Fran hadn’t been kidding when she said she was busy in the run-up to Christmas: it was now a little over six weeks to the big day. One of her many gigs was this independent artist showcase that Damian had dragged her to in Hackney. He wanted to approach the headliner, Tom Darby, and he wanted Fran’s opinion.
The smell of weed hit her nostrils as she walked through the front bar. Damian stopped to say hi to a couple of friends. This was his manor, after all. Fran lived a bit further out in Stratford, where the Olympics had been held. Hackney Wick was more her local hangout, or Greenwich if she was being fancy. Damian, however, was in his element.
When an artist had a label behind them, a showcase — where the artist performed a handful of songs for press and invited fans — was normally held in a private members club or swanky Soho bar, with free drinks a prerequisite. Fran was intrigued to see how it worked without a label. The location was different, for a start: a pub in Hackney.
“Did you listen to the link I sent you for this artist tonight?” Damian’s eyes lit up when he spoke about music. It was one of the reasons Fran had taken him on. That, and the fact he made her laugh with his random facts in the interview. If she was going to work closely with someone, the ability to make her laugh was high on Fran’s list of wants.
She nodded. “I did. He sounds immense.” The music was a crossover of country and folk, and Fran had loved the artist’s depth on his vocal, as well as the fiddles. She was a sucker for a fiddle. Fran was keen to see if his voice was the same live.
They walked through to the back bar, where a healthy crowd was already gathered. The stage was on the far side of the room, with a drum kit and three mics set up. A double-bass loitered to the rear, and a bushy-bearded man was testing the guitars.
“You know who this bloke tonight would sound great with?”
Fran shook her head.
“Ruby O’Connell. Imagine his timbred voice with her smoky vocals. The folk world would go mad for it. It’d be like The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl, but with Tom and Ruby, both of the leads can sing like angels.”
“Careful, people love those artists.” But Fran had to agree. Ruby and Tom Darby would be a dream ticket.
“So do I.” Damian leaned into her ear so she could hear him above the music, which had just been turned up. “But I have it on good authority they know each other, so it could happen.”
Fran gulped, then let her gaze wander the room. Ruby O’Connell might be here? That was just what she needed. Although, if they were destined to be neighbours of sorts, perhaps she could try to talk to her. Smooth things out. Fran’s parents would be pleased, at least.
Damian leaned in once more. “Your dads really moved to a village where Ruby O’Connell’s parents are their neighbours?”
Fran winced at the memory. “Uh-huh. And I had a coughing fit in their kitchen, and spat her mum’s delicious sausage roll onto Ruby’s slippers.”
“I can’t believe the super-cool Ruby wears slippers.” He paused. “Tell me at least they were ruby slippers, like in the Wizard of Oz.”
Fran shook her head. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings. They were snowmen. Or snowwomen, I didn’t stop to look too hard.” Fran grabbed two Heinekens from the ice buckets set up on the bar. It was that or wine. Wine was dangerous on an empty stomach, so beer it was. She opened two bottles and gave one to Damian.
“Maybe you can wear her down to sign with us over Christmas drinks.”
“That is doubtful. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways in the only bar in the village. It’s the epitome of a local bar for local people.”
“The village is really called Mistletoe?”
“It totally is.”
Damian tilted his head. “Do they have mistletoe hanging over the village sign when you drive in? Do you have to pull over and snog the nearest person under it to be allowed in?”
“Maybe when we get closer to December, who knows? Right now, the sign is just a regular sign with a drawing of mistletoe on it.”
Damian stroked his stubble. “Do you know the origin of the word mistletoe?”
Fran shook her head. Here he went again with his random facts. “I don’t. Do you?”
He nodded. “It’s an English-German word, derived from the old English term for twig, along with the old German term for dung. It basically means shit on a twig.” Damian gave her a wide grin.
“You’re kidding.”
But the shake of his head told Fran he wasn’t.
“That’s brilliant. I wonder if the village knows. You think I could endear myself to the locals and maybe get it on the town marketing? I’m sure they’d love it.” Fran wafted a hand in the air above her, like she was reading a movie poster. “Come to this village in the middle of nowhere and buy a Christmas tree from Shit On A Twig Farm.”
“I think it needs work,” Damian deadpanned. He looked around the bar. “Good turn-out here, though.” He held up his bottle of Heineken. “Good beer choice, too. Maybe indie is where the music business is going.”
“I hope not, or we’re out of a job,” Fran replied. “Talking of jobs, how did the interview with Fast Forward go today? No problems? They smiled in all the right places? Tenny’s anxiety didn’t get the better of her?”
Their all-female, indie-pop band of the moment had been interviewed by a big Sunday paper this week. The band had been primed and media-coached, but their lead singer Tenny was still a bag of nerves. Fran hoped it had paid off.
Damian’s nod was confident. “They did good. They were nervous as hell going in, but nobody’s out to trip them up.” He paused. “If you discount the Twitter trolls who most definitely are.”
“Really?” It was a hazard of the industry, particularly for young women. The rise of the keyboard warrior meant that everything was fair game to comment on, at any time of the day or night. It was exhausting for everyone involved, but most damaging for the artists on the sharp end.
Damian sighed. “Yes, but I’m trying to ignore them and focus on the positives. Plus, their latest single broke the top 10 this week, so their trajectory is on target. When their Christmas single lands and they hit their big London gigs, we’ll really see what they’re made of. If they can get over their stage jitters.”
All Dronk Records’ other artists were pure musicians, signed on the strength of their song writing and performance. Fast Forward, on the other hand, was the label’s attempt to break into the indie girl band scene with a manufactured band, albeit five women who could play all their instruments. Despite their early success, the band were still getting used to the glare. They looked the part, but they didn’t quite believe it yet.
Fran grimaced. “They’ve certainly embraced their pre-gig nerves. We need to coach them. Or give them Valium, one of the two.”
Damian spluttered. “We’re trying to steer them off the drink and drugs road for as long as we can.”
“Rock and roll ain’t what it used to be.”
Half an hour later, they were immersed in the set from Tom Darby. His songs were big, wrapping their arms around you. He had an easy stage presence, and Fran was transfixed.
“Thanks so much for coming out tonight. This gig is for all the people who’ve helped me along the way, and let me sleep on their sofa so I could gig around London without bankrupting myself. Especially my good friend and now flatmate, Ruby O’Connell. She’s also written a new song which is an absolute killer, and I’ve persuaded her to debut it tonight. So please, go mad and give it up for the brilliant Ruby O’Connell!”
Fran twisted her head just in time to see a tall figure moving through the crowd.
Ruby.
Fran’s insides swooped. Oh shit, Damian had been right. She really was here.
The crowd clapped and whistled, as Ruby got up on stage, giving them a confident wave.
Damian nudged her with his elbow. “I called it.”
This was the Ruby that Fran remembered. Professional Ruby. Far from the one who’d scowled at her most of the night in Mistletoe. Shit on a Twig town. They were the same people, but somehow, Fran couldn’t make the connection to the smiley, happy singer before her.
Was Fran the same? Confident and cool at work, snappy at her parents? Maybe. Perhaps it affected everyone when they returned to their childhood home: they reverted to what used to be.
But right now, in front of Fran, Ruby was totally in the moment. If there was anyone more born to sing and perform than her, Fran hadn’t seen it in a while. Even Tom Darby was put in the shade, and Fran had been impressed by him.
When Ruby sang, time stopped, as did everyone in the crowd. When Ruby drew a breath, the audience leaned in, desperate to get closer.
Ruby’s new song, ‘Pieces Of You’, was immense, with a sweeping chorus that roused the whole room. Violins twanged and the double bass boomed.
She hadn’t had fiddles at the jazz club. Fran swayed to their sound.
Tom Darby provided soft backing vocals, but it was Ruby who opened her mouth and created stardust, her voice mesmerising the room. She was incredible.
It was a crime she didn’t want to be signed. How could Fran persuade her? Not with the cold sell. That hadn’t worked the first time, or in Mistletoe. Fran had to come up with another way. Because if she could promote this single, they could have a worldwide hit on their hands. They could bring cool folk music to the masses.
“Fuck me, that was better than my dreams.” If Damian’s mouth could have hung open, it would. He put a hand on Fran’s arm as Ruby got down from the stage, the crowd now cheering with gusto. “But it’s not Ruby I’m here to see. I’m going to talk to Tom. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.” However, Fran’s glance wasn’t on Damian. It was totally on Ruby as their gazes met. A frisson ran through Fran: a whole crowd of people, but Ruby had spotted her.
A question crossed Ruby’s face, before she frowned, then walked towards Fran.
Fran pulled herself upright and wriggled her hips. She just had to try to be friendly. Get Ruby on-side. That was the first thing to get done. Part one of the charm offensive: flattery. It helped that it was genuine.
“Bravo.” Fran gave Ruby a broad smile. “That was insane. That song has smash-hit written all over it.”
Ruby nodded, her neck pink from exertion. She was wearing a low-cut brown and cream top with a silk scarf, and tweed trousers with big boots. It would have looked ridiculous on Fran. On Ruby, it was perfect. She was every inch the star.
Fran’s scalp prickled as warmth oozed through her. She gritted her teeth. She wanted to sign Ruby, not shag her. However, the way her whole body had just heated up when Ruby got close, it apparently had other ideas.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. Now I really do think you might be stalking me.”
Fran held up both palms. “In my defence, you weren’t on the bill tonight. We came to see Tom, but you were an added bonus. My colleague Damian was just saying earlier what a great match you two would make. Then, up you popped, and now he thinks he can predict the future. Between you and me, I might never hear the end of it now.”
“Sounds like he has good taste.”
There was an awkward pause as Ruby stared at her, and Fran grappled for something else to say. Dammit, she schmoozed for a living. Why did she find it so difficult to speak to Ruby O’Connell? The one person she really needed to impress and gain the trust of. She couldn’t even spit out two sentences without her brain flatlining.
“How are your dads settling into the village?”
Ruby could do small talk.
Fran could conquer it, too.
“They’re doing well. They’re just settling into their lives, and their art studio. They’re going to give Sue a run for her money.”
“Sue will love having someone to talk art with.”
“I spoke to them last night. Pop – that’s Dale by the way, Michael is Dad. Anyway, Pop was talking about designing some gay greetings cards because he can never find good ones. So I’m expecting a ‘Happy Christmas To Our Lesbian Daughter From Your Two Gay Dads’ this year. Although I think that might be a bit niche, but isn’t niche and indie where it’s all at these days?”
Shit, she’d just come out in the most awkward, clumsy way, hadn’t she?
However, Ruby’s face relaxed as she took in Fran’s words. “You’re gay, too? I hadn’t picked you up on my radar.” She gave Fran her warmest smile yet. “If they make one that says ‘Happy Christmas To Our Lesbian Daughter From Your Farming Family’, let me know. Perhaps they could really embrace niche. I mean, it works for me.”
Hang on, had Ruby just come out, too? Fran wasn’t that surprised, but the confirmation of what she’d suspected sent a wave of triumph from her brain to her heart. She always loved it when cool, attractive, talented people were part of her crowd. It made Fran feel all those things by association.
“I wouldn’t say you’re niche,” Fran told her. “In fact, I’d say having one of the most pure and natural folk voices in the country was anything but niche. You deserve to go mainstream.”
Ruby laughed. “Are you trying to butter me up again, then slip a contract into my drink when I’m not looking?”
Fran laughed right back. “I promise, no signing talk tonight, okay? My compliments are just that.”
“I’ll believe you this once.”
“Good.” Fran let her shoulders drop. She breathed out. Could she almost relax in the presence of Ruby O’Connell? It would be a first.
“Have you been back to Mistletoe since we were there last?”
Ruby shook her head. “I’ve had a lot on. But I’m going back in two weeks. It’ll be December 1st by then, and that’s when things really hot up there. Then, I’ll be back for the season.”
Fran’s parents had asked if she was coming to see them for a weekend before Christmas, particularly as she wasn’t going to be there for the big day.
“I was planning on going back around then, too.” Fran paused. “Where do you live?”
“West Ham,” Ruby replied.
“Pretty close to me. I’m in Stratford. I could give you a lift home. Unless you were planning on driving?”
Ruby shook her head. “Tom and I share a van, but he needs it. I was going to get the train.”
Fran splayed her hands. “The offer’s there. I promise, I won’t bring a contract, either.”
She had Ruby’s interest. A lift home was like a golden ticket in London. But would it be enough to tempt her?
“I don’t know. I don’t want to put you out.” Ruby put a hand to her perfectly oval lips.
Fran followed it with interest.
“Although, I do have a lot of presents to bring back.”
Fran shrugged. “There you go, then. No schlepping them on the tube and train. It’s really no bother.”
Ruby took a deep breath, sizing Fran up. “I didn’t think we were going to be friends after our first two meetings.”
“Just being a good neighbour. You can buy me a coffee on the way if it makes you feel better.”
Why was she trying to persuade Ruby? Fran normally loved the solitude when she drove. Just her and her Spotify playlist, and the ability to belt out her favourites at the top of her voice. She wouldn’t be able to do that with Ruby O’Connell in the car.
“You’re on. I’ll buy you a coffee and a sandwich. Perhaps even a bag of crisps.”
“A meal deal.”
“Now we’re talking.” Ruby pulled out her phone. “Should we exchange numbers?”
Ruby plugged in the number Fran recited. “This is not just another step in your stalking plan, is it?”
Fran gave her a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile. “You fell right into my evil trap.”