Gerry took a moment to recover. “It’s a shame only one of the three of you can win. If you’d played along, involved me in your master plan, for instance, I might have found a way to keep you two together. Never mind. We’ll just have to see if your famous #TrueBrit true love can stand extended separation. Did you enjoy your time back in Afghanistan, Ed?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bastion’s only one base, you know.”
“Empty threat,” Ed snapped. “Read your own fucking small print, won’t you?” It looked like he was about to turn on his heel. “You can’t send me back, so?—”
Gerry’s interruption stopped him. “If Pasha wins, I wonder how he’ll find touring all the other bases until his contract runs out?” He reached into the breast pocket of the blazer he wore and pulled out his thin tin of cigars, taking his time to light one before puffing out a stinking blue plume. “It’s not as if anyone would publicly begrudge serving soldiers some entertainment from home.” He nodded at Pasha. “I imagine the locals would be fascinated to meet a true Brit in the flesh. It’s only twenty-four months. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe.”
His arrogance was staggering.
“Is that meant to be a threat?”
“It’s whatever you heard.” Gerry inspected his cigar’s bright orange tip. “There are British bases all over the world. But don’t worry,” he added, as ash fell to the stage floor. “I’m sure two years will fly by.”
“But,” Ed said, the steadiness of his tone giving nothing away, although Pasha noticed the tight curl of his fists, “where’s the sense in that? Surely the winner recording music they can promote in the UK would make you much more money?”
“Hmm.” More ash hung on the tip of Gerry’s cigar, delicate and fragile. It fell when he flicked it, smashing into powder at their feet. Pasha stared at it instead of watching Gerry slide his verbal blade home. “More money?” Gerry pretended to ponder. “I think you’ll find I make the most money from the phone-in hotlines.” He smiled. “It’s been a record-breaking year for interest in the show. I should thank you. Both of you.”
All three of them raised a hand to their earpieces, summoned for last minute preparations, but not before Gerry had the last word.
“#TrueBrit already made me a fortune.”
Stagehands bustled between them, and someone from the makeup department came to find Pasha, while a wardrobe assistant hurried Ed in the opposite direction.
“Pash—” Ed called out and tugged his arm free. On the far side of the stage, Pasha turned and faced him. “Pash, I—” he broke off, too far away for Pasha to do anything about those deep lines in his forehead. “Pash,” he said one last time, sounding helpless for once.
Pasha said the only thing he could, repeating Ed’s earlier order. The theme music suddenly blasted as he said, “Sing like a winner tonight.”
Maybe Ed heard him. He slowly nodded, and then let himself be led off.
Pasha watched until he was gone and the theme music abruptly ended. He stood in the sudden silence, ears ringing as one by one each and every stage light slowly winked out.
Ed was up first.
Pasha sat with Anya, a camera trained on their faces to catch their reactions. The host stood at center stage with his arm slung around Ed’s shoulders, describing who else would be watching his performance. The image on the screen behind him shifted from theBritPop!logo into three separate sections. Ed’s mum waved from one, a room full of men in familiar uniform saluted from another. They cheered and let out whistles that had the audience laughing along. The final section of the screen was devoted to Mandy, sleeping son in her arms arousing a chorus ofahhs.
Pasha could barely watch the video the production team ran with next. It showed in glorious detail a pretense that had changed at some point into the best time of his life. He saw Ed swallow a few times and then look down at the floor when Mandy and the baby filled the screen behind him again.
“So, Ed.” The host said, as chirpy as ever. “You took the country by stealth, but it turned out that you weren’t the average squaddie heartthrob.” He paused to allow for some more wolf whistling from the audience. “No, a certain someone caught your eye, and the rest is history. Some people call it #TrueBrit. I like to call it true love.” He chuckled as if he’d told a joke instead of the truth. “But this is where I have to get serious with the voters at home.” His expression was as stern as it had been the week before. “Remember, when the lines open, you should only vote for the best performance. You’ll be listening to it for a long time when it hits the number one spot. Pick wisely, Great Britain.”He waited for the cheers to die down and then patted Ed on the shoulder. “So, no pressure, mate.”
Ed perched on a stool, guitar resting on one knee, waiting until the audience had finished cheering before looking up and nodding. His intro music started, it’s melody familiar and lilting, but right when he should have started singing, Ed shook his head and stayed silent.
The backing music cut out, and a murmur of surprised concern soon turned to shouts of encouragement. Ed looked around, hand shielding his eyes, as if searching for someone. Pasha got to his feet, sure Ed couldn’t see him, but unable to keep in his seat when Ed clearly needed support.
Ed’s shuddering inhale was audible when the audience finally quieted. He looked down at his guitar—Steve’s guitar—and the music started over.
The tips of his fingers blanched, and his knuckles were bone-white against the neck of the guitar when he missed his opening again.
Sounds of concern and a few catcalls of encouragement silenced when Mandy’s face, drawn and paler than Pasha had seen it, filled the huge screen behind Ed. Like he’d heard a verbal order, Ed straightened his shoulders and said, “Let me do it without the backing track.”
Pasha held his breath as Ed carefully picked out the opening chords on his own. He expelled it in a sharp huff when Anya tugged at his wrist, pulling him down to sit between her and the host. He only breathed a little easier when Ed got through the first lines of the song.
His start had been faltering, but Ed took his performance to another level. He prolonged the low notes, just as Pasha had taught him, and then filled the auditorium with a chorus that was a list of simple wishes.
Be there first for you in the morning.
Be there last for you at night.
Nowhere I’d rather be than home
With my true love, baby.