Page 56 of I Would Die for You

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LONDON, 1986

“I’msosorry,” says Ben, when Nicole calls to tell him that her mother has died after three days in hospital. “Is there anything I can do?”

She considers the options, but knows that nothing and no one can bring her back. The realization floors her.

“I just feel so… so empty,” she whispers, wrapping the phone cord around her finger as she sits on the carpet, resting her head on the dining room wall. “I mean, there’s a physical hole within me that I can’t ever see being filled again.”

“I wish I was there with you,” he says dourly. “I hate that you’re dealing with this on your own.”

Nicole sighs heavily, painfully aware of the Atlantic Ocean that stretches out between them.

“Have you made any arrangements for the funeral?”

“I’m supposed to be going with Dad to the undertakers tomorrow, but I don’t know that I can face it. It feels too soon to be making decisions.”

“I know this sounds crazy, but it might give you something to focus on…” he says. “Rather than torture yourself with your memories, you can put them to good use: Have you thought about singing your song at the service?”

The idea catches Nicole off guard. She’s been biding her time, thinking she had some to spare in which to play her mum the song she’s written for her. But the days and weeks have been cruelly snatched away, and the thought that she’ll now never get to hear it crushes Nicole’s insides.

“Are you going to accompany me on guitar?” she says, forcing a laugh in a bid to stave off the tsunami of tears that are gathering at the back of her throat.

“I’d be happy to,” he says, without irony.

“Can you imagine?” says Nicole. “We arrange a classy, somber occasion, and thenyoupitch up and it turns into a media circus.” They laugh, the pair of them equally more comfortable to explore this line of conversation than the alternative. “Mind you, knowing Mum, she’d probably revel in that. She was always very proud of her groupie status.”

“I wish I could have met her,” he says.

It’s the simplest of statements—an auto-response for someone in his position—but the absolute impossibility of it ever happening makes Nicole’s shoulders convulse.

“I’m sorry,” says Ben, as she stifles her sobs. “That was insensitive.”

“It’s fine,” says Nicole, sniffing. “Anyway, how’s it all going over there?”

Seeing Secret Oktober take America by storm had been a welcome distraction these past few days. The ten o’clock news had eulogized about how Britain’s latest export had the Yanks eating out of their hands, and yesterday’s paper had pictures of screaming girls chasing the band’s limousines down the street, one of whom had been rushed to hospital after her foot was caught under a wheel. It’s on the tip of Nicole’s tongue to tell Ben that he’s beginning to makea habit of it, but she stops herself, not yet ready to share that her little sister proudly displays the same war wound to anyone who asks.

“It’s pretty crazy,” says Ben. “American fans are something else.”

The line crackles and his voice becomes distant, bringing a lump to Nicole’s throat. It has only been six weeks since he quite literally walked into her life, but she misses him beyond belief, though she’s aware that her emotions are heightened to every sensation right now.

“Listen to this,” he says. There are a few seconds of silence before a thunderous roar of hysterical screams rings down the line. “That’s what happens whenever I stick my head out of the hotel window.”

The juxtaposition of their lives has never been more apparent than right here in this moment, and Nicole wonders for the millionth time how anything can possibly come of the relationship they’ve convinced themselves they have.Hisdays are filled with new experiences, new places, new people, while hers are spent grieving for the life that’s been lost. While he’s appearing alongside Madonna at Madison Square Garden, Nicole is waiting tables in a grotty restaurant. And as he revels in worldwide adulation, she can’t even tell her own sister that she’s met him.

“It sounds insane,” she says, trying her best not to show the insecurities evoked by him having the pick of hundreds of girls.

“It’s all a game,” he’d said once, when she’d asked him how often he had sex with fans. “I might tease them, make them think they have a chance, that I would if I could… but I’d never go there.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little cruel?” Nicole had asked.

“It works both ways. I’m under no illusions—I know that if I was working in the local pub, none of these girls would give me a second look.”

“So, you’venevertaken advantage of your… situation?” she asked, for want of a better word.

He’d looked away, as if embarrassed. “I didn’t say that! I used to—when we first started out, when I honestly believed that they were there because they liked me.” He laughed. “I couldn’t believemy luck: I’d gone from the geeky fella at school, who everyone thought was weird because I was in a crap band and spent all my spare time rehearsing in my parents’ garage, to this stud muffin who was literally having girls throw themselves at him.”

“I hate to break it to you…” Nicole had started with a pained expression.

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