Page 40 of Worth Every Game

Is it hot in here? It feels fucking hot in here.

I fan my face with my hand, wishing I’d worn my hair up because it’s sticking to my neck. I try to distract myself from my discomfort by focusing on the other people waiting. There’s a group of men dressed in black with long hair, chatting amongst themselves. They look happy, confident. In the opposite corner sits a gorgeous woman with impossibly long legs, who looks like a model. Perhaps she is one.

I don’t fit in here, with my messy hair and my worn out guitar case. And my stupid tryhard cowboy boots.What does Robert Lloyd want with me?

“I played at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire last month. That was pretty incredible. Where do you play?”

The girl’s voice crashes through my internal monologue, and I blank out. I can’t tell her I haven’t played anywhere other than a tiny pub in Soho, where hardly anyone ever comes to hear me.

I’m a fraud. I can’t stay here alongside people who are performing at the Empire, and who have hundreds of thousands of followers online.

The girl is still staring at me, waiting for a response. “A few bars in the West End,” I admit, keeping it vague.A few.What an exaggeration. A deep blanket of shame covers me.

Why did I think I could do this?

“Oh, yeah? Cool. Where did you record your demos?”

Fuck. “Demos?”

“Yes. Who did you use? Which producer? I went to a studio in Fulham.”

My insides are shrivelling, and every organ feels like it’s cramping. I don’t have demos. All I have are my songs, recorded on my phone and laptop. It’s painfully amateur. I’ve always wanted to get my music professionally recorded and produced, but I’ve never had the money to do it. I’ve been too busy trying to make my damn rental payments.

Now, all my financial choices are feeling idiotic. Maybe Kate would have covered my rent for a few months if I’d only told her about wanting to record my music. If I’d told her about this interview, she might have helped me. But I didn’t. I’ve tried to keep it all hidden, not wanting to worry anyone.Not wanting to fail.

The pain of striving to hide how hard it’s been hits all at once.I can’t do this anymore.

The girl continues talking about the producer who worked on her songs in the studio he set up in his mother’s basement but I’m not really listening. This is possibly the most importantmoment in my career, the most important moment for my music, and I’m completely unprepared. It’s too important to fuck up.

But the realisation is too late. I’ve already fucked up. Every choice I’ve made has resulted in this situation. Me, letting myself down. Prioritising the wrong things. Not asking for help when I’ve so desperately needed it. And now I’m being given a chance, and I’m not ready. I’ve sabotaged this, just like I’ve sabotaged everything else in my life.

If I go into this meeting, Robert Lloyd will laugh me half way home. I won’t be able to bear the shame of it.

I’ll die.

My left knee begins to shake, making my entire leg vibrate, and Jack’s words suddenly blast loud in my head, occupying every inch of space in my brain.If she were any good, she would have made something of herself by now.

Never have someone else’s words felt so excruciatingly true. I can’t do this. No microscopic part of me that believes I can.

“Excuse me,” I say, lurching from my seat in one swift movement, leaving the girl half-way through a sentence.

I push my way out of the reception area, my vision turning unfocused at the edges again.It could be tears. Or perhaps my brain is malfunctioning, my optic nerve shutting down.

I need to get out of here. Now.

I ignore the worried calls of the receptionist as I jab my finger on the button for the lift.

The doors open so fucking slowly. I can’t wait. I’m beginning to hyperventilate. I catch sight of a fire exit and head that way instead, clattering down the stairs. I’m barely aware of anything but the violent echo of my footsteps and the thump of my guitar case against my legs.

I don’t stop for a second, and in moments I’m out on the street, sticking my hand out into the road, hailing the next cab.It pulls over and I yank the door open. I huddle into my seat, clutching my guitar to stop my hands from shaking. My breaths are coming quick and shallow, and I feel sick. I push the guitar to the seat next to me and lower my head between my knees, riding out the wave of nausea.

“All right, love?” the driver asks, his voice laden with what sounds like genuine concern, but I’m not about to share my shit with a cab driver I don’t know.

“Yes, thanks. Notting Hill please,” I say, trying not to let my voice break or allow the shame that’s beating at my defences to break through. I’m holding it together by a thread.

I breathe in and out. In and out. For a few moments, it’s all I can manage, but the relief I’m seeking doesn’t come.

Before I can stop myself, I’m beating myself up for what happened. I ran away from the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had.

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