorian mansion that’s now flats.
“Well, she already knows I’ve stashed you… and if I get fired, I get fired. Fuck her.”
He taps his hand on the arm of the sofa. “She really doesn’t know this is your address?”
I giggle and he looks at me darkly. “Nope. I really didn’t tell her I moved out of Kallie’s.”
He lets out a guffaw. “Perfect.”
“Kallie knows what Sharon is like and won’t stand for it.”
He clears his throat, staring around the room. “I like your place. It’s not bad for the crap salary you’re on.”
“I’ve had to subsidise it with bouncing now and again… mostly while you’re off writing and recording. During tours I obviously don’t have the time for a second gig. Kallie even suggested I Airbnb this place while we’re all away… but I’ve heard horror stories. And some of my LPs are worth quite a bit. Not to mention—”
My gaze flicks to the surroundings. I am proud of my little home, with its high ceilings, space and tall windows. There’s a lot of light and the proximity to everything out there is priceless. My shelving goes right up to the coving, then stretches right across the long, narrow room and therefore allows for all my records, memorabilia and books to be on display. And of course, I’m a bookworm. So that’s why I had to leave Kallie’s. There was no real space for all my shit!
He clicks his fingers and laughs to himself, then blurts out, “I want to know, why haven’t we ever… you know?” His knee nervously bounces up and down and there’s tension in his shoulders and jaw. I’m shocked he would ask.
“Why, uh, what…” I can’t get words out.
“You can’t be working for Sharon for any other reason. She’s a heathen!” His gaze is still fixed on the outside world, only glancing at me now and again, probably to check I haven’t grabbed my baseball bat yet—ready to throw him out.
“I, um… I’m confused.”
He sucks in breath. “You know, fucked? Screwed. Had a bit of how’s your father. Shagged.”
I laugh and slap my hands against my cheeks. “You told Sharon to employ me but to make sure there was a clause in the contract where if we screwed, I was out?”
How the hell could he forget that?
He slowly turns his head, a bit like the Terminator eyeing up its prey, and when his jaw drops… it sinks in. Back then I thought… but now, I should know better.
“That was all her,” I mutter.
He presses his lips together in anger. “Yep.”
