5. Jez
CHAPTER 5
Jez
“I’ve let the Fable guys know that Shay’s on board,” Ash tells me. “I hate to say, but they couldn’t care less about Ry or Murray or Gareth. They brought up some vow they made awhile back about ‘no more female performers on their tours, and now there are two .’” He shrugs. “I don’t give a toss. That was their stated preference, but I never agreed to hold to it.”
Ash and I are chatting in the control room of the studio-slash-rehearsal space he’s set me up with. While he isn’t going to manage us long-term, he said for the first month of the tour he would be there to help Ferny, who will take over as our long-term manager, and also to give me a consistent support system while I learn the ropes.
I’m loving how much emphasis Ash is putting on my comfort levels. But there’s absolutely nothing he can do about what complete arseholes Fable are. They don’t like having two women in the opening band? Tough shit.
That being said, this is our second week of rehearsals out of three before the tour starts, and there’s no point in me continuing to scowl and stomp around. I need to be grateful.
Viv warned me, and she’s too right. This is the chance of a lifetime. I just hate—HATE—that it has to be with them. It’s like poisoning the crystal-clear well before I’ve even had a drink. Just one drink. Sigh.
Murray’s doing marching-band drum rolls in the rehearsal space, and Ry and Gareth are standing around Gareth’s keyboard joking about something.
I’m grateful the guys already all know each other and get on well. I think they’re in awe of Shay, but she’s got a long-term partner, and from what Ash has said, both Ry and Gareth are Alphas without packs. And certainly they can tell that Shay’s a Beta as she has absolutely zero interest. So Ash has obviously worked things out with precise detail. All except the Fable part of this equation.
Or maybe the me part.
I sling my guitar onto my back, then glance back out at my touring musicians— my touring musicians .
“I’m terribly sorry they’re intimidated.” I roll my eyes, then straighten up, remembering who I’m talking to. “I promise, Ash. I’m not here to cause trouble. I want this to be a massive success. But if they have a problem with women then it goes way deeper than just me.”
He sighs and turns down Shay’s mic so we’re not continuously blasted away by her warm-ups. “Long story short, and don’t tell them I told you this or I’ll never hear the arse-end of it.” He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. “Why did I think Arcadia would be the trickiest to sort out?” he mumbles to himself. Then, to me: “Did you follow Fable’s first headlining tour? No, why would you.”
I did, though. Because what no one but Viv knows is how much of a devoted Fable on Fire fan I was until the talent show. I keep my mouth smashed shut and he continues.
“Their opener was a band of four women. The bassist was an Omega named Nyah. She was fairly quiet and kept to herself during rehearsals. Once the tour started, her wilder lifestyle, shall we say, became apparent. On the road, she was drinking half a bottle of gin every night, with some cocktail chasers if they all went out. And she had all four guys by the balls. They were all fucking for it. Before long they were all loved up on the road and the second the tour ended, Nyah was off with another band. She had no desire to settle down, and honestly, in this industry, I applaud her for that. Because if you do partner up, you’re barely ever likely to see your other half unless they work in it, too. And that’s not ideal for its own reasons.”
He frowns and I want to ask him about Cami, his partner. They’ve been together for four years now, and she’s just given birth to their second child. She’s an artist for a super-successful Cornwall-based advertising firm. But I suspect when Ash talks about working in the same industry, he’s referring to Cami’s best friend Briella, who infamously photographed the band she ended up joining as a pack. That worked out for them. But Cinderella stories like theirs are rare.
“In any case, this goes no further than this room. But they got burnt, bad, by Nyah. They really loved her. And from what I understand, they had reason to. They thought it was reciprocal. Don’t be too quick to judge them, is all I’m saying. It’s not that they hate you, Jesamine. They are all still struggling in their own ways with that rejection. And I think they’re struggling to trust themselves. To be professional. If that makes sense.”
Struggling to trust themselves? What does that mean? This phrase lingers in my head after I nod and head back into the rehearsal space to start the day’s festivities. None of what Ash has told me relates to Ten to One or the patronizing way they treated me. Using my condition as a reason to oust me from my dream is something I can never forgive.
Ash is trying to soften me toward them with their own backstory instead of mine. I’m sorry they got screwed over but as far as I can tell, they probably deserved it.
* * *
The weeks roll by and before long, it’s two days before we head off on tour. I haven’t seen any of Fable since that first meeting in Ash’s office, and I’m thrilled about that. Even, dare I say it, hopeful that it continues this way. Ships passing in the night. Me going out on stage, pretending everyone in the crowd is my fan, playing as if they’ve got my back, and then disappearing backstage before Fable appears and Kai’s green eyes pierce me with that intensity I want to lock out of my head. It felt like they could cleave me in two, and I shiver just to think of it.
It sure feels like he hates me, and that feeling is pretty damn mutual. But if Ash’s little reveal is true, maybe it’s not as personal as it seems. He could just be using our history with the talent show as an excuse to cover up a more vulnerable layer below.
Even back then, maybe the disqualification wasn’t about me. I tend to think most things are, and Viv usually brings me back down to earth. I dress it up as anxiety and people-pleasing, but I know, deep down, it’s self-centeredness.
It’s the kind of thinking I hate about myself. But when you and your creative output are the product you’re selling, it’s hard to not think that way.
What rocks my world a little is the thought that maybe Fable never hated me or my music—that what Kai said to me was the truth. Maybe they simply were uneasy about working with another Omega after what happened with Nyah.
Come on, Jez. Be the professional. Their personal shit doesn’t matter, as long as they don’t mess with you again.
I’ve arrived at the rehearsal space one last time before we leave, and I’m an hour early. I misread my clock when I got up, too much on my mind and no Viv there anymore to set me straight. But alone in the studio isn’t a bad thing.
I set down my bagel and coffee on the music stand and sit on an amp, replacing a guitar string on my practice acoustic. I’ve always found replacing strings a soothing activity, but I’m halfway done when a door slams down the hall and male voices follow.
At first it sounds like my band but after a few seconds I don’t hear any of their voices. Instead, I hear an Australian accent and an Oxfordshire one.
Holden. And Thomas . He actually speaks.
“Nah, he’ll cool down once we get moving,” Holden says from the corridor. “He needs the stage lights and crowds and all that, and it’s like flipping that switch. You remember what it was like touring after Nyah.”
“I know,” Thomas replies. “I just hate seeing him so worked up. Puts my nerves on edge he’ll do something crazy. We can’t afford any more setbacks.”
“We can’t. But she’s cool as hell, isn’t she? I mean, she’s a badass, and she’s got to put up with us for four months. You’d think he’d have sympathy for that instead of worrying about himself,” says Holden.
I freeze. Why the hell are they here? What are they saying ? We’re supposed to have completely separate rehearsal times, and it’s only about fifty minutes until my slot.
Unless—shit. I grab my phone from the music stand and scroll back to the schedule Ash emailed.
Final day of rehearsals:
11:00 Fable
4:00 Jez
I’m not supposed to be here. How professional will that look?
I shove my guitar into its case and stuff my bagel into a jacket pocket, then slosh my iced coffee over to the door just as Holden and Thomas round the corner. Holden is turned toward Thomas as he steps into the room and slams into me. Iced coffee flies everywhere.
“Fuck!” he squawks. Thomas rushes back down the corridor as though he’s seen a ghost.
Great.
Seconds later, however, Thomas returns with a wad of kitchen roll and starts mopping the floor and my guitar case, which I’ve set down. Meanwhile, I’m wiping my phone on my jacket sleeve and trying desperately to avoid eye contact. But Holden’s standing there holding his left shoulder—the part of him that bashed into me. He’s wearing a t-shirt so his arm’s exposed but it’d be a real miracle if little old me injured a man built like a brick wall.
“I’m so sorry,” I exclaim. “I was just grabbing my guitar. I’d left it last night and—ah—wanted to practice with it at home before coming in this evening.”
Thomas finishes chasing an ice cube around the floor and holds his hand out to me. I stare at it for a second then slide mine into his to shake it. A small smile creeps into his face, then his eyes crinkle as he laughs. It’s a melodious sound, and I find myself staring.
“I wanted your cup so I could throw it in the bin,” he says with a grin.
“Oh!” I say. I hand him the cup. “Thank you.” Oh my God, kill me.
Holden’s still holding his arm, and is as silent as I always believed Thomas to be. He stares at the two of us holding hands. Realizing I haven’t released it, I jerk mine away and stuff it in my jacket pocket, right between the cream-cheese covered halves of my warm bagel.
“Have a good rehearsal,” I say, bobbing my head in farewell. Then I shoulder my guitar case and whiz round the corner and out onto the street, where I stop, lean over, and breathe.
It’s a breezy morning, cloudy but warm. For a moment I forget where I am—Reading, not Bristol, where my flat is. I’m staying in a self-catered flat Ash has provided for me.
That’s right. Yes. Walk to my flat. Forget this happened. Forget Holden’s horrified muteness, or Thomas’s musical voice and—dare I think it—good-natured humor. And beautiful smile.
I pull my hand from my pocket. Cream cheese is smeared everywhere. Between my rings, under my fingernails, across my palm. Why was my instinct to hide? To lie? I should’ve automatically strode on past and not even looked.
Hearing them when they didn’t know I could triggered something. I just don’t know what yet.
Kai. I start walking and focus on Kai, and his infamous stage antics. I’m sure he’ll find some way to embarrass me at shows. My blood starts boiling as my feet pound the pavement toward the carpark. Yes, focus on that. Stoke that fire.
Maybe if I can keep it up, I’ll stop remembering how much his words nearly killed my dream. Maybe the only thing I can do is ramp up my show, my vibe, my whisperiness, the sequins, the folky-country vibe. Turn it all to eleven. His dismissal of me, of my ability to make it in this industry, will continue to push me, one day at a time.
I’ve come this far. I refuse to shrink for them now.