I used my last sterling on a huge coffee and a cheese toastie. My throat felt like sandpaper after the Regatta show but Sam insisted I bring my guitar in case Beatnik asked us to perform. A text came in from Carter just before we headed to the meeting.
Phoenix would have had a field day analysing that one, but when I thought about seeing him again my hands started to shake.
With fifteen minutes to spare, we dodged the building sites on the street and walked up to the glass revolving doors. Carter and Richie were loitering outside, both looking like they’d had a shower and at least a few minutes’ sleep.
Carter smiled broadly when he saw me. ‘I knew you’d be here, Jimi.’ Something about the nickname made me stop: it seemed so normal. How could he go from ‘I’ve wanted you for weeks’ to pretending it never happened? I shouldn’t have expected an apology, but it still stung.
Well, fine. If he could shake it off, I would too. Maybe it hadn’t meant anything to me either. Maybe I kissed people on balconies all the time.
Oh, come on. He was never going to believe that.
When I stood beside him, I could smell his soap and I wished I’d replaced last night’s make-up with a new form of armour.
Richie looked happy to see me for the first time since I’d met him. ‘I thought you’d gone back to Oz,’ he said nonchalantly, but his face betrayed him.
‘Dude, it’s Beatnik,’ I said, and he grinned even wider.
We waited in the lobby, gawking at the marble ceiling while a fresh-pressed army of people swept past us on the way to lunch. I looked down at the comfortable outfit I’d selected for the plane: the cracked leather jacket I’d bought in a vintage store because it reminded me of Sid Vicious, my trusty tartan jumper, torn black jeans and sneakers. But I had to believe Jerry wanted to see us because of what we could do, not what we looked like.
A girl came out of the lifts and headed straight for us as though she saw hapless kids with guitars every day. She handed out red VISITOR stickers and avoided eye contact as the lift silently scaled fourteen floors. She left us in the reception area, a clinical room with white couches and floor-to-ceiling windows, and I looked out at the street below so I didn’t have to meet Carter’s eyes.
Jerry finally arrived with a showman’s grin in place. ‘Liliana!’ he said, like he deserved a medal for remembering my name. We wedged ourselves into a plush couch in his office while he went to get his colleagues and I scanned the framed records on the wall, looking for Perfect Storm. My knee wouldn’t stop jiggling and Carter put his hand on it to stop the movement. I flinched like he’d burned me and he took it off.
Jerry returned with a crowd of people. ‘This is Saskia and Amir,’ he said as they filed in. ‘Boris. Jen.’ He got up our channel and I cringed at the sound quality as the opening bars of ‘King Cutie’ began. If they hated it, I’d never see the song the same way again.
From the computer, my voice sounded confident as the chorus ramped up.
When he asks, he asks so easily
Steps up fast and moves in close to me
And I reply, I know absolutely
I’m with him, and he’s King Cutie
Those words sounded plaintive in the light of what had happened between Carter and me. And then came the line Carter had written:
You might think you’re different, but soon you’ll see
It’s always a good time with King Cutie
It was almost like he’d warned me about himself. Maybe I was an idiot for thinking he might be different with me.
As the song ended I let out a long breath and finally looked at Amir, Saskia, Boris and Jen. Their boredom had been replaced by cautious interest.
Amir was obviously one of the more senior people, maybe a manager. He was not much taller than me, fine-boned, and wearing a velvet jacket that made my skin crawl. ‘It’s got a lot of energy, a nice blend of rock and pop, and it sounds like you can actually play.’
‘Their look, too,’ said Saskia, speaking as if we weren’t actually there. Her hunger to impress Amir and Jen was obvious. ‘All four of them. This one,’ she pointed at me, ‘is a bit on the skinny side, but with some lipstick, some heels, I think we can work with it.’
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take offence. My feet were still stinging from Tish’s experiment last night. Changing the way I dressed hadn’t exactly worked out for me so far.
‘And this one.’ She waved a hand over Carter, who stared straight back at her, partly hostile. ‘Total smokeshow. You’ll certainly set the teenage pulses racing.’ I stifled a laugh at the word ‘smokeshow’. Richie made a sceptical click behind his teeth that reminded me of the way he’d said ‘Unbelievable’ when he’d found me kissing Carter last night, and I felt my face grow hot.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jen, who looked like she’d just stepped out of a 1970s disco, her neat Afro tied back with an orange scarf. She fingered a hoop earring and looked us over. ‘Punk isn’t really having a moment right now. It’s all about the softer guitars, more electronica, or laidback reggae sounds. How old are you?’ she asked me.
‘Sixteen,’ I said.
‘And how long have you been playing together, as a band?’
‘A few years,’ said Carter before I could tell the truth.
‘Any gigs?’ Her voice was cool: Amir might have been keen, but she seemed higher up the food chain.
‘We won a Battle of the Bands in May,’ said Carter. ‘And we just played at Regatta. And we’re about to start a weekly gig at a pub,’ he added, clearly not inclined to let the facts get in the way of a record deal. ‘My dad – Liam Tanqueray, you might’ve heard of him – got us the gig.’
Sam and I stayed neutral, but Richie didn’t even try to hide his disdain at the name-drop.
‘Your father is Liam Tanqueray?’ Jen asked, finally letting go of her earring.
‘They really kick it live,’ said Jerry.
Amir’s eyes glinted. ‘Let’s see it, then.’
Boris said, ‘Come downstairs, I’ll set you up with a drum kit.’
In the lift, my legs were so rickety that I didn’t know how I was going to stand in front of everyone and play. I rubbed my hands together in the hope it would stave off cramp, and Sam caught my eye. ‘Just play, Donadi,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ll love us.’
On the eighth floor, we wound past several rooms with drum kits, turntables and microphones before we reached the recording studio. Its long glass wall made me feel like an exhibit in a zoo. Boris leaned his elbows on the dashboard behind the glass and nodded out at us. Somehow, I held my voice level enough to ask which song they wanted to hear, and Jerry answered ‘King Cutie’ without hesitation.
Behind me, Sam counted us in and we leapt into it. I let my fingers take over and tried to convince myself this was no different to last night, in front of the punters at Regatta. I risked a glance at Carter brooding over his guitar, his hands capable and sure, and he looked up with the same pure joy we shared every week at rehearsal. I wanted to smile back, but the memory of everything that had happened last night stopped me. As we built to the bridge I practically spat out the words: You might think you’re different, but soon you’ll see. By the end of the song, my hands were steady. It had almost been liberating.
Boris was deep in conversation with Jen behind the glass. Richie watched them intently, but the rest of us avoided each other’s eyes, not wanting to say anything. And then, finally, Amir looked up at us with a white-toothed smile.
‘Congratulations, Lady Stardust,’ he said. ‘We’d like to offer you a contract.’
•
We walked out into the grey afternoon, arms linked, guitars slung over our backs, a four-headed, grinning hydra. We hadn’t stopped smiling in the surreal minutes that followed Amir’s offer, as we’d waited quietly in Jerry’s office for Saskia to print the contracts for us to take home. But as soon as we cleared the lobby, Carter said, ‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Ohmygod ...’ I squeaked out.
‘Oh my god ...’ Sam agreed.
And then the four of us put our arms around each other and tore down the street.