Chapter One
Jenny, Oh Jenny
I’m still here, still waiting, still aching
No one else has ever compared
Oh, Jenny I’m here, still waiting, still aching
Still breaking my heart over youuuuuuuuu
The final lines of Manic Machines’ latest number one hit swept through Wembley Stadium. As the last, tortured syllable drew to an end, a stitch tugged at my heart and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. For a bittersweet second all was silent as the massive crowd held their collective breaths, hypnotized by the raw emotion, the heartfelt lyrics and the haunting melody.
Then the place erupted. Screams, cheers and wails of adoration blasted through the air in a sonic boom. The lead singer, Robbie Harding, hung his head over his microphone and shoved a hand around the nape of his neck, massaging it as though it ached.
I struggled to see him as hands and arms shot up in front of me—fingers outstretched, lighters aloft in an eerie salute to Jenny.
Jenny.
Jenny who had, he’d just told his fans in very eloquent, very emotive words, broken his heart into a million little pieces, none of which he knew how to put back together.
Four years ago Jenny did that to him. Four long years. But he doesn’t mention that in his lyrics. He sings as though it was only yesterday they screamed at each other and he accused her of cheating and lying. He sings as though it was only yesterday they slammed doors, broke promises and shattered dreams.
How do I know it was four years ago?
Because he’s singing about me.
I’m Jenny. Jenny Calahan, and four years ago I broke Robbie Harding’s heart. He broke mine too. But he’s the one singing about it in front of thousands of people while I watch from the sidelines, still aching, still breaking.
Can I turn on the TV or lift a magazine without seeing his impossibly handsome face? No. Not a chance. He used to be just across the street at number 81 and I could avoid him when I visited my parents, but now he’s everywhere. Manic Machines just keeps getting bigger and bigger. They’ve become huge in the USA, too, which of course has meant a string of glamorous Hollywood stars hanging on his arm over the last six months. Not that I care of course. Who he dates is none of my business.
Not anymore.
“That’s a wrap for tonight, folks!” Robbie shouted, his eyes once more lifted to the crowd and the spotlights illuminating his tall frame and tousled dark hair. “Thanks for being such an amazing audience.” He grinned and waved as he stepped to the left. “We love you, London. Good night!”
But the crowd was having none of it. Feet began to stamp. Hands clapped. Soon the floor shook as though a thousand elephants were hurtling across it. My ears rang with the noise. I could barely hear my own thoughts.
Robbie left the stage. So did Ian and Dean, his two guitarists. But the drummer, Tim, stayed behind banging away. A slow, rhythmic beat that reminded me of a languid heartbeat. Duh, duh. Duh, duh. Duh, duh.
The crowd knew what that meant. “More, more, more,” they chanted. “More, more, more.”
I strained to see the stage. Black except for one lemon-colored light shining down on Tim. His arms pounded, his head bobbed. The beat vibrated right to the center of my core and for a second calmed my jittery nerves.
Suddenly high-pitched cheers sparked from the front row, excited shouts that flowed toward me in waves. The two guitarists stepped onto the stage and picked up their instruments. A low bass joined the beat of the drum.
The crowd turned frenzied; they’d gotten their way, another song was coming.
“Robbie, Robbie, Robbie,” they bellowed in time with their claps.
There he was. Back on the stage and standing in a perfect white circle of light. He had a bottle of what looked like beer in his hand. Probably Beck’s. That was his favorite. Or at least it used to be.
I was jostled by a girl to my right as she shoved her camera in the air and snapped away. She didn’t apologize even though she’d nearly knocked me over.
“Because you’ve been so amazing this evening, here’s one more song,” Robbie shouted, his deep voice booming above the noise of the crowd.
The audience roared.
“Any requests?” he asked, plucking the microphone from the stand and holding it out to the sea of people.