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Thirty-three

Joah

Next day, me and the lads are havin’ lunch with Mick—meant to be regroupin’ after that fuckin’ shit storm of an article—but really, just fuckin’ grateful to get to take me mind off whatever’s going on with me and Ys.

Been a day now, maybe more. Last time we talked was last night—just before Lala was bein’ a proper bitch to me on the phone. But now—after a whole fuckin’ day of wallowin’, backstrokin’ through me own head—realise I didn’t even talk to Ys much yesterday, either.

Had so much shit with the band—fuckin’ Rolling Stone called me to apologise.

Miracle, that. Was busy, that’s all. Me and Ys were meant to grab dinner later—that was the plan.

Till me girlfriend got hijacked by her fuckin’ mate.

Been really fuckin’ in me head about it, haven’t I?

Hate that. Proper melt these days, aren’t I?

Hate how much I give a shit about her. Especially when she won’t fuckin’ call me back.

Called her suite ’bout a fuckin’ thousand times—nowt.

Called the hotel—said she ain’t come home yet.

Tried her mobile—fuckin’ useless. Don’t even know why she’s got one—never answers the thing any day of the fuckin’ week.

Me head’s proper done in at this point. Just me, sat at home, panickin’ and spirallin’.

Fuckin’ hate that I’m like this over her.

So, aye. This lunch? Fuckin’ welcome distraction, it is.

The Atlantic, Piccadilly. Bit swanky for me, but Mick’s a knob an’ he fuckin’ loves it. He’s payin’, so fuck it. Everyone’s got a drink in hand when Mick raises his glass. “To avoidin’ crises.”

“Here, here.” The lads clink. All in good spirits, aren’t they?

Rich is sat across from me, eyes on me. Never been one for celebratin’ when it’s just me draggin’ meself outta a hole I dug in the first place.

“You know what,” Mick says after a long gulp of his Harvey Wallbanger. “Decent of her to take this all on the chin for ya, all things considered—” Nods to himself, like Ys has just done him a fuckin’ personal favour.

“Not a bad girl in the end.”

Me head pulls back, proper confused. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“Yeah—” Mick shrugs, shoulders movin’ like it’s nowt. “You know, I can’t really fuckin’ believe it.”

Glance at Rich. Uneasy. Hate that about meself—when shit feels rocky, still look at me big brother. Such a fuckin’ soft lad, these days. State of me, I swear.

Fix me eyes on Mick, frowning. “Believe what?”

Mick freezes, goes all still, he does. “Wait…” He looks ’round the table. “Have you not seen it—?”

Fry’s face scrunches up. “Seen what?”

Mick zeroes in on me. Proper nervous like. Lift me an eyebrow, waitin’.

“Oh.” Mick clears his throat. “Jo—I’m—Shit.” Sighs, reaches for the shopping bag hooked over the back of his chair. Fishes somethin’ out. Hands me this rolled-up magazine. I just look at him, flat, then down at it in me hands—stomach fuckin’ caves in, don’t it.

Her on the cover. Laughin’, holdin’ hands with that fuckin’ American—What’s his name?

Jamie somethin’. Birds go fuckin’ nuts for him.

Don’t like his music much meself, but wouldn’t have said he was shit or owt.

Till now. Now—when I see him on the cover of the fuckin’ Daily Sun , arm slung ’round my fuckin’ girlfriend, dead of night, both of ’em laughin’ as they’re gettin’ in a car and fuckin’ leavin’ together— now I fuckin’ have summat to say.

Girls’ night? Fuck off. Is this what “kind of” meant?

It don’t make sense. Like, what the fuck is happenin’?

What the fuck is she playin’ at? She wouldn’t just fuck about with some fucking cunt, would she?

Why would she like—? Fuck, yeah—okay. Since yesterday, been gettin’ this weird feelin’, like—fuck, maybe I did proper fuck it with that article.

Didn’t hit me till Lala called, runnin’ her fuckin’ mouth.

But this is a piss-take, yeah? This has to be a piss-take.

Push back from the table, don’t I?—just need to get away from the lads for a minute. Don’t want ’em to see how much I fucking care. And fuck, I do care. Gone fuckin’ soft, me. Care about that fuckin’ girl more than it’s good for me.

And you know what? I’ve cared about shit before. Don’t like being embarrassed, do I? Who does, know what I mean? Like, I’ve felt shit when I’ve looked stupid, or when summats gone tits up and it’s embarrassin’. And this—no lie—is fuckin’ embarrassin’.

But, fuck—I know that’s not why I care, how I care. It’s her. It’s just her. She’s mine, you know? Or—she’s fuckin’ supposed to be.

“Oi—” Rich calls after me as I sidle up to the bar.

Order two double shots of scotch. Drink ’em back-to-back. Order another.

Bartender throws Rich a look—bit uneasy. Still pours it, though, cos who the fuck’s not gonna serve me, you get me?

“Jo—” Rich starts.

“—Don’t.” Cut him off, sharp.

“Talk to her.” Voice low, like he’s tryin’ to be the reasonable one here.

I down that double in one. “Nope.”

“Joah.” He says it again. Grabs me shoulder this time. “Call her.”

“No—” Glare at him. Scowlin’. “Fuck that.”

Are you kiddin’? Can’t even fuckin’ see straight, man—Fuck her.

Proper done with her now, I am. She’s gonna sack me off—blank me for two days—then let me find out she’s on the pull with other lads like this. Nah. Fuck her.

“Jo.” Rich shakes his head. “Mate, there’s probably an explanation—”

“What?” I ask, eyebrows up. “What’s the fuckin’ explanation, then?”

“I dunno—” He shrugs. “You know the paps, lad—they’re fuckin’ rats. They just want a story—they’re probably just mates, Jo.” He sounds sure of it. “She wouldn’t do that to ya.”

“Look where his fuckin’ hands are on her, man—!” Yell louder than I mean to—gets caught in me throat cos—fuck. If I think about it— really think about it—Start shakin’ me head. Nope. Can’t be thinkin’ of it.

Lower me voice. “Fuck, like—” Shove me hands through me hair. “Look how they’re laughin’, Rich.”

Gonna gip, reckon. Not from the scotch. From her.

Bitch.

“Jo—” Richie shakes his head. “She’s not like that…”

“Yeah?” Lift me brows. “That’s weird cos she fucked Freddie Fletcher four times in the fuckin’ what—? Sixteen hours we were broken up for up in Manchester.”

Richie breathes out his nose, gives me that sick-of-me look. “Joah—”

“So fuck off, Rich.” Shake me head at him. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

His jaw goes tight—shakes his head, walks off.

Dunno how long I stay there—drink a lot, proper fast.

I know the lads are stayin’ close by—everyone’s on high alert now.

Probably a good call. Feel like startin’ shit, don’t I?

What I wouldn’t fuckin’ give to have…what’s-his-name—?

That Bright Line fucker—? The one I bottled in the head—?

Williams . What I wouldn’t give to have that motherfucker walk in here right now.

Better not, though. Might fuckin’ kill him if he did.

When I get like this—and yeah, I ain’t never been like this before, cos this is fuckin’ worse—but I’ve been fucked off before, haven’t I? Had my share of bad fuckin’ days. Who hasn’t like—? I know meself enough to know I need to get this energy out.

Gotta fight someone or fuck someone.

Don’t have a preference, do I? Whichever opportunity presents itself first, know what I mean?

And then I see her.

That girl, the one I made cry. Shagged Ysolde’s toff of an ex—you know who I mean?

And I know what you want me to say—that I was fuckin’ strong enough to walk away. But I ain’t. Don’t even want to. Nah, she’s exactly what I need right now.

Don’t need another drink to convince meself either. Don’t need no convincing.

I walk over to her—she’s sat with her mate.

Mate’s not bad either.

“Oi.” I nod at the crying one. Not cryin’ now but you know what I mean.

She looks at me, confused—cautious, you know? Fair enough, I s’pose.

“You good?”

She frowns. “Yes?”

I nod, don’t smile—don’t have any smiles in me right now, do I? Turn to her mate instead, offer her my hand. “Joah.”

The mate blushes straight up, don’t she? Shakes my hand anyway.

“Tara.” Clears her throat, all nervous. “Whitmore.”

Tilt my head at her. “Alright, Tara Whitmore.”

“Where’s Ysolde?” the crying one asks, makin’ a point.

Can’t knock her for that, can I?

“Dunno,” I say, staring straight into her eyes. “Don’t care.”

Don’t think I’m meant to notice, but the mate pinches her under the table, all fuckin’ excited.

I nod my chin at the one I made cry. “I forgot your name.”

She rolls her eyes, acting like she’s offended, but let’s be real—she’s just happy I’m chattin’ to her.

“It’s Meghan,” she says.

“Miller.” I nod slowly. “I remember now.”

She straightens her shoulders, those catlike eyes lock on me.

Run my tongue over me teeth, nod my chin at her again. “I was a prick to you, Meghan Miller.”

Her nose goes in the air, all proud and shit. “Yes, you were.”

Press my lips together, shake my head. “Sorry about that. Dunno what got into me—” Then I give her this look, the one that’s never not worked before. “Can you think of a way I could make it up to ya?”

She smirks, already pleased with herself but nowhere near as fuckin’ pleased as she’ll be soon.

“I’m sure I could come up with something…”