Page 8 of Love Me Till Wednesday

‘What do you mean?’ she asked as she followed the boys towards the stage.

Jonny shrugged. ‘You’re our lead singer. You’re going to have to do the acceptance speech.’

‘But I haven’t prepared anything.’ The butterflies in her stomach were flapping madly now.

The steps to the stage were getting nearer. What the hell was she going to say? Thank their fans, thank the jury, thank their producer, thank Dougie. No, she could never say thank you to him, not when she suspected he was embezzling their royalties. Anyway, no one wanted to listen to a lengthy acceptance speech.

She followed Pete up the steep steps. The podium was on a raised platform halfway across the enormous stage. Her legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. These bloody boots were cutting off the blood supply to her feet.

Nearly there. To avoid looking at the large audience, she focused on a piece of black cotton stuck to the back of Pete’s jacket as she followed him across the stage. Suddenly, the floor started to rush towards her. She put her hands out to stop her face crashing into it. She must have caught the toe of one of her boots on the edge of the raised area. There was a gasp from the audience. Pete turned around and looked down at her sprawled on the floor, an expression of horror on his face. It felt like hours passed before he and Ed helped her back to her feet.

‘Good of you to pay us a flying visit,’ the host joked. Lisa was mortified. Her big moment, and she’d ruined it in front of the audience here, not to mention the millions watching live at home. She was shaking so much that she nearly dropped the award. Pete quickly took it off her. ‘Are you ok?’ he whispered.

‘I’ll have to be,’ she said, clinging to the podium for dear life to stop herself fainting. She rushed out her thanks to everyone, including next door’s cat for keeping her company while she wrote the notes that became the lyrics to Love Me Till Wednesday. At least that got a laugh. The rest was cringeworthy. Her dad had promised to record it on their VHS machine at home, but there was no way she was going to watch this car crash back.

Somehow, they made it safely back to their table. Pete plonked the shiny silver award in the middle of the table. They all sat staring at it.

‘Now, what do we do?’ Tez asked, loosening his tie.

‘You can put that back on for a start,’ Dougie said. ‘I’m not having you look a mess in the photos.’

8

Lisa hobbled out of the lift on her own, Pete having excused himself about half an hour ago, just after the award photos had finished.

She winced as she started walking down the hotel corridor towards their suite. Just a few more steps then she’d be able to take off these bloody boots. Why had she thought four-inch heels were a good idea? They’d felt comfortable in the shop, but after the tripping disaster, all she wanted to do was take them off. She was still cringing about it now. How long would it take to get over the humiliation? Years probably.

She reached the door to the room she was sharing with Pete and found the key in her clutch bag. As she turned it in the door lock, she thought she heard moaning. It must be coming from the room next door. You’d think the soundproofing in a five-star hotel would be better.

Walking in, she noticed Pete’s shirt casually discarded over the back of the sofa. Odd. He was normally annoyingly tidy. But it wasn’t the only thing that wasn’t where it should be. Her eyes automatically followed the trail of clothes leading across the sitting area to the open bedroom door, which perfectly framed a view of a naked Pete scrabbling to get under the covers on the king-size bed. Judging by the lumpsin the bedding, someone was lying beside him. Lisa took a sharp intake of breath.

‘Hi, darling,’ Pete said in a cheery tone, which didn’t match the rabbit in the headlights look in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back yet.’

No shit, Sherlock! ‘Let me guess. You wanted a nap after downing all that booze earlier, and you needed someone to give you a massage to get you off, so to speak?’ Lisa said, doing her best to hold back her fury.

The lumps in the bedspread next to Pete moved slightly.

How dare Pete ruin what should have been a fabulous day. Lisa put her hands on her hips. ‘Who is she?’

Pete looked like he had no idea what to say.

It was probably the pretty blonde photographer he’d been flirting with before the awards ceremony. Not that Pete flirting with women was unusual. She’d challenged him about it early in their relationship. ‘It doesn’t mean anything - I just like having a laugh. There’s no other woman for me but you,’ he’d insisted. And she’d believed him. Pete was always caring and attentive whenever the two of them were together. But he couldn’t resist a good flirt - it didn’t matter what the women looked like or how old they were. He wanted all of them to love him.

The targets of his affections usually treated it as a bit of fun, at least when Lisa was in the vicinity. But while the band were posing for photos this evening, Lisa could tell from the photographer’s body language that this one wanted to get to know Pete a whole lot better.

Forgetting the pain in her toes, Lisa strode purposefully to her side of the bed.

‘Come out, you bitch.’ She dragged the covers down before Pete could stop her. ‘Fuck me!’

‘I’d rather not. I prefer blokes, personally.’

The head and body that she’d revealed belonged to the journalist who’d interviewed them earlier for a music magazine. A male journalist. Andy someone - Lisa hadn't bothered to remember his full name. She’d complained to Pete afterwards that Andy had behaved like a sexist pig, ignoring her while hanging on Pete’s every word. Pete was usually supportive when music journos were dismissive of her, but today he’d been uncharacteristically noncommittal. Now, it all made sense.

Lisa was speechless. She’d never felt this combination of rage, stupidity and confusion before. It was all too much to take in. She turned and ran out of the suite as fast as her painful feet would carry her.

What are you going to do now?Lisa needed somewhere quiet to think it all through. She took the stairs - less chance of bumping into someone else that way. There was a balcony on the second floor. Fresh air would help. Well, as fresh as you could get in London on a warm summer evening.

She emerged from the stairwell into the plush carpeted second-floor landing. The balcony sign pointed to a glass door on the left. She peered through. It was empty. Perfect.

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