Clara was apparently too drunk to pick up on any of this.
A second man who looked exactly like the first started flirting with Clara. He introduced himself as ‘Joe, just Joe’ and explained he was the manager of this ‘hot new boyband’ who just happened to be playing a gig tonight and did they want to come along and sit in the VIP area? The words ‘hot’, ‘VIP’ and ‘boyband’ were enough to convince Clara. So, there they were. Rose to Clara’s left, trying to resist putting her hands over her ears while Clara bumped up against ‘Joe, just Joe’, whose hands roved frantically around her hips.
They were standing at the front of a box overlooking the right of the stage, giving them a perfect view of four indie boys wearing drainpipe jeans and holding guitars. Only one of them seemed to be playing his instrument. The other three were mostly bopping around, singing a mix of pop-that-wants-to-be-rock songs you could easily imagine a group of teenagers wailing along to in a karaoke booth at 4 a.m. There must have been at least 20,000 people in the venue; Rose had heard of the boyband before and dismissed them as basic. So far, they hadn’t surpassed her expectations. Clearly a lot of other people disagreed, the little lights from their smartphones pointed towards the stage as they sang their lyrics back to them in total synchrony. Even Clara seemed to be attempting to sing along to some of them, too, her mouth moving in the slobbery way it does when someone is drunk and hoping that what comes out will resemble words.
As the next song came to an end, one of the men who hadn’t been playing the guitar started to riff with the audience, making jokes about Theresa May: ‘What’s the naughtiest thing you lot did today?’ he asked, all cheeky chappy like a boy in the year above everyone always has a crush on. The crowd shouted back various indistinguishable things. ‘Bet none of you were quite as naughty as little Miss Theresa though. Those fields of wheat, am I right?’ he added to rapturous applause.
It was 8.15 p.m. and Rose already had four missed calls from Luce. Now was the time to leave; progress hardly looked promising with Clara. The rooftop bar was only twenty minutes away by Tube. She could call Luce on her way to the station.
‘Anyway, I wanted to have a little word with you because firstly, I have to say thank you for coming out here tonight,’ the singer continued. ‘It’s our first proper London show and it’s a real honour to be here with all of you. Now, to mark the occasion, we thought it would only be fair if we brought a friend to celebrate it with us.’
The volume of the room had now been turned to its max, shrill screams echoing from below. Rose turned to Clara, who was still dancing. ‘Joe, just Joe’ caught Rose’s eye and smirked. ‘Wait for it,’ he mouthed at her.
‘Without further ado, please, everybody, welcome to the stage the brilliant man who has kindly taken time out of his sold-out world tour to join us. It’s none other than Mr Milo Jax!’
It was hard to establish the order of what happened next. Milo’s arm wrapped around the man with the microphone. A story about how they’d been at school together. Something about getting kicked off an art trip interspersed with laughter and pats on the back. Then more music. His hands squeezing the microphone. His voice. Him. And the deafening screams of 20,000 people reverberating around Rose, dulling her senses and reaching for her throat.
‘I can’t actually believe they brought Milo Jax on,’ said Clara as they stood in the line for the bathroom. ‘Joe, just Joe’ had given them a pair of gold wristbands to get them into the afterparty.
‘Are you into his music?’
‘Oh no, not really. I just think he’s the sexiest man alive. Even the way he was singing on stage, moving his hips like that. You just know that man fucks with a capital F.’
Rose nodded, pulling at the neckline of her shirt. ‘Do you think he’ll be at the afterparty?’
‘I hope so,’ Clara replied, in between gulps from the bottle of water Rose had bought for her. ‘Joe said they’re all old friends. He flew in from Munich just to do the gig with them.’
‘I see.’
‘Apparently he’s a total dreamboat. God, I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘I sort of know him,’ Rose said before she could stop herself, regretting it instantly.
‘What? You do?’
‘He came to the Firehouse Awards and I had to walk him down the red carpet.’ Her heart was racing.
‘Oh my God, what was he like?’
‘He was fine.’
Clara raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine? Seriously?’
And because Rose didn’t want to talk about Milo further, and because she knew there was only one thing she could say to satisfy Clara, she said: ‘He’s just so hot, isn’t he?’
‘Thatta girl,’ she smiled and skipped off into the cubicle that had just opened.
The afterparty wasn’t as much an afterparty as it was a poorly lit room behind the stage with a bar. The room was filled with mostly record label executives and other gold wristband peripherals. No one in the band had arrived yet. Nor had Milo, who had presumably hopped straight onto his private jet and gone back to whatever European city he was playing in the next evening (Prague). Rose was sipping on a warm beer while Joe and Clara giggled and touched each other as much as people could get away with in public. She was half-listening to their conversation about Joe’s trip to Spain, which he kept referring to as ‘España’, when she heard Clara say her name.
‘You know him?’ asked Joe, turning to face Rose.
‘Who?’ Rose replied.
‘Milo!’ jumped in Clara. ‘I was just telling Joe how you guys were friends.’
‘We’re not friends,’ said Rose, feeling her cheeks burning. ‘I just meant that we’d met at the Firehouse Awards.’
‘Were you nominated for something?’ Joe asked.
Clara burst into a fit of giggles.
‘No, I work there,’ said Rose. ‘In the press office.’
‘Oh cool,’ he replied politely. ‘Well, you can say hello to him yourself now if you like.’
She heard his laugh first. That familiar yet entirely alien sound, one that had initially elicited a thrilling tingle as if to signal the start of some transcendental, magical connection. Now, hearing it made her feel like someone was stamping on her chest.
As he moved deeper into the room, Rose caught a glimpse of a silver pair of boots, their glaring shine reflecting everything back. She stepped to the side in an attempt to jolt her body into breathing, a move that brought the back of his head into view. His hair looked longer up close, shaggier, like it hadn’t been washed for weeks. The sight of his hand ruffling through it made her shudder, and yet she found herself fixated, observing the minutiae of every movement as if to be sure it was happening. That after everything he was right there, just a few feet away.
‘I’m just going to the loo,’ Rose whispered to Clara, her pulse thumping loudly.
She had three choices. To leave immediately, apologise to Minnie and wish Clara the best. To stay and dart around Milo until she could convince Clara to leave. Or to forget about Firehouse, her dignity and all social norms, and kick him in the balls.
Washing her hands, Rose stared at her reflection in the mirror, looking for instructions. Her cheeks were puffy, probably from the beer, and her eyes were just glassy enough to pass as tired. The concealer she’d dabbed onto the spots around her mouth had started to fade. She quickly reapplied it, digging around in her make-up bag for whatever else she could find.
‘I love your outfit,’ said a soft voice to her left.
Rose turned to see a pretty petite blonde, wearing a white vest, white skinny jeans and pumps with the Chanel logo on them. On her arm was a Louis Vuitton tote bag.
