May 1996
Will met Emily for lunch at a little sandwich shop in Covent Garden. He’d been shopping with Matty and Reu, spending his clothing allowance. Emily made a face when she saw what he’d bought.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘That face isn’t saying “nothing”. It’s saying “you’ve spent two hundred quid on a load of crap”. What’s wrong with it?’ he asked, folding a checked flannel shirt, and dropping it back in the bag.
‘I thought the money was for “stage clothes”.’ She put the last of her sandwich in her mouth.
‘It was. This is what I wear on stage.’
‘But you’re a signed artist now, supporting Paradigm on their tour with the opportunity to expand your fan base.’
He blew out an exaggerated huff. ‘I don’t care about all that.’
‘Whatdoyou care about?’
‘I care about the music.’
‘And you don’t want to catch the eye of a Paradigm fan who might not bother to listen to your set? Before you even open your mouth, they’ll decide if they want to listen to you or go to the bar.’
He shrugged. ‘True.’
‘How much have you got left?’
‘Seventy-five.’
‘Give it to me.’ She held out her hand. ‘Do you want to come with me, or do you want to look at guitars?’
‘I want to look at guitars.’
She kissed him and disappeared with the money.
A few hours later, they met at her place, Will lugging a guitar case, and Emily carrying a scrappy shopping bag. He opened the case, revealing his brand-new Butterscotch Blonde Fender Telecaster. He was desperate to play it, but sensed she didn’t want to spend one of their last evenings together watching him tinker with it. She made the right noises, and he tucked it back in the case like a sleeping child.
‘I went to a couple of charity shops near college.’ She dipped into her bag. ‘They’ve always got original sixties stuff.’
She pulled out a tuxedo jacket, her eyebrows raised. The lapels were black, but the rest of it was a dark rust colour shot through with gold thread. The jacket was cool, but he couldn’t see himself wearing anything like that.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Matty and Reu would take the piss out of him if he wore it.
‘Try it on,’ she said.
‘What, over this?’ He was wearing a black t-shirt.
‘Yes.’
He got a musty whiff as he wafted it around to slip his arm in. ‘It stinks.’
‘We’ll get it dry cleaned.’
She ruffled his hair and stood back to get the full view. She was pleased with her purchase.
‘Hold on, I’ll get Scott’s Polaroid camera.’ While she was out of the room, he checked himself out in the mirror on the back of her door. Surprisingly, he didn’t look like a complete knob. He looked like a musician.