Page 3

Two

Joah

My brother, Richie, grimaces as I stroll back over to him and the lads.

He’s older than me by three and a bit years and never fucking shuts up about it.

Plays lead guitar in Fallow. He’s the one people reckon is me sometimes if they spot him on the street, but they shouldn’t—like, yeah, maybe he’s got an inch on me, but I got the face, know what I mean?

“She turn you down?” Chops—Davey Tschopp, drummer of the band, you know who he is—pipes up, grinning like a dickhead.

“Fuck off,” I snap, giving him a proper glare. No one turns me down.

Well, except her. She sorta did. Not sayin’ she did all the way, but yeah…a bit.

“What happened?” Rich asks, brows halfway up his forehead.

“She got fucked off cos I didn’t know her name?”

His eyes go wide, proper dramatic. “You went over to that actual supermodel—a fuckin’ supermodel —and didn’t know her name?” Fuck, he’s annoying.

“Well, do you know her name?”

“Ysolde Featherstonhaugh, you fuckin’ bellend.”

I scrunch my face up. “How the fuck do you know that?”

He shakes his head. “How the fuck do you not?”

I growl under my breath.

“Well, it’s cooked now anyway. She’s off.”

Richie and Chops exchange a look between themselves as I throw meself back down in a seat between Fry—Ewan Talfryn, our bassist—and Harley Parks, our producer.

Harley pats me on the back. “Plenty of fish in the sea, man.”

Shrug like I don’t give a shit man, cos I don’t—well, fuck—maybe I do like. Probably shouldn’t but, you get me? He is wrong like, though. Plenty of fish, sure, but I’ve never clapped eyes on one like that before.

Richie’s watchin’ me in this way that pisses me off. It’s too close, all knowing and shit.

“You look…” He struggles to find the word. “I dunno—Sad—?”

“Piss off,” I spit.

Richie’s actin’ a tit now though, ain’t he? “Are you sad about this girl turning you down?”

“Why would I be sad about that girl turning me down?”

“I dunno, Jo, why would you be?” Pauses for dramatic effect. Knob.

“It’s alright to catch a feeling every now and then, mate—” He claps a paternal hand on my shoulder. “You can set some other goals for ’95, you know, besides shagging your way through all of Chelsea.”

Roll my eyes at him. “Alright, Dad.”

That was a low blow, and I knew it the second it left me mouth. Our dad’s shit. But winding Richie up? That’s just a laugh, innit?

“Fuck you.” Rich skulks off, proper annoyed. Mission accomplished.

Catch feelin’s—Me? Fuck off. From one conversation?

I’m just in a weird mood, that’s all. And she was stupid fit.

And now me night’s proper fucked, you know what I mean? Like, birds are eye-fucking me left, right, and centre in here, but I don’t want a bar of it—All I can think about is Ysolde fuckin’ Featherstonhaugh, fifteen minutes away on Hertford Street.

Should I go? Nah—I shoot the thought down the second it flies across me head. I don’t go places for girls. I don’t chase girls.

But I dunno. Got this feelin’, don’t I? Can’t lump her in with other girls.

Because she’s not other girls, is she? Fuckin’ clearly not, cos look at me…

I’m walkin’ towards the exit now, almost without realisin’ it.

Didn’t stand up and decide to go after her, but here I am—stood up already. Reckon I’m gonna go get her.

“Where you off to?” Chops shouts after me.

Richie goes a lifts one of them fuckin’ annoying eyebrows of his, the prick. Like he fuckin’ knows he’s right. Well done, Rich—there’s a girl I wanna shag . Ain’t exactly news, is it?

Except—for me it is, and the cocky little shite knows it.

And I won’t hear the end of this come tomorrow, will I?

Lads night out tonight. Or was meant to be.

Richie’s on the long leash from Loxy, and we’re all in London which is a bit rare these days—we have a show at the end of the week, that’s why—so tonight was meant to be a night .

And yeah like, probably at the end of it, I might’ve taken a bird or two back to my bed as I’ve been known to, but this—Fuck me, I’ll be eatin’ shit for this for days.

“Good luck!” Richie shouts, grinnin’ like the cunt he is.

I flip him off.

Grab a cab—don’t need a driver, I ain’t a fuckin’ div—thirteen minutes door to door. And fuck—I know this is gonna make me sound like a soft lad, but when I pull up outside—? Feel a bit relieved, don’t I? Closer to her again like.

Head inside. Ask a few people if they’ve seen her—this place is a fuckin’ maze, innit? Rooms and corners and little pockets everywhere.

Bottom floor, the club bit. That’s where I find her. Right bang in the middle of the bar with her mate (who’s pretty fuckin’ fit herself, know what I mean)—Ysolde’s tipping champagne straight into Richard Ashcroft’s mouth, laughin’ her fuckin’ head off. Then our eyes meet, and hers go wide.

Makes me happy, that. Always had that effect on girls to be fair, but it’s gone mad since the band like. Properly mental. Don’t really give a fuck about it in normal life, you get me? Thing is, don’t reckon this Featherstonhaugh girl is normal life, but.

I head over to her, watch as she goes all stiff, nervous as anythin’—palms off that bottle of champagne to her mate. Sidle up beside her, casual as you like.

“Alright,” I say, givin’ her a cool grin.

“Hi.” She stares at me, lookin’ a bit thrown. “Did you…follow me?”

“Yeah.” Toss her a look. “I’m stalkin’ ya.”

Her mate pipes up, stickin’ her nose into it. “We don’t joke about stalkers round here,” she tells me.

I glance between ’em, make sure they know they’re being daft—cos they are.

I nod at the mate but keep me eyes on Ysolde.

“Who’s this, then?”

“Oh, I forgot—you don’t know about models and fashion and shit—” Ysolde rolls her eyes. “This is Lala Caravella. Only the most famous model in the world.”

I tilt me head at Ysolde. “Thought you was the most famous model in the world…”

Lala flicks her eyes, proper unimpressed. “And I thought you’d be taller.”

I scoff. “I’m 6’4”. What d’you want me to be—a fuckin’ lamppost?”

The mate catches a laugh she don’t want to give me, tries to squash it, but I clock it.

Ysolde straightens up, arms crossed, proper impatient now, like she ain’t havin’ a bar of it.

“We are both the most famous models in the world,” she says, all sharp. “What are you doing here?”

I square up now, dead pleased with meself. “Ysolde Featherstonhaugh.”

Hits me with a massive eye roll, she does. Clicks straightaway—that don’t land how I thought it would, know what I mean? Shouldn’t be feelin’ so proud of meself like.

“Oh, I’m sorry—were you after a prize?”

I shake me head, lookin’ right at her. “You’re the prize.”

She lets out this half-scoff and brushes past me, but it ain’t for me to fuck off, I can tell that much—nah, it’s to get away from the crowd, for me to follow her.

“I get your number now,” I say, catching up with her. “That’s the deal.”

“Claridge’s,” she says, settling into a quieter corner of the bar, all casual-like. “Call for me there.”

Give her a look, raising a brow. “You live at Claridge’s?”

“Yes.”

“You ain’t got a number? Like, your own?”

“A mobile phone, do you mean?” She starts picking at her nail, then stops herself, like she’s remembered who she’s meant to be.

I nod.

“Well, I suppose I do have one, but I never use it?” She shakes her head. “They’re so big and clunky. Who on earth is carrying around a bag large enough to house one of those? Also, my god—who wants to be contactable all the time? I barely like to be contacted any of the time.”

Fuck me, she’s class. Cooler than someone with a face like that should be. Fuckin’ hell.

“Why d’you live in a hotel, then?” I ask, straight to the point.

“None of your business,” she snaps back, sharp as owt, but I shake me head, proper firm.

“Nah, fuck that. You—everythin’ about ya—that’s all my business now.”

Hits me with that look again, the one where she reckons I’m talkin’ shite. Does summat to me, that. Proper scratches this itch I ain’t even know I had. She’s got these looks just for me like—seen ’em more than once now—reckon they’re just mine. Dunno how I know, but I do.

“Oh, is that right?” she asks, shoulders square and proud.

Nod like I’m sure cos I fuckin’ am. “That’s righ’.”

Our eyes lock, and there’s somethin’ electric between us, like you could bring the dead back to life with the spark.

Step closer—wasn’t much distance to begin with, you know?

Whatever gap there was—gone now. My hands are on her face now, holdin’ it.

Ain’t never held a girl’s face before. Like fuck, sure, probably I have.

Twenty-three, fucked ’round a bit, so yeah I’ve probably had me hands on a girl’s face before, but it weren’t like this, you know what I mean?

Holdin’ her face cos I can’t look away. Starin’ at it like one of them glass prisms that shoots rainbows and colours and fuckin’ all sorts about.

Hold her face up to the sun if I could. See if the light bounces off her too. Feels like it might just…

She’s got a mouth on her, this one. Like it, but. I meant, like an attitude, you get me—? But fuck, like the actual proper mouth on this girl? Art. Michael-fuckin’-angelo himself carved it from stone.

Gone quiet now, she has. And like I said, I got that effect on girls—they go all quiet, get a bit shy and shit.

Used to that. But this? It’s different, innit?

Ain’t used to a girl messin’ with me like this.

Ain’t used to me feelin’ all…fuckin’ lost, like I’ve gone and stepped outta me own skin or somethin’.

Never fuckin’ followed after a girl before… Never had to. Never chased one down, never left where I wanted to be to go to some fuckin’ yuppy, toffy members’ club—and shut up and fuck you, Groucho’s not the same, and you fuckin’ know it.

Her face is still in my hands, eyes locked.

“Where’d you come from?” I say, not thinkin’, just slips out.

“What?” She blinks, looks at me like I’ve gone mental. S’pose I have.