Page 35 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

People are turning round in their seats to see who I’m singing to. I think he must be getting a bit embarrassed at the attention,so for the final line of the song, I concentrate on the crowd, when suddenly the unthinkable happens. My phone battery dies and with it the music. I finish the final notes a cappella as though it was all intentional, refusing to be thrown by a technical hitch. I press the palm of my hand to my solar plexus and hold the note, climbing higher and higher to the fade.

What does throw me, however, is that out of my peripheral vision I notice Matteo leave the bar. He weaves quickly through the crowd with his phone clamped to his ear, the dark-haired beauty hard on his heels, and disappears. It’s like a punch to the guts.

There’s a second of silence as I stand there catching my breath before the crowd erupts into applause.

‘Thank you,’ I say, glancing over to my phone, which is completely and utterly dead. As the crowd bellows requests at me, I nod, smiling brightly. ‘Erm, does anyone have an iPhone charger I could borrow?’

There’s a confused sort of period where everyone starts patting down their pockets and looking around them and under tables as though iPhone chargers could be lying randomly about.

‘What model is it?’ someone asks, which gives way to a group discussion about cable lengths and battery life. The manager approaches the stage and hands me a charger with a look of incredulity.

All in all, the mood deflates again, and I limp through the rest of the set after that, unable to sing any of their Ed Sheeran requests. I’m a mess. It’s a relief when it comes to an end. I return the charger to the manager.

‘I’m sorry about that. I’m usually much better and much more organised.’ He simply tuts and walks off.

My phone springs to life. It’s Nancy.

‘What sort of bollocks was that?’ she barks hoarsely. I listen to her tearing strips off me. Nothing I don’t deserve. ‘Sobasically, you’ve been showing off your vocal chops instead of giving the crowd what I promised them, and you’ve embarrassed me in front of Spain’s biggest talent promoters, Connie.’

I wince at how angry she sounds.

‘I’m furious with you,’ she rasps. ‘I’m putting the Dollz in as the headline act for the rest of the week and you as support. And you’re lucky to get that. If there was anyone else to replace you with I would. Do not let me down again!’

‘It was my phone,’ I say weakly, knowing there’s absolutely no excuse I can give. Not the dress, not the glitter, not the Dollz… not the phone. I failed to prepare and behaved very unprofessionally. Perhaps Nancy is right. I haven’t got what it takes.

‘How did you find out so soon, anyway?’ I ask. ‘I’ve literally been off stage for two minutes.’

‘Because the promotors were watching.’

Argh!Perhaps I can go and grovel my apologies.

‘What do they look like? What are they called? I’ll try and catch them.’

‘Alex is the one who hired you on the phone, and the other is Matteo. He’s the head of Jezebel Music, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s a total fanny magnet. If you’ve lost me his business, I’ll never hire you again.’

Oh no. No. No. No. No. No.

12

After a night of tossing and turning and chastising myself over and over for such a dreadful performance, I haul myself out of bed. Nancy’s sour tone and harsh words are still ringing in my ears, and each time I close my eyes, all I can see are the disappointed faces in the crowd as I bombed on stage last night. I heard the Dollz’ noisy return in the early hours and not one of them came to see if I was all right. Lord knows where they think I sleep. Under the kitchen table?

I drag myself into the bathroom and shower off the remaining glitter and gemstones. Apparently the industry-strength glue does work on some parts of the body: those sensitive parts that should not have glue anywhere near them. Then I contemplate going back to bed to hide for the rest of the week. My head is swimming with negativity. I rerun those moments where I’m inviting people to the gig as if I’m something special.

Come and see me. Come and see how great I am. Come and see me, the greatest thing since sliced bread, at The Jolly Roger.

My phone rings.

‘How are you feeling? Did you get much sleep?’ Liam asks, his warm voice steeped with years of friendship and comfort. He didn’t bat an eye at my hysterical late-night call. It’s like falling into a cloud of cotton wool and just what I need.

‘I’m honestly not sure I can face the world ever again,’ I say, while Liam makes soothing noises back at me.

‘Sometimes you need to hashtag fail at your goals in order to hashtag realise your true potential,’ he says.

‘I bared my soul to Matteo. We shared a truly emotional moment and yet he failed to tell me a very significant detail about himself, namely that he was incharge.’

‘Hmm, with the power to make or break your career. Yes. The gig could have gone better, babes.’

‘Thanks for the reminder.’ I can’t help but raise a tiny smile. We both know I have brought this on myself.

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