12:08 a.m. -- 2007-02-24
The party is going on downstairs, I am in my room. I crept upstairs earlier and I'm lieing in bed in my bed top and shorts in the dark. I can hear them downstairs, laughing and downing drug after drug and drink after drink. I am not unhappy, I am merely feeling quiet.
The door opens and a cumbersome shape lurches through and collapses onto my bed in the dark. I shriek, and turn on the light. He lies there, black-clad, perfect streamlined sillhouette shape in pointed shoes and leather. "What the fuck are you doing?" I ask.
He groans. "I can't keep up with the party. I crept out. I didn't think anyone was in here."
I realise I hardly know him. His friends are mine, but him less familliar. I shrug and pull myself out of bed onto the covers. "Never mind. You can crash here if you want."
We chat a little, a disjointed getting to know you session distracted by the fact that he is embarrassed and I am in shorts and messy hair.
The things I already know - his work, his travel, his adulation, his forever in the public eye, his lack of privacy - he speaks nothing of. He speaks just of clothes and music and not having a girlfriend.
"I'm surprised. You are the good looking one."
"The good looking one? No! J is the good looking one. F is the quirky one. S is the cool one. J is the baby. I'm just me."
I laugh. I disagree. He asks if I care; I say no. "I'm the friend. Sarah is the hottie."
He laughs. Maybe he disagrees.
And then a moment. We're laying side by side on my bed, my knees are curled to my chest. The moment. A look, between him and I. My knees flop to the side and we kiss long and hard, breathlessly, frantically, his hands in my hair, my hands ripping at his leather. His jacket is off, his tongue and my tongue synchronise like lost friends.
Then the moment subsides, as quick as it came. We breathe heavily and realise what we've done, foreheads pressed together.
"Fuck, I don't even know you. Please don't think I've come up here to get a piece. I didn't know..." he stammers.
"Don't think I'm kissing you 'cause you're famous."
"Famous! I'm not that famous! Not in the grand scheme of famous things."
And then an awkwardness. His hand twitches on my hip and I pull my forehead back from his, becoming aware of his great brown eyes; darkest brown, and darkest hair, a long nose. Our locking eyes make sparks again and we kiss, and kiss, and kiss, legs entwining, bodies pressing together.
"I don't want to fuck," I breathe, fearing I may be taken for another groupie.
An awkwardness. He smiles. "I wasn't looking for that," and almost laughs, "I wouldn't decline. But I wasn't looking for that." And our tongues lock together again, and do not part, our hands exploring all over.
The next morning, he's half naked in my bed. We were chaste, and awake to stare into each others eyes, bashful nonetheless, timid kisses. We swap numbers. He leaves. We make a promise of a secret.
I do not hear from him for days. He is away, on tour, my mind often wanders to him and what girls may be throwing themselves at his feet. A simple message - "How are things in london? It's grim up north, just rain rain rain. Check me talking about the weather, how sad. Show in two hours. But yeah. I'm thinking of you.x" and I reply "London is the same as it was when you left it, don't worry. I bet you're having tons of fun really, bachelor boy! Break a leg with the show. Thinking of you too x" and then "We're playing Brick Lane in three weeks, will you be there? x" ... "If you'd like me to be x" ... "I would xx" ... "then i will be, no probs. x" ... "looking forward to it. Show was cool. Low credit so i'll say goodnight xx" ... "Your label should pay your credit, give them a nudge! Glad it went well. Speak to you soon. xx"
And then nothing. Nothing for three weeks until the night before the show, when: "You coming tonight? It's sold out. If you don't have entry let me know and I'll sort it.xx" ... "I'm sorted. See you later.x"
I am a mix of emotions. Before the show they walk around in the crowd, socialising. I can't have him to myself, nobody can. I won't be another fan. I hardly know him. They hardly know him. We catch up for five minutes and there are smiles in his eyes. He whispers to me - "Are we still keeping secrets?"
"Yes we are. Well, I am. Are you?"
He nods a yes. "You look good tonight."
I laugh. "Sarah's the hot one!"
He shakes his head a no. "Really, no."
"Yes."
"No. When do I see you again?"
"When your busy schedule allows."
"I'm in London for sixteen days."
"Oh joys. Long holiday."
"Bit of recording."
And then a tug on the arm, and he vanishes, all apologies. Sarah looks at me suspiciously but I ignore it. We stand at the back to avoid the crowd. I've seen them before - on stage they are all different people, parodies of themselves and the image they craft, nothing like real life. Nothing like the boys I know, or assume I know. I am overcome again with the urge not to be one of these fawning girls. I realise that no, he isn't famous, not in the grand scheme of famous things, anyway. He is loved by 'the youth' and will get his fifteen minutes of fame (years? two? three? five?) and then fade behind the shadows of F and S, the obvious stars of the show.
Afterwards the stage door is heaving with would-be entrants. We stay back. When they subside F pulls Sarah and I backstage, a mess of techies, groupies and friends, drugs and alcohol and electrical equipment. Sarah is gathered into the fold of F and S and I am left milling around, trying not to look for him.
He pulls my wrist and I turn around. "Come outside," and opens the fire exit for us to slip out of. He is high on post-show adrenaline and we kiss, and kiss and kiss, frantically like that first time, I am pinned against the wall, legs wrapped around him.
"When will I see you again?" He asks.
"I'm not your groupie, T, I'm not that girl you can pull when you're fucked and there's nobody else around. I won't be the girl you pick up and put down."
"I'm not like that, that's not me."
"Come on! You're one of the boys,"
"That's not me, I've been thinking about you, I promise."
He lets go and we stand awkwardly. He shakes his head. "Take me or leave me. You know how difficult it is for me to see girls? Any girl! If I bother at all it has to be worth it."
A quick launch into explanations about his business being bandied about in London circles, and an oratory about what a private person he actually is. I meet it with silence.
"Come over tomorrow afternoon. Sarah is working."
He smiles. We hold hands and share a cigarette, not speaking but looking.
And then slip back through the fire exit.
Last Five
i had a threesome - 2008-02-05
Three Weeks - 2007-02-24
Dreaming of Brown Eyes - 2007-01-06
Back - 2006-09-19
The Last 12 Months of ME, in a nutshell. - 2006-06-11