Million Love Songs(77)
Then, before I can dwell on my friends’ relationship potential, my suffering ends as a limo sweeps in and Gary, lovely wife on his arm, gets out. He waves to the crowd, poses for photographs and then works the barrier. Mrs Barlow is escorted inside while the man himself signs autographs, stops for selfies and chats to his fans. Charlie goes into meltdown as he gets closer towards us.
When he’s right in front of us, Charlie lets out an ear-splitting shout. ‘GARY!’ Obligingly, he walks our way.
‘All right?’ he says to Charlie.
‘Yes,’ she breathes. ‘I can’t wait to see the show.’
‘You know what, it should be a good one.’
He’s so handsome close up and looks very debonair in his tuxedo. Even my heart goes all a-flutter and usually I’m quite content with cardboard cut-out Gary. For Charlie this is probably like achieving nirvana and I can understand why no ordinary man would live up to the standard he’s set. She twists herself round for a selfie and he duly poses with her. Then he’s off to the next set of fans to work his Barlow magic.
My friend tears her gaze away from his retreating back. ‘That was good.’ Understatement. Charlie sighs with happiness. She studies the resultant selfie and coos at it before she shows it to me and Nice Paul. It’s a very good selfie. ‘It’s moments like that which make it all worthwhile,’ she declares and hugs her phone to her chest.
And I get that now. It’s such an adrenaline rush to touch the unattainable. Yet, despite the excitement, Nice Paul’s expression is a little sad as he watches Charlie drool over her idol. I wonder if he’s thinking will he ever have a chance with Charlie or whether she’ll only ever have room for Gary Barlow in her life.
‘We can go to dinner now,’ Charlie announces. ‘I can also die happy.’
‘I’m going to skip off, if you don’t mind,’ I say to her. ‘I’m tired and could do with an early night.’
‘Wimp.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Of course I don’t mind. You’ll miss Gary coming out though.’
‘Take lots of pics,’ I instruct. ‘I’ll live it vicariously through you. We’ll catch up tomorrow.’
I kiss Nice Paul and he hugs me to him. I give him an extra squeeze. I want to tell him that it will all work out for him and Charlie, but I can’t honestly see that happening. I hope I’m wrong.
Chapter Seventy
I buy a Cornish pasty at Euston station and a paper cup of lukewarm tea. Then I chug home on a train that stops at every damn station known to man. I think about calling Joe on the way home to tell him that our mission to see Mr Barlow was successful, but I remember that he’s at work tonight and I don’t want to bother him. They’re still short-staffed and he’s having to work extra shifts at the moment. I text him a little message instead to say that I’m on my way back but, as I expected, there’s no reply.
I doze through some of the stations and I’m glad that I skipped out early on Charlie and Nice Paul as I’m completely knackered when I get to my granny annexe and it’s not yet nine o’clock. I could do with a hot bath and a nice cup of tea. Actually, make that a large glass of red.
Not a moment too soon, I kick off my Converse. My feet are killing me and they need to be fully operational again before tomorrow’s shift. A nice long soak should help to do the job. I start to run my bath, slopping in a good dollop of the posh bath foam that the ex bought me last Christmas. It doesn’t have great associated memories, obvs, but it’s a shame to let it go to waste.
In my bedroom, I kiss cardboard cut-out Gary. ‘You’re pretty hot in real life,’ I tell him, but he doesn’t seem impressed by my attention. So I strip off my grubby London clothes and slip into my dressing gown, pour myself a big glass of some cheap red that’s already open and dig in the fridge until I find some chocolate. That’s what’s left of my night sorted.
I’m just about climb into the bath when my phone rings but, when I look at the display, I don’t recognise the number. My first thought is to let it go to voicemail. So often these anonymous calls are trying to sell me something – and I neither require double glazing nor have the money for a new kitchen or funeral plan. But, call it instinct or something, this time I pick up.
Tom is on the other end of the line and he’s sobbing. I can’t even understand what he’s saying, but my blood turns to ice and my stomach twists into a tight knot. For him to even consider ringing me, I know that this isn’t good.
‘What is it?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ he cries. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Are you hurt, Tom?’
‘Yes. No.’ More sobbing. ‘A bit.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not.’
‘Have you phoned your dad?’ I realise that I sound as if I’m interrogating him, but I’ve no starting point to judge the gravity or otherwise of this.
‘Yeah, but he’s not answering his phone. Neither’s Mum.’ There’s panic in his voice.
His tears are ripping my heart apart. It seems pointless trying to get any more information out of him over the phone as he’s too distraught. I should just go and get him wherever he is. ‘Where are you? Do you want me to come and get you?’