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My single-word answer seems to make him happy, for whatever reason. Dunno why.

“Do you ever feel like you’re trapped in those stories? Like no matter what you do, you’re stuck being someone else’s idea of Joah Harrigan?”

I scowl at him, proper hard. “I’m me own man, aren’t I? Don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of me. I’m the singer of the best fuckin’ band in the world. End of story, know what I mean? Like, what else is there?”

He smirks a bit at that, proper smug—I reckon if we were in a boozer and I saw this lad about, I’d crack him over the head with a snooker stick.

“Best band in the world—okay, sure. But, Joah, you say you don’t care what anyone thinks, yet here we are. The frustration, the edge—it’s coming from somewhere. So, what’s really eating at you? Is it them not getting it? Or is it something else entirely?”

I don’t say owt, just shift in my chair, lock my eyes on him. Let him think he’s a big shot if he wants—I’m not afraid of him.

After I let the silence hang for a good twenty seconds, Shane the Prick glances ’round, looks uncomfortable, then clears his throat like he’s trying to regain footing.

“Alright. Let’s shift gears,” he says, lifting his eyebrows like he’s got a proper groundbreaking idea.

“Your girlfriend—Ysolde Featherstonhaugh—her name’s everywhere lately.

Do you feel like your relationship is becoming just another part of the spectacle?

Or is it different—something you can keep just for yourselves? ”

Feel my jaw tighten, proper hard. “Next fuckin’ question.”

And would you believe it? The prick looks amused at that, like he’s enjoying himself. Smug bastard.

“Touchy subject?” he says, smirking like he’s already won.

“Funny, because from the outside, it looks like you two thrive on being seen. All the photos, the red carpets—it’s like you’re inviting the spectacle in.

Or”—he leans forwards, proper smug—“is it just that you can’t control the narrative anymore?

That scares you, doesn’t it, Joah? Being out of control? ”

God, I’d fuckin’ love to hit him. He knows he’s winding me up, I can see it in his face. Don’t wanna react—can’t react, I know that—but fuck me, I wanna.

And then he presses, one last shove.

“Is that what all this is really about? The fans, the fame, her—are you losing control?”

And then—fuck, I don’t even know I’m doing it, it just happens. I’m on my feet, finger pointed right in his smug fuckin’ face. “You know what? Fuck you, mate. Fuck this—I don’t need this fuckin’ interview. This is bullshit—”

Mick’s there in an instant, rushing over like he’s trying to douse a fire. “Joah—calm down.”

“No—” I shake my head, proper fuming. “Fuck this. I’m done.”

I move away from Shane the Prick, looking ’round, heart fuckin’ poundin’ like mad. “Where’s Ysolde?”

He don’t get up, that journo—just gives me this look.

“Joah, come on, we’re just talking here… You’ve got nothing to prove—”

Mick grabs my arm, voice low and urgent.

“Joah, mate, don’t. Just breathe, yeah? We’ll wrap this up.”

I yank my arm away from him. “Nah, I’m done with this shit.”

I turn back to the reporter, point to his Dictaphone on the table.

“You wanna write somethin’? Fuckin’ write this—I don’t owe you, or anyone else, a fuckin’ thing. Not my music, not my life, not her. None of it.”

And then I’m off, out the door she went through before this whole fuckin’ mess kicked off, calling her name.

She doesn’t answer, though, and I feel it—this weird, crawlin’ panic under my skin. Proper unsettlin’ like. Where is she? Why can’t she hear me? That image—that fuckin’ image that’s been runnin’ laps in my head since she told me a few days back what happened—it barges its way in again.

I shake my head, proper hard, like an Etch A Sketch, tryna clear it, but it’s no good.

Can’t unsee it. I’m angry about it—fuckin’ fuming I am.

And that interview? Shit. Mick’s gonna have my head for that.

The label’ll have to pull strings to bury it.

If it goes to print? Fuckin’ bloodbath. Mick’ll sort it—he always does.

But I shouldn’t have done it. Knew I shouldn’t have the second I got out of bed this morning. Felt like shit—been feelin’ like shit ever since she told me. Dunno why, just…fuckin’ do.

Not her fault, I know that but still, I’m kind of fuckin’ pissed at her, I dunno why—know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s probably stupid and fucked-up, but she’s in my head, and I can’t fucking get her out of it, and, you know what? I hate it sometimes.

Like she’s in my mind, under my skin, in my blood for fuck’s sake. I feel how much I love her like fuckin’ coursing through me, all the fuckin’ time, and I don’t like how it makes me feel. I don’t like thinkin’ about her more than I think about me fuckin’ self.

I ain’t never done that before, not with no one.

I’m a fuckin’ rock star, I am the main event.

Always have been, thought I always would be—then I went and fell in love with a fuckin’ goddess.

Accidentally , mind you. Was talkin’ shit the night I met her, wasn’t I?

Tellin’ her I was a bit in love with her the minute I saw her—guess there was some truth in that, I s’pose.

Didn’t mean it at the time but, did I? Just wanted to shag her, which was the beginnin’ of the end really, wasn’t it?

Can’t shag a girl like that and walk away.

I’m still dartin’ ’round fuckin’ Abbey Road, calling her name, gettin’ more and more wound up every time she don’t answer.

“Ysolde!” I yell again, shovin’ open another door—and there she is. Sittin’ on a couch, legs tucked under her, head thrown back, laughin’ proper hard with me brother.

And it shits me, dunnit? That I’m out here fuckin’ up my life, losin’ me head worryin’ about her, and she’s in here havin’ a fuckin’ laugh.

Her face lights up when she spots me, like she’s got no clue what’s been goin’ on.

“How’d you go?” she asks, all breezy.

I stare at her, say nowt, just drag me eyes over to Rich, glaring at him hard enough to burn a hole through his head.

“Let’s go,” I snap, dead blunt. That’s all I say.

She gets up straightaway, and her whole face changes—nervous now, like she’s clockin’ the mood. “Was it not good?”

“No, it was shit. Let’s go.”

She glances back at Rich—gives him this look—and I feel me stomach twist. What the fuck is with them two and their fuckin’ looks? What’s that about?

I nod towards the door, sharp. “Fuckin’ now, Ys.”