Chapter 26
“H
ugo seemed fun,” Hannah says as Hermann drives us through Knightsbridge. “Like someone who’s full of bravado on the outside, but a loyal friend who would die for you on the inside.”
“I hope you nailed the personalities of those assistant candidates as accurately as that, because that’s Hugo to a T.” I lace fingers with the woman I admire more and more not just every passing day, but every passing hour. “He was putting on a brave face just now, because you were there. But I’m worried about him. Having to give up the sport that’s the only life he’s ever known overnight—that must be tough to deal with.”
“His knee will get better though, right?” Hannah’s face is full of concern for the person she only just met.
“Better enough for general life. Not better enough for football.”
“Oh, how sad.”
She’s silent for a moment as she gazes out at the passing designer stores and classic London architecture.
“This city is amazing,” she says almost to herself.
“I do love it here. I mean, where Maggie and Jim are now is full of charm and everything. But I could never live in a little village like that. Guess growing up in Boston made me a city guy.”
She turns her attention from the outside world to me. “As long as that city isn’t LA though, right?”
The reminder that we’ll soon be half a world apart is a punch to the gut, especially when I’m so excited about the evening ahead. But I play along with it, with what I hope looks like an amused smile. “It’s a fucking hellhole.”
“What exactly is it you hate about it so much?”
“Okay.” I hold up my other hand, ready to count off my points on my fingers. “You can’t walk anywhere. But also the traffic’s horrific, so driving is a shit show. Everyone says they’re ‘in the industry,’ even if they’re actually a plumber.” That’s a thumb and two fingers. “All the super rich live in these ridiculous gated communities. There’s a whole separate underclass of underpaid service people.”
“And the Lakers,” Hermann pipes up. “Don’t forget the Lakers.”
“Oh yeah. Thanks, Herm.” I let go of Hannah’s hand and bring my other fingers into the counting. “The Lakers are really bloody annoying.”
“Can’t argue with the weather, though,” Hannah says, looking up at a big dark cloud that threatens to obliterate the blue sky.
“Er, the fires?”
“And the earthquakes,” Hermann adds.
“See.” I drop both hands. “I’m almost running out of fingers without even trying.”
Hannah ignores me. “Have you spent much time in LA, Hermann?”
“Nope. But Tom complains about it so much whenever he has to go there that I’ve got the gist.”
Her face brightens as she turns her attention back to me. “Oh, so you’re in LA regularly for work?”
“Used to be. When I got more staff, it was one of the first things I delegated.”
“Oh.” She sighs and looks back up at the dark cloud.
My stomach lurches. It’s like she’s drifting away from me already, before she’s even gotten on that plane to California.
Just as I’m about to put my arm around her, she takes her phone out of her bag. “Need to remind Dylan he still has to do his homework even though I’m not there.” She taps away, then a soft smile blossoms on her lips. “He says his friends thought he was super cool when Maggie picked him up from school in her old truck.”
Every time she thinks of Dylan, her face takes on a magical expression—full of the purest form of love.
I might not have her for long, so I sure as hell don’t want any distance between us for the short time we have. As soon as she’s finished texting, I wrap my arm around her shoulders.
“Look.” I pull her toward me and direct her attention out of the window on my side. “The answer to your question.”
I point at the world-famous Victorian redbrick, circular Royal Coliseum Hall.
“That’s where we’re going?” She looks equal parts disappointed and puzzled. But, more importantly, she leans into me. “Are we going to see an orchestra? Or an opera? Or…something?”
Her body against mine charges my heart like power charges a battery. “Nope. See that sign there?”
I point at a tall purple-and-orange poster headed with Gala night in aid of Nordoff Robbins Music Therapy.
She scans the list of performers below the heading, her eyes getting wider the farther down she gets, until she reaches the kicker in larger letters at the bottom.
Her head snaps to me, her mouth wide open in a silent gasp or scream or squeal of joy.
I inwardly heave a massive sigh of relief. Perfect. This is exactly how I’d hoped she’d react the trillion times I’ve run this scenario through my mind.
Her wide eyes are filled with a childlike joy. “We’re going to see Four Thousand Medicines?”
“And the other half dozen bands who’re on before them—none of whom are to be sniffed at either.”
Hermann drives us closer to the entrance.
“Yeah, look at those names.” She points at the sign, a joyful combination of surprise and excitement written all over her face. “And all on the same stage on the same night.” The excitement buzzes from her like bees around a sunflower.
“They’re all big supporters of the charity. It’s a one-off fundraising night. And you can meet them afterward if you like.”
“No!” She slaps my chest so hard it forces the air from my lungs.
I gulp in a breath. “You don’t want to?”
“Hell, no!” You’d think I’d just asked her if she wanted her toenails pulled out with pliers. “That would be awful.”
Okay, so this is very confusing. “Why would it be awful? You don’t even want to meet the Medicines? You fucking love them.”
“I want to meet them the least. You can’t do that. Don’t do that. Please God, don’t do that to me.”
“Because…?”
“Because I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d be a slack-jawed fool. It’d be so embarrassing. Awful. Oh, God, no. No meeting them. I’m sweating just thinking about it. Feel my armpits. No, don’t feel my armpits. That was a ridiculous thing to say. See. I haven’t even met them, and I’m already panicking enough to offer my armpits for a grope.”
Cute. And hilarious.
My body shakes with laughter as I press a kiss to her overheated forehead. “They’re actually super easy to talk to. But okay. You don’t have to meet anyone you don’t want to.”
Hermann stops the car. “There you go, folks. Amazing lineup. Have a great night.”
“Thanks, Herm. I’ll call you when we’re ready for a pickup.”
We climb out of the car, and Hannah heads toward the main entrance where the hundreds of other concertgoers are converging.
“Oh, no.” I grab her around the waist and pull her in the opposite direction. “We don’t go in that way.”
“What? Why?” Oh, the innocence of that baffled face.
“We go in around the side. We have a box. That I made a big contribution for. So we go in this way.”
“A box?”
“The best box.”
She grins and slaps me on the chest again. “This is too much!”
“Have you forgotten who you’re with?” I tug her tight to my side and kiss the top of her head. “You’re with Tom fucking Dashwood. And don’t you forget it.”
“What the hell’s taking so long?” It’s fifteen minutes since the penultimate band left the stage. Four Thousand Medicines should be up there by now. There’s only so long the spinning spotlights and piped medley of the greatest hits of tonight’s artists can keep everyone happy.
“Oh, who cares,” a giddy Hannah says.
She hasn’t stopped beaming since she saw that sign. And not stopped dancing and singing along to every act so far. The lights catch the glow on her face every time they pass by our deep blue velvet-lined box.
And, to be fair, this place is electric. I’ve been to more gigs and festivals than anyone could ever hope to attend in a whole lifetime, but the thrum of the atmosphere in this circular, six-thousand-seat concert hall for this amazing show of one big name after another knocks them all out of the park.
“Don’t look so stressed.” Hannah throws one arm around my neck and runs a finger down the center of my lips, dragging the lower one down into a pout. “This is the most amazing night ever.” She smushes a big fat kiss on my mouth. “Ever,” she cries, before her arms fly from around my neck and punch the air as she bounces in time to the music.
“Pretty sure their manager’s backstage,” I shout over the crowd, who are singing along with the chorus of the iconic hit currently being pumped out of the speakers. “I’ll text him.”
Whether she heard what I said or not, Hannah nods as she joins in with the audience below and all around us. Even jumping up and down, her voice is beautiful and pitch perfect.
The manager texts me right back. I nudge Hannah and show her the message.
JONAH (10:14 PM)
Waiting for backing singers. Stuck behind an accident on the M25 at Watford. Been there for an hour. Road still not open.
“How far away is that?” she asks, right into my ear.
“About an hour. And who knows when the road will reopen.”
She looks around the hall, at all the people on the floor below and in the tiers of seats around the circle. All of them having the time of their lives. But how long will their patience last?
“They can’t leave everyone waiting an hour,” she says. “They’ll have to come on without them.”
My phone vibrates with another message. I show Hannah.
JONAH (10:15 PM)
The answer to your next question is no. No, they won’t come on without backing. “The harmonies are too important”
Hannah’s bouncing stops, and the joy drains from her face as if someone just pulled the plug on it. “You mean we’re not going to see them after all?”
My eyes rove her uniquely beautiful face, from the quirk of her eyebrows, to her pixie nose, to the dimple by her luscious lips, and the most brilliant idea of my life flashes into my mind like a bolt of lightning.
Yes, I signed the unknown Medicines. Yes, I’ve built the label up to a billion-dollar global empire. And yes, we’re starting to develop plans for virtual reality gig streaming. But in my mind right now, what I’m about to suggest kicks the stuffing out of all of it.
“You do it.”
She cups her hand next to her ear and leans toward me. “What?”
I grab her by the shoulders and look right into those sparkling eyes. Eyes full of promise, full of a talent that was snuffed out because of the circumstances of her life, full of every ounce of ability and skill to do what I’m suggesting.
“You do it.”
She laughs. “Hilarious.”
“Not kidding. You know all their lyrics. You sing the backing more than you sing lead. I’ve heard you doing it all the time. You think the vacuum cleaner drowns you out, but it doesn’t.”
She shrugs off my hands. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But there’s a glimmer in there, a tiny note of “hell, yes,” in her voice that anyone else would miss but is obvious to me.
“It’s not ridiculous. You’re note fucking perfect, Hannah.”
“I can’t do something like that.” She points down at the stage. “I can’t go out there and sing with Four Thousand fucking Medicines.”
“Of course you can. You’ve sung on plenty of stages. And as the lead.”
“Sure, when I was a teenager. And to a crowd of no more than two hundred people. That part of my life is done, Tom. Long gone. Over.”
I take her face in my hands. “But it doesn’t have to be. You can do this. I know you can. I believe in you.”
She jabs at my temples. “You’re out of your mind.”
I rub the point of contact. “I’m going to be so bruised tomorrow. But it’ll be worth it because we’ll be celebrating your amazing performance.”
I bring Jonah’s messages back up on my phone and tap the reply box.
“Don’t.” She slaps her hand over the screen. “Don’t even think about suggesting me to anyone.”
“Look at this, Hannah.” I gesture to the six thousand singing and dancing people around us. “Just exactly how disappointed will all these people be if the Medicines don’t come on?”
“As disappointed as me.”
“Which is very, right?”
She nods as her eyes crawl over the crowd, from the people at the very front on the floor to the very back of the room at the top.
I dip my mouth to her ear and tug at her most delicate heartstring. “What would Dylan think if his mom got on stage and sang backing at a massive gig?”
Come on, Hannah. Come on.
She’s on the edge. I can see the flicker behind her eyes, the yearning to believe in herself enough to say yes. But if I push any more I risk sending her back the other way and she’ll never do it. Instead, I silently will her with every pore of my being.
Come on, Hannah. Remember who you are. Have faith in yourself. Have faith in what you know you can do. What I know you can do.
At the speed of a snail with a lead weight on its back, her head turns until she looks me right in the eyes.
She bites her bottom lip. Sighs. And lifts her hand off my phone.