Back on earth, I down the rest of the water when we’re in the greenroom again, everyone hugging in various combinations, occasionally dripping red rose petals amid the excitement. The room’s full of leather sofas, a bank of mirrors along one exposed brick wall.
“Wasn’t that great?” Gillian enthuses, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
I laugh, relaxed after the show and riding the performance high. “Gotta agree.”
“Best gig yet.” Jackson clinks his beer with mine, dark hair curling around his ears. He’s all gangly limbs in ordinary daily life, transforming into a model of coordination when he drums. “You’re fire, Charlie.”
“I think that was Briar,” I say. “Holy shit.”
Briar just smiles, twisting her hair around her fingers to make a loose plait, which she pins up. Must be hot under all of that hair. “Oh, you know. Group effort and all of that.”
Jackson is there, a giant of a man who you would ordinarily think twice about crossing by the look of him. But he’s a gentle soul and well-suited to Briar. He’s an artist, too.
“Sooo,” says Gillian, looking impish. Like Briar, she’s also down to a camisole, given the summer-like heat between the stage and the greenroom. “Are you going to introduce us to your boyfriend or what, Charlie? We saw the pre-game show out front earlier. He’s hot, by the way. I’m sure you noticed.”
I redden. Oh God. Why didn’t I think of this? “Well, he’s not quite my boyfriend. Well, I’m not sure exactly. We’re, um, dating. If one official date counts.”
Better not mention the unofficial ones.
Personally, I’m counting the unofficial ones too from that first tryst. Three weeks of Ben, not counting the earlier weeks where he kept turning up at the café. The other night we went to the cinema after dinner, a classic date. It was brilliant. We’ve both been busy and I’m back to the usual crush of uni, work, and the extra rehearsals because of the gig.
“Oh please,” says Briar, looking hopeful. “Is this true? You—dating?”
“True,” I concede with a smile. It’s impossible not to smile when thinking of Ben. “Let me go find him and bring him here.”
So, I go out to the front of house and make my way through the venue, which has now turned over to the capable hands of a DJ. People dance. As I weave my way through the crowd, people stop to clap my shoulder or to tell me that I was great up there. Totally surreal.
I’m smiling and it feels strange, but good. Some part of me still refuses to believe they’re talking about me.
I find Ben in a knot of admirers at the bar. And he’s laughing and doubtless charming, and obviously loving the attention. Hanging back, I give him a couple of minutes as he signs a couple of autographs and talks with fans. He’s leaning in, taking photos, and exchanging hugs.
So, he’s been recognized. I suppose this is the crowd for it. There’s a pang in my stomach I can’t quite suppress, confirmation that he’s not just my Ben, but there’s a public Ben out there that exists in the world. And in that world, he’s got to have a million better options than picking a student barista to date.
Eventually, he glimpses me after I’ve signed a couple of my own autographs, and he comes over at last to give me a big hug and kiss. And some guilty part of me wonders if that’s a performance too, a thought come unbidden, remembering our chat back in Brighton when he said he had a habit of coming on strong. Is he flirting with everyone or is he just happy?
“Charlie! You were brilliant,” Ben declares. And his smile reaches his eyes, and I trust that. “Absolutely brilliant. Best gig of yours I’ve seen so far.”
Oh God, what a reminder that this wasn’t the first time he’s seen me play.
“Thanks. My bandmates caught sight of you and want to meet you, too.”
Ben brightens. “You’ll introduce me to your friends?”
I gulp. So begins a collision of worlds, ready or not. It was inevitable. Keeping my life nicely compartmentalized is a coping mechanism. Don’t ask me what I’m scared of, but it’s unsettling. But he looks just as hopeful as my bandmates.
This is happening. It’ll be fine.
I lead him back to the good cheer of the party going in the greenroom. “Hey,” I say to Gillian as we enter. “This is Ben Campbell.”
Gillian does a double-take at Ben. He looks great in a gray shirt, something so soft I’m already thinking about how it would feel to skim my hands under it to trace his body. There are a couple of colorful streaks in his hair. He’s delicious, frankly. Check that thought for later.
“Ben Campbell? The Halfpenny Rise Ben Campbell?” Gillian tries, looking startled. “Whoa. Charlie didn’t mention a thing about that.” She stares at me as if I’ve sprouted an extra head or appendage.
“Aye, so.” Ben shrugs a shoulder, smiling broadly at her reaction and the recognition. In fact, he’s obviously thrilled. “Good to meet you.”
He charms Gillian. Then Briar. Then the rest. Those who don’t recognize him straight away are soon tuned in by Gillian, and the requisite fan-personing begins. Which is fair, because he’s the frontman of Halfpenny Rise, and it’s well deserved.
It’s a weird twist in my guts to think others want him too, that I can’t selfishly keep Ben a secret to myself, to the time where we were caught in a snowy London of our own making. And he’s loving the attention, that’s for sure, and I stand on the edge of the circle, watching on. I fidget with the cuff of my shirt.
