Page 63 of The Key to My Heart

‘I know,’ says Joe. ‘But I thought it might help to remember. And if the worst comes to worst, we can just drink until we forget what a terrible idea of mine this was. Deal?’

I laugh nervously. ‘Deal.’

And he’s right in a way. It has helped. I had forgotten how this felt. A late-summer’s evening, standing beneath a deep navy blue sky, a paintbrush flick of twinkling stars. The air smelling of perfume and beer and barbecue smoke from a nearby Turkish restaurant, the queue a buzzing hum of excitement. Joe stands next to me, and tonight, he really looks good – hot, I’m sure Priya and Jodie would say. He’s wearing a black shirt, two buttons undone at the neck, and dark blue jeans, and he keeps flashing me this smile – all dimples and knowing eyes, like we’re sharing a secret inside joke. I should let go, try to enjoy this. I’m here, at a gig, with him. With ‘dishy’ Joe, someone I’m positive Idofancy. A little bit. Maybe this is how I get back to how I used to be: doing all the things I used to do.

‘This feels … I dunno.’

‘Claustrophobic?’ offers Joe.

‘Um, I was going to say like old times? Like I’ve – stepped into an old photograph or something.’

Joe gives an awkward grin. ‘Oh. Course. Not claustrophobic. Not at all.’ He leans into me, his arm pressed warmly against mine, and he whispers, ‘It’s just the bloke behind me basically has his lips against my neck. I am deeply disturbed.’

‘All part of the gig experience, isn’t it? Lack of personal space.’

‘Nah, you should be able to hold your arms out and spin anywhere, any time, without smacking anyone in the mouth. It’d be a better world. No life experience should come with a lack of personal space.’

I laugh, as Joe straightens, pushes his hands into his pockets, looks ahead and then says, ‘Actually, I can think of one.’ He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, then laughs.

‘I wondered how long it’d take you to get there.’

‘A second too long,’ he smiles.

The venue’s doors open and the queue goes down quickly, snaking through to the inside. My shoes cling a little to the sticky floor, and although I’m sure it’s been cleaned tens of thousands of times in its lifetime, it still smells of sweat and spilled snakebites and beer.

We come to a stop, find a small space in the crowds gathering on the floor before the stage. The platform is empty but lit up, two Les Pauls resting in stands, a large hot pink drumkit under the spotlights.

‘How’re you doing?’ asks Joe, over the loud music playing through the speakers. ‘Feeling good?’

‘Yeah!’ I shout. ‘Good!’

‘Shall I go and, er, get us some drinks?’ asks Joe.

‘Cider, or—’

‘Just a Coke please. Diet, no ice.’

Joe gives a nod. ‘Shall I meet you back here or …?’

‘Definitely, I’ll wait here. Won’t move. Unless you want me to come—’

‘No, no, you stay. Enjoy the …’ Joe’s hazel eyes slide up to a couple in front of us, who have just started kissing – well, more likelickingeach other, their tongues like glistening slugs. ‘… View?’

Joe disappears off towards the bar, a black box in the middle of the room, the bar staff inside, safely contained like animals from the crowds.

I turn towards the stage. I started counting all the live shows Russ and I attended, then lost my place. Fifty. One hundred.Twohundred, maybe? It was all we did, especially when we first met.From unsigned bands with nothing but a piano and a microphone, to Alanis Morissette and The Calling, and huge stadium gigs, like George Michael, like Cold Play.Guns N’ Roses.Everyone and anyone. I filled myself up with it – the music and the energy and the proof; the proof that it could be done. If these people were up there, playing music, their hearts on their sleeves and in their mouths and at their fingertips as they played, then we could do the same, Edie and me. Russ would often squeeze my hand as we’d watch the show. Say, ‘Be you one day, Nat.’ God, I miss him so much.

I stand alone, and I watch, scan the room, like a spectator, like someone observing an immersive play. Couples, groups of friends, people standing alone. Peoplekissing. People laughing. Hundreds of lives colliding under one low, grimy roof. A sound engineer strolls onto the stage, acts like he can’t see us – the hundreds of us standing staring at him – and swoops a guitar over his head, starts playing the notes, the E strings, first and sixth plucked together, A, D, G, B …

Joe’s been ages. I scan the room for him, but I can’t see him. Maybe he’s gone to the toilet, maybe he’s still waiting at the bar …

A second sound engineer enters the stage, takes a seat at the drumkit. He hits the cymbal once, chats to someone I can’t see – probably someone in his earpiece. He hits it again, then rumbles a beat across the whole kit.

I look behind me again, for Joe, and then I see him. He’s at the bar, and he’s – he’s talking non-stop to someone. His mouth is moving quickly, smiling. ‘Oh man,’ he’s saying. ‘Yeah! Yeah, that’s right!’ It’s a girl. She has long blonde waves, some of the hair braided, like a band, across her head. She’s pretty – super pretty, actually – and she seems beside herself that she’s seen Joe. Like he’s just got out of prison, like he’s been saved from the mouth of a bloody shark. God. Am I …jealous?Is that what this is? No, no, don’t be ridiculous. I’m an adult. A mature adult. Although, God, her lips. They’re so pink, so plump. They make mine look like a slit in a sheet …

I swoop back to the stage, to distract myself. The sound engineers disappear, and I wait. I wonder who she is? Did he just meet her? I feel weird. Ugh. Why do I feel weird?

There’s a sudden eruption of screams and cheers as a band walks out onto the stage. Something hot rises in my chest. The lights go down, and all at once, Joe appears, brushing against me to get through the crowds. He holds two sloshing drinks in his hand. ‘One Coke and no ice,’ he grins.

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