“I’m trying to get backstage,” I said, holding up my pass as if it were a golden ticket. But this was no golden ticket. This was no pass to a chocolate feast. In my hand I held something Robbie had sent to bring me to him. A key, a whisper, a hope, a plea. Did I really want to unlock our past? Open up that can of worms again?
The security guy raised his eyebrows. “Of course, madam,” he said with a polite smile. “Come through this way.” He took several steps to the right and, using a torch to light his way, unlocked a smaller gate. “Come in and I’ll get someone to escort you.”
He relocked the door and lifted a walkie-talkie from his pocket. I listened to him request an escort for an “all area visitor”. “Won’t be long,” he said to me, smiling.
Within a minute a petite young lady clutching a clipboard to her chest appeared. Her shoulder-length mousy hair had flattened against her scalp in the drizzle.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Sylvia, head of MM’s PR management. Can I check your pass?”
I handed it over then turned as a sudden stampede caught my attention. On the other side of the gates, the crowd was streaming out of the doors and into the night, some running for the first seats on the Tube, others racing to the parking lot before the queues built up. But many dawdled, singing, with their arms linked and smiles on their faces.
“This way, Jenny,” Sylvia said. “I’ll take you straight there.”
* * * *
My stomach tightened as I followed Sylvia down a brightly lit winding corridor. Several people rushed past us and we had to flatten ourselves against the wall to get out of their way. As we moved on again, I patted my bubbles of blonde hair, frizzing because of the damp evening. I wore just the tiniest hint of makeup, a thin layer of waterproof mascara and sheer gloss.
Beneath my hoody I had on a small cream t-shirt with a V-neck. Within the V sat the tiny butterfly necklace Robbie had bought me the last Christmas we’d spent together. It wasn’t an expensive piece of jewelry. Neither of us had had much money back then. But it had meant a lot that Christmas morning, especially when he said he knew I needed to spread my wings and fulfill my dreams of university.
We stopped outside a shiny white door. A burly security guy stood against it with his thick arms crossed over his colossal chest. He gave Sylvia the smallest of nods and stepped aside as she reached for the handle.
Beneath my faded denim jeans, my knees turned watery. I didn’t know if I could go through with this, seeing Robbie after all this time. He wasn’t the boy next door anymore. The guy I’d lost my virginity to in the tent at the bottom of his garden. He was a rock star, known all over the world for his talent and his good looks. He dated supermodels and Oscar winners. He wasn’t my Robbie Harding anymore. He belonged to millions of adoring fans.
I tugged at my bottom lip with my teeth and dragged in a deep breath. I was a little dizzy, a little nauseous.
He’d lost his virginity to me too. We’d traded. We’d done it so we were even. We both wanted to be each other’s first—and last, if I remembered the conversation correctly.
Sylvia pushed open the door and took a step inside. I stayed still. Out in the corridor where the lights were harsh and the air stuffy.
But I wasn’t the girl next door either. Not anymore. I was Doctor Calahan and I’d just been involved in important research into the prevention of malaria. My name, along with the results of my study, had been splashed about several medical journals. I no longer collected butterflies in jam jars any more than he still had a snail farm in an old fish tank in his garage.
We’d both changed.
“Come in,” Sylvia called to me. “They don’t bite.”
I knew for a fact one of them did when he got carried away. In the heat of the moment he’d been known to give my inner thighs, my neck or my shoulder a little nip.
I swallowed and felt the burly security man’s gaze on me. I looked up. His eyes were a piercing, glacial blue.
“You okay, Miss?” he asked. “You look kind of star struck.”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Not star struck though, this is more like coming face to face with a ghost.”
He raised his eyebrows and his forehead creased into several pudgy lines.
I ignored his confusion and stepped into the jumbled, guitar and amp littered room. The lights were dim and several low sofas were strewn around.
The smell was overwhelming; spiced aftershave, fresh sweat and sweet beer tangled with pepperoni pizza and garlic bread.
Around a long white table groaning under the weight of food sat the four guys who made up Manic Machines. Laughing, talking, eating and drinking.
They didn’t look up at my entry.
I spotted Robbie instantly. He was in profile, his chiseled features highlighted perfectly by a low table lamp as he chugged on a Beck’s. He looked hot and flushed. Black locks of his hair clung to his nape and there was a rise of color on his cheek.
“Hi, Sylvia,” Dean said through a mouthful of pizza. His brooding eyes slid to me. “Who you got there?”
Sylvia stepped sideways so that I was in full view of the table. “Jenny,” she said. “This is Jenny Calahan.”