6. At The Rock Show
At The Rock Show
BETTY
Ileft my brother’s house on a quiet evening, having secured tickets to a show I shouldn’t attend. Strutting in tight jeans, high heels, and a crop top, I wanted to blend. I needed to see this show—even if I had to compete the next day and should be in bed.
The Zamboneys played a London club, and I wouldn’t miss it.
Had I done something stupid? Maybe. Was it worth a shot?
Also maybe. I knew I shouldn’t go; but if I didn’t see Mary live, I’d never forgive myself.
I wasn’t sure why it mattered, but I chased this high I remembered from before. I wondered if it remained.
I linked up with Jaz, who stayed at a hotel with two other riders, outside the venue.
“Girl, you look hot,” she said. “Damn!”
“I am trying to be a normie,” I said.
“Uh-huh. Someone is looking to get laid.”
I don’t even know where to begin.
“Why do you assume that?”
She rolled her eyes. “You would flirt with a damn wall. You’re the horniest person I know, and it’s been ages.”
“You know Leah,” I snickered. “Impossible.”
“Yeah, well, Leah is old and married these days. And I don’t know your somewhat-cousin that well.”
We grabbed beers and hung out in the first row of seats behind the pit.
It was a perfect vantage—close, but not elbow-in-the-face height.
The air was thick with the skunky weed smell I became accustomed to at concerts in America.
So, as an all-woman punk-pop band opened, I wondered if we were into the vibe because of the band or due to a contact high.
“I’m so glad we came out,” Jaz said. “It’s been months since we’ve really blown off steam.”
“I know!” I shouted over the band. “I needed this.”
Between taking on limited family engagements and travelling with horses, I had almost no chance to just be me.
I left for the barn before dawn and returned after sunset most days.
Most horse people would tell you that was just the way it was when you were a professional rider, but it wore on me anytime I returned to Europe and saw my married brothers living their happy little lives with perfect families.
I was lonely and bored. I missed the vibrant, rebellious girl who felt things.
As we waited for the headliners, my palms sweated. Noting that the openers were ending their set, I felt a need to vanish. I stared down at my empty beer and determined it was time for a refill.
“I’m going to grab another. Can I get you one?”
“You’ll regret it in the morning.” Jaz disapproved.
She was right, but I needed space. Being this close to the stage ratcheted up the pressure. What if my feelings fell flat? Would I just feel silly for this wasted effort? If I didn’t step back to breathe, I might lose it. So, I excused myself.
From the bar top, I spotted Mary’s blonde head as she took her mark.
To my surprise, she wasn’t playing guitar.
She stepped up to the mic and spoke, not overly confident, but deliberatively.
She owned the moment as much as I suddenly wanted her to own me.
Her hair was different, but she still had that same no-fucks-given vibe the drew me in the first time.
God, she could have told me to do anything and I would have crawled!
Every feeling hit again like a wave. As she opened her mouth, I was drawn to her siren song.
I returned to Jaz slowly, saying nothing and trying to keep my jaw attached to my face.
Remaining composed, I settled into the sound of their opening number—a power ballad of sorts.
Of course, she could have sang a nursery rhyme and I would have still wanted to kiss her.
“They’re good,” Jaz admitted.
I could only get out an “uh-huh” while trying to keep my tongue in my mouth. My mind turned to how the fuck we were going to get backstage.
I shouted, “They’re in the contest,” I said. “I need to meet them. They’re amazing.”
“Text Leah,” Jaz called. “Doesn’t she know everyone?”
It was a brilliant idea. So, I did just that.
ME
So, we’re at the Zamboneys show. You got a hookup with anyone?
I waited until she responded. My phone buzzed as they turned over to quieter song.
LEAH
Lou shares a lawyer with their lead singer. I know their manager AJ. What do you want?
ME
They’re in UniVox. I want to meet them.
LEAH
Sure. I can message him. I got you, babes.
If anyone could call in a favor, it was Leah. The industry was almost as incestuous as the royal family tree we’d both sprung from. I turned my attention to the show.
Mary spoke as the band played. “This one is a new one we wrote on the road. It’s a little rough and doesn’t have a name yet, but I hope you love it.”
I’d not appreciated the feeling of listening to a live, acoustic version of a raw song before.
As silly as it sounded, I never thought much about music until recently.
But, as we all swayed to the chorus, everyone poured their hearts out.
The song was about setting everything aside and moving on from a time of loss.
Mary’s voice poured out gently. The sound wasn’t as powerful as her words, but its raw, emotional quality did the prose justice.
My phoned buzzed. I ignored it, too enraptured in the bridge. There was nothing like the unexpected high note she hit at the end. Mary’s face showed genuine surprise—a sensitive, deep appreciation—as the crowd erupted. Does she not know how enigmatic she is?
I couldn’t help but beam. I met celebrities regularly.
They attended events I hosted and stood on the rail at competitions in Ocala and Wellington.
They sometimes stayed with Leah and Lourdes and hobnobbed with them at yacht parties.
But what Mary had—what she brought out in a sad song—was completely beyond.
She was authentic and raw in a way most people weren’t. I craved her attention.
I wondered if the way I was drawn to her was how everyone felt in this moment, but I supposed I’d never know until I had another chance to talk to Mary. I was determined to make it happen. Not one to take no for an answer, I would speak to Mary if it killed me.