he thinks that I’m important.
And so do many of the other people in the room. The men turn with interest, the women with ill-disguised envy, to see who Stevie Jones is singing to. Suddenly, I’m not so sure of the words to ‘Stuck On You’. So I listen carefully. Initially, I try not to read too much into it. I tell myself that it’s not as though he is saying that if
we
were together
we
couldn’t be torn apart.
It’s just a song.
It’s not as though Stevie is planning on catching
me
. He doesn’t even know me. No doubt he does this every night; he picks some woman from the crowd, sings something that seems poignant to her and throws out that smile of his. He makes her feel as though she is the only woman on the planet. I’m probably in the epicentre of a horribly shoddy, humdrum moment. I don’t even have long black hair, like the lyrics specify. I remind myself that logically speaking I am not special. This is not a special moment.
Yet… while my brain is telling me that this is a tacky, predictable move, my heart is pounding with such ferocity that I think it is about to break out of my chest and jump up on to the stage to join Stevie and dance a jig. It
feels
extremely special. And, if I’m not completely deluded or plastered (both are possibilities but not probabilities) Stevie looks as though seeing me is the equivalent to all his Christmases and birthdays coming at once. I don’t think that his reaction is entirely because he thinks I’ll be an easy lay. I realize that by allowing an absolute stranger to kiss me after exchanging approximately one hundred and fifty words on a train then I have, perhaps, given off ‘available’ signals (if not ‘slapper’). But even so, it isobvious that Stevie is not without options. If an easy lay is what he requires, just about every woman in the room will happily oblige.
I start to sway my hips. And my shoulders. For about six tracks I am the most beautiful and accomplished woman in the universe. I see myself as a sort of Kate Moss/Keira Knightley mix, with a bit of Liz Hurley mystery thrown in for good measure. Throughout ‘(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear’ and ‘A Big Hunk o’ Love’, I believe that I have a higher butt than Kylie’s. As he sings ‘Wooden Heart’, I am sure that I can do mental arithmetic faster than Carol Vorderman and I am perhaps more green-fingered than Charlie Dimmock. I could scour an oven, clean behind the back of a settee and descale the taps in my bathroom faster than Kim and Aggie, those cleaning women with their own TV show. I am
invincible
. Although, the more I stare at sexy Stevie, the more convinced I am that these housewifery skills, which I have long admired, will not be required. I start to focus along the lines of imitating Lucy Liu’s gymnastic ability instead.
I have the best night, ever. Stevie dedicates tracks to me, he blows kisses to me, he tells the audience that they ought to cheer the wonderfulness of me. And they do. Complete strangers buy me drinks. They clink glasses and yell congratulations although it is unclear what they imagine I have achieved. In the fans’ eyes winning Stevie’s attention deserves extensive praise and I’m inclined to agree with them.
I drink most of the drinks proffered, which certainly helps cement the illusion that I am the most beautifulwoman in the universe and stops me considering that I am potentially making a complete arse of myself.
I ache for the gig to be over. While I’m enjoying watching Stevie perform, I don’t want to have to share him. I hardly give a thought to Bella. And when I do, I reassure myself that she will have got a taxi and besides, she doesn’t like people fussing when she is ill.
11. You Don’t Know Me
Saturday 22nd May 2004
Bella
Amelie rings me at 8.30 a.m. I wonder what took her so long.
‘You’d better have a good reason for running out on Laura,’ she says.
‘I have.’
‘Well?’
I turn to look at Philip sleeping peacefully
And so do many of the other people in the room. The men turn with interest, the women with ill-disguised envy, to see who Stevie Jones is singing to. Suddenly, I’m not so sure of the words to ‘Stuck On You’. So I listen carefully. Initially, I try not to read too much into it. I tell myself that it’s not as though he is saying that if
we
were together
we
couldn’t be torn apart.
It’s just a song.
It’s not as though Stevie is planning on catching
me
. He doesn’t even know me. No doubt he does this every night; he picks some woman from the crowd, sings something that seems poignant to her and throws out that smile of his. He makes her feel as though she is the only woman on the planet. I’m probably in the epicentre of a horribly shoddy, humdrum moment. I don’t even have long black hair, like the lyrics specify. I remind myself that logically speaking I am not special. This is not a special moment.
Yet… while my brain is telling me that this is a tacky, predictable move, my heart is pounding with such ferocity that I think it is about to break out of my chest and jump up on to the stage to join Stevie and dance a jig. It
feels
extremely special. And, if I’m not completely deluded or plastered (both are possibilities but not probabilities) Stevie looks as though seeing me is the equivalent to all his Christmases and birthdays coming at once. I don’t think that his reaction is entirely because he thinks I’ll be an easy lay. I realize that by allowing an absolute stranger to kiss me after exchanging approximately one hundred and fifty words on a train then I have, perhaps, given off ‘available’ signals (if not ‘slapper’). But even so, it isobvious that Stevie is not without options. If an easy lay is what he requires, just about every woman in the room will happily oblige.
I start to sway my hips. And my shoulders. For about six tracks I am the most beautiful and accomplished woman in the universe. I see myself as a sort of Kate Moss/Keira Knightley mix, with a bit of Liz Hurley mystery thrown in for good measure. Throughout ‘(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear’ and ‘A Big Hunk o’ Love’, I believe that I have a higher butt than Kylie’s. As he sings ‘Wooden Heart’, I am sure that I can do mental arithmetic faster than Carol Vorderman and I am perhaps more green-fingered than Charlie Dimmock. I could scour an oven, clean behind the back of a settee and descale the taps in my bathroom faster than Kim and Aggie, those cleaning women with their own TV show. I am
invincible
. Although, the more I stare at sexy Stevie, the more convinced I am that these housewifery skills, which I have long admired, will not be required. I start to focus along the lines of imitating Lucy Liu’s gymnastic ability instead.
I have the best night, ever. Stevie dedicates tracks to me, he blows kisses to me, he tells the audience that they ought to cheer the wonderfulness of me. And they do. Complete strangers buy me drinks. They clink glasses and yell congratulations although it is unclear what they imagine I have achieved. In the fans’ eyes winning Stevie’s attention deserves extensive praise and I’m inclined to agree with them.
I drink most of the drinks proffered, which certainly helps cement the illusion that I am the most beautifulwoman in the universe and stops me considering that I am potentially making a complete arse of myself.
I ache for the gig to be over. While I’m enjoying watching Stevie perform, I don’t want to have to share him. I hardly give a thought to Bella. And when I do, I reassure myself that she will have got a taxi and besides, she doesn’t like people fussing when she is ill.
11. You Don’t Know Me
Saturday 22nd May 2004
Bella
Amelie rings me at 8.30 a.m. I wonder what took her so long.
‘You’d better have a good reason for running out on Laura,’ she says.
‘I have.’
‘Well?’
I turn to look at Philip sleeping peacefully
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