Page 12

Seven

Joah

We show up separate, me and Ysolde. Do it on purpose. Paparazzi love me, love her too. Together? Be a right fuckin’ circus.

Not hiding her, though. Just not sure if I’m ready for the whole world to know I reckon I’m in love with her, you know what I mean?

Dunno who gets there first, me or her, but I walk in—bit of a commotion. Standard. I’m a big deal.

I’m barely ten feet into Stringfellows when Mick grabs me. Proper grabs me, like he’s got summat important to say.

He gives me a look I don’t like. “You can’t do shit like that, Jo.”

Dunno what the fuck he’s talkin’ about. “Like what?”

“Announce that you’re—I don’t know— fucking betrothed without telling me. I didn’t even know you fucking had a girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes, can’t help it. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

He actually looks relieved. Prick. “Thank god.”

Don’t like that either. “Want her to be, though.”

Mick groans, proper dramatic. “No. Fuck, no.” He drags me farther into the room, runs his hands through that ridiculous head of hair. “You’re Joah Harrigan , you can’t do girlfriends.”

I give him a look, deadpan. “I’m Joah fuckin’ Harrigan. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Mate—” He sighs like he’s trying to reason with me. Fuckin’ hate when he does that. Don’t know if it’s cos they’re right—the ones who reckon I’m not a reasonable man—but whatever shite Mick’s about to throw my way, I don’t wanna hear it.

“Fucking do her to your heart’s content, but don’t run your mouth about her onstage.”

I raise my brows. Don’t fuckin’ like being told what to do, do I? He keeps going anyway.

“You need to be single, Jo. People need to believe you could be theirs.”

I stare at him like the idiot he is. “Our audience is seventy percent male.”

“Right, but do you know how much that thirty percent does for you—?” He looks at me like he’s made some massive point. I dunno what fucking point he thinks he’s made. Flown straight over my head, whatever it is. “Do you? Jo, the sales matter —those thirty percent buy multiples and merch and—”

I shrug. “I don’t care.”

He rolls his eyes like I’m the exasperating one. “I know you don’t care, but I care.”

I shake my head, waiting for him to get to the point. “So?”

“And the label cares…”

“The label can fuck themselves.”

Mick hooks an arm ’round my neck, draggin’ me away from some familiar-lookin’ lads who are definitely having an eavesdrop. Probably the label, come to think of it. Ah well.

“Jo—” Another one of those paternal looks. Can’t stand ’em. Don’t much like fathers. “We’ve talked about this… You can’t go mouthing off saying shit like that, you’ll piss someone off and they’ll—”

“What—?” I cut him off, tilting my head, daring him to finish. “What’ll they do? Unsign the biggest band in the world? Alright, lad—” I clap him on the back as I turn to leave. “Let’s see how that works out for ’em.”

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

I spin ’round, wouldn’t usually bother, but I wanna see the look on his face. “To get meself a fucking girlfriend.”

Make me way through the club, lookin’ for that girl with the best face I’ve ever seen.

Spot her tucked away in a corner behind a velvet rope, sat with me brother and her best mate.

She clocks me from a ways off—gets to her feet—like she knows I’m upset?

Dunno if I’ve ever felt like someone knows me like she does.

Knows me just from a look across a packed room?

That’s some rare shit, that is, you know what I mean?

Takes her a couple of seconds to get to me. Her hands go straight to my face the second she’s in front of me, mine land on her waist—summat about us, I’m fuckin’ tellin’ ya—pulls us towards each other. Her brows creased, proper worried.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nowt.” I kiss her instead.

She doesn’t buy it. Maybe that’s the downside of being known—they clock when you’re lying.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yeah, just…my manager’s a fuckin’ dick.”

“Oh?”

“Bit pissed off about the song tonight.”

“Oh…” She grimaces.

“Yeah,” I carry on. “Reckons the world needs to think I’m single…”

“Oh.” She says it careful, presses her lips together, not sayin’ the thing she’s gagging to. But you know what? I fuckin’ know her too. See it written all over her face, what’s brewin’ in her head.

“Are you… not … single?” she asks, all easy breezy like.

I bat away a grin that’s trying to creep onto me face, give her a look instead. “Fishing, are we, Ys?”

Her mouth opens, ready to protest. “I—”

Cut her off, don’t I? “I love you.”

Her eyes go wide, but she’s happy. “What!”

“Sorry—” I shrug. “I do.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smilin’ a lot now. “No, you don’t.”

“Nah.” I nod. “I do.”

More head shakes from her, proper stubborn. “What do you—”

I cut her off again. “Now say it back.”

She gives me a look, bit serious. “Joah, we met on Sunday.”

“And I told you then, at Groucho, didn’t I?”

She flicks her eyes at me. “You were being silly.”

“Was I?” I tilt me chin up, dead serious now. Maybe I was, but I fucking mean it now. “Go on—” I duck so we’re eye level. “Say it back. I know you do…”

She stares at me, her eyes, her face, her mouth, all of it screaming that I’m right—I know what it looks like when a girl loves you. Fucking millions of girls love me. Don’t love them, though. Love this one here, don’t I? If she’d fucking say it back.

Ys gives me a proud look. “ Do you know that?”

I nod, sure as owt. “Yep.”

She straightens up, and summat shifts in her face, goes serious.

“Don’t cheat on me and don’t lie to me.”

Alright—fuck , I think to meself, but then she keeps on going.

“And if you do do the first one, for fuck’s sake, don’t do the second.”

I nod. “Right.”

“You won’t make me look…stupid?”

Shake my head, solemn. “Never.”

She breathes out through her nose, calm. “Fine. I love you too.”

“Fuck yeah you do!” I lift her clean off the ground, spinning her about as I kiss her. “Now let’s go have a proper snog and let me feel you up in front of Mick so he has a stroke—”

Her eyes go wide. “Joah—!”

“I’m joking!” Am I though? “Kinda.”

Ysolde rolls her eyes, and I grab her hand, tugging her along towards the back.

Mad, isn’t it, that she hasn’t really met the lads yet? Just Rich, and barely at that. Don’t even know how they met, do I? How he ended up bringing her back to my green room—?

“Ysolde Featherstonhaugh,” Richie cuts in. “We know.”

I nod her way. “My girlfriend .”

“Oh fuck—” Rich laughs. “Alright.”

He gets up, swaggering over all big-brother like—tosser. Leans in close, whispering so only I can hear: “How much of that was to piss off Mick?” He smirks.

“A bit.” Whisper it back, but it’s a lie. Fuckin’ none of it, that’s the truth. I want her to be my—fuck it, whatever— girlfriend . Just mine, really, you get me?

Ain’t never fallen for a girl this quick before, have I? Not havin’ ’em think I’m some wet wipe.

“We’ve met before. For a minute, just—” Ys smiles at him.

Richie chuckles, sticking his hand out to Ys. “Alright, good to see ya again.”

She takes his hand, gives him that smile of hers—I can see it nearly knocks him clean off his feet. Not his fault. Her smile’s like that, just. She’s got that effect on men. Most of ’em, anyway.

Not girls though—fuck.

Loxy’s glaring at my girl in a way I don’t fuckin’ like.

Now, fair play—aside from when I was dating Pip, Lox’s been the only bird ’round us from the start.

Heddie’s been on the team about nine months now, and they get on alright, but Loxy don’t see her like she does other girls.

Fallow’s been Loxy’s savanna, hasn’t it?

Ys showing up out of the blue ain’t gone down too well.

I point to her. “That’s Loxy.”

Loxy doesn’t say a word, just blinks a couple of times.

“Oi.” Richie frowns, gives his girl a poke. “Don’t be fucking rude.”

Loxy shakes her head, mutters, “Girls like her don’t have owt to say to girls like me.”

Ys shifts uncomfortably, looks dead uneasy all of a sudden. If she didn’t know what to say before, she sure as fuck don’t now. Hate it. Proper pisses me off, Lox making her feel like shit.

“Girls like her—?” I narrow my eyes at her. “Hot ones, you mean?”

Loxy flips me off, and Rich rolls his eyes, muttering some shit under his breath.

Ys gives me a pointed look, leans in and whispers, “That can’t have helped.”

“Fuck her, I don’t care—” I whisper back, then gesture to the lads on the couch. “That’s Chops and Fry. That’s the girl Chops is fucking. That’s Fry’s missus, Stacey. That’s Harley, our producer, and that’s—” I pause cos I don’t recognise that last person.

But Ysolde does, apparently!

“Chenko!” Ys grins at the new bird hanging off Harley’s arm. She’s new. Not seen her before. Very fit.

“Ysolde!” The girl’s got some kinda accent. Eastern European, maybe? Dunno.

They hug.

I glance between them. “How do you—?”

“We’re all signed to Rain,” Ys says, nodding over at her best mate, who’s chatting up some up-and-coming geezer called Gary Lightbody. Dunno if he’s any good or just full of shit.

Ys pulls me over to her mate. “Lalee—”

Lala looks up.

“I’d like you to meet my boyfriend …”

Lala jumps to her feet, her face lighting up like Christmas. It’s cute. They’re cute.

Lala turns to me. “Hello, Boyfriend. I see you wasted no time.”

I shrug. “Know what I want. Went for it.”

She nods, a bit impressed, I reckon. “Suppose I’ll be seeing more of you, then…”

“Suppose you will.” I nod back. Game recognises game, don’t it? Reckon she’s the most important person in Ys’s life. Or she was, till about five minutes ago.

I hook an arm ’round Ys’s neck, press my mouth to her ear. “You wanna get out of here?”

Ys looks surprised. “You don’t want to stay?”

I shrug.

She lifts a brow. “Are you not, quite infamously, a bit of a party animal?”

Pretend to think about it. “I’ve been known to party on occasion…”

“Yeah—” Richie pipes up, sidling beside me. “And David Beckham’s been known to kick a fuckin’ ball about…”

I snort a laugh.

“We don’t have to leave…” Ys smiles at me, encouraging.

Sort of want to, though, don’t I? Can’t fucking say that, though. First time in me life summat’s sounded more fun than gettin’ pissed and off me face. Can’t say that either, so I say this instead: “Fuck it, man, let’s go.”

Chuck meself onto the couch, pull Ys down onto me lap, kiss her neck cos I can’t fucking help it—keep at it till she squirms.

“What d’you want a bottle of?” someone shouts over. I glance at Ys.

“Don Julio,” she says.

“Ey, what you on about?” I pull back, give her a look. “We shoot Johnny Walker ’round here.”

She presses her nose to mine. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

And y’know what? Fuck it, she’s right. I’ll fuckin’ shoot whoever she wants me to now.