Page 23 of Time of Your Life

Fourteen

Ysolde

The shoot went smoothly.

Joah wasn’t there. Not that Joah being there means it wouldn’t have gone smoothly, don’t read into that—I mean—never mind.

The shoot went well.

Separately, Joah is doing okay too. It’s been a few days since what happened at the club and he’s calmed down a bit.

When I spoke to Jilly last, she said the papers weren’t talking about Jo any differently than they normally would—you know, silly, rowdy rock star, drunk and got carried away again.

Can’t imagine it will have won Jo any points in the eyes of my father.

Can’t imagine Jo would give a shit about that, though.

We’ve been staying at H?tel Plaza Athénée—beautiful. One of my favourite hotels. We spent a couple of days just shopping and going to museums and restaurants, and it’s a strange, forced holiday that I didn’t know I needed but am thoroughly enjoying.

Rich is both a painful and a welcome addition. They’re weird together, Joah and him. Kind of fascinating to watch. They’re either entirely in sync, closer than close, or they completely, totally despise each other.

And it’s always the strangest things that sets each other off. Like, they had a massive row because a waitress asked Rich what he’d like to drink, and Joah cut in and ordered first. Or yesterday, Rich walked into our room without knocking and Joah lost his fucking mind.

We were on Avenue des Champs-élysées at the Louis Vuitton flagship yesterday—they both liked the same button-down and oh my god. Complete children.

And then, an hour later, they’re sitting in a bar, watching the football, finishing each other’s sentences, teasing one another about things that go over my head—old inside jokes between the brothers.

I get back from a facial from Joelle Ciocco—heaven, by the way. Get one if you can—and find Joah on the balcony.

He’s a vision in that sunlight, though I suppose he’s always a bit of a vision, isn’t he?

There’s something about his face, like he always looks like he has a secret that’s going to get the both of us in trouble.

It’s inherently sexy. And those terribly famous, impossibly blue eyes are cast a bit golden now in the fading Parisian sun.

Of course, as we all know—his mouth is bottom heavy, and I love that, actually—but it’s more so today. Poutier or more serious or something.

And it’s because his face is so lovely and so distractible I don’t clock immediately that something’s amiss. Only when I kiss his cheek and he doesn’t look up at me do I feel in me that something’s astray.

He’s reading something—a magazine?—intensely.

Right then, Rich rounds the corner, sees the magazine in Joah’s hand, and beelines towards him.

“Don’t read that—” He shakes his head, reaching for it, but Joah jerks it out of his reach.

“I told you not to read that—” Rich sighs. “Jo—”

I look between them. “What is it?”

“Nowt,” Rich tells me in a voice that tells me, actually, it’s rather something.

“An article,” Jo says, still reading it.

I look for his eyes, I don’t find them. “About what?”

“Me,” he says, but his voice sounds funny.

I glance up at Rich, my eyes are more nervous than I want them to be. Truthfully, perhaps so are Richie’s.

“What does it say?” I ask neither of them specifically. I’m asking either of them, I suppose.

Rich shakes his head again. “Jo, don’t.”

Joah finally looks up, eyes sharp—fighting eyes—I’m starting to know them now. He points an angry finger in his brother’s face. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do, man—”

I put my hand on Jo’s shoulder. “He’s just trying to help—”

“What’s reading it going to do, Jo?” Rich says to him. “You’ll just feel like shit.”

I look between them again, and I’m getting a bit frustrated now. “I mean—what the fuck does it say?”

Jo clears his throat. “It’s hard to understand how Joah Harrigan, the boorish mouthpiece of Manchester’s beloved Fallow, has managed to fool anyone into thinking he’s worthy of his rock star crown.”

My heart sinks.

“Jo—” I start but he shakes his head.

“Not done.”

“Let’s start with the obvious—” Joah reads a bit theatrically now. “Fallow’s success owes much more to Richie Harrigan, Joah’s older, possibly taller and infinitely more talented brother. Richie, the band’s primary songwriter, is widely regarded as the true genius.”

“Jo—” Rich interrupts, but Joah talks over him loudly.

“Without Richie, Joah might still be shouting into a microphone at dingy pubs—”

Joah looks up from the article, giving Richie and I both a pointed look. Then he keeps going.

“Not even the allure of dating one of the world’s most glamorous women can gloss over the tarnish of Harrigan’s public escapades.”

I cut in. “Joah—”

He holds up a finger to silence me.

“—strip away the chiselled jawline and smouldering gaze, and what remains is a man who could easily be mistaken for someone who’s just rolled out of a bin.”

“No—” I shake my head. “Okay, stop. That’s enough.”

I try to pluck the magazine away from him, but he holds it out of my reach—except fuck him, because I’m nimble, so I clamber over him and pry it out of his hands and fling it over the balcony.

“Jo, none of that’s true.” I sit myself on his lap, push my hands through his hair. “You know that.”

He stares at me a bit blankly. Looks lost, actually. That frightens me.

“Do I?” he asks.

I put my hand on his cheek and look very squarely in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Alright. If you say so.” He nods, then he stands up—and he doesn’t completely shift me off of him, he just—stands? I don’t tumble off his lap, I catch myself and I’m fine and it’s nothing, but it’s maybe the least aware he’s ever been of my physical presence. “Back in a sec.”

And then he saunters away.

I perch nervously—or uncomfortably , I should say—I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous, you know? I’m not, that all just threw me for a second is all.

“You good?” Richie says, watching me closer than I like.

I nod.

He nods back, slower though, thinking something through.

“Buckle up,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t.”

“What?” He shrugs like he doesn’t know.

“Don’t do that.” I shake my head at him. “You don’t know it’s about to go sideways…”

“Yeah, I do,” he says coolly. “And so do you—” He nods at me. “You’re learning. That’s good.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re so dramatic.”

“ I’m dramatic?” He scoffs. “I’m not the one doing lines in the bathroom on me own because some twat wrote a shit article about me—”

My heart drops a foot in my chest.

“He’s not doing that.”

“Yes, Ysolde.” Rich gives me this you know I’m right look. “He is.”

“What am I doing?” Jo asks as he rounds a corner, itching his nose with his finger.

“Nothing—” Rich says to Jo, then catches my eye. “Just proving my point.”

“Alright—?” Joah says, glancing between us. “Shall we?”

I give him a cautious look. “Shall we what?”

***

Not two hours later, and definitely two and perhaps a bit bottles of scotch later, Joah pushes back from the table we’re sitting at in the small hole-in-the-wall bar we’ve found ourselves at.

“Gotta piss,” Joah says, staggering away, hopefully towards a loo.

“Charming.” I flash his brother a smile, before I glance around our surroundings.

I’ve never been to a place like this in Paris before.

Honestly, I didn’t know places like this existed in Paris, which makes me realise I’ve experienced only a very privileged and curated version of Paris.

Rich picked it. I think on purpose. We won’t run into anyone we know here.

No sneaky photographers lurking, waiting to catch my heartbroken boyfriend out.

He is heartbroken by the way. Utterly shattered.

He pretends he doesn’t care what people say about him, but he does. Very much.

This is a terrible part of loving someone, isn’t it? That they become your heart that lives outside of your body and they exist in the world, and the world we live in tries to beat everyone and everything down, and today it picked him, and it’s working.

There’s always been a sparky light in Joah’s eyes. I saw it the very first night we met. Maybe over time I’ve embellished it, but in the eye of my mind’s memory, there’s this magical light inside of his eyes that I think I watched the world dim a bit today.

Do you know how that feels? To watch something you love be destroyed?

My heart’s aching for him, that’s what I’m thinking about when I realise Richie’s just sitting there, quietly, watching me.

He nods his chin towards me. “Oi, what’d he say to you?”

I frown. “Who?”

“Finn.”

I let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not telling you…”

“Why?”

I stare at him, can’t really believe he’s pushing me on this. “Because it’s terrible?”

He shrugs. “We’re practically family.”

I pull a face. “We… aren’t .”

He squints over at me. “We are friends, though, right?”

I squint back, truly thinking about it, I suppose. “I don’t know…”

“Fuck—” He shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work.”

“Excuse me—” I cross my arms, looking him up and down. “You’re very antagonistic of my boyfriend—”

He laughs once, dry—like he can’t believe it.

“ I’m antagonistic of your boyfriend—?” He shakes his head. “Fuck, how thick are your love goggles…”

I give him a look. “You love stirring up shit for him!”

“ He loves stirring shit up for him,” Rich says, matching my look but only for a second because out of the corner of our eyes, we each see Joah exit the bathroom.

Two girls at the bar stop him as he passes.

“Excuse me—” one of them says in a French accent. “Are you Fallow?”

Joah grins, cocky—his eyes are blurrier than I’m comfortable with, truthfully. He looks over at Rich, calls to him, “Hear that, kid? Am I Fallow? ”

Joah and Richie stare at one another across the bar, then Joah looks away, back to the French girls, nose in the air.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ am.”

Rich sits back in his chair across from me, rubs his mouth as though he’s a bit tired. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m antagonistic.”

“He’s drunk.”

“Yeah.” Rich nods. “He usually is.”

I glare at him for that—I’m about to say something back when I hear the other French girl ask, “Can we get your autograph?”

“Yep.” My boyfriend nods, leaning back against the bar. “Don’t got a pen but.”

The girls fish around in their handbags. One of them glances up at him, eyes pinched. “You are…Joah—”

“That’s me,” he says.

She nods appreciatively. “You are so—uhhmm—” She pauses, looking for the word, I think. “Canon—?” she says to her friend, then shakes her head. “What is the English word?”

“ Hot ?” offers the friend.

“ Sexy . Do you know?” she says.

“Both work.” Joah nods, loving it—frankly. I don’t mind; it appears he needs the ego boost.

Then—you won’t believe it—“Crimson and Clover” by Tommy James & the Shondells starts playing.

And it’s so strange, Jo looks over at me from where he’s standing with those two girls, gives me this lost, bleary smile—this look like, I can’t believe they’re playing our song —then he proceeds to turn to his two French fans and belts it out for them.

Dramatically, all for show. And whilst it’s not romantic, I know, I can tell he’s not being romantic—though, they are, mind you, absolutely loving it—I don’t know why, it does somehow still take the sheen off of when he sang that to me.

I watch it all, my heart sinking in this weird way that I don’t understand at all. What’s it sinking for? What’s being sunk? What in this moment crushed me—I don’t know the answer, but something did.

I don’t look away from Jo and the French girls when I ask his brother, “How often does he dedicate songs to girls in the audience?”

Richie holds up a singular finger and points it at me, then he nods his chin towards Jo. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No—” I shake my head. “I know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie says as he picks up his scotch, takes a big, deep sip. “You’ve just got a front-row seat now…”

I give him a confused look. “To what?”

Richie looks past me over to his brother, nods his chin that way. “Welcome to the Joah show.”