Page 78 of Knot Their Opening Act

Caylee links her arm with mine and Ferny’s murmuring in my ear about the feedback from the radio interview I did on my own earlier today. I squeaked through it before my nap, but it was great to be asked questions by a DJ I’d listened to during my student days trying to get on the circuit in Bristol. I’d shortened my nap for that and then spent the rest of my awake time inhaling steam, downing chamomile tea with honey, and trying to relax.

The second we approach all four Fable guys at the venue, standing in the corridor outside catering, all that relaxation is flushed down the toilet.

They all turn to me like flower petals to the sun. Ferny looks at me but keeps up the pace. Holden opens his mouth to speak, all brows raised and pleading expressions, but Caylee thrusts up a hand.

“No thank you, please,” Caylee snarls. “She’s got nothing to say to you.”

And we keep walking. I focus more on how shitty my throat feels, and how horrible my heart feels, knowing I did this to myself. The cold was going around but sleeping with Kai the night before last was probably what did it.

No one to blame but my poor character assessment, I guess.

I feel broken as I head to the stage and the guitar tech hands over my Taylor. I get it comfortable around my neck as Murray, Ry, Gareth, and Shay come up behind me. They form a circle with me, everyone’s arms linked around everyone’s shoulders. A small smile creeps up on my face.

“We know you’re feeling pretty god-awful. But this is your town, Jez. They’ve seen you play more than anywhere. But they haven’t seen you with us,” Gareth says with a cheeky grin. “We’ll give them our best yet. Show them how even a fucking Fable germ-fest isn’t going to stop you from giving yours.”

“You’ll have more fans here than you’ve had anywhere. They love you for who you are. Remember that, Jez,” Shay says in my ear.

We all shout, “For Bristol!” as has become our custom in whatever city we’re in, then head out onto the stage.

I bite the inside of my cheek and think of what Viv said to me when she came through my dressing room door last night. “Oh, Jez. You were fucking ethereal out there. I feel like I haven’t seen you in a thousand years. Your confidence issoaring.You were meant to be here.”

Meant to be. It doesn’t always mean something isgood. Just that fate needs it in order to bring about the next thing.

I hold to this, wondering what that next thing is as I stride onto the stage strumming the opening chords of the opening song and do a spin around in my mid-length ombre teal and violet dress, my hair and skirt twirling around. “HeyBristol,” I call. “I’ve been waiting for you!”

And the adrenaline of performing my heart out, laying the diary of these songs in front of a crowd and waiting like a masochist to see whether they’ll pick it up and hold it to their chest or mock it and turn away. As ever.

I see so many Fable shirts out there, but I also see aseaof blue hair like mine. Wigs, extensions, dye—whatever the case, my people are here. This is insane.

I turn around and grin at Shay and Murray on my left then Ry and Gareth on my right as the first verse approaches, and I ride it out like the professional I’m beginning to fully believe I am.

I do belong here. And I’ve waited for this night all my life.

That’s the feeling fate stamps across my heart, as we dive from one song to another, the highs and lows, the ballads, the wistful mid-tempo acoustics, and then, the crowd-pleasing dancier country-fied number that’s the biggest tip of the hat to my roots and my first demo.

I ignore the side of the stage except for one glance at Shay. Over her shoulder, all four Fable guys stand, side by side, watching every second. They haven’t moved since I came on stage. And I don’t know why, but a tremble rocks through me.

I trip over the next word, but catch myself, doing my best to camouflage the mistake by playing around with the rhythm of the following phrase.

Somehow, though, this tiniest mistake that most won’t notice has me obsessing over every syllable, and that’s when it hits me that my throat is drying out. I need some water but this song has only just started.

Then the panic begins. Those first irrational trickles—the sensation of weight on my chest. The heat prickling at my neck, my temples, my fingertips. And the worst—the dark aura framing my vision.

I tell myself,Not now. You’re fine. There’s plenty of air, plenty of space. Just calm.

The instrumental build-up to the chorus comes, giving me a chance to try to clear my throat quickly, and then when that powerful surge into the song’s anthem, I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.

I try again immediately but it’s a squeak, or a honk. I can’t tell which in the monitor over the blood rushing in my ears. Shay sings backup on this song so I turn to her with wide eyes and shake my head at her. She sees what’s happening and immediately draws closer to her mic, stepping in for me. Meanwhile, my jaw is working but nothing is coming out.

I try again and a louder honk comes out. I’ve lost my voice. There’s nothing there but a scratchy mess of bramble, and I’m fucked. I had lozenges and steam and sprayed my throat every hour on the hour today. But the interview went on for thirty minutes and maybe all that talking pushed me over the edge.

Oh God, is Tristan watching this? What are all my local fans thinking?

What will social media say? What will Ash say?

Please, please, why now?

I look out at the crowd, a sort of wild, anguished apology in my eyes. But they only see Jez Jacobs standing there, arms at her side, moving her mouth with nothing coming out, looking shocked and like she wants nothing more than to run from the stage.

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