chapter eleven
The blacked-out Mercedes pulled up beside the illuminated front of the Roundhouse in North West London. The charity and awards dinner was certainly pulling out all the stops to prove it would be the top of the celebrity calendar for years to come. Not even the football awards dos that Jay had attended in his time had flaunted this much lavish decoration. In the back of the chauffeur-driven car Jay twisted his clammy hands in his lap and adjusted his suit jacket.
Whilst Seb had gone all-new for his whistle and flute, Jay was stuck wearing the suit the club had got for him for their last football bash. It still fit, if a little loose where it counted, but Seb had insisted it didn’t show. He, of course, was decked out perfectly in a slim-fitting black Hugo Boss that hugged his slender frame, and his tight black shirt finished off with a thin ruby-red tie gave him a more sophisticated rock look. If Seb was nervous about the night ahead, he didn’t show it. He just bounced beside Jay with relentless energy.
Someone opened the car door from the outside, and Seb slapped on his smile for the flashing of cameras, screaming of fans, and eager news reporters waiting along the path, forming an aisle leading up to the entrance. The red carpet draped over the concrete flowed up the front steps, toward the open glass doors. Steps. Four of them. Fucking great. Slipping along the back seats, Jay attempted to vacate the car without a grimace. ’Cause that wouldn’t produce a particularly great photo for the waiting media. He now wondered why he’d agreed to this at all. Normally, during Seb’s gigs, he snuck in the back and left Seb to do his schmoozing with the band, or alone. Mainly it would have coincided with Jay’s football fixtures, his rest days where he was confined to the house, or some other commitment to West Ham. But this wasn’t any old gig. This was Seb’s first awards do, and Jay being out on injury meant he’d run out of excuses not to be in front of a camera with him.
Seb was already shaking hands with the first reporter, laughing and answering the questions fired at him. Jay felt as awkward as fuck, standing there, behind him, waiting to be told where to go. Seb shot him a wink. No doubt that would be captured on camera and would go viral by the morning. Seb thanked one news crew only to be called over to the next. The drone from the cheering fans and the chatter from the organisers as they shoved people through doors or in front of various press felt like a circus. And the snaps from cameras left flickering yellow dots in Jay’s eyes. He tried to zone it out, like he would have on a football pitch, but it was only making the dull ache in his knee more prominent in his mind. Fluttering his eyes to a close, he focused on getting up the steps unaided. He couldn’t bear looking like a tit in front of the UK media who already called him names he had to look up on Google.
“Jay! Jay! Over here!” The frantic waving from a female reporter the other side to where Seb stood caught Jay’s eye. He didn’t want to give interviews. This wasn’t his event. This wasn’t football and therefore he wasn’t contracted to speak to the press.
“How’s the recovery? Is Seb looking after you?” Another voice heckled over the crowd, ushering for him to come closer.
No one was picking up on his mental memo. He knew it was rude to ignore them, and that he’d be called any number of things by the papers tomorrow but he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.
“When do you expect to be back on the pitch?”
Jay drifted his gaze to the first reporter, and that was when all the other news crews must have cottoned on to what they were missing and aimed their huge microphones and camera lenses on him. His name, both the Rutters nickname and the more intimate Jay, was blurted out all over the place. Along with a demand they get the first posed photograph of the couple.
Jay had never wanted to get inside faster. He stepped over to where Seb was still ranting into an outstretched microphone about some political stance or other and slid a hand on the small of his back, leaning in to whisper in his ear. He was more than aware the flashes had increased with him doing that. It rang in his ears as well as wrecking his retina.
“I’m heading in.”
Seb looked him the eye. He nodded, then held out a hand to the reporter. “Sorry, duty calls.” He nudged Jay forward and walked by his side, shoulders brushing, but no hands held, toward the Roundhouse entrance. Seb motioned for Jay to take the steps first, using the moment to wave at the clicking of cameras.
With it much calmer inside, Jay could breathe again. A fifty-thousand-strong crowd of football fans seemed far easier to block out than a handful of tabloid journalists asking difficult questions.
“You okay?” Seb asked, squeezing the top of his arm.
“Yeah.” Jay shook his head. “Just didn’t expect that, and I was shitting myself that I’d fall arse over tit and be on Britain’s Funniest Celebrity Gaffs by Monday.”
Seb chuckled, sliding his hand down to tug on Jay’s fingers. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here at all. I know you find all this difficult.”
Jay nodded. “I just ain’t good with the press. I got no idea why they have such interest.”
“Because lives of other people always are, right?”
Jay went to speak, but a clipboard holding and headpiece wearing bloke rushed up to Seb and demanded he go to the dressing rooms.
“Break a leg.” Jay winked.
Seb narrowed his eyes, then laughed and jogged off down some corridor while Jay was shown through to the main arena. Round tables were set up in the decorated hall in front of the stage, with the cheap seats at the back filling up with the ticketed-only audience. A penguin-suited usher showed Jay to his table near the front. Leah, Martin’s girlfriend, with her pink hair tousled to below her waist, smiled in greeting, along with another girl, stick-thin and made up to the nines one chair removed from her. Jay guessed that was Noah’s plus one. The men the other side of the table were part of the record label, heads together discussing business. Then, by herself, in a glittery black dress, sat Ann. Jay smiled. Thank fuck for a familiar face.
“Hey.” Jay sat beside her, stretching out his leg.
“Hi.” She attempted a smile in return, but Jay could tell it hadn’t reached her eyes.
“How’d he rope you into this?”
“I think at the time he asked, I was glad to come. Now,” Ann’s gaze flickered momentarily to the girl opposite, “I know I shouldn’t have.”
“Want some wine?” Jay reached to the middle of the table for the bottles of red and white.
“No.” She held up a glass of water. “My drink for tonight.”
Jay blinked. “Why? What’s up with you? Bun in the oven, is it?” When Ann didn’t respond, Jay midway to pouring some red into his glass, paused. “You ain’t?”
“Shhh.” Ann lowered her head.
“Are you?” Jay set the bottle back on the table.
“Fuck, Jay.” Ann screwed her eyes shut. “I really, really should not have drunk that wine with you the other night.”
“Fuck, Ann! What? When did you find out?”
“This morning. I did a test to kinda put me at ease, y’know? I was late, yeah, but I did not think I was acts preggers. Turned out, the thin blue line got me good and proper.”
“Wow. So, Lucas? Does he know?”
Ann’s body deflated and she closed her eyes. “No. Which is probably a good thing because it ain’t his.” She peered up at Jay, sad brown eyes glistening.
“You slept with someone else? When?”
“Look, don’t go all moral high ground on me. I am aware I am the stupid fucking cliché of a poor girl from the East London council estates. Knocked up at twenty-four and currently single. Thank you, British statistics.” She held up her glass of lemon water in cheers. “I feel as much of a bitch as your eyes are telling me I am. I’m an idiot. I wish it was Lucas’s. But he would never have allowed this to happen, so that’s my lesson learnt, ain’t it?”
Jay had to let that process for a moment. Ann, pregnant. But not only that, the father wasn’t the man she’d been seeing for the past couple of years. The man who didn’t believe in sex before marriage, the man she thought didn’t want her sexually. Like he hadn’t. Was that what people did? Go find it somewhere else if they weren’t getting any? Jay swallowed a glug of red with unease. “Whose is it?” he finally asked.
Ann tilted her neck, her whole body sinking into the seat. But a bursting drum roll interrupted the moment and the evening’s host bounded up onto the stage, hushing the room for his introduction.
Jay leaned over to Ann. “Seb’s on first. We’ll talk later.”
Ann sipped from her water, gaze focused ahead to the stage. The compère did his speech, introducing the night and the awards that were on offer along with how any money raised through auctions and various other means would all be going to the Teenage Cancer Trust. Jay settled back as the first act was announced. The Drops. Red curtains slithered to an open and revealed a rather strange set-up. Especially for a Drops performance. It wasn’t the usual three-piece band with Seb out front. It looked more like a set for a West End stage, dressed up to appear like a bar tavern in the Wild West, with men in cowboy hats and women dressed in over flowing ball gowns.
A single tinny drum roll started up first, and a spotlight focused on Noah to the left behind a smaller kit than his usual. Following that, a vibrating bass line punched through the rhythm, and Martin’s silhouette lit up on the right of the stage. Then came that voice. The deep, husky, tones ricocheting around the whistling hall and a stream of light flowed down on Seb, up front, guitar around his neck as he sang into a headset mic. Jay’s stomach fluttered, the hairs on his arms standing to attention. This wasn’t their usual set-up. This was something else. Jay would have chuckled at the wording, if he wasn’t in awe of what happened next.
It was like a rock-opera. A story sung in chorus and verse detailing murder, mayhem and entangled lovers, and re-enacted on stage by the dancing performers. Seb, Martin and Noah remained focused out front, ignoring the dramatics around them, even when Seb received a few backside pinches and a red kiss mark left on his cheek by a roaming dancer. The audience whistled and all clapped along with relish.
Jay had seen Seb perform dozens of times. Sometimes physically there, many times just the catch-up on live video. And each time he was in awe of him. Each time he was hurtled back to that very first moment, in the dingy Underground bar, when Jay hadn’t known where that rocker would take him.
Then Seb’s singing stopped, making way for an instrumental solo and Jay sat forward in his seat. There must have been other musicians in on the performance, unseen from the seats, as Seb whipped his guitar off from around his neck, handing it to a roving performer all the while the music increased. Seb held out a hand, and a pirouetting dancer in floating red ballgown slapped her palm into it and he dragged her forward to him, sliding his other hand onto her hip. Jay’s eyes could have popped from his head as he leaned forward and watched his boyfriend serenade the woman around the stage in a perfected tango. Seb could dance. Really dance. And pretty damn good.
And Jay hadn’t known about any of it. How could I have not?
“Fuckin’ hell.” Ann exclaimed. “You so know he’s gonna be picked for Strictly after this.”
Jay heard her, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stage. He’d known Seb could move to a rhythm, being musically talented and all, and on occasion Jay had danced with him, but that had been slower and more sensual, with only really one thing on their mind. This, this was something else. This was professional standards. Seb roamed that stage, gracefully so, launching through various swings and twists. And his partner was attached to him, eyes focused on him, looking ever the woman in love.
Jay envied her. He could never be her.
As the instrumental part increased, speeding up to a climax, the woman was ripped from Seb’s arms to fall into another dancer’s, and Seb was handed back his guitar and continued singing, with no fault in his voice. The crowd, needless to say, went fucking wild. Jay couldn’t even clap. He’d been stunned, frozen.
A table across from theirs claimed by some boy band that Jay recognised but couldn’t have cared less what their name was erupted into cheers. One of them launched to stand on his seat and wolf-whistled up at Seb. Jay narrowed his eyes, jealousy stabbing his conscience. Seb grinned, winked at the bloke, and sang the last line to the performance. The entire audience consisting of musicians, celebrities, and those lucky enough to have held on the phone at 8 a.m. to claim the couple of thousand civilian tickets, roared.
Jay stood, his heart pounding. All he wanted was to leap on that stage, take Seb in his arms and kiss him. But he couldn’t. With his heart in his throat, he limped out of the hall, finding the nearest fire exit.
* * * *
Still buzzing, Seb ran off the stage to stand in the wings. The performance had gone better than he’d imagined on devising it only a couple of weeks ago. He had his mother to thank for having given him his theatrical musical background and the contacts to seek out a dance crew that had been open to his last-minute ideas. Seb peered past the curtains, out to the front stage with Martin and Noah huddled behind him as the backline tech crew cleared away their set, making room for the first awards announcement.
He didn’t really think he had a chance. The category of debut album was a tough one. All the albums, bar one, in Seb’s opinion, were front runners. But if the Drops won this, then they’d finally get noticed by those in the industry that mattered—the critics. These awards were independently judged by a panel of music professionals, and not voted on by the public. And that meant more to Seb, knowing that his popularity for being Jay “Rutters” Ruttman’s boyfriend seemed to outweigh his musical talent. Yeah, the band was rising up the charts, gaining mainstream fans, but they all still focused on his celebrity status rather than the music he consistently produced. Here, things might change.
He bit his thumbnail, trembling with anticipation as the screens around the venue showed each of the bands in the running. The Drops’ Breaking Through video popped up first, Seb on his back in the water singing to the camera, which then cut to the next band, Attax. Not a chance. Then the next.
“I’m gonna have to light this thing, they don’t hurry the fuck up.” Noah slipped out the cigarette tucked from behind his ear.
“Shhh,” Seb shot over his shoulder.
“And the winners are…” The compère opened the envelope in front of him, and dragged out the anticipatory wait.
“Come the fuck on!” Noah yelled.
“Attax.”
The audience burst into thunderous applause. Seb hung his head, disappointment surging through his entire body. Any of them. Any single one of them, but that fucking band.
“Bollocks to it.” Noah stomped off and after a brief squeeze of Seb’s arm, Martin followed behind him.
Seb stayed grounded, watching the band receive their shiny trophy and giving a speech about how humbled they were, blah blah, fucking, blah. Every clap from the crowd as the band returned to their table felt like someone banging Seb’s head against a brick wall. He wanted to stamp his foot and demand a recount, but instead he watched each of the Attax band members shaking hands with whoever sat at their table. Trailing his gaze along the rest of the venue, it was then that he noticed the absence of a certain young blond.
Pulling himself together, he bundled off backstage and through the swinging doors that led to the adjoining corridors of dressing rooms and rehearsal space. He searched for an exit, biting down the hurt and slight feelings of betrayal as he focused on finding Jay in the hope there was a better excuse for his departure than the ones Seb was currently thinking up. A set of fire doors were clanged shut at the end of the corridor, and Seb bounded toward them before a call of his name made him stop in his tracks.
“Sebastian?” The guy was suited, as most that evening were. But his one screamed all money and top executive. As he stepped closer, Seb noted the suit was a Prada special. Nice. “Kenneth Larson.”
Seb instantly slapped his palm into the man’s outstretched hand.
“A&R Director for Sony Music.”
“I know, I know.” Seb nodded as though he was the fucking Churchill dog.
Smiling, Kenneth stepped back and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “That was some performance back there.”
“Thank you.” Seb was aware he was acting like a startled fanboy, but he couldn’t not. This guy had been the driving force behind many of the bands that Seb himself had listened to for most of his adolescent life. Kenneth Larson was God in the music industry.
“You devised all that yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re currently signed with Armstrong Records?”
“Yes.” And also currently unable to say more than one fucking syllable!
“How are you finding them?”
“Honestly?” Seb rubbed his forehead, invigorating his speech to come to life. “I mostly do it all myself. I give them a percentage of my royalties for them to stick their fingers up their arses. They have no clue. I believe they’re more interested in my celebrity exposure than my music.”
Kenneth chuckled. “Yes. I can imagine. They are a small outfit. That comes with the territory. I can see they are clinging onto your more…unprecedented interest in the hope it gains them sales.”
That was a new one for fucking a gay footballer.
“I think we might be able to help.” Kenneth produced a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it over. “I was at V Fest. I was impressed and I’ve followed you ever since. You’re talented, Seb. More than you’re given credit for. And tonight, I think you might have just proven that to the naysayers. Those who think you’re riding on this wave of hysteria around you.”
Seb flipped over the card. Pristine white matt with just Kenneth’s name and a personal mobile number printed in jet black ink. Elegant. Minimalist. Except Seb held in his hand the thing he had wanted most in his entire life. This made up for losing the award to fucking Attax.
“And an FYI. Money in music isn’t found in royalties anymore. I’m sure you’re aware of that, what with you having utilised the free market to gain exposure from the outset.”
“I am aware. Sales of physical CDs have reduced drastically since the introduction of music streaming. No one cares to hold a record in their hands anymore.” Seb tutted. “Whereas I think that’s the beauty of it. A brand-new limited-edition LP is an artwork.”
“Agreed. But for the majority, it’s the tours, the live performances, that bring in the fans. And fans bring in the dollars. People now pay to see you, not just to hear you.” Kenneth smiled and pointed a finger. “And you just gave the world a reason to seek out your next tour date. Which is when, by the way?”
“Unplanned. On hold.”
“Reasons?”
Seb sighed. “Personal ones.”
“Unpersonalise them. America awaits you, Seb. I can have you touring the states and cracking America in no time. If you want to hit the big time, if you want to know how to make money in music, then America is the first step to global success. And you do not want to be doing that with a three-man team making up Armstrong Records, or, as you say, by yourself.”
“You’d sign us?” Seb’s voice warbled with the revelation.
“I’d sign you. If you come with band members already in tow, so be it. But just so we’re clear, it’s you I want.” Kenneth tapped the top of Seb’s arm. “Call me, we’ll arrange a meeting and go through things. Enjoy the rest of the evening, regardless that the Awards committee have no idea what they’ve just missed out on.”
Seb tapped the card in his hand, then nodded. “I will. Thank you.”
Kenneth sauntered away, finding the double doors that lead through into the main hall. Seb’s chest tingled. He had to find the lads. Asap. Grinning, he ran back toward the hall.
* * * *
Leaning his elbows on the railing separating the smoker’s area from the back alley, Jay stared up at the night sky. A full moon lit up the darkened city and he exhaled a steam of condensation into the air. Least it was quiet out there, except for the occasional thunderous round of applause that drifted through the bulky fire doors. He felt a git for bailing, especially as the announcement for best debut indie album was due up first. Jay wouldn’t know if Seb had just landed his first accolade.
The doors behind him clanged open and Jay angled his head to see who the outcoming was. Ann smiled, and teetered down the steps, having to side-step them due to her tight pencil skirt.
“Been looking for you everywhere.” She bumped his shoulder. “Taking up smoking?”
Jay hung his head.
“Didn’t know Seb could tango.” Ann twisted and leaned back on the railing to face him, her smile filled with sincere sympathy.
“Nor did I.”
Nodding, Ann scraped her peep-toe heel along the pavement. “I’m sure he did it to impress you.”
Jay shrugged. Maybe Seb had. Maybe he’d kept his ballroom dancing skills a secret to one day show them off to Jay. Maybe he’d been waiting for the right moment. Jay wasn’t sure that tonight, when Jay could hardly walk, was the best time. But he was also aware that not everything needed to revolve around him. He just couldn’t help thinking it was a kick in the teeth when he was already down.
“Don’t go doing that.” Ann pushed him gently on the arm.
“Doing what?”
“Thinking you ain’t good enough for him.”
Jay didn’t reply. Instead, he eyed Ann’s skin-tight dress. “What are you gonna do?”
Ann shrugged. “Fuck knows.”
“How long you been sleeping with the bloke?”
“On and off for a while. More off than on, I’d say. Until a couple months back when I thought things were definitely over with Lucas. Then it was more on.” Ann sighed and adjusted the pins in her up-do. “I know I’m a cow. I know I’m going straight to hell. I know everyone will think I’m a bitch. I don’t know how to explain it, but I guess I needed to know I was desirable. He did that for me.”
Jay tried not to let disappointment seep into his expression. It wasn’t his place to judge. It was his place to be the mate Ann needed. The way she had been for him so many times before.
“Have you told him?”
“God no.” Ann shook her head with a vicious frown. “To be fair, I only found out this morning and, well, the bloke ain’t really the marriage-and-kids type, so I’m fairly certain he won’t take the news too great. Might ruin his rep.”
“Could always tell Lucas it’s his, then he’ll have to marry ya.”
Ann laughed, glistening tears in her eyes. “Spontaneous conception? Don’t think that’d work to be honest.”
“I weren’t being serious.”
“I know.”
After a pause, Jay nudged her shoulder with his. “I think you’d make a great mum.” He smiled, hoping he was saying the right thing. He didn’t know anymore. He’d lost more than his ability to play football. He’d lost his ability to be able to assess what people were thinking, feeling. So drowned in his own drama, he’d lost his empathy for others.
“Really? I thought I wouldn’t have kids. Like, ever.”
“Why not?”
Ann picked a piece of fluff from Jay’s jacket. “’Cause remember back when we was kids? And we snuck out to go to that shitty travelling fair down Plaistow Park?”
Jay racked his brains, vague memories teetering on the surface. Then, he chuckled. “We were, what, fifteen?”
“Yeah, ’bout that. You threw up on the Waltzer.” Ann laughed.
“’Cause you made me eat the whole bag of candyfloss.”
“No-one made you, Rutters. You just hadn’t ever eaten than much sugar in one sitting before.”
“What’s this gotta do with you not wanting sprogs?”
“I didn’t say I never wanted them. Just, I had a different vision of having kids.” Ann sniffed, and she had trouble swallowing. “’Cause, remember that little boy we found? Crying that he’d lost his mum?”
“Oh, yeah. We waited with him, then walked him around and found his mum in a panic.”
“Yeah. She was so grateful. And I always remember ’cause she said to me ‘don’t ever let that one go. You’ll make fantastic parents.’ And that was when we’d only kissed a couple of times. But I was so in love with you. How you were with that kid, too. My ovaries were knocking to be let out.”
Jay’s shoulders dropped and he pushed away from the railing. “Ann—”
“Look, it ain’t that I’m upset about it or nothing. I mean, shit, I came to terms with it years ago. But this…” She stroked her stomach. “Kinda brought that all back. If I was going to have kids with anyone, it was going to be you. Like I thought we might have back when we was fumbling around trying to make it work. When contraception was you faking it.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t try convincing me anymore. I ain’t as stupid as I was back then. I’d’ve loved to have your baby. Still would. I’d give it to you and Seb in a heartbeat.”
“I think you’d feel differently about that when you hold it in your arms.”
“Maybe. But this isn’t yours. And it isn’t Lucas’s. And I’m such an idiot to have chased anyone who’d have me just because of all the old feelings of rejection. Now I’m gonna be a single mum, forever, ’cause no one is gonna want me now.” Tears streamed down Ann’s cheeks and she tried to clear them with her thumb.
Jay had no idea what to do. Or to say. He rooted in his pocket and found a cloth that he supposed should have been tucked into his lapel. Handing it over, he wondered how much about Ann’s behaviour was down to him.
“Who’s the father?”
The fire escape doors behind them clanged open and out stumbled Noah, customary cigarette clenched between his lips. “Fuck this shit. Coming outside for a fag is doing my nut in.” He nodded down to Jay and lit the cigarette, blowing smoke into the air. “Jay. Ann.”
“Noah.” Ann folded her arms.
“Babe, move over.” The girl from the table curled a manicured hand around Noah’s arm and pushed him aside. Noah lit her cigarette for her, holding her hand as he did so, then peered down to ground level.
Then Jay realised he didn’t know the outcome of the awards. “You win?”
Noah blew another lungful of smoke into the air. “Nah. Attax did.”
“Sorry.”
The girl kissed Noah’s cheek. “Don’t worry, babe, you’ll win drummer of the year.”
Ann shivered beside Jay. “I’m heading back in. You coming?”
“Give me a minute.”
Ann squeezed his arm, then teetered back up the steps, slipping through Noah and the girl and slammed the doors after her. Jay twisted around, ignoring the sound of lips smacking against each other and took a deep breath. Until—
“Watch it, Saunders.” Noah flicked his cigarette over the barrier as Seb bashed the door into his girlfriend.
“Sorry, Martin with you?” Seb baulked on catching Jay’s gaze. “Baby!” He bundled down the steps to stand in front of him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Jay nodded. “Sorry, I just needed air. The knee seized up.” It wasn’t right to lie, but nor was it right to offload all the crap on Seb just then. Not when he’d just lost out on his first award.
“Right.” Seb bit his lip.
“And, well, Ann needed a chat.” Even better, blame Ann. “She’s pregnant.”
“For serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I thought she and Lucas—”
“It ain’t his.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“She keeping it?”
Jay shrugged. The clang of the fire doors above jolted them both. Shit. He’d forgotten that they hadn’t been alone in the darkened alley. Jay didn’t suppose it would matter. It had only been Noah. He wouldn’t have cared to listen when sucking face with the model he’d brought along.
Seb brushed his shoulder with Jay’s. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s tough. And feisty. And she’ll have your, our, support whatever she decides, right?”
Jay nodded.
Smiling, Seb tugged Jay’s fingers. “Come on, let’s go in. I need to speak to the guys.” He went to head up the steps toward the doors, but Jay tightened his fingers around Seb’s and pulled him back.
“You all right?” Seb asked, looking down at their entwined hands.
Jay hated what he was going to say, but right then, he couldn’t stop himself. He just wanted to be alone. With Seb. Like how they’d been earlier. “Can we just go home? I ain’t feeling it.”
Seb hung his head, inhaling a sharp breath but when he looked back up, he slapped on a smile. “Sure.”