Page 34 of Days You Were Mine

It’s the moment of levity we need.

‘I’ll catch you all a bit later on,’ Alice says, grabbing the opportunity to move away. ‘I’m not good in crowds. I’ll probably stand at the back.’

Reborn aren’t due on for another ten minutes, but it’s already impossible to get anywhere near the stage.Time Outran a feature last Friday; I guess that’s how the punters have got hold of it. I think, momentarily, about the band in the dressing room. Wonder if they’re nervous or revelling in their moment in the sun. While I wait, I exchange nods with the other A&R men, all of whom I know. There’s an unspoken code at a gig like this, one where we are all fierce competitors – every label wants to sign Reborn, though only three or four of us have the money – and it’s nonchalance. If conversations must be had – and we’re all keen to avoid them – the subject matter is kept light and brief. I spy Joel Richardson, boss of Universal, in a corner, flanked by two of his A&R guys, Matt and Tommy, both friends of mine, if that’s what you’d call our nights out on the lash. Pre-Hannah days, Friday nights that might start at a gig and move to a club, then someone’s flat to see in the dawn. Too much booze, toomany drugs, hangovers that destabilised me even then. Good times that felt in retrospect like anything but.

Ben and I are standing in the middle of the crowd, jostled and jarred from every side, toes stepped on, elbows in backs, the slosh of spilt beer as it lands like raindrops on my jeans. I’m happy here, a few rows back from the mosh pit but up close enough to see, feel, immerse myself in the act. No place for a chat, but I find myself shouting above the noise anyway.

‘Did you think it was weird that Alice had that picture of Samuel on her phone?’

‘Weird how? She’s looking after him all day. Of course she’s going to take pictures.’

‘You’re right. I’m the weirdo. I forgot.’

Ben laughs. ‘Alice is in for a shock when she finds out what you’re really like.’

The band are about to come on; there’s a surge, a momentum, both the pushing as the crowd tries to pull closer and the palpable energy of expectation. How many people in this tiny room? A hundred and fifty at most. Yet as the band walk out – Daniel, the lead singer, first, then Arlo the drummer, Ingrid the guitarist and finally Bex on bass – it’s the cheer of a stadium. Straight into their first song, ‘Special’, a punky electro number that is a guaranteed hit, I’d say.

The first three songs are classic Reborn, emotional turbulence and political rant hidden in a skilful wrap of classic songwriting. Then they surprise the crowd with new material – a song I’ve never heard before and one that has veered into unapologetic disco – and an extraordinary thing happens. Halfway through, I realise the audience is dancing. A&R men don’t dance. A bit of gentle nodding at most, foot-tapping if you must. So this feels kind of momentous. I glance across at Universal, still clustered together, a trio of men, and see that even Joel Richardson isswinging his hips and padding the air with his palms, an enthusiastic post-rave gesture that is almost endearing.

The band leave the stage after exactly thirty minutes to overwhelming rapture. It’s no longer a question of whether they will be huge, or even when; their fame is here, their moment has come.

The bar is rammed, of course, and it takes Ben and me a good ten minutes to get served, all the time looking around for Alice. How can someone as conspicuous as her – tall, head-turningly good-looking – have evaporated like this? I wonder if she abandoned the gig halfway through.

‘How can Alice have just disappeared?’ I say more than once. ‘Do you think she bailed?’

‘Mate,’ Ben says, ‘you’re alarming me. Just relax about Alice, OK? She’s a grown-up. She does her own thing. And she probably doesn’t get off on pints of beer being chucked all over her.’

Alice appears from nowhere just as we’ve got our drinks, and Ben passes her his beer.

‘Have this,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and get another one.’

‘Oh, no need. I’m off now. Just wanted to say goodbye. And, Luke, the band are fantastic. You’re really on to something. I can see why you’re excited about them.’

‘Won’t you stay for a quick drink? I’ve hardly seen you. Where were you standing?’

Ben is staring at me intently, probably trying to communicate the integral message of ‘be cool’, as he has so many times before.

‘At the back. I get panicky if I can’t find my way out.’

‘Well at least let me walk out with you to say goodbye.’

‘Don’t worry about that. You’ll want to talk to the band, won’t you? Don’t miss your chance. We’ll catch up when I come next week.’

‘Do we need to have words?’ Ben says when Alice has gone,our catch-all phrase for when one or other of us (usually me) is losing our shit.

‘I can’t help being a bit needy. I’m an adoptee.’

‘With two brand-new flesh-and-blood parents and one extremely loving adoptive mother. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I know you’re right.’

‘You know what Elizabeth would say right now? Boundaries, my friend. Alice has them, but you don’t. We all need boundaries.’

Then

Alice

We glide down the King’s Road in Robin’s open-top car, a shining cream and silver work of art that draws cheers and yells of appreciation from pedestrians and hoots from other drivers.

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