Page 95 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
Lucy’s not quite done with him though. ‘Well, you owe us drinks now. Our whole group. And that T-shirt, the coat will need to be dry-cleaned, you know?’
Oh, Lucy, don’t create a scene. I’ll fling this T-shirt in the wash at thirty degrees. It’s got baby puke stains on it that, embarrassingly, look like another sort of bodily fluid. The man looks me up and down, squinting to understand why I’m in the room. I know, mate, I know.
‘You’re that baby’s mum, innit?’ He embraces me tightly, his six-foot-something frame enveloping mine. ‘I’m Kimmie’s dad. Look at our babies together. It’s a beautiful thing.’
I can’t help grinning. ‘My boy is just the icing. It’s mainly your girl and her talent. You should be proud.’
‘You too, mama. She loves that boy, he’s her lucky charm. Champagne? I owe you. I’m a clumsy bastard at the best of times. We should toast these bloody brilliant babies of ours.’
I nod. Yeah, we should.
I’m standing backstage in a Christmas T-shirt with a dancing elf on it. Express Your Elf. It was this or a reindeer. Naturally, I didn’t pack a change of clothes so despite Lucy’s suggestion of turning a scarf into a boob tube, I borrowed this men’s size top from one of the bar staff instead.
Giles looks across at me and chortles. ‘You look so festive.’
‘Ho ho ho!’
The concert over, he’s guiding us through the venue. I realise this is a behind-the-scenes part of gigs I’ve not seen before. Normally, I’m out front just digging the music and drinking the alcohol but there are people in radio mics running about with ropes and clipboards; for them it’s a job, it’s their everyday. We head over to lines of doors and Giles knocks on one. It opens to a man eyeing us suspiciously. There’s a real party atmosphere inside, alcohol flying, music turned up and because my senses are so finely attuned to these things, I smell chips, meat, possibly a burger. Yes, I smell burgers. If you want to talk about superpowers I’ve acquired post-partum, this is one. It contains onions and barbeque sauce.
‘Yeah?’ says the man at the door.
‘Gillllles! I know him, Kyle, let him in!’ screams a voice from the back of the room. We see Kimmie, sitting down sipping from a tin of cherry Coke. She waves us in and we head over. I get the looks. The room is buzzing with what’s just happened on that stage, people singing and chanting her name. I have no experience that’s comparable to this, I really don’t.
‘God, it’s— Too loud— here…’ Kimmie shouts at us.
Giles and I nod, pretending that we know exactly what she’s said and she laughs and beckons us out of the room into the corridor.
‘I am so sorry. It is madness in there. I don’t know half the people either…’
Giles puts an arm to her. ‘You OK?’
‘I literally just shared the stage with the biggest rapper, like ever.’
It’s a lot to take in, I get it. Giles takes her hand, kissing it. I’m taken back to the moment I first saw these two sitting with their calamari sharing platter in a pub in my suburban neck of the woods. How are we suddenly here? The door of the room re-opens.
‘Giles, mate. You should come in. We’ve got plans for the next video.’ He’s dragged into the room by some music executive in a suit and I’m left there with Kimmie. Instinctively, I bring her in for a hug and she wraps her arms around me. She’s in just a cropped top, leggings and military boots in winter – have some of my body heat or you’ll catch a death. Her body is almost shaking under mine.
‘I met your dad earlier? He’s a joy,’ I tell her.
‘Oh my days, he is wasted. Was he completely embarrassing?’
‘He was a proud dad. And rightly so, you looked pretty amazing out there,’ I tell her.
‘You’re too kind. How did it sound though?’
‘Loud?’
She laughs. ‘I’m just glad Giles is here. I’ve got this whole section of my team in there who feel I should be taking what I do in a different direction. Like put me on a stage in my bra and a thong and have me thrust about, but that’s not what I want, you know? I want people to hear the words. I’m more than my body, right?’
‘You are.’
‘And if I have people spitting my lyrics back at me then this is about responsibility; it’s about telling girls my age to love and respect what’s in here.’ She taps at her skull as she says that, adrenalin carrying her rant. I’m in awe. When I was her age, all I had to worry about was the number of friends I had on Myspace (I had ninety-three).
‘One of your lyrics… it’s something about only a coward would spend their life in the hamlets. That’s Charlotte Brontë, yes?’
She looks up at me and smiles broadly. ‘You know Brontë?’
‘That’s my English-teacher brain talking.’
