Nathaniel Darke
Despite technically being six minutes early, we’re still the last to enter the function room, which looks even sadder in daylight than it did post show. As we cross the carpet, the same miasma of beer and damp, topped off with a hint of beeswax wafts up my nostrils.
We look pretty grungy this morning, Dane, Joel and I, all having pulled on whatever was to hand out of our bags. If Callahan’s looking for polished professionals, we’re already doomed, because it’s relaxed fit jeans and geeky T-shirts all round.
Speaking of the man, Callahan and his two assistants are seated before the stage in a line like we’re auditioning for a talent show. I almost expect him to have a megaphone so he can holler up at us, and yell, “Next!” The guy has definitely been watching too much Saturday evening reality TV. It begs the question, what sort of trial is he going to spring on us if we make it through to the next round? Boot camp recording studio in Borneo, maybe?
Bitch Slap are looking decidedly more sophisticated. They’ve turned up in their performance gear of leather, lace and expensive perfume. They’re currently positioned to the right of the stage, so we form up on the left, and I do my best not to stare across at them. It’s difficult not to seek out Loveday, though, given my heart gives such a kick when I think of her. No one has ever turned my world upside down in one night in quite the way that she’s done, and she doesn’t even know it.
If it wasn’t for her, I’d be contemplating slitting my wrists right about now.
I rub my tired eyes. Loveday has covered the effects of her late night with smoky eyeshadow and a coating of blood red lipstick. The colour makes me think of sex, of her down on her knees with her mouth wrapped around my cock and the lips, of her swollen cunt right after she’d come all over my face.
When I get a chance, I want to thank her in a way that makes her flush that colour all over.
Jessie notices me looking and glowers back. Although, she wears that frown so often, I’m beginning to think her scrunched-up pout is actually her resting expression.
If only this feud between her and Dane could be set aside, and we could all shake hands and wish one another luck. Just because the pair of them can’t get a handle on their emotions, shouldn’t mean that the rest of us have to suffer.
“Don’t even think of it,” Dane warns, when I put one foot forward. “Don’t think about her. Don’t go near her. Get it together.”
“I am together.” At least mostly, as much as my tired brain will allow.
“I need to speak to her at some point,” I say.
Dane shakes his head. “You don’t have shit to say to her. Not a goddamned thing.”
We’ve been over this particular point umpteen times in the last hour. Dane’s positive we need to keep the fact that TL:DR will include Loveday’s bass-line super quiet. He’s afraid that Bitch Slap will lay claim to the song, whereas my insides are knotted over the idea that by not telling her, we’re stealing her intellectual property. Just because the tune was written on my skin, doesn’t grant me licence to use it, or make it my possession.
And I’m no thief.
Besides, why would I screw someone whose friendship I value like that? Given what one night with her has produced, I’m more than a little eager to see what we can create when we’re not pressed for time.
“Nice of you to join us, boys.” Graham Callahan casts a weary glance at his watch. “I’d assume we’re ready to begin, but you appear to be missing someone. You were a foursome last night, I believe?”
“Yes,” I agree. “We are.”
“Knox. They’re missing Knox,” I hear Jessie’s mega whisper from across the room. I’m just praying Loveday hasn’t said anything about Knox to her. I cross my fingers and offer up a silent plea to whichever supernatural being might be listening.
“And is Mr. Knox joining us?” Callahan asks. He taps his pen impatiently against his knee.
“No.”
The pen stops mid-arch. “He’s not coming?” His beetle black gaze bores into me.
“He can’t come. He has food poisoning.” How glibly the lie rolls off my tongue. There’s a talent I totally knew I had, getting an unexpected airing. I haven’t had much cause to lie since I left school. “He’s spent the last four hours heaving. We can’t even get him out of the bathroom, let alone down here and on stage. Sorry,” I apologise, lifting my shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Threaded with truth, that’s the way to make it plausible.
“What do we do?” One of Callahan’s assistants asks.
“What’s the policy?” enquires the second.
“They’ve made the effort.”
“He can’t help it if he’s sick.”
“And what was it that caused this sudden affliction?” Callahan silences them both. I’m sure he’s heard a thousand million excuses in his time. “Too much booze, perhaps?”
“A prawn cocktail, we think.” I look to the boys for back-up, and they nod. Knox loves seafood. He’s always on the beach, eating vinegar soaked muscles out of a paper cup, or else trying to force feed the rest of us calamari curry, so it’s not too far-fetched that he might have happened upon a few dodgy shrimps and got a bellyache. We’ve all done it, just like everyone’s had burning ring after a take-away madras.
“I see. And when do you envisage Mr. Knox being well again?”
“I’m not sure. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, maybe?”
Callahan purses his lips and sighs through his nose. He turns his head away from us. I really hope that’s not a dismissal.
“Ladies, perhaps you can start us off.”
OK, relief unknots a few of my majorly tensed muscles. It sounds as if we’re expected to stick around a bit longer at least.
Jessie leers at us as Bitch Slap climbs onto the stage.
“What have you got for me?” Callahan asks.
“Our crowd pleaser from last night.” Jessie takes the central mic, relegating the band’s real talent to the wings. I’m astonished and unsurprised all at once. Jess has some serious ego on her. Loveday ought to be the one singing. Her voice is far more arresting. I watch her ready her instrument. A Fender not too dissimilar the one Knox favours, but with Jazz pickups in place of a humbucker. She’s looking pretty today—hair a shiny mass of buttery gold strands—for all that she’s being forced into the shadows to make way for Jessie’s sour-grapes ranting. That’s what this song is, even with its catchy tune and thundering chorus. It’s essentially a two-fingered salute at my brother.
It’s a stupid, stupid choice.
Callahan stops listening half-way through and starts shaking his head. At least he allows them to finish rather than bellowing “Stop!”
“Interesting,” he says at the close, which we all know is a polite way of saying it was shite. “But I don’t think it’s quite what I’m looking for.”
“Why not?” Jessie demands, anyone else would just accept his word as gospel, but she’s got to prove she’s tough and doesn’t take shit lying down.
“It’s not a commercial sound, Ms. Lyn.”
“Yeah, but we have other songs.”
“That you chose not to present.”
A tremor of rage rolls through her angular frame. “We could do another one. It’s not a problem.”
“No. I’ve heard enough.” It’s impressive how placid and calm, Callahan keeps his voice.
“Well, they haven’t got anything at all,” Jessie barks, failing to realise that she’s doing more harm than good with her shouting.
Callahan turns back to us. “Is that right boys? You don’t have anything?”
“We’ve plenty,” Joel replies, stepping forward. “But we need Knox for it to sound right. We’re sorry we can’t play for you this morning, Mr. Callahan. Truly sorry. If he was here, then…yeah…absolutely.”
Joel lays it on a little thick, but it does the job. Both assistants produce Filofaxes, and start meticulously scouring through dates for an empty time slot.
“There’s Thursday at the studio,” the dark-haired one says. “It’d mean sending a boat to collect them though.”
Callahan shakes his head. “We’re going to need the place on lock down. That’s not a good time.”
“Or Manchester the following week.”
“Then there’s nothing after that until November.”
“Unless they can make it across to Sweden,” pipes the bespectacled one.
Even I think Sweden’s a bit far to go for an audition. All right, the distance isn’t so much the problem, as getting there. We’re not exactly loaded, the four of us.
“I’ll play,” Loveday says, her voice ringing out strong over the muttering of the two assistants. Her words silence everyone, and cause every head to turn towards her, mine so fast it actually hurts.
“I beg your pardon?” Callahan says.
She steps forward to the front of the stage, up to the microphone, so that her statement is clearly heard. “I’ll play bass for them, so that they can audition for you.”
“Lowdy,” Jessie protests. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”
“Giving them a chance. We’d never have had one if it wasn’t for them being here, and I don’t want them to miss out because of some stupid twist of fate.”
“That’s Dane’s band you’re talking about. The last thing we want is for them to get a gig supporting Black Halo.”
“No, it’s just the last thing you want. I hope they get it. I hope they succeed and that they’re just as big as Black Halo one day.”
“You fucking turncoat.” Jessie backhands her across the face. The slap’s excruciating sharpness, as it’s amplified the mic, makes me wince. “We’re through. You’re out. Bitch Slap doesn’t need you.”
Loveday simply straightens herself and levels a withering look at Jessie. “I’m not sure I need it.”
“Yeah, well…” Jessie turns on her pointy heels and stomps off, sounding like a psychotic race horse. Ivy throws Loveday an apologetic smile, but then follows.
“I really didn’t fancy going on tour,” she remarks to Callahan on the way past, prompting a bark of laughter from her former band mate.
Pride swells in my chest when I turn back to Loveday. There are tears swelling in her eyes, but she finds a smile for me and one for Dane when he hops onto the stage beside her.
“Do you know any of our tracks?” he asks. I’m impressed he’s focussed on practicalities and not enjoying the opportunity to gloat over Jessie making a tit of herself.
I climb up beside them, and Joel follows at my heels.
“Actually, there’s one I bet she knows,” I say.
Dane swirls round. For a second I think he’s going to punch me, in fact he swings, but then seems to change his mind and claps me on the back instead. “Are you insane?” he says between gritted teeth.
“She’s offering, Dane. Look what she’s just given up for us. I refuse to be a bastard about this. Besides, we need him—” I nod at Graham Callahan. “—to hear this. You heard the two ladies, his diary’s pretty chocka. It makes far more sense to do this now.”
“Except, we’ve never played with her, and we’ve never done this song with the bass section.”
“It’ll be fine, honest. I’ve jammed with her. She’s good, Dane. She’s fucking good.”
“Far better than Knox,” Joel adds, settling behind the drum kit. “And she doesn’t have a prawn habit.”
He’s walking a dangerous line with that remark, but thankfully Callahan doesn’t seem to hear it.
“Is this acceptable to you,” I ask our trio of judges.
“Sure,” Callahan waves a hand, then brings it down on his chunky thigh. “Fire away.”
“You all right?” I ask, returning to Loveday. “I’m sorry if it’s screwed things up for you with Jessie.” I incline my head in the direction her band mates have just run.
“It’s all right. I knew she’d freak, and she’d already threatened to give me the chop for consorting with you. So, what’s this song you want me to play? Have you got music?”
I bow my head to focus on my toes a moment. “You know the notes you wrote on my arse? You said you’d remember them. Can you remember them?”
She chuckles. “Course.”
“Then play them. Weave them around Dane’s lead. You’ll know how they fit.” I trust her because this song is now as much a part of her as it is a part of me. It’s a melody we created together. Later, I know I’ll have to explain things to her, I can see the questions right there in her eyes, but for now, I collect my Gretsch and position the mic.
“This is a new track,” I tell Graham Callahan. “It might lack a little polish, but I hope you’ll forgive that under the circumstances. I present Too Long: Didn’t Read.”
We hook him after just a few chords. I always had faith that would be the case. Some tunes come to you and you just know in your guts that they’re meant to be. It’s as if you’ve always known them, and you’ve simply tapped in to an ancient memory. It’s that way with this song, and yet at the same time it’s desperately new and unpolished. Even while we’re playing I can hear the places where we can refine it.
The beat of Joel’s drums is what drives it through the chorus, but it’s the bass-line that Loveday winds around the lead melody that really makes the sound. The lyrics aren’t too bad either. What’s most important, though, is that Graham Callahan listens with a smile on his wide face. I suppose it’s silly, then, that I’m still on tenterhooks when we finish, awaiting the final verdict.
It’s delivered as a standing ovation; our whole audience on their feet, six hands clapping riotously.
Callahan gets on the stage to shake my hand, and then Dane’s, Joel’s and Loveday’s too.
“We need to get this track recorded ASAP girls and boys. Go home and pack yourself some spare undies.”
“You’re not thinking we’re going to record this now.” Dane blurts.
“Why not? Do you have something urgent to do?”
None of us do. Leastways, nothing that can’t be rearranged.
“Surely we need to sign contracts or something, and you’re super busy, aren’t you?” Dane gestures at Callahan’s mousy assistant and the diary discarded on the floor.
“Kid, there’s always space on my schedule for brilliance. But sure, contract, tour dates, planning…” He turns to his bespectacled assistant, whose glasses I notice are rainbow patterned. “Call the Sawmills. It’s closest, we’ll do the recording there. Tell them to expect us.”
“And if they’re already fully booked up?”
He gives her a hard stare.
“All right. OK, I’ll get onto it.”
“I suspect some up and coming group has just had their studio time gazumped.”
“The Sawmills,” Dane says, clutching my elbow. “This is insane. So many big names have recorded there. Oasis, the Verve, the Stone Roses.” He rattles off several more. “Do you reckon you’ll get to use the same microphone that Robert Planet warbled into?”
I shrug, because I honestly don’t know. “Let’s try and keep our heads, eh? And sign a contract that’s not going to screw us six ways to Sunday.”
“What about Knox?” Dane asks.
“What about Loveday?” I reply.
“What about her?”
“She got us this, Dane.”
“So you’re hoofing Knox?”
Joel claps me on the back.
“No. No—of course not.”
Joel slides away from me as if he’s trying to take back the well-done pat he just gave me.
“I’m just saying she should be part of this. She ought to be the one playing on this track at least. Knox could do the others, and he’ll still be our official bassist.”
“So she’d be doing like a guest spot?” Joel’s interest perks again.
“Yeah. How do you feel about that?” I ask her.
She stands a moment with her mouth open, contemplating. “You used my bass-line in your song.”
She’s got me over hot coals regarding that one. “You did write it on my arse,” I retaliate.
She grins, and the amusement shoots straight to her pretty blue eyes. “Is it still there?”
“Sharpie’s don’t wash off so easily.” As evidenced by the fact her mobile number is still recorded on my forearm. “So yeah, it’s still there.”
“Make it permanent and I’ll let you keep it and use it. I want a writing credit too.”
“For the song, or on my arse?”
“You don’t ask much, do you?” Dane remarks, but I can tell he’s warming to her. And actually, considering what he’s like around women, maybe that’s not a good thing. I lower my brows and fire a warning stare at him, which just makes him laugh.
Loveday grabs the front of my T-shirt and pulls me close, so that our lips are in danger of touching, and our lower limbs somehow already are. “For the song, obviously,” she says. “Honestly, Darke. If I was going to lay claim to a bit of you, it wouldn’t be your arse I’d be opting for.”
“Oh, aye?” Joel interjects. He makes a fanning motion with his hand as if to cool the heat in his cheeks.
“Tell me what you’d be opting for?” I cajole.
She angles her hips so that the seam of her leather trousers rubs against the fly of my jeans. “I would, but your kid brother and his friend are listening.”
Dane nonchalantly whistles and turns away. Joel follows, leaving the two of us centre stage, bathed in the glow of the spotlight with barely a millimetre of space between us.
“They can’t hear you now.”
Her palm strokes down over the bulge that’s now distorting my fly. “Hmm,” she groans. Then raises her hand and taps two fingers against my fore-head. “What’s in there, of course. That’s what excites me, along with this bit here.” She lays her hand over my chest where my heartbeat is thumping. “But I wouldn’t presume to lay claim to either.”
“I hope you’ll lay claim to them both.”
Her lips part and we kiss softly, entwining our bodies around one another. Somehow the gentleness makes it more meaningful than all the hot and heady stuff we’ve shared so far. We build bonds with that kiss. There’s a promise implicit in it.
Then her fingers curl over my arse, and squeeze. “I do like your beetle though,” she muses. “Especially when I get to lick it.”
“Fancy a celebratory fuck?” I ask.
She pushes me away with a sigh, though her eyes remain bright with good humour. “Nathaniel Darke, you’ve such a potty mouth and filthy mind.”
I pull her back into my arms. “Exactly as you like it, babe. Exactly as you like it. Remember, you told me yourself.”
~*~
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