I spent the whole day in the old studio with the guys trying to straighten my head out. I began to write a song that I didn’t have a title for yet. I was only a few words into it, but it didn’t take a genius to wonder where I got my inspiration from. Just like the majority of my other songs, they all stemmed from a once-beloved muse whose life still remained in Southwold.
“I can’t get enough of your green eyes, your soft skin, your sweet smile.”
I looked up as Angel read out loud what I’d written so far over my shoulder.
“So, another song for Frankie is in the works, huh?”
I didn’t answer him, I looked back down to my notepad and tapped my pencil against it.
“Don’t you feel like a hypocrite, man?” Angel quizzed. “Writing so many songs about her then treating her like the scum of the earth when you first see her again after nine years? That’s a coward’s move as far as I’m concerned.”
I wanted to punch Angel in the face but I couldn’t. I was mad at what he said because it was the truth. I wasn’t mad at him, I was furious with me.
“I fucked up,” I acknowledged. “I know I did, she didn’t deserve that. None of it.”
“So what are you gonna do about it?”
I looked at Angel and frowned.
“Writing a song about her doesn’t benefit her, it benefits us because your songs are hits. Even if a song doesn’t work out for us, it does for another artist. That woman has some of the most beautiful songs in the world written about her and she probably doesn’t even know it.”
I had never considered that . . . surely she knew.
“Whenever I mention an eye colour it’s green, or a hair colour it’s some variant of red. A blind man would know she’s my muse. I describe her in every way when I focus on her . . . her looks, her mind, her heart. I even have her personality in what I write. She has to know.”
“Just because you know, doesn’t mean she does. You aren’t so forthcoming in your writing, bro. You don’t straight out say you love a green-eyed, red-haired girl. You wrap what you say in layers so they could mean a bunch of different things. Why do you think our Sinners made a big deal last week when one of them realised you penned a song that went to number one for that Bieber dude? They were freaking out wondering who you were talking about. They love breaking that shit down to figure out what you’re actually saying. They’re convinced you’re in love with Nora Maxwell.”
“Good God.” I rolled my eyes. “I took her out to dinner twice. Twice!”
“She has red hair and green eyes.”
“She has brown hair that’s dyed ginger and she has brown eyes, but wears green contacts.”
Angel laughed. “To the world, she is the chica you sing about so much.”
“Well, she’s fucking not. Frankie is.”
“Maybe Frankie thinks they’re about Nora too. Maybe even more so after how you treated her last night.”
I felt sucker punched.
“You’re making me feel like shit, Angel.”
“Enough to make you go and apologise to the woman?”
“Yes!” I snapped as I got to my feet and threw my notepad at him. “Don’t lose that. Wazzock.”
“I know you’re calling me an idiot, but that word still sounds like a Harry Potter spell.”
I clenched my jaw as I walked away.
“You’re welcome, puta!” Angel shouted after me, laughing. “And good luck. With how mad that woman looked last night, you’re gonna need it!”
I shrugged my coat on, grabbed the car keys and left the studio. It was a cold February evening, but the sky was clear and the stars were out so I decided to walk to Frankie’s home to see if she was there. That was the plan until a flash went off on my right when I left the garden. I tried my best not to sigh because if the vultures got a picture of me looking sad, they would attach some ridiculous headline to it and piss me off.
“What’s up, Risk? How are you?” a woman’s voice hollered. “Enjoying being back home?”
I headed straight for the rented car that our manager had delivered this morning. None of us had wanted the flashy Audi, it made us stand out too much in Southwold, so we had a regular BMW SUV delivered to us instead. We were lucky so far that the residents didn’t bother us, even though they knew we were staying in May’s house. Throughout the day, teenagers and young adults would come to the gate of the front garden and take pictures and videos. May humoured a group of lads around lunch-time and went outside to talk to them, I joined him because they seemed like kids who were genuinely fans of music, just like we were. We took pictures and had a laugh with them.
I knew it was only a matter of time until the paps showed up, though.
“I’m having a great time, thanks.”
I fisted the car key as more flashes went off. A glance to my left showed three more women with cameras jumping out of cars, and a man too. I shook my head.
“This road is for residents only, you know? You can’t park in front of their houses.”
“We move when they tell us to.”
The man who replied to me had a camera, but wasn’t flashing so I assumed he was likely recording his interaction with me.
“Nervous about playing in Wembley next week?”
“Nope.” I answered the shortest woman as I approached the
