Chapter Four
Seb shoved up the sleeves on his leather jacket, revealing the Chinese number nine symbol tattooed on the underside of his wrist. It always helped in these situations, giving him that gentle nudging reminder. Adjusting the chair on wheels closer to the large microphone dangling in front of him, he slipped one side of the studio-wear headphones away from his ear.
It had been a month since the announcement that the Drops’ were headlining V Fest and the press interviews and media appearances had thrust the band, and mainly Seb, further into the limelight. Not that he begrudged any part of it. Far from it. He loved the chance to talk about his music: if only the journalists would stick to the pre-vetted questions, that was. And most of them did. The usual suspects that wrote for magazines or online articles had come to learn that as soon as anything off-topic, mainly a certain front man’s relationship status, was brought up, Seb drew the session to a close. Luckily, no one had pushed the mark. And the exposure was certainly aiding their latest album to rocket the download chart, putting the Drops firmly on course for a UK top ten album before the end of the year.
He glanced up at the sign above the door, the words ON AIR emblazoned and highlighted. Clearing his throat, he nodded to the radio presenter on the other side of the table masked by the tons of equipment that did who knew what, to declare he was ready. Which was lucky, as the last few lyrics and guitar pelting solo of the Drops’ latest single blared out of the speakers to the million or so listeners of the most popular weekend radio show.
This was their first live interview. Their record label had managed to bag the best slot on UK radio due to the increased sales of their latest album that had more of a mainstream appeal than even Seb had prepared for. He’d believed the Drops’ to be a more minority band, a niche, the outcasts in a music industry that seemed awash with macho posturing and male bravado. The Drops’ certainly didn’t offer that, with their image having been crafted by the Marmite affect—people either loved or hated them. Him, mainly. Not that he was knocking the unexpected popularity, nor the pound signs that came with it, but live on air at nine o’clock wasn’t exactly a Drops’ friendly slot, especially when most of their songs couldn’t be considered as pre-watershed material. And Seb couldn’t be bleeped out when live on air. Thankfully he had Martin and Noah on either side of him to cut in when he tended to go trigger-happy on the cussing.
“And that was the latest single from the Drops’ new album, Breaking Through.” Christian O’Leary’s infamous gravel tone, perfect for radio, grated through Seb’s earphones and into homes of his millions of avid listeners. “And we are so excited at the studios here today, as we have the Drops with us. Welcome, guys.”
“Thanks for having us.” Seb offered a limp smile and the other two band members nodded their nonchalance—the fashioned image of morose rockers honed to a tee. Seb knew inside they were either bricking it or jigging to the Snoopy dance.
This was the top. This music station only brought on the best, as indicated by the signed records hanging in frames on the walls. Bands scrambled for a chance to chat with Christian, not just for the sheer number of loyal subscribers to his show, but because he knew his shit, and if they got on his good side, he’d play their song to death and they’d reap the royalties and the free promotion that came with it.
“It’s a great record. You guys seem to have come out of nowhere. Just over a year ago, no-one had even heard of the Drops. Now you’re almost a household name. How have you taken to the fame?”
“Like a pig in—”
Martin’s first nudge made Seb’s elbow fall off the swivel seat’s arm rest. Breakfast show, live. No swearing. Right. Seb straightened out.
“We’re well and truly embracing our unexpected success and have taken to the rock and roll lifestyle with tremendous enthusiasm.” Seb grinned.
Christian laughed, his breath blowing through the microphone. “I’ll bet. So reading between the lines, you’re all living it up large?”
“Not exactly,” Seb replied, taking the regret out of his delivery. “If we had the time, we would, I’m sure. We’ve worked hard to get where we are. I know it looks to everyone else as if we exploded on the scene with no real effort. But it’s quite the contrary. We’ve had a hard slog getting here. We’ve gigged the dives. We’ve had the rejections. We almost quit. We’re the epitome of the saying if at first you don’t succeed, stick two fingers up to the haters and carry on regardless.”
“And your latest single really reflects that.” Christian nodded in encouragement, giving a thumbs-up as an indicator all could be heard okay. “But you’ve made your mark by singing candidly about how you feel about the current landscape. Would you say current affairs affect your music?”
“Definitely.” Seb licked his drying lips, then made a cup sign with his hand to the girl under the highlighted sign clutching a clipboard to her chest. She scurried off and Seb sat forward. “Unless you walk around with your eyes closed, as a creative, it’s hard not to be affected by what’s happening in the world. We’re living in decadent times, and that fuels my song writing. Breaking Through focuses on how a luxurious and self-indulged state of living can eventually implode, and forces us to take a look at what we really need, can live with and what should be important. I can’t write a song without meaning behind it. I have to say something. State something. And usually it’s a pretty big something.”
“I see.” Christian tapped the end of his pen to his chin. “So did your background influence your choice of songs on the album? Having listened to it, I could really feel the theme of leaving the past behind, about living a truth.”
“That’s exactly what it’s about. Becoming who you really are. Over the past year, we became who we really were, having just played around with it before then.” Seb mouthed a thanks to the returning girl who handed him a glass of water and he took a sip, moistening his drying throat. “We’ve shed some layers and shown ourselves, confronting the prudish attitudes of the bourgeois.”
“But in doing so, you’ve been accused of trying to claim something that isn’t really yours—the ethics of the working-class hero. What do you say to that?” Christian raised dark eyebrows across the threshold, urging Seb on. He was walking a fine line. That wasn’t a vetted question. But Seb could deal.
“I say that’s bullsh—” Another nudge and Seb heaved an annoyed breath. “We know who we are. I know who I am. We know where we came from. We don’t claim to be anything we’re not. We’re being open and honest about having not fit into the round holes that we were born into. And by speaking out about those issues, we’re inadvertently appealing to the masses, without us really having expected to.” Seb shrugged one shoulder.
Christian nodded. “Can you see, though, how some might regard this album, and your succinct style in particular, as punk rock? Something that has its roots in the working class?”
“Punk is a way of life, not a sound. The Drops’ embrace that lifestyle wholeheartedly. We say be different, be who you are, go against the grain. Speak out for what you believe in. That isn’t something that can be adopted by only one social group.”
“But can you, three lads from affluent backgrounds, one of you having attended the most prestigious boarding school in the country—”
“And subsequently expelled at aged fourteen for not conforming to their rigid conditioning.” Seb leaned into the microphone and grinned for the delivery of that statement. Rock ‘n’ roll the shit out of that.
“Get you.” Christian pointed the tip of his pen across the desk. “But you still had a privileged upbringing. All three of you. You weren’t exactly pounding the street with you placards and revolting against your jobs being slashed with the fear of losing your livelihood.”
“Rebellion is about resisting authority and control. And that’s something I can relate to. Just because I had money in my pocket growing up doesn’t mean we weren’t oppressed just as much as those considered destitute. We’re a band that attempts to unify the subjugated, regardless of where you were born, who you are and what you fight against. Listen to my music, you’ll hear what’s important to me and if listeners find something in there they can relate to, then that’s fu—awesome.”
“And there’s no mistaking your motives with this album. Challenge the norm. Rise against the machine. That fair to say?”
“For sure. There’s so much division in music, or anything, really. Society puts us all in little boxes. Emos, punks, teeny-boppers, the jocks, the geeks, gay, straight, trans. We’re told not to draw outside the lines. We say, try it. Step over that line, and hold your middle finger high when you do it.”
“Would you be referring to anything in particular there, Seb?”
“I’m always referring to something in particular. It’s up to the listeners to decide what that is.”
“I think many will form their own opinions based on what they already know about you.”
Seb met with the twinkle in Christian’s eye, and held it. Not biting. Chuckling silently so the households receiving his radio link wouldn’t hear, Christian skimmed his finger down the script in front of him.
“‘Breaking through the mould’, ‘reforming myself’. Great lyrics for, say, someone making huge changes in their life?”
“Yeah. We did. We all did.” Seb turned to Martin and Noah individually, hoping to bring them into the firing line. “We went from being reliant on other people to going it alone. It’s been…interesting.”
“But you in particular.” The glint in Christian’s eye had Seb’s Spidey senses tingling. “Your name pops up more often than most.”
“Yeah, that’s been a…I’m dealing with it.”
“There’s a lot of speculation out there that the interest surrounding you has all been a publicity stunt, made up by you. That none of it is real.”
Seb actually belly-laughed, then composed himself to speak into the microphone. “Perhaps that’s what a certain establishment would like to think. Cast me aside. Don’t ruffle the feathers of a hundred-year history.” That had perhaps been too far. Maybe he did harbour a little unsavoury feeling to those that kept him separated from his lover’s life. But he wasn’t meant to be talking about that. Certainly not live on air. And Christian smirked for the privilege of being the one to have goaded that much out of him.
Right, back on track. Seb wriggled in his seat, cracking his neck from side to side.
“But considering you don’t talk about it, that no-one’s allowed to talk about it, how can anyone know what’s real and what’s all part of this act that you create?”
Seb held Christian’s gaze. The man was getting too close to the mark for Seb to feel comfortable. The show’s producer had been warned, and Seb wasn’t averse to walking out of the studio if necessary. It might actually add to his credibility in the rock arenas. But at the same time, he itched to prove what had been wrongly speculated about. He’d just made a big song and dance about standing up for what was right. He couldn’t back down now.
“If we’re on the same wavelength, Christian,” Seb held his gaze, “then I’m afraid my private life is exactly that, private. I’m not sure what my relationship status has got to do with me selling records.” That should put a firm full stop on the questions, whilst actually still proving he wasn’t making anything up.
“So, do we take that as confirmation that you are the live-in boyfriend of recently declared gay and West Ham footballer Jay Ruttman?”
Seb froze. Okay, so technically, everyone knew that. But the pact was never to talk about it. To keep it out of the mainstream, mainly for Jay’s survival on the football pitch. Seb was well aware that the fans, and players, didn’t need his loved-up status with another man being discussed in public. That just added fuel to the fire and Jay already had to deal with the unrest each Saturday on the pitch.
“I’m not sure what that’s got to do with this album.” Seb picked up his glass and took a firm swig, feeling Martin’s bouncing knee beside his. “That’s what we’re here for. Not to talk about who we sleep with.”
“Sure, sure, of course.” Christian smiled, holding up a hand in defence. “Although, we’ll take that to mean that you do actually sleep with him.”
“Regularly.” Seb was so annoyed that the snap fell from his tongue before he had a chance to stop it, and it carried through the microphone, converted into radio waves and pelted out the speakers to cause the bated breath of millions of listeners.
Fuck.
* * * *
Sliding his BMW into the reserved spot at the Boleyn Ground stadium, Jay shunted the car into complete silence. He shut his eyes, gripping the steering wheel. He didn’t often listen to Seb’s interviews, mostly because Seb played a different character in the media and Jay had a hard time connecting the rocker with the man he slept with, but right then he’d just heard his Seb declaring their regular sex life to everyone who tuned in to the most popular radio show on air. And his chest tightened with the unease of having to set foot into his home ground a few hours before playing one of the toughest teams in the league, who would also be arriving with the most vocal of crowds.
His phone buzzed from inside his sports bag and he considered ignoring it. It was amazing how journalists manage to get hold of his private number, but that wasn’t the regular ring-ring of an unvetted number. That tone was set up against those he trusted. So he rummaged through the shit he brought to matches and fished out his mobile.
“Yeah.” He didn’t even hide his clipped tone.
“Right, that means you heard.”
“The fucking country heard, Seb!”
“Calm your shit. I didn’t say anything too damaging.”
“Really? Taken out of context this time, was it?”
“Ha, fucking, ha. He goaded me, baby. He pushed my buttons like I was his fucking radio whatsit.”
“Then you just say no comment, like we get taught in media training.”
“You get taught. I don’t have the luxury of a massive club full of experts behind me, do I? Besides, I pretty much did.”
“No. You said we fuck. Regularly.”
“Which actually is an untruth, so more fool them, right? I mean, it’s irregular at that.”
“Don’t try and smart your way out of this. I’m about to go play football.”
Seb’s breath blew down the phone. “I’m sorry. But it’s nothing people don’t already know.”
“That’s not the point, Seb! The point is, we agreed. Keep us, our relationship, out of the press.”
“Right.”
“And don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sulk.”
“Champ, when have you ever known me to sulk? Some of us just like to, you know, speak. Talk. Say what’s on our fucking minds. And you know what? Maybe I’m tired of all this. Keeping my mouth shut is hard. I love you, baby. And I don’t give a fuck if the whole world knows. I thought you didn’t either.”
That stung. Jay had come out last year for a reason, so as not to have to hide who he was. It didn’t mean he wanted it talked about live on air for the whole country to discuss. That was shoving it down people’s throats. And what was said about him in the media didn’t just affect Jay. It affected his whole damn team. The squad had to put up with the taunts, the jeers, the fucking awful shit that was written about them, or laughed openly about on late-night comedy shows or online forums. Yeah, tolerance in the football establishment was making an impact. Racism, sexism, homophobia: all those things had been challenged by the Kick It Out campaign and for the most part it was working. But Jay wanted to keep his private life to himself and not inadvertently fuel any adverse reaction to it. Just like the lads on the pitch who’d managed to get suppression orders when their private lives were splashed all over the papers, Jay just wanted the focus on his football. Not on his sex life.
“Jay?”
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
A sharp knock to his side window jolted Jay in his seat. Bruno, team captain, lowered his unshaven face to the glass and angled his head toward the entrance to the stadium.
“I gotta chip.” Jay held up a finger from around his mobile to Bruno.
“Take it you want me to stay home? Not come to the match?”
“There’s always a seat here if you want it.” Jay meant it. But Seb hadn’t taken him up on the offer yet, fearing that if he did he would ruffle the feathers of the elite WAGS who ruled the VIP seats on match days.
“Good luck, Champ.” Seb hung up.
Jay tucked the phone into his bag, grabbed the straps and shouldered open the door. The bleep from electric locking blasted through the car park and Jay caught up to Bruno leaning against the boot of his BMW.
“Rutters.”
“All right, Skip?”
“Yeah. You?” Bruno’s flippant question had a multitude of meaning between the lines. “Shut it off. We need to win this game. But that bloke of yours…” He whistled, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Maybe you need a gagging order on him and not the press.”
Jay didn’t say anything. He knew what Bruno was getting at. Trouble was, Jay had fallen in love with Seb for his outspoken, candid nature and wouldn’t want him any other way. He just hadn’t realised quite how much Seb’s mouth liked to run away with him when in front of a camera, or a radio mic. He hoped that there would be no fallout to the public declaration that would come back to bite him, or his team, on the arse on the football pitch. He cracked his neck from side to side. Mind back on football and the game ahead.
They were the last to arrive in the dressing room, with match day rituals in full swing. All the lads were wearing their training gear until the moment it came to change into the full playing kit. Jay headed for his bench and stripped off his tracksuit into the shorts and training top, then went straight to the gym section to the exercise bikes. Engaging in fifteen minutes of low energy cycles eased his muscles and enabled him to get his mind in gear for the game ahead, shedding the thoughts of what had just happened outside in the real world. At least in here, he was Rutters—private life unspoken. Resting his forearms on the handlebars and head down, Jay set the slow pace and started to visualise the game ahead. He thought about his positioning, where he needed to be in the box to receive a cross ball, his shots at goal and flicked through the videos he’d watched of Chelsea’s goalkeeper to remember where the bloke tended to favour his dives.
Once the fifteen minutes were up, Jay leapt off the bike and stood in front of the full-length mirror for his three key muscle group stretches—quads, hamstrings and groin. Davies stood beside him, one earphone in, and bopped away to some R’n’B rap. Each lad on the team had his own way of preparing for a game. Some preferred solitude until the hour on the pitch before kick-off, helping to keep focused. Others listened to music or played computer games in small groups, switching their nerves off that way. Jay focussed on his body, loosening it up and preparing it for the ninety minutes of rigorous exercise. Many of the team were so superstitious they kept to the exact same routine for every game, Jay included. Davies had yet to decide what worked for him, and each match day he tried something different.
“Get the recommended eight hours this time, Davies?” Jay asked, smirking at his reflection.
Davies flicked the bud out of his ear and grinned. “I went to bed at midnight.” He lifted his leg behind him, tucking his heel into his backside and stretching out his quads. “Ain’t saying I slept though.”
“You want a rep, dun’t ya?” Jay crossed one leg over the other and bent at the hips to stretch his hamstrings.
“I don’t think it matters what I do round ’ere.” Davies shoved the bud back into his ear and bopped his shoulders. “It’s you who gets all the interest.”
“Yeah.” Jay stood, swiping his hair back from his face. “Tell me about it.”
* * * *
Bounding out of the radio studio and into the bustling streets of London’s Soho, Seb slipped on his sunglasses. Overcast grey cloud above, but the shades weren’t used for their UV protection. Noah threw a Marlboro Red into his mouth, offering the pack out to Seb. He shook his head. Then backtracked and slid one out, allowing Noah to light it for him. It’d been a while since he had to carry a lighter.
“Perhaps we don’t do live interviews?” Martin suggested, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets.
Seb blew out a lungful of smoke into the air and glanced down at the floor. He’d fucked up, he knew that. Not just by proving to the journalists that Seb was a gobby posh boy who could easily be riled up, but because of Jay. He’d made that perfectly clear during the phone call.
Seb opened his mouth to respond, but his buzzing phone prevented the reply. He fished it out of his jeans and closed his eyes on seeing the display.
“Hi.” Seb answered, cigarette waggling between his lips. He picked it out with his fingers, exhaled the smoke and awaited the inevitable.
“Seb, it’s Ted. From Armstrong Records. We just heard.”
“Wonderful.” Seb inhaled another lungful of finest Marlboro and the vein in his neck popped out through his clenched jaw.
Martin and Noah hovered beside him, checking their own phones, half listening to Seb’s one-sided conversation, half responding to whatever messages bleeped their way after they’d had to switch off correspondence for the two hours in the studio.
Ted chuckled. “You are a whirlwind. Thing is, we’re having a ton of interest here about you.”
“The band, or just me?”
“They go hand in hand, Seb. You want publicity? You want promotion? You just got it.”
Seb pinched the bridge of his nose, almost searing his hair with the tip of his cigarette. He wasn’t meant to get attention due to his relationship. It had meant to be for his talent. The band’s talent. He wasn’t one to seek fame and fortune by bedding a footballer and spilling the beans of their sex life in every tabloid. Seb was a musician. A fucking great musician! He’d now just realised why he should have kept his fucking mouth shut.
“We got offers from pretty much everywhere.” Ted’s amused voice drilled a hole through Seb’s banging temple. Of course Ted would be pleased. Being the main promotion and publicity manager at the independent record label that the Drops had signed to meant they’d all be thrust into the spotlight and the ka-ching of pound signs would be evident in the man’s eyes.
“Tell me, Ted, are they from reputable music magazines? NME? Kerrang? Or are we talking the Sun, Take a Break, The fucking MailOnline?”
Ted chuckled.
“Call me when Jools Holland wants to talk to me, not Loose fucking Women, all right?”
“You offer to talk about your boyfriend, you’ll get Phil and Fern.”
“Goodbye, Ted.” Seb hung up and slipped the phone into his back pocket, his blood boiling.
“You all right?” Martin asked. The concern in his voice tempered Seb marginally.
“What do we want, guys?” Seb inhaled the remaining of his cigarette, flicked the butt to the floor and stamped on it with his All-Stars. “Do we want to be known as musicians, or celebrities?”
“Musicians.”
“Celebrities.”
Seb narrowed his eyes, working out who had said what. Noah shrugged and Seb got his answer. Noah’s track record for picking up groupies and girl band members had also produced a variant of headlines.
“What we want is the biggest audience.” Noah flicked off his own fag into the road, smoke wafting from his lips and into Seb’s face. “It’s all about sales.”
“No, it’s about being reputable.” Seb spat back. “We’d rather awards than sales.”
“You can say that.” Noah pointed a finger. “You’ve got a rich boyfriend. The rest of us rely on royalties and gig ticket prices.”
“We’re doing all right.” Seb said that like he was trying to convince himself. They were. Money wasn’t a huge issue. Seb shared the royalties on a three-way split with the other two, even though he was the main songwriter. But they were a band. It was a group effort, and Seb had never been about chasing the money. As long as he could make a living from his music and never have to run back to Daddy or work in an office again, then he was fine. But Noah was right. Jay was the overall main breadwinner in their relationship and perhaps Seb needed to think about a way to separate that.
“We need to discuss what we want to do next. We’re getting traction, interest, and I think the label is going to make us go in a direction I’m not happy about.”
“You mean mainstream?” Martin asked.
“Yeah.”
Martin and Noah both nodded, like the lapdogs they were, waiting for Seb to make the decisions for them. He sighed. “Come back to mine. We’ll watch Jay’s match, do a little jamming and figure this shit out.”
Martin winced. “Leah.”
Seb tutted. “Sure.” He turned to Noah, who tapped thumbs across his mobile keypad. “Fancy it?”
“Would have, but I just got a booty call I can’t turn down.” Noah waggled his mobile. “Dirty Martini’s do that special cocktail night from seven, right?”
“Yeah.” Defeated, Seb held out a hand to hail an oncoming black cab. “You book a private booth, they chuck in olives and dips.”
“So rock and roll.” Noah slammed his thumb down on the phone, held it to his ear and walked off. “Private booth for two tonight?”
Martin tapped Seb on the back. “Don’t panic. They say no publicity is bad publicity, right?”
“Tell that to Jay.” Seb yanked open the black cab’s car door and Martin closed it behind him and offered an awkward wave as the cabbie pulled out into the road. On meeting with the driver’s bemused gaze in the rear-view mirror, Seb’s chest rose.
“’Ere you’re that bloke, ain’t ya?”
Nodding, Seb glanced out of the window.
“Can I get an autograph?”
“Sure.” Seb held out his hand. “You got a pen?”
“Oh, no, I meant from your fella. Massive Hammers fan here.”