Happiness Under a Summer Skye

Prologue

Angelia ‘Angel’ MacAuley’s knees trembled beneath the black leather trousers she had been styled in, and she hoped her juddering wasn’t visible to the rapt TV studio audience.

Her long dark-chestnut hair had been styled to perfection and fell in loose waves over one shoulder but the makeup on her face felt cakey and tight under the bright lights.

It wasn’t something she usually wore and had meant she hardly recognised her reflection in the dressing-room mirror, but it had been necessary for the studio lighting.

Her right hand was almost numb thanks to her fellow competitor squeezing it so hard that the circulation had begun to slow.

Her fingertips tingled now, and because of this she absently wondered how on earth she would be able to accept the consolation handshake she was about to receive from rising star movie actress Ruby Locke, who had been tasked with the job of presenting the grand prize: a gold microphone trophy mounted on a Perspex stand; and, of course, the best job in the world.

It had been six months since Angelia’s first nerve-racking audition for the TV talent show Scotland Rocks.

This was followed by shortlist auditions that she had no expectations of being selected from, but only a week later she was called back and informed she had made it through to the TV series.

Initially she presumed it was a prank call, but when the producer had finally convinced her it was really happening, she was invited to a costume shopping trip in Glasgow’s Barras Market where there were a number of cool vintage shops, and a further fitting in Edinburgh.

After that there were choreography meetings in Glasgow and dress rehearsals, followed by prerecorded heats filmed at Pacific Quay on the south bank of the River Clyde.

But it had all ultimately culminated in this night: a live television broadcast to the whole of the UK – and maybe beyond – where the new lead singer of The Fallen Angels would be crowned.

The Glasgow-based band had been established ten years ago, after meeting while studying at various universities across the city.

Their original vocalist, Lorelie Dean, had sadly passed away a year before the competition after a six-month battle with illness.

Lorelie had left the band with two instructions: one, carry on in her memory and two, make an unknown singer’s dreams come true when choosing her replacement.

The band had taken time to mourn and had then set about fulfilling her final wishes.

So now, after performing a variety of songs over a six-week series, and seeing new acquaintances knocked out of the competition at the end of each episode, twenty-year-old Angelia MacAuley stood, quaking, backstage at the TV studio, with the other four finalists; two female, one non-binary and one male; a shaky smile plastered on each of their faces as the camera slowly scanned them in turn. There was literally nowhere to hide.

Angelia’s eyes stung and she blinked rapidly, trying to usher away the threatening tears.

She didn’t want to ruin the perfectly drawn winged eyeliner seeing as the camera was up close and rather too personal for her liking.

The tears were a mixture of sadness and relief.

Sadness that the process was almost over, meaning she would probably not be seeing her newfound friends as often any more, and relief that she would soon be able to go back to university and finish what she’d started; a BMus (Hons) Performance at Glasgow’s prestigious Conservatoire, the starting block for many famous actors, musicians and writers.

To say she was on an emotional rollercoaster was a vast understatement.

How the hell had she got this far? She really didn’t know.

From day one, even though the camaraderie had been immensely positive, the competition had been ridiculously tough, and Angelia hadn’t expected to even be a contender, let alone end up on the live final.

She had only entered because her university besties had badgered and cajoled her until she had eventually capitulated.

* * *

They had been watching TV in the communal lounge area of Angelia’s accommodation block on a dreich Saturday evening, when the ad for the future show had appeared on screen. It had featured The Fallen Angels’ drummer, Angelia’s star crush Josh Baron, and the lead guitarist, Heath Lennox.

Fiona, a fellow Scot, had gasped. ‘You have to apply, Angelia! You’d be soooo good!

’ One of her best friends, Fiona had gripped her arm, shaking it and whining like a toddler in a tantrum.

‘You’re just what they’re looking for.’ At the time Angelia had been a little distracted by Josh’s vivid blue eyes.

He had the looks of the stereotypical bad boy and Angelia had a poster of him on her bedroom wall at home.

Fiona pulled her from her daydream. ‘Earth to Angelia! I’m being serious about this, you know.

You have the most melodic voice, and it would be perfect for a rock band. Look at Amy Lee from Evanescence.’

Angelia had met Fiona Morton at the university’s audition preparation day, and they had kept in touch ever since.

Fiona, a native Glaswegian, was a rare one; unlike most of the other attendees she had no dreams of bright lights and stardom.

All she wanted, she had told Angelia, was to study at the best university in order to achieve her dream job as a music teacher.

Angelia had liked the mousy-brown-haired woman with smiling hazel eyes right away, because she was the perfect balance of empathetic and a little bonkers – in the best way, of course.

‘Plus,’ Fiona continued, ‘and it’s the thing I most envy about you, you can play any instrument you pick up.

How the hell you do that I have no idea, but what band wouldn’t want you? ’

‘I’m too soft and folky though,’ Angelia had insisted. ‘And anyway, what would be the point? I could never compete with the talent Lorelie had.’

‘Fee’s right,’ the third member of their friendship trio, Ed, had said. ‘You don’t have to sound like you eat gravel for breakfast to sing in a band like that. Avril Lavigne, Gwen Stefani, Ann Wilson, need I go on?’

Edwin (aka Ed) Halsall, somewhat a musical prodigy – he’d been writing symphonies since he was twelve and had dreams of playing with the New York Philharmonic – had literally bumped into the pair on a night out during freshers’ week.

On that night the girls had taken pity on him as he was akin to a deer in headlights after what would later transpire to have been a fairly sheltered upbringing by strict religious parents.

He was a tall, dreamily handsome dark-haired young man with piercing green eyes and the most gorgeous smile Angelia could recall on an ‘in real life’ person.

He had gone a little mad with the freedom of living away from his family home in Hampshire for the first time and it was evident he had consumed rather more than his limit of alcohol so the two young women had taken him under their wings to make sure the well-spoken, friendly, drunken guy wasn’t taken advantage of and got back safely to his student digs.

Angelia had fallen hard for Ed from the start.

But she knew she would never feel the same about anyone else and that her heart was his alone when she saw and heard him perform Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’ at a university concert.

She had been mesmerised, her eyes filled with tears as he played the piece by heart, eyes closed, head back.

It had been the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld.

Ed was talented, funny, sweet and very considerate and so, aside from crushes on famous people, he had been the first real love of her life.

But, and much to her dismay, he showed no signs of reciprocation.

In fact, he always seemed to make a beeline for Fiona, so Angelia did nothing about her unrequited feelings, and instead, henceforth he became the third wheel of their tricycle from that first night; the three had been inseparable ever since.

The Three Amigos. The Three Musketeers. The Terrible Trio.

And apart from one drunken kiss they had shared, he and Angelia had been the best of friends.

‘And anyway,’ Ed had continued, pointing at the TV screen where Heath and Josh were talking to the camera, ‘you’re not competing with Lorelie. She left the door open for her replacement, remember? Bless her.’ He shook his head, suddenly lost in a touch of melancholy for his new favourite band.

Angelia loved her friends’ confidence in her, if only she believed in herself as much. ‘Ughhhhh! If I agree to enter, will you just drop it?’ she had whinged. ‘You’re as bad as my folks. They’ve been messaging me the application link for two weeks now.’

Ed had got up from his armchair, stood to attention, blown his floppy chocolate-brown fringe out of his face, and saluted. ‘Scout’s honour.’ He had kicked Fiona’s leg and given her a wide-eyed glare.

Realising her input was needed, Fiona had nodded and pointed up to him. ‘Oh… erm, yes. What he said.’

Angelia had rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, fine. I’ll do it.’

Her two friends had dragged her up from the sofa, grappled her into a bear hug and begun jumping up and down chanting, ‘Angelia’s gonna be a rock star, Angelia’s gonna be a rock star!’ It had garnered more than a couple of strange looks from students playing pool across the other side of the room.

‘God, you guys are so immature,’ Angelia had said, giggling as she flushed cerise with the embarrassment of the situation.

Of course, at that time Angelia knew she was unlikely to be selected, never mind win the damn thing. Things like that didn’t happen in real life. Not to people like her, anyway.

Angelia had grown up in the north of Skye just outside Portree with a bank manager dad who had played the guitar in various bands since he left school, and a bookshop-owning, Richard Marx-obsessed mother; hence her name, which was taken from a song on her mum’s favourite eighties album Repeat Offender.

Music was the family’s shared passion, and they often spent evenings at the local pub partaking in music nights.

On these occasions, Angelia would nervously sing traditional Scottish songs to the accompaniment of her father’s acoustic guitar, while her mother rhythmically tapped away on the bodhrán, a handheld Irish drum, and someone else played the accordion or fiddle.

When they weren’t performing, they gathered together in the living room of their converted and extended bothy listening to their extensive, and eclectic, vinyl collection, often jamming along on the variety of instruments they had acquired over the years.

Her dad used to laugh and say they were like a mini Von Trapp family only without the outfits made from old curtains, and her mum would usually respond with a good-humoured laugh, saying he shouldn’t joke because if he kept spending money on guitars, using the curtains for their clothes might end up being necessary.

The decent-sized white-painted house was situated along a track that led off from the main B885 out of Portree leading towards Bracadale.

It was situated at the top of a slope and had spectacular views over the surrounding farmland.

Her parents had chosen it for its solitude, which meant they could play, and listen to, music as loud as they wished without causing a disturbance to others, while being close enough to Portree so that they had access to all the amenities a family could need.

It was a beautiful place that Angelia would always call home.

Angelia’s final performance for Scotland Rocks had been a song that was very special to her; ‘Martha’s Harbour’ by a nineties band called All About Eve.

She had loved the band and the melancholy of the song since she could remember, and her mother had once informed her that the affinity with the song had probably come about since she used to sing it to her in the womb.

* * *

Angelia was snapped back to her present-day terrifying situation by a drumroll that echoed around the backstage area over the speakers.

The studio audience fell silent. And Ruby Locke took to the microphone as the group of finalists stood against a glittering backdrop that featured the show’s logo and watched the stage on the monitor.

‘This has been an amazing night, hasn’t it?

’ Ruby asked with a wobble of nervousness to her voice as she addressed the audience.

They, in turn, dutifully rumbled their assent.

‘Our five finalists are waiting backstage and I’m sure everyone in the studio and those of you watching at home will all join in me in thanking them for their incredible, heartfelt performances.

’ Thunderous applause, whistles and whoops travelled around the dimly lit room.

‘I’m happy to say that the band and their management team have made a unanimous decision tonight.

After putting these young people through their paces, they have chosen the vocalist who they think is the best for them.

I have to say I wouldn’t have wanted to be in their shoes tonight, don’t you agree?

’ More rumbles from the audience ensued.

‘I’m just going to get straight to the point because these guys have been waiting long enough.

’ Despite her words, there followed a pause, and another drumroll as Ruby fumbled with a golden envelope.

Eventually she pulled out a card with the show’s logo visible on the face of it.

‘The winner of Scotland Rocks and the new lead vocalist for The Fallen Angels is…’ (another annoyingly long pause followed, clearly a tack by the production company to build tension) ‘Angelia MacAuley!’