Tommy King smiled and waved to the adoring crowd in the packed O2 arena as he left the stage after his final song.
They continued to cheer and stamp their feet, demanding a second ovation. High on adrenaline, he looked at his manager expectantly, hoping to go back out on stage. But Sam shook his head at him. Time was up. The show was over.
As they walked down the corridor to his dressing room at the rear of the arena, the noise from the crowd reverberated around the walls. ‘Tommy, Tommy,’ he could hear them chanting over and over again.
But as he moved further away from the stage, Tommy King the musical sensation faded away in his mind and he reverted back to being plain old Tom Kingsley.
Not that Tom Kingsley could ever be described as plain. Both he and Tommy shared the same good looks, with dark brown eyes and a wide jaw. Short dark blonde hair that was always messed up no matter how many times he tried to style it.
But it was only on the outside that they were similar.
Having an alter ego was a ploy used by quite a few popular singers. Beyoncé channelled Sasha Fierce to get a sexier, sassier vibe when she performed. David Bowie had created Ziggy Stardust. Even Paul Hewson had decided that the name Bono sounded more rock god than his real name.
For Tom it was like having a superhero secret identity. Tommy King belonged to the fans, the press and the world but Tom Kingsley was protected. This way, he still could retain some privacy. He could still hang onto his sanity. But only just, it felt like these days.
They reached his dressing room and Tom sank down onto the sofa, exhausted. Normally he was flying high after a great gig, but after six long months on the road, he felt only a sense of relief that it was all over. He needed to relax, but that seemed harder and harder at the minute.
‘Well, that was a great end to a brilliant tour,’ said Sam Harris, his manager as he sat down next to him. ‘Did you see the VIP rows in the front? Everyone I can think of is here tonight.’
Tom yawned as he nodded in agreement. Each venue across Europe had been packed and the shows themselves had received rave reviews, admired for the strength of his song writing as well as his singing.
‘London’s always such a great crowd to finish a tour,’ carried on Sam, smiling. ‘So, how’s the next album going?’
Tom shot his manager a look. ‘Give us a chance,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t been home for months.’
Not that the thought of going back to his brand new apartment filled him with joy. It was a very expensive penthouse in North London which he had bought a year previously but it didn’t feel like home. It was just a place with walls where he had locked himself away before the tour, hoping for a peace that had never come.
‘Primrose Hill is lovely,’ said Sam, nodding his head in approval. ‘You should get to know the neighbourhood.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Since the fans found out where I live, it’s impossible to go out anywhere without getting hassled,’ he said, rubbing his forehead and wondering when he could finally sleep.
‘Are they still shoving Maltesers through your letter box?’ asked Sam, with a chuckle.
But Tom didn’t laugh. ‘I only mentioned them that one time.’
It had been one interview amongst so many that he had given. He couldn’t even recall which magazine it was for. This particular interview had been a quick-fire question and answer. All he had said was that Maltesers were his favourite chocolate fix of choice. From then onwards, he had been sent thousands upon thousands of the damn things. Some days he had been barely able to open his front door due to the sheer number of sweet packets piled up inside. He had tried eating them at first, but now it was highly likely that he would never be able to face a packet of Maltesers ever again.
‘Well, at least now that the tour’s over you can finish your next album,’ said Sam.
Finish it? He hadn’t even started writing his next album. Tom inwardly grimaced and stayed silent. The truth was that, for the first time ever, he had a total block. The new words and music just wouldn’t come. Three hit albums of songs that had almost written themselves. But now, there was only white noise where the words should have been.
The pressure from his record company and his fans was overwhelming. But if he didn’t carry on making music, what else did he have in his life these days?
As he stayed quiet, he could feel his friend studying him.
‘You’re just tired,’ said Sam eventually.
Tom didn’t know what he was these days. Everything felt strange and unfamiliar.
The dressing room was suddenly invaded by members of his backing band who had decided that they must have an end of tour party, despite Tom trying to tell them otherwise. But they wouldn’t take no for an answer and instead of finally going home, Tom found himself going with the large, noisy group to a nearby bar where they quickly took over the place.
Sam had one beer with them and then told Tom that he had a taxi booked to take him home.
‘This late?’ said Tom, glancing at his watch. It was nearly midnight and Sam lived far out in the countryside, away from the bright lights of London.
Sam grinned. ‘I need to see my girl.’
His manager had fallen head over heels for a woman named Annie and they had been apart for a couple of weeks, thanks to the tour. Tom had picked up on the vibes that it had been a struggle for them both not to see each other during that time.
‘Don’t party too hard,’ warned Sam, as he shrugged on his jacket. ‘Remember Paris.’
Tom sighed at the memory before taking a sip of his sparkling water. He had been at his lowest ebb six months ago, having just lost his beloved Gran. She was the only one that had ever cared about him throughout his tumultuous early years when his own parents had been too busy partying to bring up their only son. But even the strongest woman he had ever known couldn’t beat the wretched disease and he had delayed his world tour to sit with her through those hard, sad, final days at the hospice.
His first gig after the funeral had been in Paris and the whole night had been a disaster.
‘I know I drank too much,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘You know how upset I was. But it wasn’t my fault that the band threw me in the fountain, was it?’
Suddenly he was splashed, literally, all over the front pages, hundreds of column inches filled with how poisonous fame could be, how easy it was to hide away in drink and drugs.
Not wanting to deal with life with the aid of a whisky bottle like his father, Tom had not drunk any alcohol for six months.
‘Just watch out for the paparazzi,’ said Sam. ‘We don’t want any more bad publicity.’
Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Anyone with a phone these days is basically paparazzi, you know that. But yeah, I’ll watch out.’
As Sam left, Tom briefly wished that he had someone to go home to. A pair of warm arms to wrap around him and hold him tight all night long.
He was surprised to find himself thinking that way. Having been rejected by most people when he was growing up, he normally didn’t rely on anyone else. But the loss of his gran had knocked his whole steady world off its axis. He missed her so much, he ached inside.
With the wave of grief threatening to overcome him once more, he felt a sudden need to blot out the rest of the world. He reached out and grabbed a shot of tequila from the tray of glasses that one of his backing singers had just brought over.
He would deal with real life when he woke up in the morning.
He briefly thought of Sam’s warning before downing his first shot.
What harm could a couple of drinks do?