“Me too.” She nodded in Ed’s direction. “So the way he’s acting now is very familiar—leaving again, even though he’s a home bird at heart. Did he tell you that he and Steve were going to set up an adventure center at the big house when they got home?”
Pasha shook his head, then slowly nodded. “He did mention something about it.”
Mandy’s eyes flicked his way, and her voice grew stronger. “It would have been a two-man job, and with the baby on the way, Steve was finally ready to come home so they could be business partners. We thought we had it perfectly timed.”
She got out her phone and scrolled through a roll of photos before passing it to Pasha. There was Ed, suntanned in a dusty uniform. He stood in the opening of a tent, pen in hand, concentrating on a piece of paper.
Mandy said, “He was crossing each day off a calendar every time they got back off patrol.” Her gaze was fierce and protective. “Now he’s counting down the days to theBritPop!final. He doesn’t owe us a single thing, but I hope to God he wins it. For him. Not for us.” She sniffed. “He needs to bring something home when it’s over, to be able to move on. No offence, Pash. I know you must want to win it as well.”
“None taken.” Pasha gave back her phone, and then raised the studio’s video camera. Even on its small screen, Ed’s discomfort was obvious, his smile so small compared to those of the fans crowding around him taking picture after picture. Pashahadn’t noticed his reserve so much while they were at the shared house, and he supposed that onstage there was a clear divide between themselves and the public. Now that he thought about it, Ed had never pushed for extra coverage until management’s plans had forced them to side with each other.
“Here.” Pasha thrust the camera into Mandy’s hands. “I think he needs someone to come to his rescue for once.”
Pasha crossed the crowded space, weaving between chipped Formica tables, and as he got closer to the counter, where scones were arrayed next to plastic-wrapped portions of clotted cream and jam, his name was called out a few times.
“Pasha!”
“Hey, it’s him! He’s offBritPop!as well!”
He shared fist bumps with some teens and slowed to say hello to a group of gray-haired ladies, but he didn’t stop moving forward, closing in steadily on his target. A wave of sound—his name and Ed’s loudly whispered between tables—traveled faster than the progress he made. By the time he slid one hand around Ed’s stiffened shoulders and offered to take a photo for a fan, they had the whole café’s attention. Ed relaxed under Pasha’s palm when he told jokes and encouraged him to smile for more pictures. Eventually, he followed Pasha the long way back to their table after collecting the tea the waitress wouldn’t let them pay for.
“Pasha!” someone shouted. “How are you liking Cornwall?”
“It’s beauty, my lover.”
“Jesus,” Ed muttered. “Stop with the accent already. It’s horrible. We don’t sound anything like that.” He shut up when a little girl approached, and he put down his tea tray to sign the napkin she shyly offered.
Another voice called out, “Sing something!” and was quickly joined by others.
Pasha let Ed pass him, delivering the hot drinks to their table where Mandy held the camera and was filming. When Ed turned to face him, Pasha could translate his expression easily. After so much time spent together, that reluctant eye-roll was as good as a yes.
Pasha cast his gaze around the cluttered café. Families were surrounded by full-to-bursting luggage, and local souvenirs sat on tabletops signaling the end of their holidays. The little girl who’d approached Ed sat close by. “Where are you going today, poppet?” Pasha asked.
“Home.”
They’d sung an ensemble number with that title at the start of the contest, and the first few lines came back to Pasha with an ease that was surprising. He sang alone until Ed’s voice joined his at the chorus. But as soon as Ed hit his stride, Pasha ground to a halt.
The lyrics were all about traveling to distant places while feeling alone. Surely he couldn’t have chosen a worse song now that he knew about Steve?
The lyrics clearly had an impact: Ed didn’t just sing the words, he wore them like raw emotion while people stood to catch every note on their outstretched smartphones.
Ed sang alone, and husbands wrapped their arms around their wives and held them a little closer.
His voice dropped in pitch, and grandparents pulled grandchildren they’d scolded moments earlier into their laps.
Ed’s voice soared, echoing with want so naked that Pasha threaded their fingers together.
There was applause at the end, but Pasha hardly noticed, too caught up in the damp shine of Ed’s eyes before he ducked his head to hide it.
Mandy kept the studio’s camera running until they signed the last autograph for fans, their cups of tea tepid by then, but Edstirred his and sipped before he started to talk. He finally shared in public exactly why he’d enteredBritPop!in the first place.
No hype, no spin, no gimmicks. Ed told a simple story of friendship, guilt, and regret that Mandy uploaded toYouTube, where management couldn’t hide it.
The Wi-Fi wasn’t workingon the train that took them on the first leg of the journey back across the country, so they spent the first hour in almost perfect peace at the back of a near-empty carriage.
Ed shifted in his aisle seat, turning so he faced Pasha. “You excited about going home?”
Excited wasn’t the first word Pasha would choose to describe the way he felt, so he shrugged rather than answer.