Page 53 of Bracing The Storm

It’s a ballad, I realize. It must be sung live; the tone is too raw and gritty, the hoarseness unaltered by the usual studio technology. In spite of preferring not to acknowledge it, my father taught me more about music than I would ever need to know. The song is dripping with heartfelt emotion, and there’s no way any voice could convey so much of it over the radio.

The accent’s too strong for me to make out the words. Something about heartbreak and loss, the mood so dark it touches me deep inside, tearing at my heart as though the person’s pain is my own and my heart is bleeding. With him. For him.

The voice flows and ebbs, floating through the room. People begin to shift slightly in their seats, as though moving in unison with the invisible notes that sweep over all of us.

My phone vibrates against my leg, jerking me out of my magic moment. I glance at Mia’s caller ID and decide to pick up.

“This is a bad time,” I whisper as low as I can in the hope I won’t disturb the other patrons.

“I bet it is. You’re having a great time, aren’t you? I told you,” Mia says. “Where did he take—” She breaks off in mid-sentence and there’s silence for a moment or two. Then, “Wait a second. Is that?—”

I frown, confused. “Is that what?”

In the sudden silence, my attention inevitably moves back to the singing. The voice hits a few deep, soulful tones as it’s nearing the end of the song. A woman shrieks. A male voice calls out, “Shut up, Maisie. Let the lad finish.”

“Lori!” Mia screeches in my ear. “Is that The Storm? Live? I’d recognize that voice from a mile, locked up in a submarine, underwater. That is The Storm, isn’t it?”

I want to ask what she’s talking about when the name suddenly rings a bell. Someone mentioned a storm. I thought they were talking about the one howling through the trees, but that probably wasn’t the case.

The Storm.

“Is that a band?” I ask, feeling a bit like I’ve just left my own world in the Amazonian rainforest to venture into civilization.

“Aband? Are you kidding me?” Mia takes a deep breath, as though to calm herself. I can almost feel the waves of disbeliefwafting from her. “They’re one of the most famous, bestselling rock bands in history. They’ve won every award there is to win, and have been on the cover of every magazine. Their songs are played everywhere. They’re legendary. How can you not know that?”

I clamp my mouth shut to bite back a snarky remark. I don’t live and breathe music. In fact, I do my utmost to avoid it like the plague. I don’t listen to the radio, not even to podcasts. Up until recently, I was so wrapped up in my career that flicking through the pages of a magazine was reserved for my rare visits to the waiting room of the dentist’s office. And don’t get me started on anything involving entertainment or social media.

I was basically married to my career.

A lot of good that did me!

“Lori!” Mia yells in my ear. “Isthat The Storm?”

For a moment, I’m confused again and want to say that she can’t possibly hear it from London. Then I realize she isn’t talking about the weather but a band.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Get closer to the stage. Switch to video call. Hold up your cell. If it’s The Storm I want to see them, as close as you can, every single inch of their body. Just get in there and if security isn’t hauling your butt out, then you haven’t tried hard enough!”

“You can’t be serious,” I mutter under my breath. “Talk about crazy. I didn’t realize you were such a fan of anything and anyone.”

“I’m not,” Mia says. “You should see theirrealgroupies.”

I smirk because I can imagine. My dad married one and he wasn’t even famous or had a jot of this guy’s talent.

“Be subtle, though. They like their privacy. Last time, the drummer beat up?—”

I switch off at the “beat up” part. Whatever sordid story Mia’s about to tell, it’s probably one I don’t want to know.

“Sure. I’ll get close to the stage but I’ll make sure to be subtle about it,” I mutter. “Unless I turn into a plant, I don’t know how else to make myself not stand out in a village with the population of a nursing home. Let’s just hope no one beats me up.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, I gesture to Sinead and mouth something that I hope resembles the word “toilet”. She nods her head and opens her mouth, probably to give me directions. I smile and jump up from my seat before her innate hospitality trait gets a chance to kick in and she decides to show me the way or worse, accompany me like we’re thirteen-year-old inseparable BFFs.

As I round the big guy obstructing my view of the stage, I switch my call to video and hold it close to my chest so as not to raise anyone’s suspicion. The tables are pushed close together. I bump into a few people, whispering a constant string of “excuse me” and “sorry”. After what feels like an eternity, I’m finally standing a few feet away from the stage and raise the cell phone.

The singer’s still up there, sitting on a stool while cradling a guitar in his arms. He’s half-smiling to the presenter who says something into his microphone, but despite of the volume I can’t hear a word. All I can do is stare, dumbfounded, as my brain’s trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

“That’s”—Mia’s voice breaks with emotion—“The Storm.”

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