There’s a small card in the bottom of the box that reads, ‘Sorry we got interrupted last night. Thinking of you - Seb x.’
‘What does it say?’ Ash leans over to see.
‘None of your business.’ Cheeks on fire, I quickly bundle the cute Care Bear into my desk drawer, along with the thoughtful card. ‘Show’s over.’
Ash gives a long, slow whistle as I dip my head, winding my paper on. ‘Jade’s in lurrrrve. Whoever he is, he must be hot for you to blush like that. Have you been having sexy-wexy times, Jadey Wady?’ He mimes poking his index finger through a hole in his other fist.
‘Shut up,’ I growl, my face growing even redder.
Ash crows with laughter. ‘You have!’
I clench my fists. ‘Fuck off, Ash. I mean it!’
He smirks. ‘Oooh, feisty!’
Oh my god, he’s like the annoying older brother I never had!
The door to the back office suddenly flies open with a bang, and Danny comes rushing out excitedly, his balding head shining with sweat. His gaze lands on us. ‘You two’—he points at Ash and me—‘get ready. I’ve just had a call from a reliable source. Echo Ministry are giving an exclusive interview this afternoon before their Wembley concert tomorrow tonight. They’re at the Savoy.’
Ash gives a whoop and starts jumping up and down on the spot. My face drains of colour, Care Bear forgotten.Fuck. Echo Ministry is my dad’s band.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Danny claps his hands like a series of gunshots, and I almost jump out of my skin. ‘Hop to it! Time waits for no man!’
Or woman ...
‘It might be best if you let me do all the talking,’ says Ash when we’re in the back of a taxi heading towards the Savoy Hotel.‘Echo Ministry is really famous, so I don’t want you to freeze up and ruin the interview. You can take notes.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ I reply, wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs for the umpteenth time. I glance, unseeing, at the city scenery passing by outside the window. Ash has picked up on the fact that I’m nervous, but it’s not because I’m star-struck—it’s becauseI’m meeting my dad before I was even born, for fuck’s sake. How is this going to even work? What if I do or say something that changes history?
Sebastian!I wail internally.I need you!But I might be on my own for this, unless he turns up as a hot doorman.
Ash starts idly humming a tune that’s irritatingly catchy, and when we pull up at a set of lights, I realise what it is: ‘Cold Devotion (I Am Yours)’, the angsty heartbreak anthem that shot Echo Ministry to stardom. My dad used to hum it softly to me like a lullaby to get me to sleep at night. But maybe it wasn’t for me; it was more for him. He was remembering those halcyon days of fame—the days that I’m living right now—before it all went horribly wrong. I close my eyes.Please, God, don’t let me do or say anything wrong. I don’t want to be the reason my dad’s career goes down the toilet.
With the song’s haunting melody still playing in my mind, Ash and I check in at the Savoy’s reception, and we’re directed to a conference room down a long burgundy-carpeted corridor. The air is warm and stale and smells slightly of croissants, like someone’s raided a French bakery.
When we enter the designated room, my heart pounds in anticipation, and I look around nervously. But there’s no band, it’s full of neatly aligned chairs, the first few rows of which are filled with chattering journalists clutching chunky silver dictaphones and jotter pads. A folding table is placed at the front with several orange-balled microphones.
‘I thought this was an exclusive interview? It looks more like a free-for-all press conference?’ I whisper to Ash, moving away from the door, as more journalists file in behind us, most of them smoking.
‘So did I.’ He sounds mightily disappointed. But I’m relieved. This might not be as bad as I thought. I can hunch down in a chair at the back so I’m not noticed ...
‘Let’s sit up front. I want to get a good look at the band,’ says Ash determinedly, gripping my arm and hauling me towards the first row, which still has a few empty chairs. Oh no!
But I don’t have a good reason for not sitting there, and I don’t want Ash to get shitty and cause a scene. So I sit there glumly, knowing that I’m going to be practically face to face with my dad. Oh hell! But as I tell myself sternly to prevent a rising panic attack, he’ll have no idea who I am. I’m just a nobody magazine journo, not his only daughter.
21
JADE
Theconferenceroomisthree-quarters full when the door is closed by a hotel staff member, and an expectant hush settles over the crowd. Oh god, here we go.
A side door opens; and a middle-aged man in a charcoal business suit comes in, tailed by four young men wearing different-coloured shiny suit jackets, skinny black leather pants, and white ruffled shirts, along with pale foundation, a touch of rouge, and thick kohl eyeliner.
My heart kicks in my chest when I spot my dad, Tommy Rains (lyrics and lead vocals) in the red jacket. Rains is his stage name; he reverted back to Jameson after the band fell apart. Last time I saw him, he was slovenly, unshaven, and clutching a bottle of vodka and giving me some slurred speech about how he was going to smarten up his act. I didn’t believe a word of it. He’s been giving me the same speech for years. Mum too. They’re as bad as each other.
In my timeline, the years haven’t been kind to Tommy physically. He’s losing his hair and has piled on the weight.But here, it’s a different story, and I can’t help gawping at how handsome and dewy-faced he looks. He peeks through a dark curtain of hair, which isn’t backcombed to death like the other band members, and glances briefly around the room. His eyes skim over me, and I tense, but there’s no jolt of recognition in them. In fact, his eyes are kind of bloodshot. So knowing him as I do, I assume he’s feeling the effects of whatever drug he’s popped or alcohol he’s consumed before coming out here. It must be a lot of pressure being in a famous band, and a smidgeon of sympathy cuts through me. But I harden my heart as I know how his future regarding said drugs and alcohol turns out and how it affects me.
No one speaks as the band members settle themselves at the table and adjust their microphones, pour glasses of water, and slouch there, looking profoundly famous.