Page 31

Twenty-one

Ysolde

He was in a weird mood after that interview. For days, really.

Strangely in his head about it. Stroppy and moody, and it’s never felt strained between us but it suddenly felt strained.

But still, he stayed. I almost couldn’t get rid of him, actually.

Not that I was trying to, but—I do a spin class at David Lloyd.

And Joah came to it . Joah hates exercise.

He does it still, because he has to— apparently —but mostly he just runs on a treadmill—complains a lot of the time—and he maybe does some weight training, a tiny bit of the time, and definitely complains about that when he does.

Richie told me a funny story about how at one point when they first blew up that Jo wanted to get really fit and so he got a personal trainer, but that Jo got so cross at him telling him what to do, that he and the trainer got into a physical fight—surprise, surprise—he didn’t even make it through their first session.

Anyway, he came to my spin class. I don’t know why. How weird is that?

And I love being around him, don’t get me wrong, but there’s suddenly an intensity that I don’t entirely understand.

I’m not sure whether he does either. Because sometimes I feel as though almost he’s a bit cross at me?

Like, irritated or something. It might be in my head—?

Probably it is because I don’t feel it all the time, just some of the time.

Joah leans back on my bed, glances over at me. “What do you got on this week?”

“Um—” I purse my lips. “I have to fly to Milan on Tuesday for a fitting and then Wednesday I need to be back in London for a meeting with Rain—”

“—Fuck.” He cuts me off, sitting up a bit.

I frown at him, waiting to understand.

“I’m in Manchester, Trouble—” he tells me. “Tuesday on for rehearsals. I can’t come.”

I give him a confused smile. “That’s…fine.”

“Nah—” He shakes his head, something clearly running through it. “Shit. Will you be alright, but?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say again.

Joah nods, a bit as though he’s trying to convince himself that he believes it. “If it was anythin’ else I’d put it off, but—”

“Joah.” I cut him off with a look. “What’s going on?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs quickly, looks away. “Nowt.”

“Why are you suddenly my shadow?”

He sits back, proud and offended—his two most ready and accessible emotions.

“Fuck you,” he says.

It’s the fire in him, you know—? That has him react like that.

He’s all impulse, do first, think later.

It’s something I’m learning about him, actually—more and more.

Obviously, he has an ego—talk to him for two and half seconds and you’ll know that, but he’s also incredibly proud.

Pridefulness is a peculiar thing, don’t you think?

I say nothing. That’s another thing I’m learning. If you give him a minute, let his own reaction settle in him, he’ll come around like he does now.

His eyes go sorry and he shakes his head. “Dunno—I just—fuck—I feel proper sick even thinkin’ about somethin’ happenin’ to you—”

“Jo—” I sigh. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

He stares at me, incredulous. “Somethin’ already did.”

“And I’m still here!”

He shakes his head. “But what if—”

“—No,” I cut him off. “No what ifs . I’m still here.”

He goes quiet, just watches me.

“Joah, you need to let it go. I myself am still learning every day to let it go, but it’s going to be so much harder if you’re holding on to it for me.”

He breathes in through his nose, eyes look almost glassy—definitely, they look afraid. My heart sort of pangs with a curious surge of tenderness for him.

I give him a careful look. “Is that why you’ve been so weird?”

Jo scowls at me. “I ain’t been weird, piss off—”

I give him a look. “Three days ago you came and sat at the back of my class at Pineapple Dance Studios.”

“Yeah?”

“So you don’t like dance. Or classes. Or pineapples.”

He gives me a look before he nods his chin at me. “Do like you in tight clothes though, don’t I?”

I roll my eyes at him as I roll in towards him.

“When we met, this had already happened to me. I know it’s new information for you, and I love you for caring how much you care, but—I’m okay.”

“Okay.” He nods thoughtfully.

I lift up a hopeful eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods again, his eyes searching over my face. Then sort of out of the blue, he grabs me, kisses me really big and deep—a peculiar kind of desperate—like there’s something hidden at the bottom of the kiss and he’s trying his best to find it. He pulls back eventually.

“Sorry if I’ve been fuckin’ weird,” he says.

“It’s okay.” I smile at him, pushing my hand through his hair. And then I wonder—“Is this why you tanked that interview?”

Jo grimaces, rolling back on his back as he stares up at the ceiling. He looks immediately stressed. “Yeah…I dunno—I was so fuckin’ in me head about it—”

“Joah—” I frown.

Shit—I feel completely terrible. That’s all my fault.

He exhales sharply. “And the journo was asking these questions, like—pryin’, you get me?” Joah shakes his head, thinking back to it. “Don’t think he knew nowt, but like—”

“He couldn’t know,” I tell him. “No one knows. We kept it under very wraps.”

Jo nods, and then my heart twists with panic. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “You haven’t…told anyone…have you?”

“Nah,” Jo says in this quick, dismissive way that makes me realise I was crazy for even wondering it—he’d never—then he slings an arm around me, dragging me in close.

“The lads are sniffin’ about—cos of the interview.

Dunno, I—” He shrugs, frowning. “I mean, Mick’ll sort it, but I proper fucked it, didn’t I?

Like, they’re all askin’ why? What happened, like—”

I purse my lips. “Do they know it’s because of me?”

Joah presses the tip of his tongue into his top lip—does that when he’s thinking—I like it. I think it’s cute. Don’t tell him though. He hates being cute.

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe? A lot of me these days seems to come back to you, don’t it—? So…maybe?”

I frown a tiny bit. “Are they cross?”

He thinks about it for a second, then reluctantly shrugs. “A bit. Mick’s fumin’—”

I swallow, a little pit growing in my stomach now. “Is Richie?”

Joah rolls his eyes, amused now. “Richie don’t got no teeth, don’t worry about him—”

Richie does—for the record—I’m quite sure, have many, many teeth. They both just love to dismiss one another.

I press a finger into my mouth—wondering something—I don’t really want to ask the question on my mind but I feel like perhaps I should.

“Should I… not …come to the Manchester show then…maybe?”

“Nah—” Jo reflexively shakes his head. “Come.”

I nod, relieved. “Okay.” I breathe out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, actually—right as Joah’s eyes pinch in thought.

“Well, maybe—”

“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound a bit hurt. Silly how I could be hurt at my own suggestion, yet here I am.

“Dunno, just that, like—” Jo’s muddling it through in his mind, that much is obvious. “Everyone is kind of pissed off at me.” He gives me a grimace. “And kind of you.”

I frown now. “ I didn’t do anything.”

“Nah, I know.” He gives me a look. “Buncha pricks though, aren’t they? Ain’t your fault. But it’s just a bit—I dunno. I don’t want them to give you shit—”

I watch him for a few seconds before I ask, “You don’t want them to give me shit? Or you shit?”

He pulls his head back, looks annoyed at that. “Oi.”

I regret it straightaway. I shouldn’t have said that; it probably wasn’t fair.

“It’s fine.” I tell him, quickly.

He looks at me, suspicious now. “You sure?”

I nod. “Yep.”

He looks at me, uneasy. “You seem pissed—?”

I shake my head. “I’m not pissed.”

Though I am, between you and I, possibly the tiniest bit pissed.

I wonder if he knows it? And I wonder if it’s feeling too tricky with the boys that he actually just doesn’t care in this instance.

“I get it.” I give him a small shrug. “It’s my fault somehow.”

He groans. “Ysolde—fuck—” Big sigh. “Come on, that’s not what I’m sayin’—”

I lift an eyebrow, silently waiting for him to tell me what he is in fact saying.

“Just—I dunno, like—it’s a lot, you an’ me, all of a sudden. We’re fuckin’ everywhere. Used to be me an’ the lads, now it’s you an’ me.”

Which—by the way—is objectively a fair assessment. That’s true. There is an undeniable public fascination with Joah’s and my relationship.

He keeps going. “Reckon they’ll think if you’re there, it’ll be about you. Or us, not the band, an’—”

And maybe I’m paranoid, probably I am—I just…have a feeling. I don’t think I believe him—?

“And Mick’s bein’ a right prick. It’d get him off me back, make him think I’m takin’ work serious, y’know—”

“No, yeah—” I nod along anyway. “I understand.”

He nods back, then he tilts his head, looking at my face carefully. “Are we good?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I nod back, but really, I’m not so sure.