Page 11 of Christmas in Mistletoe
“Maybe you can wear her down to sign with us over Christmas drinks.”
“That is doubtful. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways in the only bar in the village. It’s the epitome of a local bar for local people.”
“The village is really called Mistletoe?”
“It totally is.”
Damian tilted his head. “Do they have mistletoe hanging over the village sign when you drive in? Do you have to pull over and snog the nearest person under it to be allowed in?”
“Maybe when we get closer to December, who knows? Right now, the sign is just a regular sign with a drawing of mistletoe on it.”
Damian stroked his stubble. “Do you know the origin of the word mistletoe?”
Fran shook her head. Here he went again with his random facts. “I don’t. Do you?”
He nodded. “It’s an English-German word, derived from the old English term for twig, along with the old German term for dung. It basically means shit on a twig.” Damian gave her a wide grin.
“You’re kidding.”
But the shake of his head told Fran he wasn’t.
“That’s brilliant. I wonder if the village knows. You think I could endear myself to the locals and maybe get it on the town marketing? I’m sure they’d love it.” Fran wafted a hand in the air above her, like she was reading a movie poster. “Come to this village in the middle of nowhere and buy a Christmas tree from Shit On A Twig Farm.”
“I think it needs work,” Damian deadpanned. He looked around the bar. “Good turn-out here, though.” He held up his bottle of Heineken. “Good beer choice, too. Maybe indie is where the music business is going.”
“I hope not, or we’re out of a job,” Fran replied. “Talking of jobs, how did the interview with Fast Forward go today? No problems? They smiled in all the right places? Tenny’s anxiety didn’t get the better of her?”
Their all-female, indie-pop band of the moment had been interviewed by a big Sunday paper this week. The band had been primed and media-coached, but their lead singer Tenny was still a bag of nerves. Fran hoped it had paid off.
Damian’s nod was confident. “They did good. They were nervous as hell going in, but nobody’s out to trip them up.” He paused. “If you discount the Twitter trolls who most definitely are.”
“Really?” It was a hazard of the industry, particularly for young women. The rise of the keyboard warrior meant that everything was fair game to comment on, at any time of the day or night. It was exhausting for everyone involved, but most damaging for the artists on the sharp end.
Damian sighed. “Yes, but I’m trying to ignore them and focus on the positives. Plus, their latest single broke the top 10 this week, so their trajectory is on target. When their Christmas single lands and they hit their big London gigs, we’ll really see what they’re made of. If they can get over their stage jitters.”
All Dronk Records’ other artists were pure musicians, signed on the strength of their song writing and performance. Fast Forward, on the other hand, was the label’s attempt to break into the indie girl band scene with a manufactured band, albeit five women who could play all their instruments. Despite their early success, the band were still getting used to the glare. They looked the part, but they didn’t quite believe it yet.
Fran grimaced. “They’ve certainly embraced their pre-gig nerves. We need to coach them. Or give them Valium, one of the two.”
Damian spluttered. “We’re trying to steer them off the drink and drugs road for as long as we can.”
“Rock and roll ain’t what it used to be.”
* * *
Half an hour later,they were immersed in the set from Tom Darby. His songs were big, wrapping their arms around you. He had an easy stage presence, and Fran was transfixed.
“Thanks so much for coming out tonight. This gig is for all the people who’ve helped me along the way, and let me sleep on their sofa so I could gig around London without bankrupting myself. Especially my good friend and now flatmate, Ruby O’Connell. She’s also written a new song which is an absolute killer, and I’ve persuaded her to debut it tonight. So please, go mad and give it up for the brilliant Ruby O’Connell!”
Fran twisted her head just in time to see a tall figure moving through the crowd.
Ruby.
Fran’s insides swooped. Oh shit, Damian had been right. She really was here.
The crowd clapped and whistled, as Ruby got up on stage, giving them a confident wave.
Damian nudged her with his elbow. “I called it.”
