Million Love Songs(16)

‘We can go and get some food now,’ Charlie says, folding Paul’s camping chair.

‘Fantastic.’ I’m up and off my plastic bag quicker than a flash. ‘I’m starving.’

This show had better be good for all this effort. I tell you, at the very least, I want twenty-four-carat gold dust raining down on me from above and a chance to sit on Gary Barlow’s knee.





Chapter Fourteen





We’re seated at a window table at the Golden Phoenix next to the obligatory waving cat. Over a set meal for three, Nice Paul tells us more about his life. He’s single, no lurking children – not that he knows of, anyway. Always good. He seems solvent and sane. He’s ticking a lot of boxes. He has an easy, self-deprecating way about him – the polar opposite to Mason Soames.

I wonder what Mason’s doing this weekend. I bet he’s not queuing in the cold to see a band. Mason is the kind of guy who knows someone, who knows someone else who’d get him into the VIP Gold Circle – and not standing tickets either.

Then, fortified with rather excellent Chinese food, we head back to the studio. The second we’re allowed in, I follow Charlie and Nice Paul in a rush down to the barrier in front of the stage to bag a prime space. The atmosphere is crackling with anticipation and I’m really excited to be here, so Charlie and Nice Paul must be about to wee themselves with ecstasy.

As the small theatre fills up, sound checks for the acts start, so there’s plenty to keep us occupied while we wait and I hardly notice the pain in my back and my feet. Charlie hands out bottles of water to us.

‘Go easy how you drink it,’ she says with a wink.

I take a sip and realise that my ‘water’ is neat vodka that has survived the bag search. Well that’s certainly going to go some way towards easing the pain.

‘You’re driving,’ I remind Charlie.

She shakes her bottle at me. ‘Mine is water.’

The show starts and it’s fabulous. The fans are in a frenzy before anything happens so when Gary, Mark and Howard are joined on stage for the opening number by Robbie Williams the place goes wild. I look over at Charlie and she’s in complete rapture, her face shining with joy. I feel my own face may be a little flushed with pleasure too. Nice Paul, I have to say, is watching Charlie as much as he is the band. They’re right in front of us and I can now see why we’ve been here since the crack of dawn. The boys play their new songs and some of their most loved favourites and, by the end of the evening, I’m a Take That convert.

The rest of the evening is dedicated to a range of boy bands competing to take centre stage in a new musical about Take That. They go through two or three numbers each, all accompanied by slick dance routines. I have no idea which of the wannabe boy bands wins and I don’t really care as they all seemed great to me. To this crowd, they’re very definitely the secondary attraction. Then Take That do a final number and a mass of peri-menopausal women go into meltdown. I include myself and Charlie in that. We might be in our thirties, but it won’t be long before our oestrogen leaves the building. We throw ourselves into singing and screaming and dancing with abandon.

Then it’s over. The lights come up, the stage crew start to take away the equipment and break down the set. It’s been a long and happy day. The vodka has kicked in and seems to double in potency as the fresh air hits us. We stagger back to the Tube – me, Charlie and Nice Paul – arms slung round each other singing ‘Could It Be Magic’ at the top of our voices. I’ve had far too much to drink and I’ve only just remembered that I’ve got to be up early tomorrow morning to go on this flipping dive outing. How much am I regretting that I signed up for that now? I’d be much happier staying in my PJs all day watching Take That DVDs with Charlie.

Still, this is what it is to be single and having fun. I’m out there giving it large. I’m not only embracing it, but I’m bloody well enjoying it.





Chapter Fifteen





The alarm goes off and I want to die. Not just die a little bit, but seriously, properly die. I try to lift my head off the pillow. Actually, I think I might have died already. I open one eye and tilt the iPhone towards me so I can check what time it is. I’m sure it’s more blurry than it used to be. Another early start in succession. I’m so not built for this.

I haul myself out of bed and force myself to perform my ablutions so that people don’t think I’m a total skank. The water in the shower hurts. I am meeting lots of new diving buddies today and I wish I was doing it with less vodka in my tanks. It was all happyhappypartyparty last night, but good grief am I paying for it this morning. I think once you reach your thirties your ability to process strong alcohol severely diminishes – yet every time you have strong alcohol you somehow forget that.

I pull on jeans and a T-shirt, then drag a comb through my hair. I can’t do make-up. My face is too hurty. The sheer weight of mascara would just make my eyes close again. Besides, the natural look is fashionable. I think. Maybe that was last year.

While I’m still trying to make myself swallow Weetabix in an attempt to put a layer in my stomach and quell my faint vodka-based nausea, a car pulls up outside and a quick glance out of the window tells me that my ride is here. Maybe I shouldn’t call Joe that, it could be misconstrued. Though I do like punctuality in a man.