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They met Albie at Cambridge University and the rest is history. Albie has a Masters degree in botany but doesn’t like people to know that. The drummer Kev flunked mathematics while the guitarist Russell got a double first in classics. They always tell the story of them putting a band together to save Kev’s skin, but the truth is, Albie started singing one night in a club and the others knew he was their meal ticket, come what may. Marguerite, an ex-lover of Albie’s, was also there at the inception of the group five years ago, because even though she hates his guts, she can’t deny his talent, either.
Albie disappears for a few minutes while the rest of the group toss back beer, pop and whatever else they can get their hands on. It is sweltering out there tonight. Just stood here, I’ve refilled my water bottle three times already.
The noise of the crowd demanding an encore reaches fever pitch and that’s when Albie emerges with lipstick marks on his face, chest and stomach… suggesting things may have happened in the short break. Or else he just wants people to think they have. I roll my eyes while Marguerite threatens to puke. I’d feel sorry for her if I didn’t know she cheated on Albie with Kev when they were all at university together. Kev told me one night when we were all drunk and he was trying to get into my knickers. There was the accusation, “Oi, what the fuck has Marg told ya about me? Why can’t we, eh… come on, Mira…”
Everyone calls me Mira except forhim.
I said Marg hadn’t told me anything to put me off him, but nevertheless, Kev took it upon himself to enlighten me as to why he’d shagged Marg. Allegedly, Albie was so drunk back in their university days he couldn’t get it up.
The funny thing is, the more stuff these people tell me—in a bid to make themselves seem more human and accessible—the less I like them. The less I empathise. The more I’m educated on whatnotto be.
Albie suddenly appears right in front of me hitching up his leather trousers, eyebrows wriggling. He clicks his fingers for the others to go and they rush out on stage to cheers so loud, I decide my brain just wobbled in its jelly.
He leans in once the crew have cleared out to retake their places and the band is on stage awaiting him, Marg’s thumping base building suspense. Shouting in my ear, he says, “When will I ever impress you, Mirabelle?”
I smirk back; because if I were to give him my real answer, he wouldn’t feel like going out there again.
That’d be more than my life is worth, to get blamed for wrecking the encore.
Raising one eyebrow, I put my hand on his bare arm and suggest he ought to move. There’s still time to impress me yet.
Pity he might never get what he wants from me, not until he starts being honest with himself.
Chapter Two
Before the encore is over, Sharon sneaks up behind me and whispers over my shoulder, “Any one-eyed snake action today?”
“Nah, he didn’t get it out.”
“Ah, boring.”
Albie’s out there at the moment telling the crowd about how one of their songs came about, a kind of hush having descended, the packed tent in his thrall as he regales them. Then the band will play said song and it’ll all be over, for tonight anyway.
She stands to my side, arms folded. “Go on, go off and enjoy yourself. Find your friend… what’s her name?”
I don’t mention Kallie’s name. To do so would be to confirm she’s here somewhere and Sharon is something of a predator when it comes to much younger, much more attractive lesbians. Not to mention Kallie can’t stand Sharon. I can abide her so long as I can pay my bills, but yeah, there’s something more than a bit sinister about her.
“Sure?” I say, one eyebrow raised.
“Get lost before chaos descends.”
“Thanks, Shazza.”
I march off before she can change her mind. Albie might be pissed off if I’m not there to greet everyone at the end of the show and join them for the after-party, but the only decent thing about this job is getting to sneak off when I can so I might remind myself what music is really all about.
Kallie and I fall into our tipi at four in the morning, belly laughing over nothing and everything. We’re both equally exhausted for various reasons. We danced for hours tonight at all the random gigs and got rather pissed drinking someone’s dodgy home brew at the concert of one artist I’m convinced could be the next Adele. Or that could be me and my drunk brain.
“Fuck, I’m leathered,” she curses, scrabbling around in the dark.
I laugh and watch as she faceplants on her bed, just as I manage to find a light switch.
“Who was that fucking twat who gave us the hooch?” I slur, my head spinning.
When I get no response, I turn my wobbly head to stare at her. A couple of seconds later, the snoring begins.
“All right for some!” I snicker.
That never comes so easy for me, not after a night of revelry—all the sights and sounds needing to be processed before I can properly switch off.
