Page 29

Twenty

Joah

So, that well fucks me up, dunnit? Worst thing I’ve ever heard in me whole fuckin’ life.

Proper does my head in. I think about her all the time—that’s not new, I’ve been like that fucking since the second I met her, and it was annoying then—but now?

She’s not just in my head; I’m worried about her now.

Where is she, is she safe? What’s she doing?

Who’s she with? I’ve done a fucking full one-eighty with her bodyguard now, haven’t I?

What a lad. Huge fan. Doin’ god’s work, ain’t he? —keeping her safe, and all.

Y’know before I found out about that shit with the stalker, I didn’t much like being away from her, but fuck it, now she’s coming everywhere with me.

Like this interview I’ve got this afternoon with Rolling Stone at Abbey Road.

We’re recording our next album there—which, fuck, I know— fuckin’ epic , but like—dunno why we’re meeting there, but we are.

Reckon Mick must’ve told them we’re further along with the album than we are. Not even got goin’ yet, have we?

I walk into the studio, Ys holding my hand, trailing in behind me.

Mick pulls a face, nods his chin in her direction and fucking says out loud, “What’s she doing here?”

Whole room goes still—not a ton of people, you know?

Us, Rich, the interviewer, I s’pose but he’s all the way on the other side of the room, makin’ himself a coffee.

There’s Mick’s little PA who he’s 100 percent fucking whose name I can never fuckin’ remember for the life of me—couple of others—dunno, don’t care.

I pinch my eyes, stare over at my manager.

“Sorry, mate—” I shake me head, all mock-apologetic. “Must’ve got me wires crossed… Thought this was supposed to be an interview for Fallow.”

He takes a measured breath through his nose. “It is.”

Give him a nod. “And I am…?”

His nostrils flare as he answers, don’t they? “Fallow.”

“AND SHE IS ME,” I proper yell, loud enough that Ys jumps in fright next to me. I jab a finger in her direction. “She goes where I go, and you don’t bat a fuckin’ eye.”

“Jo.” She puts her hand on my shoulder, rubs it a bit, trying to calm me down. “It’s fine—he didn’t know I was coming—it’s not a big deal.”

I barely look at her out of the corner of my eye. “It’s a big deal if I say it’s a big fuckin’ deal.”

Rich moseys on over. “What’s going on?”

When I say nowt, Ys glances from me to Rich.

“Uh—” She clears her throat. “Jo just found out some—” She’s choosing her words carefully.

Reckon I catch her trying to look for the interviewer.

Smart. “— difficult news about me—” She flashes him a quick smile and summat in the edges of it makes my heart feel fucking squashed as I remember again that someone tried to hurt her, tried to make them hers and not mine.

“I think he’s maybe having some trouble processing it,” she tells my brother, and ain’t that the fuckin’ understatement of the century.

Rich’s face falters to a worry. “You alright?”

“Yeah, she’s fuckin’ fine, man—” Shove him. “Piss off.”

Dunno why that shits me, but it does. One thing you gotta know about me and Rich is we turn on a fuckin’ dime, you know? Don’t no one know me how he knows me, same goes for him—but fuck, do I hate him sometimes, the nosy shite.

Rich gives me a warning look, his jaw all tight, then—fucking get this—he turns to me girlfriend, throws her a fuckin’ look, like they’re mates.

“Rich—” Mick says, eyeing him. “Why don’t you”—he nods towards a door—“take Ysolde to—”

“No—” Shake me head. “Don’t take Ysolde fuckin’ anywhere—”

Ys turns to me, puts both her little hands on me chest. “It’s—” Gives me that smile she does when she thinks I’m being fuckin’ dumb. Bit rude. “I’m fine—”

“But—” I start.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine, Jo. I’ll be with Rich.” Flashes me one of them proper reassuring smiles. “You know I’ll be fine.”

I nod a couple of times, tell her without saying a word that she can go with him.

Mick shakes his head—looks stressed, he does. But like, fucking hell—what else is new?

“What the hell is going on with you, man?”

Brush it off. “Nothin’.”

“Not fucking remotely convincing, but alright.” Mick gives me an impatient look. “Listen. Anythin’ here, all of it, they’ll use—” He nods towards the Rolling Stone journo. “Eyes everywhere, Jo—The interview hasn’t started but it has, know what I mean?”

He shoots me a look, and I roll my eyes. Course I know what he means—reporters are sneaky little fuckers, aren’t they? I nod, grudging.

“This is a big one, Jo,” Mick says, dead serious. “What they write about you, it sticks .”

He pauses, then adds, “Forget your girlfriend for a second—”

I go to bite back straightaway, reflexive, but he cuts me off sharp. “Think about your career, mate.”

I breathe hard through my nose, jaw tight. “Yeah, alright.”

I trudge over to the reporter, already clockin’ him. Dunno how I feel—he’s got this look about him, like he fancies himself a big man, might be the type to make things proper fuckin’ awkward for no reason.

“I’m Shane Westman,” he says, sticking his hand out. “Good to meet you.”

I take it, give it a quick shake. “Same, mate.”

He motions to the chair behind me, like I need directing where to sit.

“Right, Joah, appreciate you takin’ the time today…”

“Yeah, man. All good.”

“ Probably Never is being hailed as one of the most iconic albums in British music history. How’s that feel?”

I give him a look, dead unimpressed. Bet it’s written all over my face, innit?

“How d’you reckon?” I fire back, quick as owt.

Mick coughs, proper pointed, and gives me that look— play fuckin’ nice, Joah.

So, I slap on a grin, put a bit more effort in. “Time of my life, mate. Fuckin’ unreal.”

He nods, doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got to ask—how’re you handling this next level of fame? The crowds, the scrutiny, the constant eyes on you?”

“Yeah, look—fuck, it’s a lot, innit? People don’t get it, but it is. It’s a fuckin’ lot.”

That piques his interest, I can tell. He looks at me, leans in like he’s about to uncover summat profound.

“A lot to handle, sure. But isn’t that part of the deal? You’ve got fans worshipping the ground you walk on—screaming crowds, sold-out shows. It’s everything a rock star dreams of, isn’t it? Or…is it starting to feel like too much?”

I don’t say owt, just stare at him. This prick don’t have the first fuckin’ clue what too much for people like us looks like, so he can jog on.

He clears his throat, all business. “There’ve been whispers about your relationship with fans. Some say you’ve pulled back, gotten colder. Is that fair? Or is fame just hitting different now?”

“Nah, fuck that—that’s not part of the deal. The deal’s music, mate. That’s all I signed up for. And bullshit—I ain’t pulled back shit.” I pause, smirking. “I mean—fuck, sure, I used to shag more fans—s’pose that’s different.”

I chuckle at me own joke, don’t I?

This Shane lad raises an eyebrow, leans back, proper intrigued now.

“You bring up shagging fans—there’s been plenty of talk about how accessible you used to be. But you’re saying that’s changed?”

“Course it’s fuckin’ changed.”

His eyes pinch a bit, like he’s sniffed somethin’ interesting. “Should we talk about why?”

“Nope,” I fire back, dead blunt. She’s off-limits. No one’s fuckin’ touching her ever again.

Journo sniffs out this single laugh, nodding like he’s clocked summat. “Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss shagging fans?” I glance ’round, proper can’t believe it. “Is this what Rolling Stone is writing about these days? Fuck, mate—” I shake my head at him. “Wind your neck in.”

“Do you worry that if you keep seeming less accessible, you’ll lose them?”

And y’know what? That one fucking stumps me. Hadn’t really thought about it before, not properly.

He presses on, though, doesn’t let up. “Fans fuel the machine, don’t they? They buy the records, sell out the shows, keep you—keep Fallow—in the spotlight.”

I nod along, slow. “Sure.”

“Don’t you think they feel like they’ve earned a piece of you?” He tilts his head, proper smug now. “I mean, isn’t that what being a rock star’s all about—giving people a bit of the fantasy?”

Somethin’ snaps behind my eyes. “Fuck the fantasy, man! Fuck the fans—”

The words are barely out my mouth before I clock what I’ve just said. Mick clocks it too—his eyes go wide, proper panicked, and he shifts towards us like he’s about to step in.

And fucking Shane? He looks like all his Christmases just came at once.

“Fuck the fans?” He almost laughs, all incredulous, like he just struck gold. For a journo, he kinda fuckin’ did.

“Nah—” I shake my head fast, heart pounding. Shit. This is bad. “I mean—not all the fans.”

He nods, dead smug now. Knows he’s got me on the ropes. “Which fans are you fucking?”

I drag a hand over my face, try not to show how fucked I feel inside—though I reckon it’s written all over me. This is a mess, innit? And I’m angry, proper fuckin’ mithered. Don’t wanna talk about fans right now, not when a fan’s the one who fuckin’ did it to her.

“Look, I’m not slaggin’ ’em off, right? It’s not like that—But some of ’em… some of ’em don’t know where the line is. Forget we’re not theirs, like.”

He leans back a bit, watching me, testing the waters like he’s fishing for summat more. “So it’s the entitlement that gets to you?”

“The entitlement, the fuckin’ delusion of it—like I’m not secretly telling you I love you when I’m singin’ ‘Drift Away,’ know what I mean? Or like my girlfriend’s not sending you messages through the telly when she’s walking a fuckin’ Gucci runway.”

Shouldn’t have said that—I didn’t mean to. Just came out. Fuck, shouldn’t have gone there. That’s piqued his interest, hasn’t it?

“So, it’s the fantasies, then?” he asks, leaning in. “The way people project their own stories onto you, onto her—turning your lives into something that’s theirs, not yours.”

I run my tongue over my teeth, sharp, agitated. “Sure,” I mutter, keeping it clipped.