Chapter 27
“Y
ou’re going to be just fine,” Dominique Sebastian, the lead singer of Four Thousand Medicines, whispers to me at the back of the dark stage.
In the black void in front of us, random whistles and claps burst out of the otherwise murmuring crowd. Almost forty-five minutes after the previous band left the stage, the headliners are finally ready to go, and the air is electric with anticipation and sweat.
“If you can hit that big one, you’re golden,” she says, referring to the long high note right before the guitar break in “Get the Hell Out.” She had me practice it with her a couple times backstage before agreeing I should fill in for their regular singers.
It was a bit shaky the first time. I mean, I was singing with Dominique Sebastian, for heaven’s sake. But the second time, I nailed it.
The feeling of hitting that perfect harmony with my all-time favorite singer sent a whole new type of thrill through my body. A thrill of excitement, of accomplishment, of knowing there’s something I’m good at, and that other people think I’m good at. But not just any old other people—Dominique fucking Sebastian. The three other members of the band even gave us a little round of applause. Tom joined in too—but he’s biased.
It will go down as the second high point of my life, alongside the moment the midwife put Dylan in my arms. No matter how good eventually having sex with Tom will be, I’m not totally certain it will beat hitting that note with Dominique.
She ran me through how a few things in their set work, but Tom assured her as long as things didn’t stray too much from the recordings, I’d be fine.
Another whoop erupts from the crowd.
“Tom would never steer us wrong,” Dominique says, squeezing my shoulder. “Enjoy.”
And with that, she jumps off the platform where I’m standing behind a microphone next to the drummer and runs to her spot at the front of the stage.
I didn’t know it was possible for my heart to race like someone flipped the overdrive switch and stomped their foot on the gas pedal at the same time, for my chest to tremble like this as I breathe, for my hands to shake so much I have to clamp them on the mic stand so I don’t look like I’m mid-seizure.
Every part of my body and my brain is the most awake, most alert, and most absolutely fucking terrified that it’s ever been.
Hellfire, I do not belong here. I got carried away, swept up in the adrenaline of the concert and in Tom’s belief in me. But what the holy fucking hell was I thinking? I should not be standing on this stage about to sing with a world-famous band. How did I let this happen?
I’m a thirty-three-year-old mother from Boston who’s never had anything more than unskilled jobs and who gave up all her singing dreams the day Dylan’s dad left. Just weeks ago, the chance to clean the Dashwoods’ toilets and live in their guest suite felt like the opportunity of a lifetime.
And now here I am. Consumed by a burning, quaking panic.
My heart bangs against my ribs, my hands turn to ice, and the pounding of my blood pulses in my ears.
The drummer bangs his sticks together for a count of four.
I glance at the wings, where people in headsets and other venue staff and crew have gathered, all eager for the show.
If I ran across the dark stage right now, I could slip between them virtually unnoticed and head straight out the back door. The band wouldn’t even miss me. In fact, they’d be better off without me. Because this is fucking absurd.
It simply can’t be possible that I get to perform a set with the band whose music has cheered me up in my toughest of tough times. I’ve done nothing to deserve this.
The drummer slams down his sticks with a bang that rocks me like an earthquake. Simultaneously, I’m hit by lights brighter than the sun, sending me stumbling backward, totally off-balance, losing all focus, unsure which way is up.
My trembling hands grab the mic stand again to keep me upright as the guitarist and bassist in front of me on either side of the stage spring to life and Dominique punches the air.
“Good evening, Royal Coliseum Hall,” she shouts at the crowd, which is now a roaring mass of loud cheers.
If they’d become fed up and frustrated with the long wait, you’d never know it. With just those few words, Dominique has won them over and has them eating out of the palm of her hand.
And in the same instant she has me there too. I’m as much of a fan as anyone in that audience, more than some. And there isn’t one of them who wouldn’t want to be where I’m standing right now.
How ungrateful would I be to squander this opportunity? Just as it would have been rude and ungrateful to refuse Tom’s record store offer, it would be even more unreasonable to run away from the chance to do what the thousands of people looking at this stage can only dream of.
I might not be worthy of this moment I’ve been given, but I’m smart enough to know I should take it.
My eyes are still trying to adjust to the lights when Dominique turns to look at me and raises her eyebrows. Shit, I missed the cue to join in.
For half a second my throat is too tight for any sound to come out. But then as my lungs try to force out the line, my vocal cords relax, knowing they’re in good hands.
Knowing they’re doing what they were born to do.
Three numbers into the six-song set, and I couldn’t be more at home. This is like singing the backing track along with the albums playing in my ears while I clean. Except I’m not dusting—I’m on stage with the actual band. In front of thousands of people who believe I’m part of the actual band. And also in front of Tom, who’s probably in our box, but I haven’t had the nerve to look up there.
If I see him, it’ll make all this real, and it’s far easier to cope if I tell myself it’s just a fantasy.
The set list taped to the floor at my feet says “Get the Hell Out” is next.
The initial feeling of wanting to run away faded during the first number as I was swept up in the glorious high of music and adrenaline. But the sight of that song title brings the vomit-inducing sensation right back.
There’s no stopping the momentum, though. At the first two notes, the audience erupts with recognition. It’s one of the band’s biggest hits and always a crowd favorite.
And I must not fuck it up.
“Think you know this one,” Dominique tells the crowd, then turns and gives me a wink and a thumbs-up.
The faith she’s put in me tonight, the trust she’s given to a woman pretty much straight off the street, is unimaginable.
But that’s because she trusts Tom’s judgment. So I can’t let him down. I can’t let any of them down.
Dominique brings the crowd with her on the journey through the song, a journey toward the end of the second chorus when the music drops out and she and the backing singer hit a high harmony.
Despite the practice backstage, it now feels like sheer lunacy for me to attempt it.
God.
I can’t do this.
Dominique is almost at the end of the opening verse.
I have to join in with the first chorus.
I clench the mic tighter as my voice quakes along with the rest of my body.
One more verse and another chorus to go before The Note.
The guitarist turns and gives me a big grin, the drummer waggles his eyebrows at me, and the bassist ambles over as if being closer will offer moral support.
Dominique’s in the middle of the second verse.
I could just stop singing right before the note and leave it to her. That’s better than risking making a fool of myself and the band.
Decision made, my nerves begin to calm as I join in with the second chorus.
But Dominique runs toward me and leaps up on the platform beside me.
Shit. My stomach churns. I can’t stop singing right before The Note of Death with all eyes now on me as well as her.
We’re at the last line of the chorus.
How the hell do I get out of this now?
Two words to go.
Dominique puts her arm around me and gives me a subtle nod.
Over her shoulder, my eyes catch Tom’s. He’s standing in the wings, pumping his fist at me, egging me on, telling me I can do it, that he believes I can do it.
The music stops. The Note is next.
I want to throw up.
Dominique squeezes my shoulder.
She takes a lungful of air, drops her head back and holds her mic over itlike it’s a bottle of water she’s pouring down her throat.
Her courage, her belief in herself and me to just go for it, is the shot in the arm that makes me realize if I don’t try, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
I grab some air, strike the same pose as Dominique, and together we throw ourselves at the note.
My voice wavers and splinters, isn’t quite on pitch. Fuck. I need to back out of this, drop an octave or something.
She squeezes my shoulder again. She’s note-perfect.
I force myself to reach for it.
Almost.
One more push.
And I’m there.
I grab that note with both hands and hang onto it.
I’m in perfect harmony with my idol.
This might be the most satisfying thing I have ever done in my life.
And with a bang on the drums, the band joins back in, and my whole body relaxes. It’s like that feeling right after a great massage when every muscle is free of tension for the first time in months.
The crowd roars. Dominique grabs my hand and thrusts it in the air. “Hannah Hepburn, everyone. Remember that name.”
She leans into my ear. “Fucking ace.”
And with that, she jumps off the platform and retakes her spot at the front of the stage.
High on adrenaline, I feel like if I jumped off with her, I might actually fly.
I grip the mic again, but this time my hands are trembling for a completely different reason. My whole body is buzzing with a sense of achievement.
My attention instinctively flicks back to the wings where Tom is clapping, his hands over his head, a knowing smile on his face, nodding as if to say, “I told you you could.”