Page 11 of The First Chord

“Come with me.”

I frowned but without any hesitation followed him back down the corridor towards the bowels of the arena. Halfway down he opened up a door and stood aside to let me in. It had a couple of leather sofas in there, a matching foot stool, and a table laden with cling-film wrapped food and drink.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s for the sponsors,” he said, leaning closer to a plate of sandwiches and peering at them. “For after the gig.”

“What are we doing in here?” I looked around the room with pictures of past gigs on the walls. The noise of the band was still loud but muted enough that my jagged nerves started to soften around the edges. “Should we be in here?” The bottles of champagne were expensive, and the food wasn’t the usual party buffet from your local Iceland.

Ronnie looked over his shoulder and winked. “In a roundabout way I paid for it, so yes, if we want to be in here then we can. Now, what do you fancy to eat?”

My feet ached in the mile-high shoes that Jimmy liked me to wear, and the sofa looked comfy, so I moved over to it and sat down.

“I’m fine for food, thanks.”

Ronnie turned and crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at me. “Have you seen this lot. It’s bloody lovely.” He glanced back at the food. “At least it looks like it is. It could taste like cardboard, expensive cardboard at that.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m just not hungry.”

Ronnie exhaled as he came to sit next to me. “I saw you leave dinner early, you hardly touched your food, so I’m pretty sure you could eat something.”

I really couldn’t. My stomach was churning like it did every day and had done every day for probably the last two years. In those two years I’d had to force myself to eat on a daily basis, but everything tasted like sawdust mixed with a pinch of bitterness. That was why I’d lost over a stone and a half. I’d never been skinny, I was shapely—as my mum used to say. Now my hip bones jutted out, my stomach was flatter than it had ever been, and my legs could have been mistaken for something hanging out of a nest. Jimmy seemed to love the new me, though, when he ever paid me or my body any attention, which wasn’t often.

“Honestly, Ronnie, I’m fine.”

“If you’re worried that it’s not for us, don’t be. I can just get catering to replace what we eat.”

“I’m not hungry, really.” I cleared my throat. “I wouldn’t mind some water, though.”

He jumped up and grabbed a bottle of water from the table and handed it to me before sitting back down.

“Sorry, do you want a glass?”

I shook my head. “The bottle is fine.” After breaking the seal, I took a quick sip and looked back at him. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” From the song humming in the background, I knew that Blind Devil only had two more songs left.

“I’m ready,” he replied. “As for being in here, I just thought you should have somewhere more comfortable to sit. Plus,” he said raising an eyebrow, “I thought you might want something to eat.”

At that exact moment my stomach groaned, surprising me. I couldn’t remember the last time it had done that.

“There’s my answer.” Ronnie jumped up again and grabbed a plate of pastries, handing it to me. “Tuck into them.”

I looked down on them and had to admit they looked delicious, especially the cinnamon twirl with what looked like added chocolate pieces. Taking the edge of the cling film, I slowly peeled it back far enough for me to take the pastry from the plate. The first bite was heaven and nothing at all like cardboard or sawdust.

“God, that’s so good.”

Ronnie grinned. “Honestly, nothing but the best when you come backstage at a Warrior Creek gig.”

Settling against the back of the sofa, I stretched my legs out and tried to wiggle my toes, but the shoes were tight as well as high. I kicked them off and gave a groan of appreciation.

“How do you wear those things? You know Belle is still wearing them and she’s five months pregnant. Elliot keeps sending her pictures of flip flops and old granny shoes, but she isn’t taking the hint. Well, not in front of him anyway.”

Smiling, I took another bite of my pastry. “You get used to them,” I said around the mouthful of food.

“Wouldn’t you just rather wear your slippers or something?”

With my feet throbbing a beat of their own, I had to agree, wearing my slippers would be much comfier. In fact, it would be amazing. According to Jimmy, though, as wife of the leader singer of an up-and-coming band I had a reputation to maintain. Apparently high shoes, the width of a toddler’s, were pivotal in proving what a cool, power couple we were.

“Like I said,” I replied. “I’m used to them.”

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