19. ELLY
19
ELLY
I ’m pretty sure I hate Jack Lansen. Ninety-nine per cent sure. Barging into my room like he was coming to a boardroom meeting to lecture me about what I’m doing wrong… Arrogant fucking bastard.
Just because he’s marching around the West End in shoes that cost more than a month's rent, he thinks he knows what I need? What’s best for my career? What the fuck does Jack Lansen know about music?
He knows about success , a small voice whispers in my head.
Well, fuck him. I don’t need his advice. Interfering git. He didn’t even ask what I wanted, he just assumed that what I have isn’t good enough. That I must be dissatisfied. I don’t know what I did to drive him to say those things either. Before he started yelling at me to take my career seriously, I hadn’t seen him since I orgasmed on his lap, and he asked if I want to keep playing our stupid game. If I’d known what he was going to say before he knocked on my door, I never would have opened it. But I did, and now the atmosphere in the house is… toxic .
I’ve managed to avoid him for almost a week. I haven’t officially quit the game, but I might as well have, given how I’ve taken to creeping in and out of the house when I know he’s busy or away. It’s not a great action plan, but for now it’s working. I’m so furious that not even the thought of the money can keep me on track.
“I told you the game was stupid,” Marie says, and I bring my attention back to her, realising she’s been talking to me and I haven’t been listening. She’s in the Marchmont Arms to hear me perform, and I’m sitting in a dark corner of the pub with her. I finished my bartending shift twenty minutes ago, so I had a bit of time to catch up with her and I’ve filled her in on everything that’s happened recently with Jack.
“It’s not the game. It’s him,” I say, although I know it doesn’t make sense. Without Jack, there is no game.
Marie presses her lips together. “What are you going to do now?”
“Hide.”
She gives me a pitying look and takes a sip of her wine. “Can’t believe you orgasmed on his lap.”
Marie’s statement hits like a punch to the gut. If Jack hadn’t balled me out about my career, then maybe I could have made my peace with what happened the night I danced for him. But now, in hindsight, it feels awful. I don’t know how I got so carried away. It must be the way he smells. His face. Those deep blue eyes and his long, dark eyelashes. Or maybe it’s an invisible army of pheromones marching across the house from his room to mine, infecting me whilst I sleep.
Even recalling it now—the way he closed his eyes, the movement of his throat, the rigidity in his jaw that told me he was struggling to hold himself together—I’m turned on. And as much as I hate the effect he has on me… I also don’t. It was great. I loved it. I loved every second of it until it was over, and I realised exactly what I’d done.
I can hardly think of it without wanting to die. I got myself off by grinding my crotch on his erection. And then, because I was too fucking turned on not to, I went up to my room and gave myself two more orgasms whilst thinking of the expression on his face when he’d watched me come. Horrendous . And as if that wasn’t humiliating enough, the next time he saw me, he got aggressive about my music. Maybe I invited it by telling him to go away, but the gear switch was so abrupt, it sent me into a tailspin. It was as though he couldn’t understand how someone could be so useless when it comes to their career, and felt compelled to let me know.
He might not have used that exact word, but he was so furious, that’s how it felt. And damn it, after my disastrous panic attack at the Granville Agency, I think he might be right. That’s what made it so much harder to hear what he had to say.
Jack Lansen, businessman extraordinaire. Everything he touches turns to gold, whereas everything I touch turns to shit.
We’re completely incompatible.
It’s confusing to feel all these conflicting things for one man. My head feels like it’s exploding.
“You realise that for as long as you’re friends with Kate, he’s going to be a feature in your life. Parties, weddings, christenings…” Marie’s voice brings me back and I find her shaking her head at me, forcing me to contemplate all those future events, where a mere glimpse of Jack will bring the humiliation booming back in surround sound. My cheeks start to burn. “And now he knows you’re into him because you rubbed one out on him.”
“I’m not into him. I got carried away. And he was hard too.”
“But he’s a guy. They’re more physiological than we are. You could have been anyone, and he’d have been hard .”
My body feels like it’s being wrung out like a wet towel, and when the sensation reaches my head, I slam my eyes shut. Is that true? He said I was the sexiest woman he’d ever met… but then, he’s Jack. All smooth words and easy charm . I let out a pitiful whimper-groan.
“You two look positively conspiratorial.”
At the sound of Kate’s voice, shock radiates through my body so hard I nearly shoot forward in my chair and hit my head on the table. Somehow, I manage to keep myself in check and calmly turn to find her standing behind me, beaming at the two of us, a glass of wine in hand. Please say she didn’t hear us discussing me dry-humping her brother.
“Your brother laid into Elly about the state of her career,” Marie says quickly. “Banged on her door to tell her she’s wasting her life singing down here.”
Kate sits at the table, a concerned expression on her face. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. That’s very Jack though. He likes to get the best out of everything… always wants to maximize his employees’ potential and their performance.” She sips on her wine, scrunching her face at the taste. The wine here is like battery acid. “It’s actually one of his strengths. He’s an excellent boss.”
Of course he is. The perfect boss, the perfect man. Fuck him . “He’s not my boss.” Even to my ears, I sound remarkably bitter, and Kate’s eyebrows draw together as though she suspects there’s something else going on, but before she can query it Marie downs the rest of her wine and asks, “What’s new with you? Give us some good news.”
Kate glances at me like she wants to check it’s really okay for us to move off this topic so fast. I give a tiny shrug to let her know I don’t care.
“I’ve booked the venue for Nico’s party. It’s going to be amazing. You’re still up for performing, right?” Kate eyes me over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip of her wine, winces, puts the glass down, and pushes it aside.
“Are you sure you want me to?” I ask.
She reaches over and grips my hand. “Stop doubting yourself. I know how good you are. You know it too. It’s time to get you out of here.” She nods around the dingy Marchmont basement. “And onto a bigger stage.”
“I completely agree,” Marie states, as though her proclaiming it is the thing that’s going to make it happen.
Deep inside, a note of sadness rings out, the tone of it settling in my heart. It’s not just Jack who thinks I need to sort out my career. It’s my friends too.
How do they all know that I want fame and fortune? That I want to be discovered? How do they know I’m not happy right here, doing exactly what I’m doing? None of them asked me. Then again, I haven’t exactly been keeping them up to date on my feelings. I still haven’t shared the details of my non-interview with Robert Lloyd. I’m ashamed of myself.
Pathetic.
A lump rises in my throat, and I pull out of Kate’s grip.
She frowns at me. “You okay? I know the party would be different. A big step up. There would be five hundred people there.”
I take a steadying breath. Nico’s party. “Five hundred?” I query.
“Nothing compared to when you’re playing for ninety thousand people at Wembley Stadium,” Marie says, nudging me with her elbow and winking. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a joke or an encouragement, so I ignore it.
“Exactly,” Kate says. “You can definitely do this.”
“Thanks.” I strive to keep my voice calm, but my heart is racing. I want this, I do , but fear is threading its way through my veins. How can I admit to wanting something that feels impossible? Every time I try to take a step forward with my career, it bites me in the arse. If I had told Kate what happened at my interview, how I totally lost my nerve and ran away, there’s no way she’d ask me to sing for Nico. “Of course I want to do it. I’m honoured you asked me. Really.”
I can do this.
“Elly.” Marcia’s harsh voice cuts across our conversation, and her index finger slices from me to the stage area. Crap . It’s my set, and I’d been so distracted that I lost track of time.
“Break a leg,” Kate says, toasting me with her glass of cheap white.
Marie slaps me on the bum as I get up and walk away. “Show us what you’re made of,” she says, and winks again.
“Boooo.”
My heart jerks at the sound, fingers stalling on the strings. No one has booed me while I’ve been performing since I started. Back then, I was so nervous I kept halting and forgetting the lyrics. That doesn’t happen now, and you have to have a pretty thick skin to get up on stage every night, even if it is only at the Marchmont Arms. But for some reason, the noise slides right into a weakened crevice, knocking me off.
My fingers stumble, but I resume the chords so fast that maybe no one noticed.
“Get your tits out, love.”
Who is heckling me like that?
I blink into the light that’s shining right in my face. I can only see the people right at the front, and it’s not them. A few people are glancing over their shoulders, trying to work out where the disturbance is coming from.
Marcia, stony-faced, is striding through the bar, heading towards whoever is shouting. They sound drunk.
“Sing something happy. This is shit,” comes another voice.
The numbness I felt at first morphs to heat, sweat beading on my forehead and the back of my neck. This is horrible, but I can handle it. Can’t I? There aren’t that many people here, but I wish Marie and Kate weren’t witnessing it. They’re both so together… so accomplished. Kate’s a businesswoman to her core, and Marie will probably become a consultant at the hospital before she’s forty. And me… what good am I? What have I done? What will I ever achieve?
Why are these doubts running through my head right now? I’m on stage, my fingers strumming. I’m still singing, but even I can hear how bad it sounds. I can’t perform when my head is a mess. I’m not in the moment. Not present. My heart is racing and I’m overwhelmed with doubt and fear, and the awareness of those people out there in the bar, shadows I can’t make out, waiting to jeer at me.
“Get off,” comes a voice.
And then, even through the light hitting my eyes, I see something careen through the air towards me. It slaps hard against my shoulder, bursting like a water balloon. I gasp, fear sparking through me like a million needles. My mind erupts with panic. What’s happening?
The remains of whatever hit me slops to the floor by my feet. A slice of tomato.
A slice of fucking tomato, all greasy and covered in ketchup like it had been nestled inside a burger before it was launched across the room.
For a few moments, I’m stunned. My cream shirt is spattered with a mixture of ketchup, tomato juice and burger grease. Some is in my hair. On my face.
The thoughts come like a torrent. How did this happen? How am I here, singing in dive bars where no one is listening, and if they are listening, they’re abusing me?
The bar is quiet, but whispers and jeers begin quickly, rising like a tide of discontent. An impulsive anger jerks me out of my seat, and I stand, guitar hanging around my neck by the strap. “Hey,” I call out. “Who did that?”
I look around, catching sight of Marcia standing before a table in the corner, three burly blokes sitting at it. I can’t see their faces from here, but I would guess they’re maybe around my age.
Rage rises through me like a storm. How fucking dare they!
I’m out of my mind. This isn’t me. But anger is firing like rockets, propelling my limbs as I storm off the platform, through the tables, ignoring the punters staring at me.
I haven’t progressed far from the stage when one of the bouncers grabs my shoulder. “We’ve got this.” He pins me in place, moving around me to join Marcia and another bouncer as they escort the men out. They stumble and yell as they are jostled towards the exit. They’re definitely drunk, but one of them catches my eye as he’s being manhandled from the table and there’s a nasty leer in it.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this tonight, but just as the thought passes through my head, the man yanks his arm from the bouncer and throws something.
A split-second view tells me it’s another slice of tomato, but before the thought is even fully formed it hits me right in the face. The slam of it stings, and I yelp, blinking away the splash of seeds and juice from my eyelashes, wiping it with my fingertips. And suddenly my anger vanishes, subsumed by a powerful wave of sadness, and for a moment I worry that I’m going to break down in the middle of the Marchmont, weeping in front of everyone.
Marie is on her feet, storming after the receding figures of the men, pointing her finger and screaming at them.
Kate swoops out of nowhere, her arms circling me. “Let me take you home,” she says, and all I want is to fall apart in her hug, to weep and cry from the shame and humiliation, crumbling beneath the weight of the frustration that after all these years and all the songs and the hours of playing, this is where I am. But I don’t. I take a shaking breath and nod, then walk out of the bar with my head held high.
Kate’s hand rests gently on my shoulder and Marie, face like thunder, is pushing through the bar to join us, but even so, the only thing I’m really aware of is the echo of Jack’s words again. If she were any good, she’d have made something of herself by now.