Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
IGGY
Sober life was weird, but somehow, I was surviving.
On my graduation day from rehab, Gloria, my flatmate and probably my only real friend, picked me up from my two-month retreat in the ass end of Kent.
Walking through the gates and spotting her bright pink vintage Mini Cooper, I’d had this sudden, ridiculous surge of gratitude for a friend so completely the opposite of me.
She was fifty, a hippie spinster with three cats, and we’d met five years ago when she kicked her boyfriend slash squatter out and needed someone to cover the rent on her two-bedroom Camden flat.
I’d just finished getting railed in the disabled toilets at the local pub when I overheard her telling a regular she’d need to find a tenant.
Two days later, I moved in, and my days of sofa surfing were officially over.
Unlike me, whose drug habit probably made late-2000s Lindsay Lohan look like Mother Teresa, Gloria didn’t touch booze or drugs.
Her one vice was smoking a twenty-pack of Benson & Hedges a day.
She told me that as long as I didn’t bring any drama to her doorstep and paid the rent on time, I could party as much as I liked.
Naturally, I took that as a personal challenge—at least until I went a step too far.
On my first evening of freedom back in London, Gloria proudly announced she’d cleaned the flat from top to bottom and tossed my “hidden” stash, which, as it turned out, wasn’t so hard to find.
The rest of the night was spent doing face masks, mani-pedis, and binge-watching Gilmore Girls on Netflix.
I begrudgingly enjoyed every second of it.
And so, we kept it up for the rest of the week, making it all the way to the end of season four before Gloria decided I needed to get a life—by which she meant one that didn’t involve illegal substances and a near one-way trip to A&E.
Other people might have found my flatmate’s behaviour overbearing, and if it had been anyone else, I probably would’ve pushed back like the stubborn twat I am.
But for the past five years, Gloria had been more of a parent to me than my own donors ever were—making sure I ate, picking me up when I was too high to get home, holding my hair back when I was hungover.
Her mother-hen ways were just another thing I was grateful for.
The first step was getting a job. Before the Willow, I worked at the local pub.
The late hours were perfect for hangovers and a convenient way to score when my dealer popped in for a pint.
I also picked up the occasional shift as a bingo caller, because the old ladies loved my natural talent for turning numbers into sexual innuendos.
Legs eleven. Spread ’em wide and think of England.
Two fat ladies, eighty-eight. Double the pleasure, double the fun.
I’ll admit I was fairly anxious about returning to work, but as it turns out, I had no reason to be.
Gloria had told Gaz, the pub landlord, that I was sacked and barred—as if she wasn’t just a customer—and if he had any problem with it, he could take it up with her.
Of course, he didn’t, which left me free to figure out my next move.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t exactly high demand for an ex-ballet dancer who liked playing with makeup and was a recovering addict to boot. So finding work was tricky, at least until I got a call from Sasha.
We’d met back when I was at the Royal Ballet.
She’d been part of the makeup crew for the company’s performances, and after I left, we stayed in touch.
We’d meet up so she could help me sharpen my makeup skills, and after a while, I’d occasionally help her out on jobs.
Together, we travelled around the UK doing makeup for stage shows, musicians, and even a stint for an up-and-coming designer at London Fashion Week.
But that all stopped about three years ago.
Sasha got a gig touring with an American rock band in Europe, and she did such a good job that they invited her to join them in Asia.
Her reputation in the industry spread quickly, and soon she was getting so many requests from celebrities and magazines in the US that she decided to move there permanently.
My half-assed attempt at a makeup career went up in flames after that, and I slipped back into what I did best. Partying.
The only time I picked up my brushes was to beat my own face, the faces of my friends, and the occasional Soho drag queen who needed a last-minute rescue.
Without Sasha around to nudge me, hype me up, or tell me when I’d turned someone into a badly blended Oompa Loompa, it all felt a bit pointless.
I’d only gotten to experience any of those gigs because of her name and her reputation, never because anyone was genuinely interested in the pink-haired shadow trailing behind her. So to say I was surprised when she rang out of the blue with a job offer was putting it lightly.
“I’m pregnant, Iggs,” she’d said.
“You’re what?!” I’d squawked, almost choking on the strong tea Gloria had made for me.
“Yep. Wasn’t exactly planned, but as my mum says, the best things never are.” She sighed, and I could practically picture the wry amusement on her face. “I’ll let you know if I believe her after I’ve squeezed a pint-sized human out of my nether regions.”
“Uh, congratulations?” I wasn’t sure what else to say, and it must’ve shown in the way my voice pitched up like I was asking a question.
But when Sasha chuckled on the other end of the line, something in me eased. It felt like no time had passed since we’d last gossiped over a cheap bottle of wine, only now there was a baby involved, and I was stone cold sober.
“Good thing you don’t want kids,” she said, and I scoffed in mock offence.
“I’d be a wonderful mother, I’ll have you know.”
“You’d definitely make a good stage mum.”
“I . . .” I trailed off, not really knowing how to respond and definitely not wanting to poke at the mess of my childhood. I had an upcoming therapy appointment for that. So instead, I muttered, “Better than my own mum, at least.”
One of the best things about Sasha was that she didn’t pry.
She knew enough about my family to understand they weren’t exactly the nurturing type.
My parents were more of the “throw money at the problem and hope it goes away” variety, which was exactly how I’d ended up in the country’s most sought-after private rehab programme in the first place.
“Anyway, I actually had a reason for calling you,” Sasha chimed in, shifting the subject, much to my immediate relief.
“I thought you loved being regaled with my stories of mischief and chaos.”
“Normally, yes,” she said. “But I’m on a bit of a time crunch, and I wanted to talk to you about doing a job for me.”
I frowned and tightened my grip on the phone. “You’re coming back? Is it even safe to fly that far when you’re, you know, up the duff and everything?”
“Sassy,” she teased. “No, I’m not coming back. Remember that band I travelled across Europe with? The American one?”
“Yeah, Nocturnal or something like that.”
“Noctis,” she corrected, and I muttered that it was close enough. “They’re heading back to Europe for another tour. I was supposed to go with them, but as you so eloquently put it, I’m up the duff. Also, morning sickness is a motherfucker.”
“So . . .” I took a sip of my now lukewarm tea, waiting for her to finally get to the point.
I regretted it immediately when she said, “So, I want you to go in my place.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I sputtered, coughing between every syllable. “You w-want me to what?”
“You’re more than capable, Iggs. Bloody good, in fact.” I couldn’t help the tiny spark of pride that flared at her praise. “And come on, they’re a rock band. It’s mostly eyeliner and black eyeshadow. Nothing like that avant-garde look we did for Fashion Week.”
I set my mug down on the coffee table, not trusting myself not to choke again, and dragged a hand down my face.
At some point I’d started sweating, my palms damp and my heart pounding like it was trying to crack my ribs from the inside.
Had Sasha lost her mind? Was this a pregnancy-hormone fever dream?
Why would she ever think I could do something like this?
Sure, she’d taught me everything I knew, and every face I’d ever touched with a brush had left the chair happy. But if anything went wrong, Sasha had always been there to bail me out, to steer me right, to tell me what I could fix next time.
This time I’d be completely on my own, expected to just .
. . know. And it wasn’t like I’d be working on randoms either.
These were celebrities. I had no clue who they were, but that didn’t mean anything, since the only music I ever listened to was either classical or blasting out of a club speaker at three in the morning.
Sasha said they were well known, though.
Big enough that she hadn’t hesitated to join their tour the first time.
“I’m not qualified,” I burst out, and Sasha sighed at me like a mother about to deal with a very difficult child. It was easy to recognise, since I’d heard that sigh a lot growing up. And from Gloria in recent years.
Maybe I was just inherently troublesome.
“Look, Iggy,” she said, her tone softening, like she could sense me unravelling even through the phone. “My name’s attached to the band, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
“I . . . I just . . .”
“Plus, the pay is pretty fucking generous since it’s a last-minute request. The band and their team are super nice, and you’ve always been good with people. The whole tour’s one long party, so it should be right up your street.”
That was the moment I should’ve said no. Should’ve said I couldn’t. Should’ve told her about rehab, about sobriety, about how fragile everything still felt. I was two months sober, for fuck’s sake. The rock-star lifestyle wasn’t where I should be planting myself, not even as a crew member.