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She waved her hand towards the stage. “Oh dear, does it matter? No, I haven’t seen him yet. Paul’s backstage now.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Vultures at feeding time? No, my mistake. Vultures wait for things to die first. Maybe you ran out of money? I hear plastic surgery is so expensive these days.”

“That must be why you haven’t had any, Trevor.”

He laughed. “Alixe, so happy to know that your values are still as sterling as ever. What does Paul want with Tristan?”

“He’s one of his oldest friends, Trevor.” She waited for his acknowledgment, but nothing came. He just stood there, still like a stone. It was intimidating, and I had the impression she was beginning to feel the chill. “We’ll watch the concert, Tristan will clear all this misunderstanding up afterwards.” She turned away, and then looked over her shoulder at Trevor for one last missile. “You’re getting too sensitive these days. Must be the lousy company you’re keeping.”

I started towards her, but Trevor’s arm went around me. “Your limited understanding, Alixe, was always what made sure you remained strictly a horizontal extra. But we’ll see,” he said, turned away, with his hand spread firmly across my rib cage, both an odd comfort and a warning. We headed back to the bar, where once again, he managed to find a place for us almost immediately, and he ordered us another round. I’d walked with him placidly enough to the bar, but as soon as his hand released me, I started to turn and head back to the stage.

Trevor grabbed my hand and tugged me back towards him. “Don’t do it love. Tristan won’t like it. She’ll love it. She’s obviously heard rumours. Lose this battle gracefully, win the war effortlessly. A little more confidence, my dear. She’s trash. You should know that by now.” I was staring at the bar, tracing an indent in the varnish covering the wood. He handed me my drink, and put his hand on my shoulder, which made me look up at him. His eyes looked sad, and I felt like an idiot. Foolish. But an angry fool. I raised my glass to him, and took a sip.

“Why should I trust you? Why?”

Trevor chuckled, which was the last thing I was expecting. My fist clenched up. I could just walk out of here, I thought, and leave all these monsters to their ball. “Lily, trust no one. That’s my best advice. But in this, I am thoroughly on your side, for reasons that elude my complete understanding as well.”

I glanced towards the stage. Tristan. The concert was going to start. He had wanted me here.

Trevor followed my look. “I’ll say please if it will make you reconsider. Please. Don’t walk out.”

I said nothing, and drank more of the whisky. My head felt heavy. The party atmosphere around me seemed miles away. I tried to speak. “Trevor…”

“He needs you, darling. He needs someone. If there’s a void, you’ll have just paved the way for Sindy doll over there.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Sindy doll?”

“Oh, I keep forgetting you’re a Yank. That’s quite a compliment to you. Barbie, dear.”

I tried to laugh. The place was packed, and the temperature had gone up noticeably. Maybe it was the drink. “He told me he wanted me here.”

“Then believe him. Finish your drink, we’ll go down the front. Two pairs of friendly, watchful eyes.”

I chugged the rest.

“Easy, girl. Let’s stay upright. Come on.” We left the bar and tried to navigate a path through the crowd. The roadies were finishing up the last minute adjustments to the guitars, taping the setlist down, checking the levels. Tristan would be backstage, getting ready. I hoped he was getting a minute alone, he told me he liked having a quiet moment before it all “cracked open” during the interview. I looked around for Alixe—Sindy doll. She was still out front, that was both good and bad. No sign of Paul, though I wasn’t entirely sure I’d recognize him in his current configuration. We managed to get right to the front, thanks to a few people moving aside, evidently out of respect for Trevor. I was glad to see they didn’t give up their places entirely; we were all just jammed in a little bit closer. The old excitement was bubbling up, the thrill of knowing your heroes were going to be on stage in a moment, the animal pressure of the crowd making everything sweaty and immediate. I looked away from the stage, up at Trevor, and followed his gaze. He was watching the side door to the stage. It swung open, and out came a guy who looked like he must be Paul. And Dave. Now that was interesting. What the hell was he up to? They shrunk into the corner. And then, almost on cue, the lights went down. Instantly the crowd began screaming, whistling. It was total blackness, except for the little red lights on the amps, and the eerie glow that was the stage light for the performers. The clouds of dry ice started, and then I really couldn’t see, drums disappearing then re-emerging as the currents of air, rising on the heat of all the bodies, moved it around. The cheering grew even louder, and a guy yelled out, “Tristan, man, I love you!” Then the steady clapping started, speeding up, like some kind of football match. I could just make out the band coming on stage, strapping on the instruments, readying themselves. Then the guitarist playing a note progression, just six notes, but more and more rapidly until the entire thing was like a screaming blur. Then Tristan loped onto the stage, waving to the crowd, and the entire mass of people surged forward. I was pressed against the barrier, and I pushed back a little so I could breathe. It was insanity.

Tristan twisted the mike out of the stand, and murmured “hello London…you motherfuckers!” Everyone yelled back. And then crowd swept forward again, just to be even closer, and the whistling was deafening. I could see him smile, just a little. And he turned and nodded to the band, and raised his hand. “All right boys and girls! Let’s do this!” His arm sliced through the air, and slapped his jean covered thigh just as the rapid fire drum opening of “Broken Window” started. Nothing mattered anymore except the perfection of the beat, the howling guitar, the sultry smile on Tristan’s face that made you feel he was into it as much as you were. Then he started singing, every nuance of every word, every meaning you could get out of it, the smartness, the consciousness behind it slapping up against the intense beat. It was amazing, fantastic—I didn’t even have to pretend that I thinking about anything but this. Nothing fucking mattered. I had the impression that Trevor was watching me, studying the expressions on my face, seeing me dancing around, but I didn’t care. Let him think I was a groupie. Maybe that’s really all I was.

Chapter 20

I wanted to catch his eye, and I wanted to remain invisible. It wasn’t really him, and yet it was. I was having the dilemma of every serious fan, except I wasn’t your average fan. And—it had been a long time since I’d really thought the people on the stage were different. But there was that one little thing—they did have this strange ability and charisma that set them apart. That deserved respect, even if nothing else about them did. I didn’t want the performers to show all their workings—I liked the mystery. So this section of his life and mine met in one way: I was the swooning, greedy spectator; Tristan was the visual object and the magician, the creator of these brilliant songs, conjuring music out of the ether. And for him, this was his element, where he connected with the solidity of the crowd, without singling out any particular individual or moment. That, at least, I could understand—the need to perform, the strange, very personal yet very distant emotional bond you created with the people watching you. The way you responded to their shifts in mood, subtly, while remaining true to what you intended to do, altering it all, your face, body, voice, just slightly, to try and coax the reaction you wanted out of the mass. Or maybe on a different day you simply refused to fuck with anything, insisting they follow you. It was a dance in another dimension. Any one individual could influence the whole, but the role of the person on stage was to be bigger than life. And the power and energy that was required to do that well was enormous. I didn’t want to distract him. I’d be there when and if he was ready to look.

The next few songs were thunderous, as was the reaction. The crowd was going literally insane. The band was tight, his voice was spot on, the energy they were building up was dangerous. I wiped away the sweat that was dripping into my eyes, the place was boiling. I didn’t care about anything anymore. Music had saved me before. Suddenly it was doing it again. The fact that I had fucked the guy on stage, that I was falling in love with him, even if I no longer really understood what love meant, was distant and irrelevant. All I cared about was the count in, the chorus, the timing, the way the drums and the bass worked together and moved apart, the way his voice mimicked the guitar then fell back into an almost whispery, conversational tone, like someone telling you their darkest secrets in the back booth of the bar.

The song ended, and we all clapped and shouted. Some people in the audience yelled out requests, and Tristan began responding to them. “Oh that one. Yeah. Well, it’s a Devised song, but hey, you never know. Not right now though.” He turned and made some gesture to the band. “This one,” he drawled out, and he looked right down at me, like he had known just where I was all along, “is for those who don’t sleep.” He shot me a quick smile, before looking back out to the crowd. “How many of you fuckers don’t sleep? We’re going to keep you up all fucking night!” he yelled out to the room. The audience screamed back their appreciation. And he began the song, the song that had made me cry, the one that started it all. It was a dreamier, more introspective ballad than what had come before, but it felt right after all the bombast and pulsing thrust of the last few songs. The audience had a chance to take a breath, to feel, to light a metaphorical cigarette after being thoroughly fucked by the band. I kept thinking how lucky I was, and how that scared the hell out of me. There was more to all this than just my crazy past and my fears. A door had been opened, like the gates of perception, and through it I could see everything I’d always known, whether I’d consciously realized it or not.

I gazed up at him, his eyes tightly shut, his dark eyelashes dusting the high cheekbones. Singing as though it were the last song he’d ever be allowed to do. Stunning. Beautiful. Unbelievably, undeniably beautiful. I felt embarrassed to be staring at him so openly, but at the same time I didn’t care. If all my feelings were written on my face, so were his. And he had smiled at me. I didn’t need it broadcast—I’d seen his look and it was for me, no one else. I knew, and that was enough. Something deep inside me settled and was calm, at last. I shut my eyes. I wanted to keep this moment inside, the fading last chorus of the song, this sense of rightness apart from all the nonsense in the world, as though I’d seen into the heart of the universe and knew which way to go. I couldn’t explain it. I opened my eyes again to watch him, and felt that same shock all over again, like the click of a lock opening.

The song ended, and the audience, including me, went crazy, waving hands in the air and whooping, hollering. Trevor nudged me. “He’s good, our boy, isn’t he?” He smiled, and even if he looked a bit like some kind of ghostly hawk, I could see the magic of it all had hit him as well. So, another lost soul who felt the music, hard. I grinned back at him. There was nothing to say. Words would just fuck it up, like always. Luckily, the drummer started right in again, slamming the drums with such force you felt he was going to either break or break something, and they began a series of three songs, each one becoming louder and more furious, until they started the opening notes of the new single and the entire room started singing along. I couldn’t even tell Tristan’s voice out of the massed crowd, who knew every word. Usually I didn’t like listening to people sing along, out of time and tune, but there was such devotion here, like everyone really wanted Tristan to know that they were still there, that they’d follow him, that maybe Devised didn’t really matter so much anymore, as long as they had him.

When the song ended, Tristan waved to the crowd and bowed, and the drummer got up and threw the usual sticks into the crowd, and the guitarist and bassist took off their instruments and handed them off to the roadies. They all bowed together, then pushed Tristan forward. He bent his head in acknowledgement of the crowd’s applause, his dark hair partially covering his face. Then he dropped to his knees and bent over into the crowd, the drummer instantly coming up behind him to get his back, as the crowd went into a frenzy to try and touch him. A couple of girls piled in first, and touched him, screaming. One of them was pulling at his shirt, like she wanted to tear it right off. She probably did. He laughed, and got up, and moved to the other side of the stage from me, brushing against as many of the outstretched hands as he could, before dropping to his knees again and letting some of the screaming girls throw their arms around him. One of them managed to place her hand on his ass. He didn’t seem to mind, if he even noticed at all, but the drummer was watching her grope him, and he was cracking up. But when her hand snuck around the front to try for a grab at something else, Tristan jumped up like he’d been stung, and leapt to his feet, waving and smiling at the crowd before he walked off.

The audience kept clapping, whistling. The lights hadn’t gone up yet, so there was a still a chance. The red lights remained on, then one of the roadies came out to adjust something. Oh, so they were definitely coming back. They just wanted to make us sweat a bit more. Work for it. Someone started a slow clap, and then there was a stamping, that got louder and louder, until I thought the ceiling was going to fall in. The whole building was shaking. I looked over at Trevor, and he seemed pleased, although he wasn’t clapping himself. I couldn’t see anyone else, but I was still crushed up against the barrier. I was glad Trevor was there. His presence was definitely helping to prevent people from trying to nick my spot and push me aside. The stamping grew faster and louder, and then there they were, coming out again, and the screaming and yelling started again, and the foot stamping gave way to clapping, and people calling out song titles.