to admit, he’s not just a busker. Not when you see him like this. He’s special,’ I add.
Bella is always going on about making her mark, making a difference. It’s one of the reasons she admired Ben so much. He left something behind him. His droll, poignant plays make people think.
Stevie is making a difference; he is making people happy. Even if he isn’t performing to thousands at the Royal Albert Hall, even if it is only in a pub in Richmond. Bella can laugh but people are holding up their mobile phones and texting photos of him to their mates.
Stevie begins ‘Jailhouse Rock’.
‘It’s crazy that we all know the words to these songs. We weren’t even born when they were released. I never think of myself as an Elvis fan but it’s all there.’ I tap myskull and turn to Bella, hoping she’ll enthuse. She doesn’t. She looks as though she’s going to puke or faint or spontaneously combust. ‘Christ! Bella, are you ill?’
It’s as though she hasn’t heard me. I put my arm round her shoulders and shake her. She’s not normally a big drinker and we’ve been mixing irresponsibly tonight. She doesn’t seem aware of me. The only time I’ve seen her like this before was when we went to Brighton to see a hypnotic act. She was picked out of the audience and the guy convinced her she was an egg-laying chicken. I so wish I’d had a video camera with me that night. I click my fingers in front of Bella’s eyes and shake her again. Slowly she returns to me. Her eyes darken and the pupils shrink.
‘I’m going. You should come too,’ she snaps.
‘No, Bella, don’t do this to me. I know you think I should meet a banker or even an estate agent but I like Stevie. Like
like
. I want to stay.’
‘We don’t belong here,’ she says as though I’ve just asked her to join a mad religious cult, rather than stay and have a few jars and watch hunk of the month gyrate on a stage. What is her problem?
‘These people are not like us. Not our sort.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The smoke’s making my eyes sting and I think I might have an asthma attack.’
‘You’re not asthmatic,’ I point out.
‘I have to go. Please come.’
‘No, Bella.’
I glance around the room to assess the people Bella has taken a disproportionate and inconvenient dislike to. The room is full of people who eat too much cholesterol,exercise too little, dream more than average. They seem very much my sort. I turn to say as much to Bella but she has gone.
Bugger, bugger, bugger her. I reach for my handbag. I’ll have to go and find her, as much as I want to kick on and drool over Stevie Jones, Bella is my best friend – even if, right now, I could cheerfully throttle her. The moment I start to push through the crowd the music changes from ‘Jailhouse Rock’ to ‘Stuck On You’.
Stevie’s voice, deeper than I remembered – a touch more gravelly – breaks through the noise. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this track to Laura Ingalls.’
The crowd throws out a mindless cheer. They have no idea who Laura Ingalls is, other than a freckly, goofy kid with a penchant for big bonnets and bloomers, but they cheer anyway, such is their intense, albeit transient, love for Stevie.
Stevie locks eyes with me and beams. It is the widest, happiest grin I have ever seen on an adult. I’m stunned. Even before Oscar stomped on my self-esteem, I knew my limits. Generally, men look at me and think ‘best mate’ rather than ‘total goddess’. I’m the type of girl men fall in love with after they have got used to my weird sense of humour and my inability to put the cap back on the toothpaste. If I was ever foolish enough to ask a man why he loved me, he’d invariably reply that he appreciated my extensive film-trivia knowledge. I am not the sort of woman who stops traffic (unless I’m stood at a Zebra crossing), but right now, I know,
absolutely know
, that the way Stevie Jones is looking at me is important. It means
Bella is always going on about making her mark, making a difference. It’s one of the reasons she admired Ben so much. He left something behind him. His droll, poignant plays make people think.
Stevie is making a difference; he is making people happy. Even if he isn’t performing to thousands at the Royal Albert Hall, even if it is only in a pub in Richmond. Bella can laugh but people are holding up their mobile phones and texting photos of him to their mates.
Stevie begins ‘Jailhouse Rock’.
‘It’s crazy that we all know the words to these songs. We weren’t even born when they were released. I never think of myself as an Elvis fan but it’s all there.’ I tap myskull and turn to Bella, hoping she’ll enthuse. She doesn’t. She looks as though she’s going to puke or faint or spontaneously combust. ‘Christ! Bella, are you ill?’
It’s as though she hasn’t heard me. I put my arm round her shoulders and shake her. She’s not normally a big drinker and we’ve been mixing irresponsibly tonight. She doesn’t seem aware of me. The only time I’ve seen her like this before was when we went to Brighton to see a hypnotic act. She was picked out of the audience and the guy convinced her she was an egg-laying chicken. I so wish I’d had a video camera with me that night. I click my fingers in front of Bella’s eyes and shake her again. Slowly she returns to me. Her eyes darken and the pupils shrink.
‘I’m going. You should come too,’ she snaps.
‘No, Bella, don’t do this to me. I know you think I should meet a banker or even an estate agent but I like Stevie. Like
like
. I want to stay.’
‘We don’t belong here,’ she says as though I’ve just asked her to join a mad religious cult, rather than stay and have a few jars and watch hunk of the month gyrate on a stage. What is her problem?
‘These people are not like us. Not our sort.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The smoke’s making my eyes sting and I think I might have an asthma attack.’
‘You’re not asthmatic,’ I point out.
‘I have to go. Please come.’
‘No, Bella.’
I glance around the room to assess the people Bella has taken a disproportionate and inconvenient dislike to. The room is full of people who eat too much cholesterol,exercise too little, dream more than average. They seem very much my sort. I turn to say as much to Bella but she has gone.
Bugger, bugger, bugger her. I reach for my handbag. I’ll have to go and find her, as much as I want to kick on and drool over Stevie Jones, Bella is my best friend – even if, right now, I could cheerfully throttle her. The moment I start to push through the crowd the music changes from ‘Jailhouse Rock’ to ‘Stuck On You’.
Stevie’s voice, deeper than I remembered – a touch more gravelly – breaks through the noise. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this track to Laura Ingalls.’
The crowd throws out a mindless cheer. They have no idea who Laura Ingalls is, other than a freckly, goofy kid with a penchant for big bonnets and bloomers, but they cheer anyway, such is their intense, albeit transient, love for Stevie.
Stevie locks eyes with me and beams. It is the widest, happiest grin I have ever seen on an adult. I’m stunned. Even before Oscar stomped on my self-esteem, I knew my limits. Generally, men look at me and think ‘best mate’ rather than ‘total goddess’. I’m the type of girl men fall in love with after they have got used to my weird sense of humour and my inability to put the cap back on the toothpaste. If I was ever foolish enough to ask a man why he loved me, he’d invariably reply that he appreciated my extensive film-trivia knowledge. I am not the sort of woman who stops traffic (unless I’m stood at a Zebra crossing), but right now, I know,
absolutely know
, that the way Stevie Jones is looking at me is important. It means
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