But I’m okay, no headache – just thirsty and tired. My watch says 9:13 a.m. Shit. I was supposed to open the café at 7:30 a.m.
I bolt back to the sofa. On the coffee table tucked under my phone is a note.
Gone to open café – could not wake you. Make sure the door is shut when you leave. M x
I gather my stuff and leave. The moment I shut the door, I regret not checking a mirror – Christ knows what I look like. My car is waiting on the street outside, but with my head still fuzzy, I leave it there and walk instead.
I’ve got Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ playing in my head. Why ‘Holiday’? I haven’t heard that song in years. Oh God. Was I singing ‘Holiday’ in Magda’s kitchen? Shit, yes. Into a fuckingspoon. I have a mental image of us not only singing at the top of our voices, but doing the dance routine, too. Jesus. That would have been my idea. That choreography has been taking up space in my brain since I was a kid.
At what point in the evening, did I lose my inhibitions – and my dignity? Ah yes, that would be right after we created my Tinder profile. Holy fuck. I stop in the middle of the street, pull out my phone, and scroll frantically through my apps until I find it hiding at the bottom of the last screen. I delete it immediately and continue walking. Was I crying at one point? Oh myGod. I was properly wailing. I told her about Will. I never talk about him. That red vodka drink must have been some kind of truth serum. She’s so bloody nosy she probably interrogated me with a lamp shining in my face.
As I walk on, events from the previous evening come back to me in disjointed little bursts. She had heard of Will. She had been a fan. She had the album and even travelled to someEuropean city – Berlin? – to see him play. I was there that night, watching from the side of the stage.
As I turn the corner, the café comes into view. Inside, Magda’s busy serving a regular group of NCT mums. When I go behind the counter, she stops what she’s doing and envelopes me in a hug. Like we’re old friends. She might even know more about me than anyone.
‘How do you feel?’ she asks.
‘Not too bad,’ I say. ‘Why did you let me drink so much, Magda?’
‘You needed to let down your hairs.’
Chapter 38
March 1996
Will was dazzled by the blue stage lights. The same blue lights that flooded the photograph in theNME. Thanks to the review last month, they were back at the Dublin Castle. But this time they were headlining. And on a Saturday night, too.
He checked the tuning on his guitar one last time and stepped on the reverb pedal. He turned to Reu, whose mass of ringlets were glowing like a blue halo, and gave him a nod. Reu bashed his sticks together, and they launched into ‘Random Anthem’. To Will’s surprise, a few people sang along to the chorus. A group of lads – maybe Reu’s friends? – were jumping up and down at the front.
The lights dipped and changed to red, illuminating the twelve A&R dudes lined up at the back behind the crowd. Will didn’t know for sure they were A&R, but that was Matty’s theory. In his words, they ‘stood out like turds in a fruit bowl’. They weren’t wearing suits, but they looked different somehow from the average gig-goer.
The blue lights came on again, and he could go back to pretending no one was watching.
He propelled the song to its final crescendo, and the crowd erupted into enthusiastic applause.
As he stepped up to the microphone, the lights dipped again, showing several of the A&R suspects staring at thestage. None of them were talking and at least three of them had their arms folded across their chests. Talk about negative body language. Will swallowed. ‘This one’s called “Forbidden”.’
As he played the opening chords, he searched the crowd for Emily. He found her right in the middle, beaming at him. For a moment it was just the two of them, her eyes holding onto his. Then the lights changed, and she was gone.
She was there with her friends Miranda and Scott. He’d met Miranda before the show. She wore a Stones t-shirt knotted at the waist with the sleeves cut off, revealing her extensive tattoos. When Emily went off to the loo, Miranda had said something about ‘treating her right or answering to her’. She made out she was joking, but she meant what she said.
He recalled the angry performance he gave the last time he was on this stage. Matty offered to smash his hand with a hammer, to get him in the mood tonight, but he didn’t need to be angry. He needed to focus on that glowing review, the sold-out tickets and the record company dudes at the back of the room. He had every reason to believe in himself.
He got caught up in the song and the crowd came along with him. And when it finished, the applause was long and loud. Matty’s face said it all – eyes gleaming, beaming smile. It didn’t get better than this.
The rest of the set was exhilarating, and they left the stage to thunderous, drunken applause. Another advantage of playing the headline slot was people were more up for a good time and too pissed to notice any mistakes. Backstage, Will drew Matty and Reu in and they jumped up and down, whooping as the applause continued. They were hoping for an encore, and they got two, squeezing in four more songs before the landlord pulled the plug.
Matty ushered them out to the bar. ‘Richard Eason’s here. He wants to buy us all a drink – let’s order doubles.’
Eason was waiting at the bar in his signature biker jacket, even though it was a hundred degrees in the pub. ‘That wasawesome!’ He took Will’s hand and pumped it up and down. ‘There were some flashes of brilliance there and things we can work on. Listen, I want to sign you.’
Will’s heart stopped beating. ‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ Eason leant in and bellowed in his ear over the chatter of the bar. ‘But it’s not only up to me. I want to get this over the line. Let me take you for lunch next week. I’ll bring the big boss, and we’ll make this happen.’
‘Okay. Great.’ He would have to chuck a sickie at work.
‘Let me tell you something. You see these guys behind me?’ Eason jerked his head towards a group of men hovering nearby.