Page 15 of Right Place, Right Time
‘I know, but I like your passion for defending the small stuff.’
‘That’s because the small stuff is often just as important as the big.’
I open my bottle of water and take a sip. Adam watches me, doing that thing he often does when he studies my face really intently, but doesn’t say anything.
‘Why don’t you tell me about you?’ I ask quickly. I can’t put my finger on it – it’s not that I’m unnerved by his behaviour, it’s just a little odd when he does this. ‘When I was at the bar with Luca last night, you were telling the others all about your exciting life.’
‘I wouldn’t call it exciting, really.’
‘What would you call it, then?’
‘Unusual, maybe. Different, perhaps?’
‘Different how?’
‘I’m travelling nearly all the time,’ Adam says, thinking for a moment. ‘Constantly on the road. Bands live afunny, nocturnal sort of life and their roadies are similar – just not as famous or well paid!’
‘Don’t you enjoy it, then?’
‘Yes … well, I did. When I was younger it seemed like a great job. You get to travel around – not only this country, but if you’re lucky, the world. You get to stay in some wonderful hotels if you’re on the road with a successful band, and the lifestyle can be pretty good.’ He smiles fondly. ‘But I’ve never felt the same about the industry since …’
He pauses as if he’s remembering something and I can’t help wondering what. He suddenly looks incredibly sad and I’m surprised when I feel something jolt sharply inside me. As if we’ve shared the same memory, the same pain.
‘Let’s just say I’d like to move away from the industry now,’ Adam says, suddenly snapping back into the present. ‘If I’m honest, I’m probably getting a bit too old these days for the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Even if my look does suggest otherwise!’
He gestures to himself and grins, but his amused expression is quickly replaced by an anxious one as he looks up at me. ‘But I don’t know any other life than this one.’
‘Haven’t you ever done anything else? No other jobs?’ I ask, surprised again by the effect his honesty is having on me. I can see beyond his confident, slightly brash exterior right now, and there’s a vulnerability I didn’t expect.
‘Not really. I was already in a band at eighteen, so I didn’t go to uni. I dropped out of education after my A levels because the band got signed to a big record label, and we thought we were about to hit the big time and become famous.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Little did we know. We were only together for about three years and duringthat time we never made much of a dent in the UK charts. Various things led to our break-up in 2005 and we went our separate ways. A few years later, I got my first job working on another, much more successful band’s UK tour and that was it – touring became my life and it’s what I’ve done ever since. I’m more management now, rather than simply muscle.’
‘That makes sense,’ I say, not thinking.
‘Thanks.’ Adam grimaces.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say hurriedly, realising how that must sound. ‘I really didn’t mean it like that. I meant with your age – it makes sense for you to be in more of a managerial role. Honestly,’ I insist, when Adam looks like he doesn’t believe me.
‘All right,’ Adam says, after apparently studying my face again.What is he doing – reading my mind or something?
‘So, what about you then?’ he asks. ‘Have you always been involved in antiques? You said yesterday it was your passion in life.’
‘Yes, it is, now. But it wasn’t always that way. I went to university and studied history because I wanted to be a social historian, not own an antiques shop.’
‘What’s asocialhistorian?’
‘It’s learning more abouthowpeople lived in the past, rather than the events of history. I’ve always been interested in the stories of normal people’s lives, rather than politics and wars.’
‘I get it.’
‘That’s the most interesting part of the antiques business, wondering where an item has originated from, who has owned it before, where it’s lived, what it’s seen. Like I told you before, I like to give my objects their own story.’
‘You talk like these things are alive.’
‘Everything and everyone has a story.’
‘Even you?’
‘Perhaps.’ I take a careful bite of my pizza to prevent me having to say more.
