Tom woke up, his head throbbing as he moved it. He groaned and opened his eyes to see his manager Sam sitting on the chair next to the bed.
‘Good morning,’ mumbled Tom, half asleep and still trying to work out where he was.
‘Afternoon actually,’ replied Sam, putting his mobile down. ‘I’m not sure what to ask about first. Your hangover or your foot?’
Gradually, Tom began to focus and took in the sterile room with its strip lighting, single bed and crisp white sheet covering him. Oh yes. It was all coming back to him now. He was in hospital.
He stared down the bed to where his right foot was bandaged and raised up on top of a pillow. ‘The hangover’s disappearing,’ he lied, wincing as even speaking was painful at that moment. ‘The foot might take a bit longer to heal.’
He glanced around the large private room in the hospital that he only just about remembered ending up in the previous evening. It was already filled with balloons and flowers wishing him a speedy recovery.
‘What the hell happened?’ said Sam, looking as if he were trying to remain calm. ‘You had a great gig, finished a fantastic tour on a real high and then, what? You got blind drunk and broke your leg as you passed out in the street!’
Tom shook his head and groaned as even that hurt. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘So tell me,’ said Sam, his eyes glaring.
‘I only had a couple of drinks,’ Tom explained. ‘You know I haven’t drunk anything for months. Honestly. I was exhausted and actually finished the night relatively early on, believe it or not. But I slipped off the pavement on the way to getting a taxi and somehow managed to tear a ligament. No bones broken. No drunken disgrace.’
‘Tell that to the media,’ said Sam, grabbing his phone and handing it over to show Tom the various screens as he flicked past them.
TOMMY DRUNK AGAIN! screamed the headlines, he managed to catch. PASSED OUT IN THE STREET! IS IT TIME FOR REHAB, TOMMY?
Tom closed his eyes and sighed. ‘They’re just exaggerating everything, as per usual. Trying to make a story out of nothing.’
‘Well, it’s working,’ Sam told him. ‘You’re the number one trend on Twitter today. Congratulations.’
Tom glanced through a couple more of the photographs before pushing the iPhone back towards Sam in disgust. No wonder he didn’t trust anyone. People had taken photos of him lying down on the pavement in obvious pain. No-one in the crowd had offered to phone for an ambulance or check that he was actually okay.
He hadn’t been comatose. Merely in agony from a misstep. That was all. And now it was everywhere. Everyone was talking about him, thinking that they knew all about him.
Judging him.
Like he hadn’t been used to that from day one of his life. As usual, he felt his inner defence shields rise in response.
Tom shifted in his bed and immediately felt a twinge of pain from his foot. Apparently it would take up to six weeks to heal the tiny tear in his ankle. Rest and recuperation are your best bet, the doctor had told him. Since when had he last done that?
‘You look exhausted,’ said Sam.
‘I don’t know if you remember but I’ve just finished a massive world tour,’ drawled Tom.
Even saying the words still sounded unbelievable to him. The fame itself had been remarkable in its speed.
He was a carpenter by trade, having completed his college apprenticeship on the job. He had left school as quickly as possible, desperate to be independent. The song writing had only been a hobby in his mind. A daydream that could never come true for someone like him. He had however managed to wangle a couple of sessions to play at a local pub in Hampstead after fitting some new cupboard doors in the kitchen. The landlord liked the acoustic nature of his playing, just Tom and his guitar.
Slowly, thanks to the power of social media and a couple of local reviews, the word got out that he was talented and it had become a regular gig, gaining in popularity.
Then, one night after he had finished playing, Sam Harris had introduced himself as he was standing at the bar. He told Tom that he managed a number of bands and singers – the most famous of which was Hazy Memory, a seventies rock band. Tom had been impressed by the portfolio of artists he had on his books. After all, Sam was only the same age as him.
Sam was quietly spoken but firm in his belief that Tom had talent. He promised nothing but said that he could work with him to develop his song writing ability. Tom agreed to his proposition, trusting Sam – itself a rare thing in his life so far. They quickly developed a strong bond and Tom felt able to rely on his new manager’s encouragement and advice.
Tom had been halfway into writing his first album of songs when something amazing happened. The American rapper Jazz Goldblatt had been in London on tour and had happened to visit the pub where Tom had been playing.
Jazz tweeted his three million followers about the ‘awesome Brit boy’ and suddenly Tom had become an overnight sensation. A clip of him playing at the pub went viral on YouTube and had twenty million hits.
Sam began to be inundated with phone calls from his contacts across the music industry and a bidding war for Tom’s first album erupted between two record labels, the result being a contract worth millions.
Before they signed, Sam sat down with Tom one day to ask whether he wanted to use his own name. Up until that time, Tom had always wanted to be known as himself. But he had begun to have a few weird phone calls from overeager fans and journalists and had quickly concluded that a pseudonym would be better. Suddenly he was craving anonymity.
Hence Tommy King was born.
That had been over eight years ago. Fame and fortune had arrived quickly. His first album had won the prestigious Mercury Prize and had gone double platinum. His status in the music world increased with the second album, which garnered him a Brit Award and sold over five million copies. His third album finally gave him his much yearned for Grammy and he broke America, holding a position in the Billboard Top Five for over twenty weeks.
With over thirty million album sales in total so far and a couple of sell-out worldwide tours, Tom had been given financial security beyond his wildest dreams. With the help of Sam and a financial advisor, he purchased his flat in an expensive London neighbourhood. Wise investments meant that he would never feel the sharp pang of starvation or a lack of roof over his head ever again.
But suddenly he was tired and desperate to break free of the shackles of fame.
Being a global superstar meant that he had to carry on courting the media, going onto chat shows and talking about himself. His natural instinct was to hide away from the spotlight. All he ever wanted was to just play his music. The lack of privacy was draining.
He didn’t have time to think these days.
Didn’t have time to rest.
Didn’t have time to grieve.
The pain hit him hard over and over. He missed his beloved Gran. She had been the only one who had ever truly cared about him. If she had been around, she would have been fretting about him ending up in hospital. As always, she would have dispensed wise words which would have helped. But now she was gone and he felt horribly alone.
Sam had been studying his friend for a couple of silent minutes.
‘Tell you what, why don’t you come and stay with us for a week or so?’ he said eventually. ‘Have a break from everything here in town. It’s not like we haven’t got the room.’
Out of the blue, Sam had suddenly declared six months previously that his family belonged to a long line of English earls, with an impressive ancestral home deep in the English countryside. Sam and his fiancée Annie had spent most of the winter and spring bringing the crumbling Willow Tree Hall back into the twenty-first century.
Sam was a good guy, who Tom trusted implicitly, both as a manager and a close friend. And that was rare for someone who didn’t trust anyone. With good reason, he knew from bitter experience.
But Tom liked his independence. He had carefully cultivated his self-reliance. The protective shield that helped him cope with the endless rejections over his life.
He glanced at his bandaged foot and almost laughed. Was he really coping that well?
Adding to the strain, he knew that every time he stepped out of line, there was somebody standing nearby to make a headline about it.
‘Come on,’ urged Sam. ‘It’ll be good for you.’
Tom wasn’t so sure. He cherished his privacy. He didn’t like being around too many people. It was easier to keep everyone out than let anyone in. That way he couldn’t be let down again.
However, he was surprised to find himself tempted by his friend’s proposition. He had never been to Willow Tree Hall but understood the place to be in the middle of nowhere. The peace was tempting for a week or so.
Torn between wanting to keep his privacy and not wanting to upset Sam, in the end Tom nodded his agreement.
Sam looked delighted. ‘That’s great. You can recharge your batteries at Willow Tree Hall. And who knows? Maybe you’ll get that album of yours finished in record time.’
Tom kept quiet, thinking that at some point he was going to have to tell his manager that he hadn’t even started the album yet. And that he had no idea where the next song was going to come from.
Perhaps staying at Willow Tree Hall would help. But it was a family home. And family was something that had never worked out for him. Everyone in his life apart from his Gran had ignored him until the fame had arrived. Now they all just wanted a piece of him without even wanting to get to know him better. They only wanted Tommy King. Would he ever find someone who would be happy to settle for plain old Tom Kingsley instead?