Twinned (16 page)

Beth

Phone.

Ringing.

Arrggh –

I go to answer it, then stop myself. It's not my room, it is Joel’s.
It could be his wife.
Joel grabs the handset. "Huh... Hello?"

"This is your wake up call." I hear the automated voice. He hangs up with a sigh and then rubs his eyes and clears his throat. He relaxes back and I lie against his chest.

Then he turns my face to his and he kisses me, defying morning-breath etiquette.
This must be serious,
I think.
My brain starts to wake up and it feels like there is so much to do.

"I have to go home, get some stuff..."

He looks at me, perhaps questioning the wisdom of going back to the house I share with my husband midway through an illicit mini-break just because I don't like the clothes my mum packed for me.

"I can lend you some things Beth, t-shirts, you know, or send for some new stuff?" He offers sweetly. Genuinely wanting to spare me the upset, I realise.

I am about to turn him down. However, the temptation of having a shirt to remember him by is just too great. He hears my thoughts and goes to his suitcase, pulling out a couple of shirts that might not be too huge on my petite frame.

"These," he says almost reverently, "are too good for girls," he smirks and he looks so attractive that my body stirs with desire, "but you are
my
girl."

The second he says it, he knows he made a mistake. I know he says it to her too.

I take a shirt and turn away to put it on.

After breakfast, we decide to bite the bullet and go to Abbey Road together. Joel calls for a taxi and I get ready for the lie of my life; to act professional in the face of uncontrollable, lustful possession. And still, I leave my phone off.

Beth

I am invisible, which is as it should be. No one even noticed that
Joel and I arrived together, hidden amid the band and the hangers-on, hurrying across the iconic Abbey Road crossing so we don't ruin anyone's photo. There are so many people milling about and enjoying the sunshine, in groups queuing in conga lines waiting for a gap in the London traffic so they can march across in formation while a friend waits by the memorial to take their photo.

I consider that it's probably quite a dangerous tourist activity, probably more injuries per thousand than great white shark cage diving. After all, the British roads are a million times busier than they were in the 1960s and the traffic is rather more impatient. Quite a few attempts to cross in the style of George, Paul, Ringo and John are thwarted by near accidents. The buses in particular must be sick of the hassle, all day, every day, I think.

And here we are, on the busy London street outside the studios in the beautiful morning sunshine. Joel looks suitably awed, like he's soaking up the history of the place. Deff and Stevo look like they have found a little piece of heaven.

Abbey Road Studios doesn't look like I imagined. It's a beautiful double fronted white house, possibly Georgian in style, set back from the road with wide steps up to the front door and a posh in/out driveway in the shape of a semi-circle.

A low, whitewashed wall divides the tourists who pound the Abbey Road pavement from the studio premises. The wall is absolutely covered in marker pen graffiti; mainly Beatles-related. We take a moment to read the myriad of messages, to try and understand this very modern pilgrimage.

"Peace and love,"
reads a colourful, bohemian script in purple and pink.

"I am the walrus - Max was here 2010!"
states another.

And, of course,
"People say that I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one."
This one has squiggles of green and brown around it. I stare at it for a moment, hearing the haunting lyric in my head and feeling it makes sense to our particular predicament.

Then the tourists’ cameras start to turn towards Joel as a murmur spreads and someone yells his name from across the road. It's time to move. The band members are the 'somebodies'; every eye is trained on them.

I am just another 'anybody'. I turn to follow Joel. A skinny girl next to me, who hadn’t given me a glance before now, regards me curiously. I can read her expression; she is judging, evaluating whether I could be with the band and what value she should place on me. She is unmistakably a tourist; yellow shorts and a white strappy top, plimsolls on her feet and sunglasses sat casually on her head, a rucksack slung over her shoulder. She steps back when Joel meets my gaze, her mouth forms an O shape. I feel her awe and with it I become untouchable too. It's like there's an invisible line dividing the band from the fans and I just crossed it. I feel a little embarrassed to step out from what is now a throng of camera phone-wielding tourists and walk straight up the drive. I just concentrate on walking without tripping up.

"Oi Joel!" One Londoner shouts. "Give us a wave!" Joel obliges, rewarding the bystanders with his zillion watt all-American smile for a split second, before bounding up the steps, leaving them wanting more. I follow like a traitor, feeling almost feeling responsible for the fans' disappointment, which I understand all too well.

But not today. I am more than a fan today.

We are ushered through a smart reception, down a corridor to the main studio. The studio is vast, much bigger than the outside of the building would suggest. It is absolutely full of people. There is an orchestra setting up, technicians working on the equipment set up. No one here bats an eyelid when the band strolls in. They are obviously used to celebrities.

I nod to Joel, and then break away from their group to take a seat towards the back of the room. For the next half hour I absorb myself in people-watching. Every now and then I steal a glance at Joel. He maintains his practiced professionalism and doesn't look at me once. But I know what he is thinking a lot of the time which makes me feel a bit special, a bit less like a hanger-on.

I watch his body move as he walks, leans, carries, drinks, talks. He has expressive hands and a really cute bum. His mannerisms are so familiar to me in the way they
feel
but it's a real treat to really
see
them in action. I keep smiling. I must stop smiling...

Sometimes Joel laughs and I feel a bubble of pleasure tickling my throat. When his nerves take hold I feel a fluttering in my tummy. Watching him, it's actually really nice to understand what the trigger is for a change. Usually, my moods alter with no warning, or I'll feel sensations without knowing why and I'll have to interpret them as best I can. However, being able to watch Joel means that I am reacting with him, so I can understand and can follow what's happening in real time. I can just go with the flow, it's much more relaxed.

Then a thought rises to the surface and ‘pops’ in my mind. It’s a little disturbing. I could 'become' Joel. Since this started to take me over, I have realised I no longer 'feel' like Beth so much.

When was the last time I followed
my
desires, or at least desires that did not involve Joel? When was the last time I did something for me?

He hasn't mentioned once feeling
my
emotions, he just reads my mind. Does Beth have such little influence? Is she of no consequence? If we are twinned, have I lost myself?

The thought that my life may be secondary to his is interesting to me... I mull it over while I watch, until I reabsorb myself in what Joel is doing and forget my worries.

It takes over an hour to get the equipment set up. Then finally they are ready to sound check. And this is it. Oh how I wish I could record this. The drummer counts them in, the music hits me like a wall of sound and Joel starts to sing. My heart soars. His voice sounds huskier than I thought it would. Harsher. Sexier. There is a tremor to it that resonates entirely on my frequency. I am alive again.

Oh this is heaven. It feels like Joel is singing for me.

At the end of the first song, remembering my supposed purpose, I take out the jotter pad and biro I nabbed from the hotel room. I'm here to do a job after all. I start to write. I write about what I see and what I hear, what I feel and what surrounds me. I write so the reader will feel like they were here too, privy to this intimate, exclusive experience. Because that's what a true fan wants, to be close, to be special. I am so lucky.

Joel has pretty much ignored me all morning and quite rightly so. When it comes to the song that means the most to me, he turns towards me and seems to direct his vocals to where I am sat. It's flattering but at the same time I don't know where to look, others' eyes are on me too now, wondering who I am and what I'm doing there. His eyes bore into me and when he gets to the chorus, he is screaming the words and his distress is palpable. He's really feeling the lyrics.

I feel uncomfortably warm. I start to feel like my head is going to explode from feeling too much, hearing too much. Suddenly I am breaking out in a sweat, so hot I need to get some air.

This is all too much...

Not again!

Black.

Beth

Wow it’s hot. The
dry heat burns my lungs. We are walking through the heat of the desert and I am at the point of collapse. My guide says it is not much further. He hands me some water. The warm-ish liquid soothes my throat and a slight breeze in the air cools my burning skin. I hand back the empty bottle and he swaps it for a cloth. I wipe my face and neck.

Ahead of me I see the canyon's edge and a huge red rock formation, in the shape of a bird taking off. It’s truly remarkable.

"This is the place," says my guide, “Eagle Point.”

We continue to walk towards the rim of the canyon. The view is awesome. Godly. Majestic – My eyes soak up the beauty of the view. The colours. The vast silence. I try and think of what I am doing here but my head won't process anything other than right now. No memories, no internal monologue. Red rocks, a sheer drop and the winding Colorado River some 2,000 feet below.

My guide stops right at the edge, a couple of steps closer than I dare to stand.

I am breathing heavily but he hasn't even broken a sweat. He turns and reaches for my hand, taking it in his hand. Then he points his other hand toward the distant eagle formation.

"Eagle Point. The soul’s release," he says, motioning in the air with his arm.

We look out across the chasm to Eagle Point beyond.

"There you are free," he adds, as if I should understand what he is going on about.

And it’s the strangest thing. I don't even think. I just step forward to the edge and past it, ready to meet the space beneath me –

"Wake up! Wake up!"

I open my eyes to someone patting my hand, it's an African lady. She has colourful beads, yellow and red. They are fabulous. Where am I? Oh, I’m at Abbey Road studios. Memories flood back and replace the dream. I am horrified to realise that I must have fallen asleep. Self-consciously I wipe my mouth.

"Are you OK?" She asks, "You passed out I think Miss? Try not to fall off your chair... steady..."

I see Joel across the vast room looking concerned as he mops his brow and I feel him thinking, nervously. He is wondering if I have some sort of serious head injury from the car accident. I give him a wave and a half smile while I awkwardly re-settle myself in the chair. The lady hands me a half empty bottle of mineral water. I remember the vision. I take a clumsy sip then have to wipe my mouth again with the back of my hand. God I am a mess.

I remember my manners. "I don't know your name," I say.

"Precious," she says with a smile. "Pleased to meet you."

"Thank you Precious," I say. "Sorry, I was in an accident yesterday and I should be resting I think."

"Well then why are you here?" She says, kneeling next to me.

"I'm writing an article on the band."

Precious pulls a face, "These rock stars, they think they are all this," she makes a sweeping gesture with her hands, "You watch yourself girly, they take what they want, and they don't care about people like 'us'..."

"Oh I'm sure I'll be OK," I say, wondering who she is and why she would say such a thing. "I'm just a journalist," I add. "Do you know the band then?"

A look passes her face like she is mentally checking herself. "No... Just a cynical old woman's opinion my love, what do I know, huh?"

Precious gets up.

"Can I get you anything?" She asks as she leaves. "More water, some chocolate maybe?”

"No, I'm fine thanks, Precious," I say, smiling. I really do feel a little better.

But I notice that, as she walks away, her face contorts as she throws a mega-evil stare to Joel. I wonder who she is and what her problem could be. I try to read Joel’s thoughts but for once they are a closed book. He walks off to talk to a techie.

I start writing again. The day passes in a blur of music and words. And for a good few hours I feel quite like my old self again. I get a decent amount of words down. I read it back. Fine as a review, I think but there certainly isn't the punchy, Machiavellian edge that Marcus so desires.

When the band decides to stop recording at about five thirty pm, I choose to bite the bullet and check my phone messages. I step outside into the warm evening air and stand just far enough from the whiff of the bins to be able to concentrate. I hold down the ON button until the phone shudders to life.

"BEEEEEEP!" The car horn is so sudden and so loud that it makes me jump. I look to the source. Out on the road a taxi swerves to avoid a drunk dressed as Yoko Ono flashing the Peace sign. "Koo Koo Kee Choo!" he/she yells. Other tourists help him/her back to the pavement. Someone is laughing.

The door behind me opens. I recognise the band's drum technician, an Asian guy nicknamed Troy. At least I hope for his sake that it’s a nickname... He opens a pack of cigarettes and offers me one. In some kind of reflex action I say, "Yeah thanks," and take a cigarette from the packet. This wouldn't be weird if I smoked. But I don't and I never have done.

But what do you know, I am leaning in to spark it up and inhaling like a pro, like I smoke every day.

And for some reason my brain is OK with that. And I know that Joel used to smoke...

"Beep!"

That made me jump. This time it’s my phone.

Wow. It continues to beep for ages. “Somebody’s popular,” deadpans Troy. When the phone calms down I see I have eleven missed calls and six text messages. I call voicemail first. One message is from Mum, one is from the police. The rest are from Richard, asking first “Where are you?” and then “Where the hell are you?” with increasing urgency.

I mentally steady myself and click on the oldest text, which is not quite what I was expecting:

I know uv not been 2 the gym 4 ages. Ur lying.

And the next one:

Call me when you get this.

Then:

CALL ME

And the next one:

Am worried, spoke to your mum, call me now

And finally:

I will be staying at Nick’s tonight

I am shocked to realise that I feel relieved to know that I can go home and Richard won't be there. My night with Joel has changed something. Yes, in a way I have been cheating on Richard for weeks, if not months. But last night made it real. And suddenly I am crying and I just can't stop. I walk away from where Troy is standing so he won’t see, towards the far end of the driveway.

Suddenly my mobile starts to ring. I see from the screen it's my sister, Katie. I answer, sniffing heavily.

"What on Earth's going on Beth? Mum says Richard’s missing and you've run off with a rock star!"

I laugh and sob all at the same time; it's not an attractive sound, kind of a snort. God, I wish I had a tissue. I sniff again and the smoke irritates me so I drop the cigarette and wipe the tears away in case someone sees me. I tread into the cigarette’s glowing corpse until the glow has gone. I rub my nose. My fingers smell of smoke.

"Where are you right now?" She demands, "I'm coming over!"

Like hell she is.

"Why? To see me or to meet the band?" I say sarcastically.

"To look after you of course!" She says indignantly. Then adds a little too quickly, "Which rock star is it.... please don’t tell me it's some awful smelly thrash metaller..."

"I have not run off with a -"

"What's his name... you know, that greasy old rocker, from Guns 'n Roses... Oh! Axl Rose! It's not him is it? Or Slash?" She giggles.

I sigh. I don't know if anyone's listening so I can tell her anything right now. I almost want to say yes, just to wind her up.

"I am working, Katie, doing an interview, that's all. I'll ring you later."

"Just tell me who you're interviewing! Pleeeaaaaasss -"

I hang up while she’s mid wail and call the police back. They want to know what to do with my car. I realise I haven't even called the insurance company... I arrange to have it towed home.

I go back inside the studio to find that they are packing up. Joel is absentmindedly looping some cables while deep in conversation about the virtues of one type of microphone over another. He looks up and smiles reassuringly. I love the way he gets dimples in his cheeks when he smiles. But I don't feel reassured. I don't know where to stand.

I don't know where I stand.