Page 36
Story: Time of Your Life
Twenty-five
Joah
The gig was alright. Reckon it looked better than it felt—for me, at least, you know what I mean?
The crowd were buzzin’—proper packed in, shoutin’ their fuckin’ lungs out.
Could see ’em singin’ every word like their lives depended on it, arms up, eyes wide, sweating buckets.
I think I sounded alright—? I can usually tell by Richie’s face if I sound shit, and I think I was alright tonight.
The boys were solid too. One of those shows people’ll probably talk about, say it was electric or some shit.
And it was, I s’pose. But me? I weren’t there.
Like, yeah—I played every chord, sang every word—fuck, that’s the job, innit? Might as well’ve been a puppet on strings, but. Head somewhere else the whole fucking time. I’ll give you one guess where.
Like, where the fuck is she? Are we actually done for?
Does she really fucking hate me? Ain’t never said that to me before, has she—?
And where the fuck is she now? What’s she doing?
Is she alright? Dunno if she ate today—?
Fuck—like, she don’t really eat when she’s upset, does she?
My stomach’s in knots, proper twisted, thinkin’ about her in this city she don’t know without me.
Do you know what’s proper fucked? Even though I feel sick with it, I’m still fuckin’ pissed at her too.
Because like, every cheer, every roar from that fuckin’ crowd—it just bounced right off me, like I couldn’t even hear it, know what I mean?
And it’s her fault because she was in me fuckin’ head.
Drives me fuckin’ mad. She’s in me head when she’s my girlfriend, and she’s still in me head when she’s not. Like, I can’t win, can I?
And like—a bit of me is scared I proper fucked it—do you reckon I did?
Dunno. She’s not been angry like that before—not with me—don’t fuckin’ tell her, but like—I’m kinda scared of her. Not actually, but kinda. Hot girls when they’re angry are like, I dunno—diabolical.
Probably, I can fix it but, yeah? When can’t I? If I wanna fix something, I can fix something, you know what I mean? Girls—they always get over it.
But, then—I dunno— is she girls? She ain’t a normal girl, I know that. But she does love me, don’t she? So—like, fuck—that’s gotta count for something, yeah—?
My mind’s fuckin’ swimming.
Bleedin’, like— Where the fuck is she ?—that’s all that’s banging ’round me head as I walk offstage.
“Oi, mate—” Mick’s lingering outside me dressing room, slapping me arm like we’re all pals. “Fuckin’ great show.”
“Fucking—no. Stop, I don’t care—” I snap, shaking me head at him. “Did you find her?”
He pulls in a sharp breath through his nose, looking like he’s bracing for a smack. “Wanna—” He jerks his head towards the door. “Let’s—”
I follow him in, slam the door shut behind us, the echo bouncing off the walls. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Right, so—” He’s rubbing at his mouth like he’s got an itch he can’t get rid of, looking proper knackered. “I had one of the boys follow her out the venue—”
Nod, leaning in like that’s meant to mean something. “Yeah…?”
“Said just, keep an eye on her, like—make sure she’s right…see she gets to a hotel safe—”
“Okay…” I keep nodding, like it’ll calm me down or some shit. Good. Glad he did that. Makes me feel a bit better, I s’pose.
But then Mick takes this deep breath, like he’s winding up for something, and then…fuck all. Just holds it in, like he’s suddenly forgotten how to talk.
Me head pulls back. This weird, nervous twist starts up in me gut, like I already know I’m not gonna like what’s coming next.
“What?” I ask, voice sharp now.
He shakes his head, proper cagey. “Listen, I don’t wanna—”
“Nah.” I nod at him, heart thumping harder. “Go on.”
Blows that breath out like he’s been holdin’ it a year. “She got a taxi to The Cliff.”
My eyes go wide. “What fuckin’—?” Words are spilling outta me before I’ve even got a grip. “What’s that supposed to—Like, what fuckin’ cliffs?” We don’t even have cliffs in Manchester? Barringer’s, maybe? Currier Point? How the fuck would she even know about them?
Mick’s staring at me like I’ve just gone daft.
“No, mate—” He gives me this look, proper slow and deliberate, like I’m the thick one here. “As in Salford .”
Takes me about two seconds get me head ’round it—nah, no fucking chance.
Shake my head at Mick, my stomach already twisting up. “Fuck off.”
That’s where fucking United train, innit? My chest’s tight, my throat’s even tighter—oh, I’m gonna gip.
Mick nods once, proper slow, like he’s trying not to spook me or some shit.
“Freddie Fletcher came out—” I don’t mean to do it, but fuck it, I sigh.
“And, mate—” He looks sorry for me. Fuckin’ hate it when people are sorry for me. “They looked pretty friendly…”
“What do ya mean?” My head’s shaking, words tumblin’ out. “Nah—no fuckin’ way—What the fuck do you mean—?”
“Dunno, Jo—” Mick shrugs, his shoulders all limp like he wants to disappear. “It wasn’t me there, mate. Just—” He hangs his head, proper pathetic. “He said they looked like more than friends.”
Do you know what—? Fuckin’ fuck her.
“Yeah, right.” I nod. Fuck her. I’m done. Done with her, done with relationships and shit—never again.
“Alright—” I nod at the door behind him, jaw still clenched. “Fuck off now.”
Mick tilts his head, giving me one of those looks, like he’s trying to be a dad.
“Jo—”
“I said fuck off.” Louder now, cutting through the room, letting him know I’m not fucking about. “And send Pip in.”
Mick fires me off another paternal look. “Joah…”
Stare over at him in fucking disbelief. “Did I fuckin’ stutter?”
He sighs, big and heavy, like he’s the one with the problem here. Then he walks out, closing the door loud enough to make a point. Not a slam—can’t slam doors on your wages, can you? But it’s loud.
Can’t fucking believe her, can I? One fight, and she runs straight back to her ex?
And not just any ex—nah, it’s got to be Freddie fuckin’ Fletcher , don’t it?
What the fuck am I supposed to do now—? Can’t swap teams, can I?
But I can’t support him either—no chance I’m singin’ “Glory, Glory Man United” with the image of him fucking Ysolde in me head. Fuck that.
There’s a case of Stella in my room—part of the rider—but she’s not gonna cut it tonight.
Should be a bottle of Balvenie knocking about somewhere.
I rifle ’round for it, knock over a stack of merch and free shit people leave in here for me in the process, but I find it eventually.
Unscrew the top, don’t even bother with a glass.
Plough through half the bottle before the door creaks open and in walks Pippa. She’s fucking filthy at me.
I’ve pissed this girl off more times than I can count—don’t reckon I’ve ever seen her like this, but. She’s livid. Proper raging.
Nod me chin at her. “Oi.”
She closes the door behind her but doesn’t move, just leans against it, arms crossed, glaring.
“How were we?” I ask, casual as you like. And yeah, I ask it on purpose. Bit of a reminder of who the fuck I am—Joah fuckin’ Harrigan, remember? Lead singer of Fallow. She’s here having a strop at my fucking show, know what I mean?
She shrugs, dead casual. “Fine.”
Fuck off, we were unreal, and she knows it.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” she asks with a glare.
I stand up, take a step towards her, the bottle of Balvenie in my hand. Take a swig to take the sting out of what I’m about to say: “Not my girlfriend.”
My chest fucking lurches as the words come out, dunnit? Like me own body’s fuckin’ rejecting whatever’s happening.
Pippa scoffs, full of contempt, shaking her head. “You’re a piece of shit.”
“Yeah.” I nod, swallowing it down. That’s fair, I reckon. Take another swig, then hold the bottle out to her.
She grabs it, takes a big, long pull, and then fixes me with that glare of hers again, one eyebrow arched like she’s daring me to say something stupid.
“I’m not as pretty as her?” she asks, voice sharp, cutting.
I roll my eyes, dead casual, like she’s being ridiculous. “She’s a supermodel…”
Pip’s scowl comes back with full force. “Fuck you!”
I tilt my head, watching her close. “Yeah, do you wanna?”
Her eyes pinch, confused now. “Do I want to what?”
“Fuck me.” I say it plain as owt, like it’s not a big deal. Doesn’t flinch me. At least on the outside.
She makes this noise, proper disgusted like. “No.”
“Yeah, you do,” I tell her, all calm because I know it for a fact. Take a step closer. She takes another swig of the scotch, eyes narrowed, not moving away. “Come on…”
Shoves the bottle back at me, all gruff-like, and our hands brush when she does. That’s on purpose. Her eyes flash up at mine, glaring but full of fire.
“I hate your girlfriend.”
I shake my head at her, fuckin’ cool as owt. Say it again because I need to hear it again to believe it—need to get it through me fuckin’ head. “I already told ya… Not my girlfriend .”
Pippa rolls her eyes like I’ve said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.
“I fucking hate Ysolde Featherstonhaugh,” she says, spitting her name like it tastes bad.
I take another swig of the scotch, nodding back at her slow.
You know what? Fuckin’ me too.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36 (Reading here)
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49