Chapter 3 #2
He stops talking because he has possibly just remembered the time, not so long ago, that I actually was booed off stage for crying too much while singing Adele covers.
It was a tough gig. Cubes of sheep’s cheese and many garlic-infused olives were thrown at the stage, too.
We all thought it was harsh, but Ged said that he’d be annoyed too if it was his wedding.
‘You’re just tired. What do we always say? Face the fear and do it anyway,’ Liam says. ‘You’ll be amazing. Remember to smile, and you will light up the stage. You’ve got this, Connie. You auditioned for years. You might as well give it a go.’
He’s right. I spent too long trying to follow in my mother’s footsteps as a classical singer just to feel closer to her. I temporarily lost sight of what I might want from life. At least, if I give this a go and I’m no good at it, I can tick it off the career goals list.
BEEEEEEEP.
Someone makes a loud ‘ahem’ sound. ‘We are all waiting for you. Is there some emergency? Can I be of any assistance?’
A tall, impatient-looking man dressed in an expensive casual suit with a designer T-shirt, Converse sneakers and a loose scarf around his neck walks towards us.
‘I’m Luke. You must be… Connie?’
I sniff up my remaining tears, wipe my nose discreetly on Liam’s jumper and nod back. How embarrassing.
I’m not sure I’m making a very good first impression as his gaze very subtly flickers from my puffy face to my legs and back again.
His face gives nothing away as he reaches into his breast pocket to retrieve a very soft, but more importantly, brand-new-looking handkerchief.
He gives it a gentle shake, revealing it is monogrammed with swirly initials.
Bowing slightly, as though he’s just graduated from an 1850s school of gallantry, he offers it to me.
I gingerly take it and begin to mop at my tears in a genteel fashion. Maybe it’s to do with classical music, but everyone in this world always seems to behave more formally.
Dab. Dab. Dab.
‘Thank you.’ I sniff. ‘That’s very kind. There’s no emergency.’
‘Well, in that case, can I prise you two lovebirds apart?’ He checks the time on his phone and shows it to us. ‘We do have a rather important opening night to perform this evening.’
‘Oh, we’re not lovers… no way,’ says Liam, a tad too forcefully. ‘I already have a fiancé. A much better one. I mean, a different one. A more manly one. One who’s much more emotionally stable.’
I look up at him. Who is this helping?
‘If you could say your goodbyes quickly and follow me over, we’d all appreciate it,’ Luke says briskly, giving us a stern look. ‘We don’t want to be late, do we?’
Liam grins back. He likes this sort of moody chivalry. We watch Bridgerton together. He totally loves anything to do with swashbuckling, firm thrusting buttocks and men in frilly sleeves with a sense of whimsy.
But then, who doesn’t? Prior to meeting Matteo, I was watching the Bridgerton season one buttocks scene on a continuous loop.
‘I’ll take these. Try to keep up,’ Luke says in an authoritative manner as he heads to the coach that still has its hold door open, with two of my four heavy cases.
Liam and I watch him stride powerfully away, filling out his suit as though it was tailor-made for him.
The fabric strains against his shoulder blades and biceps as he carries my luggage as though it weighs nothing at all.
He has the broad back tapering to a slim waist and hips silhouette of someone who has a gym membership and actually uses it.
Frequently. He barks orders to the coach drivers which jolt me into action. We scurry after him.
‘A week will fly by, and we can keep in touch on WhatsApp to put together the wish list for the Vegas schedule,’ Liam says, helping me carry my other two suitcases to the coach.
Ah. The schedule.
The schedule that I promised to put together and send to everyone.
The schedule that can’t be completed until Nancy gives me the exact dates, times and locations of all the venues we will be singing at in Vegas.
The schedule that must include a daily itinerary of pre-moon activities that we can do dressed as Kens and Barbies.
The schedule that must also include me trying to magic free time out of thin air to spend with Matteo, who has specifically taken precious time off work so that we can spend a romantic week alone undisturbed.
My heart begins to thump in my chest. At least this mild panic attack about Vegas is taking my mind off my current predicament.
‘Your tour manager is a bit of a looker,’ Liam says, nodding towards the coach where Luke is waiting with a phone glued to his ear.
‘What is it with you and hot, bossy men? You’re like a magnet.
Let’s hope they’re not like buses.’ Liam drags his eyes back to mine.
‘Anyway, love, you’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.’
I hope he’s right.
BEEP. BEEEEEEEP.
‘Christ. I nearly had a heart attack!’ shrieks Liam.
Luke has raised his arm towards us and is pointing to his wrist.
‘What were you saying about hot, bossy men? What a pain in the neck,’ I say. ‘Come on, let’s get a move on.’
Liam heaves one of my cases into the hold for me, while I drag the other one, and we squeeze them in with the rest. Multiple sets of judgemental eyes are peering down through the coach windows at us, causing me to feel on edge.
Liam reaches out to give my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Ignore them.’
I hug him goodbye and assure him I’ll be okay.
But when I make to climb the steps of the coach, Luke swoops in, holding out his hand to help me up as though it’s a horse-drawn carriage.
He might be impatient but at least he has good manners.
I give him a wobbly smile and dab gently at my cheek in an endearing way.
It was very thoughtful of him to give me such a high-quality handkerchief.
He clears his throat. ‘If your intention is to keep us waiting so that we know you’re the star of the show, then a word of warning,’ he says in a low voice, edging Liam out of the way.
‘We’ve seen it all before.’ He maintains eye contact for a little too long.
‘Punctuality is a mark of respect. And the Maestro does not like to be kept waiting.’
His words cause me to flinch, stopping me in my tracks. There’s no need for this level of rudeness, surely? My eyes flick behind me to an open-mouthed Liam. He too looks a little alarmed.
‘That was absolutely not my intention,’ I say, snatching my hand from Luke’s to hurry up the stairs. He has put me right off hot, bossy tour managers.
At least the bus is only half full, so there is plenty of space. I just have time to rush towards the back, to put some distance between us, when Luke follows me down the aisle.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he says, plonking himself right down across the aisle from me before I can answer, ‘but we may as well get this right out in the open.’
Yes, I do bloody mind.
I look around. All the seats surrounding us are empty. Instinctively, I look out of the window to see Liam watching with his mouth gaping open as though I’ve just been kidnapped.
I just have time to mouth, ‘What the…?’ when the coach engine roars to life and, with an almighty jerk, we set off.
My phone begins pinging exponentially seconds into the journey. It’ll be Liam.
Luke is staring at the phone in my hand. It feels rude to answer it mid-conversation. Especially as he’s just, for want of a better word, told me off. Ridiculous to think that I’m giving social etiquette top priority, but as I’m panicking over what to do, he lifts his gaze to mine.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he says in a facetious tone. ‘You’ve obviously got more important things to do than focus on this tour.’
‘And you’ve obviously got more important things to do than… than…’
‘Than… than?’ he mimics.
‘Than manage the tour.’
This tit for tat is beneath me. I’m the lead soprano, for God’s sake, but something about him has got my back up.
I can’t have been more than a few minutes late getting on to the bus.
He studies me with an intense gaze. The azure-blue eyes are framed with thick dark lashes for such a blond-haired man.
His eyes crinkle in a disarming way. He does not look impressed. ‘Do I look like a tour manager to you?’
I deliberately look him up and down with a casual shrug, which seems to irk him more.
He’s right. Too well dressed for a tour manager, but perfectly dressed for a pompous jazz musician in the throes of a creative breakdown, or one of those brooding child-prodigy composers that this industry is obsessed with, or worse, a classical music critic.
What if he’s from BBC Music Magazine and touring with us?
Interviewing and reporting on the behind-the-scenes shenanigans?
Connie Cooper, lead soprano, snivelling, emotionally unstable hot mess. Just my luck to get off on the wrong foot with someone who could make or break my career.