I Was Born for This(65)

‘You know we’ve got a bit of leeway with the new contract; we can negotiate—’ Lister begins, but Rowan interrupts him.

‘I know, but I want the new contract,’ he says. ‘It’s gonna spread our music worldwide. But Bliss … our relationship … this is just the price of fame.’

Lister chuckles and lowers his head. ‘So dramatic.’

Rowan starts plucking a few notes in time with my button-pressing and Lister’s beat.

‘One day we’ll be able to do what we want,’ says Rowan.

‘When’s that?’ I ask.

‘One day,’ says Rowan.

Lister starts singing under his breath.

‘And when he gets to heaven,’ he sings – words I don’t know, and a tune that goes somehow perfectly with the chords Rowan is making up on the spot – ‘to Saint Peter he will tell: One more soldier reporting, sir. I’ve served my time in hell.’

‘Can we have “Joan of Arc” one more time, then, lads?’ shouts someone from the sound board.

We stop jamming and I turn my Launchpad on.

‘It’s contract-signing time,’ says Cecily, slamming several copies of the contract down on the table in the middle of our dressing room. ‘Who needs a pen?’

‘Hold on, I thought we were doing this after the recording?’ asks Rowan, confused.

‘No, babe. Fort Records cancelled our meeting later, so they want the contracts posted ASAP. Might as well get it out of the way now.’

I pick up a copy of the contract from the table and flick through it. It looks just as garbled and dramatic as it did when I last looked through it. All the less favourable bits keep catching my eye, all the bits about us having to do longer tours and more publicity. It’s all just more. It’s so big that we can’t control it any more.

It’s like The Ark isn’t even ours any more. It’s just a brand. Not real.

I look up and Rowan already has a pen in his hand and is swirling his name along the dotted line of his copy. His face is blank.

‘Jimmy?’

I turn and find Cecily holding a biro out to me. I look at the pen.

‘You okay, babe?’ she asks, looking me directly in the eyes. I can’t remember when I last looked her in the eyes. She might be the mum of the band, but sometimes I feel like I barely know her.

‘Erm,’ I say.

The pen. I need to take the pen and sign my name and sign my life away.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

I look back at Rowan. He’s chucked the contract away, leant back in his chair and closed his eyes.

‘Erm …’

Lister is flicking through his copy, frowning and shaking his head, tapping his pen against his forehead.

More. It’s all more. So big I can’t hold on to it any more. So big that it’s not ours any more. And what will we get in place of that? Lies. More lies. More fake smiles and forced interviews and fans that will lap up the lies and take photos of us and stalk us and hate us– ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ I say.

Cecily withdraws the pen. She suddenly looks concerned. It’s an expression I don’t recall seeing on her before. ‘Okay. Don’t be long.’

I splash some cold water onto my face before realising that I’ve already had my make-up done. Whoops.

I think I’m losing it.

Going off the wall.

Is this why celebrities eventually get addicted to drugs? Because it all gets a bit too much?

Sometimes I think about taking drugs. Sometimes I think it might help.

When I see Lister smoke and drink, I know it’s bad, but I understand why he does it. It’s so he doesn’t have to think.

I hate thinking.

The bathroom door swings open and Lister enters the room. He does a little double-take at seeing me standing there with a wet face, but then smiles and says, ‘We seem to keep meeting in bathrooms, don’t we?’

I chuckle. ‘We do.’

‘I’m not here to assault you this time.’

‘You didn’t assault me. You just misjudged. You stopped when I said no.’

‘Well, I didn’t exactly ask for permission, did I?’

He laughs sadly. Has he been genuinely upset about what happened yesterday? I’ve barely thought about it at all.

He walks over to a urinal, unzips his jeans, and starts peeing.

‘I’m surprised you’re not angry at me about that,’ he says, mid-pee.

‘I’m not angry,’ I say. ‘I know it was a mistake.’

He pauses. ‘Mm.’

He zips up his jeans and then goes to wash his hands. He glances at me. He’s all dressed up and made up for the recording – his hair’s been straightened and hairsprayed, he’s wearing an expensive denim jacket, and if you look closely, you can see the face powder on his skin. But I know him too well. He’s tired. There are shadows under his eyes, still visible through the make-up. His eyes are a bit bloodshot too.

He turns the tap off and looks at me.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. He knows.

‘The contract,’ I say. ‘It’s … I don’t like it.’

He nods. ‘Yeah. It’s got some dodgy bits.’

‘Do we …’ I dare myself to ask. ‘Do we really have to … go ahead with it?’