Fallen for Rock (5 page)

Chapter Eight

After five rounds of furtively driving past Nate’s building, I wasn’t so sure that everything would be okay. Located on the second floor of a warehouse conversion, his place looked strangely abandoned from the outside. I couldn’t quite explain why, but I was getting a strong ‘deserted’ vibe. All the windows were shut, but the curtains were wide open. There were no lights that I could see. And okay, it was the middle of May at six o’clock in the evening, so there wasn’t much need for artificial light, but Nate usually had one lamp or another switched on, especially in that cavernous open plan lounge-bedroom of his.

Obviously, I tried ringing him again, but there was no response. On my fifth drive-by, I actually pulled up outside his house and lowered the car window while I rang through. I could hear the ringtone from within—just—but nothing else.

‘He’s not there. Where is he?’

I nibbled my thumb anxiously, at a loss as to what to do next. An impatient tooting sound suggested that the driver in the car behind me desired to move on. I lifted my hand toward the rear-view mirror in a gesture of apology, put the car in gear, and embarked on my sixth drive-by round the block and past his house again. Should I park up and ring the doorbell? Should I stuff the envelope with the tickets in his letter box? Should I simply wait? Why, oh why, hadn’t I insisted on having a key to his place when I had the chance?
Because you didn’t want to be pushy,
I reminded myself and sighed.

‘It could be hours until he comes home,’ I continued talking to myself. ‘You don’t know where he is. If only there were a convenient coffee shop to stage a stake-out…’

But there wasn’t, and I wasn’t comfortable sitting in the car watching his flat, always assuming I could actually park anywhere. Somebody would ring the police and report a suspicious female lurking about. Well, maybe not, but you never knew. This was central London, after all.

‘You could put the tickets in his letter box though,’ I suggested, waggling my head from side to side while I thought this option through.

‘But if he’s gone away for whatever reason and doesn’t pick them up or if, God forbid, he takes somebody else, you have gained nothing, no more excuses to get in touch.’

Very true, very true. I nodded as I rounded the corner and began driving down the road again. I wouldn’t leave the envelope. I
would
leave another message and try texting again, but I wouldn’t hand over my only bargaining chip yet.

As before, I slowed to a halt and cast a look at his windows. No lights, no movement.

‘Oi, you!’

A loud shout and a sharp knock on the driver’s window shook me out of my reverie. I snapped to and was faced with an angry-looking elderly man wearing, bizarrely for the season, a felt hat and a scarf. He rapped on the window again.

‘Wha’d’yer think yer doing? Tha’s six times ye’ve gone past ‘ere now. I’ll be callin’ the filth if yer keep ‘angin’ abou’.’

Neighbourhood watch in action. I was mortified. I pressed a button and lowered my window by an inch, enough to be able to converse without shouting, but not enough for him to get a hand in. I also surreptitiously engaged the central locking, just in case.

‘No need to call the police,’ I issued sweetly. ‘I’m concerned for my boyfriend because he isn’t answering his phone, but I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll be off now. Ta-ra!’

Ta-ra?
I
never
said ta-ra for farewell. Maybe I was losing my marbles.

At any rate, I buzzed the window closed again before my unfriendly neighbourhood snoop could ask more questions, and I drove off.

Needless to say, neither Castle nor Vivaldi could cheer me up that evening. Thoughts went round my head like mismatched socks in the washing machine. Where was Nate? Would I ever get another chance? What was I supposed to do with those tickets?

I kept getting stuck on the issue of the tickets. I couldn’t let them go to waste. If Nate found out, he would definitely never, ever speak to me again. But what should I do with them? Apart from Nate, I didn’t know anyone who would like them.

I snorted. That was ridiculous. MonX were
the
phenomenon of the decade, surely somebody would take the tickets off me?

‘I could sell them, I suppose.’ I tried to visualise myself in the role of ticket tout and laughed. Moreover, there was the small problem of my name on the package. Not on the concert tickets, as such, but on the VIP backstage passes.

Emily Trenden.

Guest of Emily Trenden.

This would render them useless for anyone but me, for sure.

I picked up the laminated cards for the hundredth time and turned them over in my hands, feeling for seams or cracks in the plastic. I had read about doctoring IDs, but these seemed tamperproof. They were laminated
and
embossed. Even if I managed to get the passes out and magically fiddle with the names, maybe Photoshop the lot and make another set of passes with different names… Even if I could accomplish this, there was no getting around the embossed laminate. No way I could recreate that.

Experimentally and on a complete whim, I put my pass around my neck. The thick red cotton band lay soft against my skin, and the pass itself dangled just so in the dip between my boobs. I got a little jolt, as though a door had slammed somewhere or the ground shifted under my feet.

In a daze, I rose and took a few slow steps towards the fireplace. As though seeing myself for the first time, I examined myself in the mirror above it. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to the VIP pass around my neck. It seemed to glow. The pass, and my neck. In fact, all of me seemed to glow. If I had been in a cartoon, the artist would have drawn flashing red ziggedy-zag arrows all around me. I could practically see them.

Look here. Emily Trenden, high-flying career girl turned wanton rock chick.

I laughed, and the bizarre vision dispersed.

‘What a ridiculous notion. Me, a rock chick? And a wanton one, at that? Where on
earth
did that come from?’

But the idea stuck in my head like the sweet memory of a chocolate truffle on my tongue. The hint of possibility was tantalising and mesmerising.
Emily Trenden, wanton rock chick
.

I laughed at myself some more, but another idea formed in my head. A concrete, obvious, possible one.

‘I suppose… I suppose I could simply go.’

The words hung in the air, and I shrugged uncertainly.

‘I could go on my own. It would be better than letting the tickets go to waste. It would be better than selling them or giving them to someone who…who…’ I paused, reluctant to finish my thought but forcing myself to do so anyway. ‘Who doesn’t mean anything at all to Nate. And maybe…well, maybe he’ll come to his senses and come along. And if he doesn’t, at least I can tell him, one day, that I honoured his gift. Maybe that’ll mean something to him. Who knows?’

I paused in my musings, dizzy with the implications of this plan. Going to a rock concert, and by myself at that, was so unlike me that I might as well have decided to scale Mount Everest or run the London marathon, or perhaps volunteer for a mission to Mars.

I had absolutely no idea what it was like to go to a rock concert. I didn’t even know what to
wear
to a rock concert. I had nothing but bad preconceptions: noise, long-haired rockers and bikers in leather jackets, women in leather bras with tattoos on their chests and wild greasy hair, drugs—yes, drugs, lots of them, everybody did them at these events, it was practically the law, right? Drugs, and booze, and vomit, and vulgar language, and violence, and more noise…

I shuddered. It sounded like a living hell. And yet people went, even relatively normal people. Teenagers. Heck, kids, even, if the news were to be believed. Maybe I had got all this wrong. Perhaps my prejudiced disdain for all things rock and the demise of the best relationship of my life were causally related.

‘No “maybe” about it.’

Might as well face the facts.

‘Well. Here’s a chance to see for myself.’

I held the tickets up to my face and nodded. I was a desperate woman, and the idea rooted, grew and blossomed, looking more and more reasonable with every heartbeat.

‘I’ll go. With or without Nate. I’ll go, and I’ll make good use of these tickets. I’ll go to see MonX.’

Chapter Nine

The idea stayed with me and became a distracting reality. It carried me through a hectic lunch with my parents on Sunday, and it permeated my every thought at work. By Wednesday afternoon, I had answered no less than three client calls with ‘MonX’ because I had the VIP passes on my brain, and I had to hastily disguise my inappropriate greeting as a coughing fit. Thank goodness I had an office to myself. And at least this way, I didn’t have time to fret about why Nate still wasn’t calling me back.

In my lunch hours, I got busy researching ‘the scene’. There was nothing like a bit of data to get a better understanding of what a rock gig might really be like. Anal, perhaps, but I wanted to understand what I was letting myself in for.

So I looked at album sales, download rankings, Twitter and Facebook followers, capacity of concert venues and sell-out rates, reported incidents, and alleged drug-abuse stories. I read up on ‘rock fan’ demographics and discovered, to my great surprise, that there seemed to be trend towards the ‘greying’ of the fan base of many rock bands.
Some
of these ‘ageing’ fans were even bringing along the next generation—their kids.

Unsurprisingly, Mark—my manager—became a little concerned when I forwarded him a spreadsheet full of MonX-related data instead of a merger analysis I was supposed to be preparing.

‘This isn’t like you, Emily,’ he said accusingly when he turned up in my office, flapping a printout of the offending spreadsheet and looking both angry and worried.

‘I know.’ I felt faint with shock, having discovered my technological mishap only seconds before he flew into my office. I hadn’t had a chance to concoct a plausible excuse, and I had no experience of making things up on the fly.

‘I…’

‘What is this, anyway?’

Mark looked at the data as though it was in Chinese. ‘Who are these three million “followers”? Who or what do they follow?’

‘Um…’ I suddenly clicked. The data was all there, but I hadn’t labelled the spreadsheet. It was nothing but numbers.

‘I’m researching market segments,’ I declared brightly. ‘You know, for the merger. For the big merger. And what it might mean for investors.’

‘The “big” merger?’ Mark’s eyes were wide with incredulity. ‘Are you quite sure you’re okay?
All
your mergers are multimillion-pound mergers. Which one are we talking about?’

I could feel perspiration spring up under my armpits and a trickle of sweat running down my back. Being ditzy was proving very stressful.

‘The…um…the DatErx merger. You know. The computer game people.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Mark nodded. ‘I see. I didn’t know you were already on this one. What about—’

‘Crumms?’

Crumms was a major global biscuit manufacturer under threat, unbelievably, from a small Australian start-up.

‘Yes. Crumms.’

More sweat trickled down my back. I was
way
behind on that one, courtesy of other things on my mind.

‘I’ve got that covered. The Ozzies got no chance. My report will be in your inbox by the end of the day.’

And so it would be. It might be midnight rather than end of business, but I would get it done. I had to.

‘Oh good.’ Mark looked relieved. He even smiled. ‘For a second, I was worried you were losing your touch.’

‘Who, me? Your star analyst?’ I coughed modestly. ‘Never. I merely got carried away on this DatErx thing, but Crumms is under control.’

He left, and I sank onto my chair. That was a close call.

I deleted the incriminating spreadsheet and wiped all evidence of its existence from my computer. For the rest of the day, I knuckled down and did a rush job on the actual task at hand. I didn’t leave the office until nearly midnight, and I didn’t spend another second thinking about MonX. But when I returned home and there was still no message from Nate, I cried. Time was running out. Only two days to go.

I slept badly and felt like death warmed up when I presented myself at the office at seven a.m. the following morning. Even my heavy-duty foundation hadn’t been able to hide the shadows under my eyes, and as for my eye-clear drops clearing up those red rims and bloodshot whites… well, ‘epic fail’ didn’t capture it.

Still, I ensconced myself at my desk with a takeaway cappuccino (double shots) and an almond croissant. If I hunkered down, I might escape thinking of Nate
and
MonX and maybe even get to leave the office by eight.

Mark dropped by midmorning to congratulate me on a fantastic job on Crumms, and I smiled weakly. I had a pounding headache and wanted to lie down under my desk. Although right at that moment, getting rid of my enthusiastic manager and his booming voice would have been a start.

‘You okay?’ Mark suddenly asked.

‘I’m fine,’ I lied

‘You sure? You don’t look so good.’

No, I know. What are you gonna do about it, send me home? Fat chance.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well.’

‘Emily…’ Mark sat down on my visitor’s chair, and my heart stopped. He
never
sat down with anyone unless they were getting fired. ‘Emily, I think you’ve been working too hard. There’s no need to go for total burnout here.’

I stifled a sigh.
It’s not burnout, it’s heartbreak.

Mark picked up a piece of paper from my desk, read it, and idly put it back.

‘Well. There’s a memo from HR about looking for signs and stuff…’ He petered out.

‘Signs? What signs?’

‘You know. Distractedness. Bags under eyes. Fidgety behaviour.’

I clamped my hands together to keep them still, uncrossed my legs, and sat up straight. ‘I see.’

‘But if you’re sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘Good. Good.’ He rose to leave.

Thank God
.

He made it nearly out of the door before he turned back. ‘Emily, when’s the last time you had a holiday?’

‘A
holiday
?’ I snorted. ‘Good God, Mark, I don’t know. A few months ago?’

‘Hmm. Just what I thought. Leave it with me.’ And he was gone before I could respond.

Leave it with me? What on earth was that supposed to mean?

I found out a mere half hour later.
Ping
went my email with a new message alert, and there it was, the bombshell from HR.

To: Emily Trenden

CC: Mark Boland

From: Daisy Jones

RE: Annual leave entitlement

Emily, it has come to my attention that you have neglected to take any annual leave so far this year. Your accrued leave days can become a liability for the company. Please would you kindly contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss your holiday options going forward. I suggest that you should take at least ten (10) of your accrued days at the earliest possible opportunity.

On a personal note, and as your senior HR officer, may I add that it is vitally important for your mental and physical health that you should take leave time at regular intervals.

With best regards

Daisy Jones

I stared at this message for quite some time. Other messages came pinging into my inbox, but I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with them. Of course I understood that my accrued leave
could
become a liability should I resign or be fired. But becoming a liability in this way hadn’t exactly factored in my plans.

I hadn’t
had
any plans, to be perfectly honest. I liked working. What was the meaning of this? Was this some weird HR initiative? Was this Mark getting onto Daisy because, miracle of miracles, he had discovered a human conscience at working me too hard after all? Or was this a preamble to something else, something altogether more sinister?

Quite suddenly, I snapped. Perhaps it was a case of exhaustion, or perhaps it was the tone of the message combined with my particular circumstances. I didn’t know why, but I snapped and fired back an email straightaway, with a copy to Mark as Daisy had done.

Dear Daisy,

Thank you very much for your message. You are absolutely right. As it happens, I would like to take some annual leave quite urgently, starting from and including tomorrow (Friday) and covering all of next week. Thanks!

With kindest regards

Emily

There. The pounding in my head ceased, a weight lifted from my shoulders, and I could breathe a little more easily already. Maybe I really
did
need a break.

Whistling a little tune, I went about wrapping up the day’s business and making some cursory arrangements for somebody else in the department to look after my projects while I went home and did absolutely nothing. Apart from going to that MonX gig on Saturday, of course.