Page 34

Twenty-four

Joah

Pip kind of lingers after that. Reckon I should’ve told her to piss off, but I s’pose I don’t mind her being about. Like putting on an old pair of trainers—bit worn, bit knackered, but they fit.

And no one really gives a toss. We walk around town, and yeah, eyes are boggled, but they’re boggled at me—Joah fucking Harrigan.

Not because I’m with Ysolde Featherstonhaugh, the face of the decade or fuckin’ whatever.

Different buzz, know what I mean? This is just me, and it’s nice.

No whispers trailing behind us, and if they’re cameras, they’re just here for me.

That’s Manchester for ya. And Pip, I s’pose. Just…easy.

“What’s she like?” Pip asked as we walked along the canals near Castlefield.

We’d had lunch earlier at The Oxnoble. Dunno why—no reason, really. Just because I could. Because I was me, and I can do whatever the fuck I want, know what I mean?

“Who?” I said, even though I knew exactly who she meant.

Pip hadn’t let me off with that, though. Gave me a look. “Piss off.”

Made me laugh.

She don’t look owt like Ysolde, you know?

I don’t have a type. Just “girl,” I s’pose.

Pip is nearly white blond, dark eyebrows, very pink mouth.

Ysolde’s mouth is well pink too, but it’s different, innit?

Her skin’s brown. Pip has this—I dunno, what do they call it?

—fairy look about her. Pixie-like. Always has.

“You’d hate her,” I told Pip.

She glanced up at me out of the corner of her eye. “Course I would,” she said, then looked straight ahead again. “She’s fucking you.”

What was I meant to say to that? I hadn’t known what to say—fuck, like—she was well underplaying what me and Ys were, but it felt shit to rub that in Pip’s face, so I didn’t clarify. I reckoned that’s probably why I didn’t clarify—right?

“So.” She pursed her lips. “How’d it happen?”

“Saw her in a bar.” I shrugged. “Talked to her.”

She nodded, unimpressed. “Riveting stuff…”

I said nothing. Bit good at that I am, lately.

“She tall?” Pip asked.

I nodded once.

She scrunched up her face. “Yuck.”

Didn’t like that—summat about it had sat weird in me chest. But I didn’t know how to set Pip straight either, because it was her, wasn’t it?

“Nah.” I shrugged like it was no big deal. “Legs up to her eyeballs.”

“You’re a boobs man,” Pip said.

I sniffed a laugh. “Yeah, but she don’t really got those…”

Dunno why I told her that—fuckin’ regretted it straight after.

Pip watched me for a few seconds. “You’ve changed.”

I cut her a look. “Fuck off.”

“You have,” she insisted, then stared straight ahead again. She walked a few paces, eyes on the ground, before asking, “Will I meet her?”

“Nope.” Told my shoes.

That caught her attention. Pip had looked up at me again, interested now. “She not coming?”

Shook my head.

“Why?”

“Dunno—” I shrugged. “Bit of a circus whenever she’s about—”

Pip nodded her chin at me, not buyin’ it, like—“You love a circus.”

Said nowt, didn’t look at her even—did that s taring straight ahead thing meself.

“Ah,” she chuckled under her breath, like she got it. “You only love a circus when you’re the ringleader.”

Let out this long, slow breath out me nose, gave her a bit of a side-eye.

But she’s right, know what I mean?

Say what you want about Pippa, but she knows me fuckin’ well.

It’s true, what she said. Is it summat to be proud of? Nah, but fuck it—I s’pose neither am I.

***

When I walk into the green room at The Hacienda with Pippa, Richie’s leant back on the sofa, arm slung ’round Loxy, and he clocks us straight off. Looks from me to Pip and back again, gives me this look.

Proper fucks me off too, dunnit? Like he thinks he’s dead clever, like me and him are havin’ some secret, knowing chat about me girl, but he can fuck right off with that.

Reckon he thinks he’s mates with her now after Paris.

But she’s mine, not his, and whatever he thinks is going on, whatever shit he thinks I’m doin’ with Pip, I’m not.

I’ve been good, haven’t I? Been a proper good lad.

Been such a fuckin’ good lad that I reckon I’m a bit of a prat now actually, but that’s beside the point.

“Any word from Ysolde?” Rich pipes up, tryna make a point. “How’s she doing?”

Fuckin’ annoying, man. He’s always annoyin’, but this—? It shits me proper. Him, and then, like—still, even when she’s not here, dunno how but my fuckin’ show’s still about Ysolde. How’s that, know what I mean?

“Haven’t spoken since yesterday, man,” I tell him, trying to make a point of me own. Dunno who I’m making it to, really.

Probably should still give her a call. I will. After.

“Don’t worry about her, lad—” Mick says as he strolls into the room, cracking open a beer.

He takes a long sip. “Just focus on the show, mate. She’ll be right.

” Then he squints from the other side of the room—putting it on, isn’t he?

Like, he’s old, yeah—but his eyes ain’t that bad.

“Oh, is that Pippa?” he quips, breaking into a grin, arms open, making a beeline for her.

“Hey, darling,” he says.

She grins up at him. Always got on, those two. “Hey, Mick.”

“How you been?” Mick flashes her that charming, manager-smile of his.

“Yeah, I’m—” Pip starts, smilin’ back, and then she glances at me—how she shouldn’t. Reckon if we’re being fuckin’ honest, she looks at me in a way that says summat that ain’t all the way true. Not this time, at least.

And fuck, Richie clocks that too, don’t he…sittin’ over there looking like he’s about to say summat—mouth open, already gearing up to start running his mouth, when somethin’ on the telly catches his eye—

It’s footage of Lala, strutting down a runway at some show, lookin’ fuckin’ sharp as ever.

Rich nods his chin at the screen. “That’s our kid’s mate.”

Chops groans. “Fuck, she’s fit—”

“She’s well fit,” Fry chimes in, and Richie nods, bit too fervent for Loxy’s liking—Clocks that, she does, then gives him a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Pack it in, Rich.” Loxy scowls. “You wanna take a walk down Deansgate after this, see how fit I am with my heel in your arse?”

“Nah, Lox, swear down—” Pip shakes her head, smirking. “Even I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”

“What you and Joah get up to in your boudoir’s none of my business,” Loxy fires back, folding her arms.

“We don’t got a boudoir,” I tell her, rolling me eyes, throwing meself down on the couch next to her.

Pip follows, sliding in on me other side. Closer than she should, probably.

“Whose fault’s that, eh?” she mutters, dead low so only I can hear. And fuck, my stomach’s straight up in my throat. Dunno why—? That ain’t never happened before. Never cared before how another bird talked to me. Dunno why I suddenly do now?

“Richie—” One of the guitar techs pokes his head into the room, looking like it’s life or death. “There’s a weird buzz coming from your amp. Need you to sort it before the show—”

Rich groans like a kid who’s been told to do his homework.

“Go on, don’t be shit—” Loxy says, giving him a shove.

He groans again, louder this time, but gets himself up and trots off, mutterin’ summat I don’t catch.

“Oi—” Chops pipes up, catching my eye from the corner. “But would ya?” He nods at Lala, still on the telly, strutting her stuff.

“Fuck off,” I say, shaking my head reflexively. “Nah.”

“Fuck off yourself—” Fry laughs, slapping his knee. “As if you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t.” I shrug.

Loxy snorts, proper loud, and don’t I hate being laughed at? And then her and Pip go and swap this look—like they’re takin’ the piss and I’m the mug—that shits me even more.

Pip leans back into the couch all casual, eyes me—knows how to get under me skin, you know? “Fuck, she’s got you on a lead, don’t she?” Says that like it’s fact.

My jaw goes tight—give her a scowl. “Piss off.”

“Nah,” Fry chimes in, nodding along like he’s got me pegged. “You’re well under the thumb, mate.”

I’m under the thumb? Fuck off, I’m not.

Don’t like this shit. Like it even less now that Lox starts laughing now too, proper loud. “State of you—” Lox chuckles. “Proper gone, innit?”

I shake my head at the lot of them. “I dunno what the fuck you’re all on about, but you’re chattin’ shit.”

“Alright, kiss me, then,” Pip says, dead casual and it sends my fuckin’ head for a loop.

I stare at her for a couple of seconds—try to get my ducks in a row.

“What?” Shit. This is bad. “No.”

And my ducks—? They ain’t in no fucking row. Because it’s a dare, innit? I’m fuckin’ stitched up either way. Like—either I don’t kiss Pip and then everyone’s on a fuckin’ mad one about how I’m Ysolde’s fuckin’ lapdog now, or I kiss her, and that’s me cheatin’ on Ys, innit?

“Why not?” Pippa shrugs all innocent-like, but it’s shite. She’s not innocent—ain’t never been.

I run my tongue over my teeth, buying time.

“Cos I don’t want to.”

She gives me this look, though, like she don’t believe me for a second. “You always want to…”

But I don’t wanna right now, do I? Or—do I? Shit. Are they right?

If it wasn’t for Ys, would I kiss Pip? Yeah, probably. Like, why the fuck not?

Fuck—if it wasn’t for Ys, I probably would’ve wanted to shag Lala too.

So—fuck—are they right? Am I fuckin’ under the thumb?

I dunno how many goddamn times I have to say it—I’m Joah Harrigan. No one’s got me on a fuckin’ lead.

But I think I’m on one. Shit . Am I fucking on one? I don’t wanna be.

Hate it, me. Fuck that. I’m a fuckin’ rock star, not some soft-arse twat moonin’ over a girl. “Yeah, alright then—” I say to Pip, nodding at my lap. “Come on, then.”

Just a kiss to get ’em all off my back, you know?

She climbs on like it’s nowt—muscle memory or some shit, and that feels…I dunno, weird now, don’t it? Familiar like, but off. And she makes a proper song and dance of it too, because that’s her. Always been like that.

Arms ’round me neck, batting her lashes for a few seconds, then—fuckin’ hell—she pounces. Literally. Proper pounce.