“Sorry,” I say, for the third time in five minutes, springing into action like a semi-competent barista.
Focus. Onto the next customer if I don’t want to get fired. Getting fired would ruin the balancing act I’ve got going on in my life. Forget distractions, even the temporary kind.
Even distractions as dangerously tempting as Ben Campbell.
Chapter Two
Cold rain pours down on me again as I rush for the bus after working a long shift, shivering and starving. I’d give anything for a steaming hot drink about now. The coffee I made earlier during my shift at the café is long gone. It’s past proper dinnertime now. The Saturday afternoon shoppers are going home, and the people headed out for the night in the West End are off to theaters and bars. Because their windows for fun are wide open.
Anyway, none of that matters right now.
I’m late.
At least it’s not terribly far from where my band’s playing at tonight. Some private holiday party for the something-or-other society of artists. Or was it publishing? Designers? I can’t remember.
I don’t have time for this gig, but I’m strapped for cash. On top of the usual I send Emily every month, I’ve got to buy Carys a new stroller since the axle broke on the old one. My student loan only goes so far, along with the money from the café, even with working nearly full time. Despite being permanently skint, there’s absolutely no way I’m asking my parents for help. I’ve only got about a year left at uni before I finish my English degree, and they’ve already told me loads of times how useless that’ll be when it comes to a future career.
But I don’t have time to think or worry any longer about strollers or money or the fact I’ve just spent three years of my life working toward a degree that won’t improve my situation.
Once onboard, I text our singer, Briar, that I’m on my way. I wolf down the tomato and cheese sandwich from work with a quick scroll through stroller reviews on my phone. Three stops later, through crawling traffic, and I’m in East London arriving at Shoreditch Town Hall. At the small venue for the Saturday night show, I weave through the queued crowd.
There’s no separate way into the basement where we’re playing that I can see. Or maybe I don’t know how to find it, so I’ve got to come through the main entry like everyone else.
“I’m with the band,” I say apologetically, cutting in line amid glares. I gesture at the guitar in hand as my alibi.
What I ought to be doing instead of rocking out tonight is readingWuthering Heightsfor the essay due on Monday. I haven’t had a chance to start, not properly, and I really want to dive in with a big pot of tea. I tried starting last night, only to wake faceplanted in the book, strange dreams of a severe but super sexy Mr. Heathcliff and haunting landscapes dancing around my brain like sugar plum fairies.
My friend Aubrey, who owns a bookshop despite only being a couple of years older than me, sold me a second-hand copy yesterday with a student discount. We met in a lecture a couple of years ago before he had to drop out and run the family business.
At this rate, I’ll have to drop out of university too because I either can’t stand to think about the future loan repayments or because I’ll drop out from sheer exhaustion between studying and working around the clock. I can’t help but feel wistful seeing how happy Aubrey is now, with an amazing new boyfriend and loads of plans. Weird what love does to a man, I guess.
That’s not in the cards for me. At least not anytime soon.
“I’ll vouch for him,” says Briar, blond hair up, wearing a flowing knee-length cotton dress on the other side of the surly-faced person ready to check tickets at the door. Briar smiles at me and ushers me in. “You look like you had a swim in the Thames, Charlie.”
“I keep telling people today it’s part of my new look. It’s how I freshen up for a gig. Wild swimming. New routine. I’m gonna set trends like an influencer.”
I slip past the ticket attendant who still eyes me with suspicion, and I attempt what might be a winsome smile. Whatever works to get me in.
Briar glances over her shoulder at me as we hurry through the spotlit venue to the back room turned greenroom. The ceilings of the historic building are low, with exposed pipes and red brick walls, the floor not quite level concrete that’s been painted gray. The basement is a collection of oddly laid out rooms.
We go past the main room with the stage, dance floor, and tables to the side. Festive decorations are in clusters on the walls. There’s a bar in the next room. Colorful art posters hang on the wall.
“And I thoughtIwas fashionably late,” she says. “We’re up next for a quick sound check. They put us at the end. Get out of that wet coat and scarf.”
I don’t need to be told twice and wriggle out of my sopping scarf and coat, down to a black T-shirt and jeans. I rake a hand through wet hair. “Do you have a cloth so I can wipe down my guitar?”
“I’ll find one.” Briar goes to Jackson, her boyfriend and our drummer, who is always prepared for just about anything. Of course, he delivers. I quickly check the tune before hurrying after the others.
The rest of my bandmates are already headed for the stage. Gillian beelines for her keyboards. Matt picks up his bass guitar. There’s no time for chitchat as someone yells, “Doors in ten!” We get in two songs during our sound check before we’re chased away, long enough at least to make sure everything’s sounding like it should and our kit’s working.
We dash off and then the doors open. Before long, the opening band is playing.
Meanwhile, I’ve pulledWuthering Heightsout of my bag and try to read in the greenroom before our set. The only way I’m getting through this whole book, or at least attempting to get through this book, is to read in five-minute bursts here and there over the weekend between everything.
Sometimes—just about always—I’ve got to do what I must, but it doesn’t leave time for much else.
Our set happens in the blink of an eye.
