But they do fit the exact profile of the 0.0001 per cent of people in this city that might recognise me – i.e. men, maybe a couple of years younger than I am, with shoulder-length hair and wrist tattoos now half-hidden by freshly ironed office shirts. Indie kids all grown up.
The train hisses into Great Portland Street.
‘Sorry, mate. ’Scuse me?’
I focus hard on a ‘60-second interview’ with Paul Chuckle and try to block out the hot thudding in my ears.
‘Sorry? Mate?’
I lower the paper to see them both staring at me. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re not… Did you used to be in a band?’
My throat is dry suddenly. I attempt a smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘I knew it!’ The first bloke slaps his knee in delight. ‘I knew I recognised him!’ He nudges his mate. ‘Didn’t I say it was him?’
His mate just shrugs. ‘I’ve never even heard of him.’
Before everything happened, back when I was a different person, I used to daydream about what it would be like to get recognised in public by strangers. I used to pine for the attention – the furtive glances, spreading smiles, looks of embarrassed awe. Now I realise it just means people talking about you as if you weren’t there – like you’re a Madame Tussauds waxwork, or something.
The truth is: I am the absolute worst kind of ‘famous’ – recognisable only to a tiny handful of people, all of whom probably think I’m an utter knob.
The first bloke turns back to me with a broad grin. ‘I think I saw you lot at Reading in like… 2014?’
‘2015,’ I say, the memory of it flashing into my head. That intern from Universal chopping coke on the airbed in her tent. Powder bouncing everywhere, all of us laughing. So out of it I could hardly breathe. Backstage, Joe, quieter than normal. Me, telling him to stop being so miserable. Telling him we’d finally made it. I remember taking my shirt off onstage, swinging it around my head like the worst cliché of a rock star. It’s still on YouTube, I think. The shame and the guilt heat my whole body instantly.
I need to get out of this carriage.
‘Yeah, 2015, that was it!’ says the Grown-Up Indie Kid. ‘You guys were… all right.’
‘Cheers.’ That’s probably as accurate a summary of our band as you’ll ever hear, to be fair.
I grip the handrail, ready to stand up. Need to get out of here.
‘So, what happened, then?’ the GUIK asks, waving a hand at my general appearance, as if to say: ‘Why are you slouched on the Hammersmith & City line at half seven in the morning, rather than jet skiing with Bono and Liam Gallagher in the Seychelles?’
The thumping in my ears is louder than ever. I can’t think about this now. I can’t. ‘I just…’ The words congeal in my throat. Joe, backstage, quieter than normal. The memory of it grips me around the neck.
I shake my head. Get to my feet. ‘Sorry, this is my stop, actually. Nice to meet you, though.’ I can feel the sweat prickling on my forehead.
Why won’t this fucking train stop?
The GUIK is up now too, his hand on my shoulder. ‘No worries, man. Can I get a quick photo, though? I’ve got a mate who used to be really into your group – he’ll think it’s hilarious.’
Turn away, head throbbing. ‘Sorry, this is my stop.’ I can just keep repeating that until the doors open. The train bursts out of the tunnel, finally, the signs for Euston Square flashing past in a reddish-blue blur.
I hear him sit back down, muttering, ‘Fucking prick. Who does he think he is?’
The doors hiss open and I stagger out onto the platform, gulping the dirty air. My face is boiling, the blood thundering in my ears. Joe, backstage, quieter than normal.
I never even asked him if he was all right.
I look round as the train moves off to see the GUIK holding his phone up at me, smirking. The camera flash stings my eyes through the window.
I swipe yet more Metros off the hard plastic bench and wait for the next train. It’s not for ten minutes. I’m going to be late for work now.
For some reason I think of Pia again. How her call had made me feel like I was OK, even if just for a few hours.
But I am not OK. I am very far from it.
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