7. Jez
CHAPTER 7
Jez
It’s finally here. Opening night of Fable on Fire Running Amok Tour with Special Guest Jez Jacobs, as it’s officially been titled, and my biggest crowd ever.
It’s kicking off in Glasgow. I’ve been to Scotland before, on holiday. It was about a seven-hour drive from Bristol. But right now I feel a million miles away from Viv.
I’ve never played a gig without Viv. And if anything, I feel the opposite of claustrophobia right now; I feel like I’m lost at sea. Instead of blood racing with exhilaration and anticipation of an amazing four months to come—that feeling of doing what I was born to do in front of people who want to see me do it—I’m on the verge of vomit every few minutes.
“Please pick up, please pick up,” I mumble. My phone’s beside me at the makeup table in my band’s dressing room, and I’ve punched speaker phone.
Shay and the boys are watching a video of our last rehearsal, smushed together on a sofa behind us, and Ash has been pacing back and forth texting people and speaking to Liana, our road manager, who’s been in and out of the room. Security has been in and out reporting to Ash as well, who’s promised to be with us for this first month of UK gigs, but after that, he’s handing us over completely to our soon-to-be full-time manager, Ferny.
Real name, Ben Fernwood. From the ten minutes I spent with him in catering, he seems friendly and showed no favoritism toward the Fable guys in his language. Although they were certain to eat at a different time from me, so I actually haven’t seen them so far today.
As a rule, my makeup isn’t over-the-top, but I wanted to spice things up a bit on this tour. My assigned assistant, Caylee, is doing my hair. For tonight I decided on an easy style, gathering sections of my aqua-colored hair from the sides and braiding the top layer down the middle. Out of my face but also a bit more volume.
“Trying to braid my own hair has always been a mega fail,” I say, catching Caylee’s eye in the mirror. “Thanks so much for doing this.”
Strictly it’s not her job, but thus far I haven’t exactly figured out what her job is , other than telling me what time I need to be where.
She’s probably eight years older than me and seems to know an awful lot about Fable, and has made it very clear how she’s never heard of me before. Still, she’s been polite and pleasant and more than helpful. I guess I just miss Viv.
“No worries,” Caylee chirps. “I’ve got the time. And you’ve got a job there with your makeup.”
I wrinkle my nose. I can’t tell if she means it as an insult to my face, or to my speed, or to my application abilities. However you spin it, it’s an insult all the same.
I gently tap my ring finger into the silvery eyeshadow and pat it on one eyelid, then turn my face to check the payoff. Hmm. Should’ve brought the pastels kit. This will hardly be noticeable from five feet away, let alone the crowd.
Although for the first time, my face will be a on big screen for the crowd to count every single goddamned pore. And this in itself would be enough to make me feel vomitous every ten minutes or so. But I push the thought down and wonder why the nausea’s been persistent since last night.
It sometimes crops up when I’m hemmed in a smallish space, or feel there are too many bodies around me. Right now, I don’t think that’s the case. Last night I meditated, ate a healthy tea of baked salmon and couscous, drank shedloads of lemon water, played my video game for a half hour, and went to bed before ten.
Still I felt something was off, even without the rolling-gut sensation hitting me now.
I go for some bright violet shadow and dab this on, then turn my head suddenly, forgetting Caylee’s braiding my hair still. She squawks, sighs, but carries on. Oops.
Viv never answered so I stab the phone icon on Viv’s contact screen again. I’ll be free all day, just talk whenever you need it! I wish I could be there!
I know why she’s not. Poor Viv. Her morning sickness has become all day, and she’s been poorly for the last three weeks. It didn’t bother her in the beginning but it’s kicked in now with a vengeance. Those triplets want to make sure she remembers every single day of this pregnancy, it seems.
I send a quick audio message. “Hey girl, I’m getting ready now. Call me when you can.” With Caylee standing right behind me, it’s hard to say, My assistant is no stand-in for you, I feel like I’m going to yak, and I don’t know how to get through this performance without you cheering from the side.
But even if I could send that message right now, I—couldn’t.
I let out a hefty exhale and look down at the makeup brush and lipstick tube in my hands, sitting in my lap. Viv already feels terrible for the timing of all this, and it’s so totally not her fault. Anything I say will only make a pregnant woman feel worse, and I won’t do that to my best friend. She’s done her cheering for me all these years. I cannot ask for more.
Ash bursts back into the room, prompting a fresh wave of anxiety. He’s been fairly calm throughout the weeks of rehearsals, but when the action kicked off this morning, he turned into a whirlwind of industry, orders, questions, and confirmation-gathering from every single crew member and venue worker.
“Okay folks, Jez is on in ten. We good?”
In the mirror I see my band members stand, all nods and smiles. Ry and Gareth high-five, Murray is muttering something under his breath—some sort of mantra or prayer?—and Shay starts doing jumping jacks, which she always does pre-show.
They all get on well, which makes me smile. I just feel a bit of an outsider. Which makes it all the better when they come around me in the chair as Caylee, having finished my hair and sprayed a cloud of hairspray around me, backs off to check notes with Ash and Ferny.
“Tonight we’re going to set the standard for killing it, Jez,” Shay says, beaming at me in the mirror. “I know you’re worried about those pricks, but just remember what you told me when we first hooked up—they were the band that made you want to perform, before they became the arseholes who made you want to perform better. ”
She says this last part out the corner of her mouth with her hands on my shoulders, leaning over toward my ear. The guys might’ve heard her, but they’re on my payroll. Whatever they think about Fable and their music, they’ve signed a contract to back me up. I don’t care if they become chummy or starry-eyed with Fable; they’re professional touring musicians, and as long as we continue to gel as we have in rehearsals, I’m cool.
“Thank you,” I whisper back to Shay. I’m about to cry. She motions Caylee over and I stand as Caylee points a tissue box at me with a small smile.
“Honestly, girl, first night jitters are normal,” Caylee says. “Get this one out of the way and you’ll be flying. Give yourself grace for any missteps, and take the good as a win.”
“You’ve given this pep talk before,” I say with a grateful smile. “I swear, I’m not usually emotional at shows, but I’ve never had an actual opening night before.” And probably never will again, so enjoy it.
Shay pats my shoulder and Ry, Gareth, and Murray follow suit as they file out the door. Ash and Ferny are out in the hall with security, waiting to walk us to the stage. Caylee stows the tissue box, pulls lip gloss out of nowhere and dabs some on my lips. “You’re good to go. Eyes on the prize, girlfriend.”
I nod mechanically and she brings up the rear. As we march toward stage left, the wave of the crowd’s noise nearly makes me swoon.
Strong arms grab my shoulders and Ash’s voice murmurs in my ear, “Not now, Jez. You can faint after the show, into the softest bed the city of Glasgow has to offer. On your feet, for now.”
Caylee’s in my other ear. It’s dark backstage and I can barely see where I’m being led, but the raucous roar out there is growing. They’re impatient, but not for me. “Are you going to be okay? Like, I know you are, but really?” she says.
I nod then realize she can’t see me. “Yes, I will be.”
And then, without any appropriate warning, I dart to the side of the line of us and throw up on the corridor floor near the loading dock.
I stand in shock for a moment. I haven’t been sick since a pregnancy scare with my alpha-hole ex Tristan five years ago. Thankfully, it turned out to be food poisoning.
Bile lines my throat. I try to steady my breathing. Caylee’s got an arm around my waist and Ash is hurriedly speaking into his ear piece. “Jez just puked. Get the others in position. Still going on time, two minutes. I’ll let you know otherwise.”
“I’m—fine,” I manage, as I straighten up. Before I can wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, Caylee’s arm flies out to grab mine. Then she pulls a wipe out and dabs at my mouth, reapplies the lip gloss, and feels my forehead with the back of her hand.
“Please tell me you ate today.”
I look pointedly at the floor. “There’s the proof.”
She nods. “Okay. Just nerves then?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve felt nauseous in waves since last night.”
Another nod. “I think that’s normal. Like I said, get this one done and you’ll be laughing.”
My hand goes to my stomach as I’ve seen Viv’s do so many times since her pregnancy began. It is physically impossible for me to be pregnant. But I can’t help but feel I’ve forgotten something. Something that might’ve helped me feel more ready, less anxiety-ridden.
I replay taking my anxiety meds as usual last night, my morning workout, the fresh air before soundcheck … Apart from hearing from Viv tonight as I’d hoped—and I cut her that slack because she’s probably currently vomiting in a more appropriate place than backstage at a Glasgow stadium—I can’t think of what it could be.
“Just nerves,” I say quickly, then take Caylee’s proffered elbow as she leads me to the side stage beside my bandmates. We all glance at each other, and in natural light flooding us from the arena now, I nod vigorously to show my worried-looking musicians that I’m fine.
“And—time!” says the stage manager.
“Let’s fucking go, team,” Ash whispers, and at that, the four of us stride to our positions. A tech’s placed my guitar around me and I step to the microphone.
“Hello, Glasgow!” I say, grinning from ear to ear. At first it’s forced. I raise my hands to my brow, looking out over the teeming crowd. Beach balls and balloons fly around the forest of arms bouncing around below. The catwalk is a single long, thin section of stage, which I’ve been told I can use or not, depending how I feel at any given time, but of course, security’s heads are all visible surrounding it. Stage lights show the edge, and the brightest lights above make it hard to make out many faces. But as I look down at the front row just before me, the forced grin becomes real.
My fans. Some of my fans are here. I’ve never played Glasgow before, though I’ve played Edinburgh and a small outdoor festival in Inverness. There, right in the front, are three girls in their early twenties or so, holding signs with my name in glitter. The girl in the middle has cotton-candy-blue hair just like mine, and she’s done her eyeliner in impeccable wings—far better than my own job.
My heart feels full. If this is the only moment and the only fans that I get, I will take it.
Murray counts us off loudly. “Two—three—four—” and my first song of the night, Jagged Heart , takes my mind away from anyone who might be standing directly behind my fans. In my mind, those three women are the only ones here. And I’m going to play the best damn show just for them.
Time means nothing as I perform two fast numbers and then settle in to two ballads, one which ramps up during the bridge into an explosive final chorus.
I have zero expectation that anyone will sing along except my three fans, and it’s honestly so hard to pick out individuals once I’m in performance mode. Harder still with the bright lights and the overwhelm of the sea of bodies all attached to ears and eyes that are taking in my show.
But I hear them. Voices. Singing my words back to me, in this enormous stadium, in this giant swaying, dancing, turning ocean. It might be ten, it might be a hundred, but I hear them, and my face feels like it will crack in two from the smile creasing it.
The nausea has held off, but as I’m just about to dive in to my fourth of eight songs, it niggles at me. Adrenaline’s kept it in check, I guess. I turn to face Murray on drums and take a breather, hiding my face from the crowd for a second. And that’s when I hear the male voice yell: Bring out Fable!
To be fair, it’s not You suck! or Go home! or You were disqualified for a reason, you talentless breathy HACK , but it still makes me cringe inside.
Murray doesn’t blink. He just stares serenely into my eyes as we nod the count-off together before one of my favorite songs to perform, Demon .
I strum the opening chords and hear Ry’s hypnotic bass line set the mood, and a few more shouts about Fable go off, but my fans in front are waving their posters and screaming at me with glee, so I tell myself I don’t care. Even as my stomach lurches and feels like it’s folding in on itself.
It’s when I reach the line, I tried to suppress you but I couldn’t guess you were aiming your hate at my heart. And that’s when it hit me. What’d I’d forgotten.
Because Viv has always been there, because she insisted I focus all my energy on the music, the writing, the performing, the practicing, and getting exercise and sleep. Because I allowed her to for so long that we slipped into this habit, this relationship, this routine. Because Viv has always done so much admin for my life, down to filling my prescriptions.
And because my anxiety meds are filled every month, but my heat suppressants are only once a year.
Because I had the email reminder a week ago to refill, and I’d put it off, too frazzled by tour prep. And then I forgot completely.
I haven’t taken any for three days.
Three days .
A sudden sweat breaks on my forehead as I sing the next few lines, flubbing one word but jamming another in the line to make up for it. No one will notice but those three girls.
I finish out the song and my heart beats double-time. My anxiety dumps the adrenaline back into my system that I’d gotten over with those opening tunes going so smoothly.
In a haze and a blur, I finish the set, smile, tuck my hair behind my ear and duck my head, then walk over to the front of the stage. With the applause and eager stomps for FABLE NOW! roaring through my head, I kneel down before the three girls and hand each a pick I used tonight.
“Thank you for getting me through this. I owe you one.”
They all grab my hand and I shake theirs. This is the best part of the night. And, I figure, the best thing I will experience for the next six months.
It’s surreal to watch a ginormous version of myself running backstage on the screen until I turn and disappear into the dark. When I’m away from the crowd’s eyes, I grab onto Caylee waiting in the wings with Ash behind her, beaming wide.
“You did amazing!” she squeals.
I shudder from the sweat running down my spine that, I’m sure, is not just from my stage exertions, nor is it from my phobia being triggered by the massive crowd. I somehow survived all that. What’s actually happening is far worse.
“I have to call Viv.”