His mouth twists. “It sure feels like it. Some days, I’d like nothing more than to have a mug of steaming hot tea and do a crossword in a pair of slippers. My armchair would be comfy as sin.”
I laugh at this but it seems like a genuine desire. “Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, huh?”
He grimaces. “Jerking off, antibiotics and bubblegum pop, sure.”
My smile is stupidly lopsided. I can’t imagine choosing between these boys — they’re all so different in their own ways. “Did Leon tell you about what we discussed?”
Seth nods, his eyes clear and calm. “He might have mentioned it.”
Tentatively, I reach out and clasp his hand. “So you’d be okay with this... what Leon proposed? Me... with all of you?”
“You’re good for us,” Seth says simply, and the happiness in his voice warms my heart.
I never said yes to Leon’s idea. But I didn’t refuse it, either. It’s something that’s been playing on my mind ever since, mainly that I’m a fool for not jumping at the chance. To them, it’s not as though I’m irreplacable. Some hotter, kinder, better woman could easily be found — it’s obvious Leon only asked me because I’m convenient. In the mean time, though, why can’t I have some fun?
It’s thrilling and new and strange. I smile at Seth. Adam aside, I wonder if this can work.
THERE IS NO SUCH THING as “Adam aside,” I quickly realize: he is the blinding sun of this group, its beating heart. When the guys step onto that red carpet to the howl of cheers and pleas from men and women of all ages, it’s Adam’s name they chant the loudest. He grins — expertly powdered face twitching, as though it still pains him to move it — and saunters into the wash of noise like he’s home.
They all look handsome as fuck in their tailored tuxedos. Together, they pose for photographs, their smiles enigmatic at the explosion of flashbulbs. Looking at them, you’d think they were all the best of friends — and maybe they truly still are.
These five have a shared history together like no one else on the planet.
As they do the obligatory press rounds, I take the time to register where exactly I am: the red carpet. I’ve kinda blocked the fact that I am on the red carpet from my mind, otherwise I’ll do something silly, like have a panic attack.
Unlike the rest of the press, I’m allowed on the carpet as a guest of Royal Element. No one knows who I am or why I’m allowed to film — the documentary hasn’t been formally announced yet — but no one seems to be paying me any attention, anyway. Good. That’s just the way I like it.
Wearing a simple black dress probably helps, too. I look as invisible as some sort of production assistant. If anyone noticed me, I’d imagine their gaze would slip right off me from how boring a plain black dress is at a red carpet function.
Especially, I begin to realize, at a red carpet function for music stars.
Inspecting my surroundings, all I can think is they’re all batshit insane.
A harassed-looking PA follows a woman in a neon lobster costume, who waltzes past a man dressed as a cowboy, past a woman in a bikini made entirely of tassels, and another vampish woman in a dress almost as long as the carpet with a slit right up to her groin.
Normally, this amount of costumes would indicate a Halloween party. But musicians are just crazy, apparently.
At least Royal Element played to their strengths by wearing more classical timeless pieces.
Leon catches me glancing at the neon lobster woman. “It’s hard to stand out in the music industry,” he murmurs, his hand cupped against his mouth so reporters can’t read his lips. His warm breath is ticklish against my ear. “Conor’s jealous. He wanted to come dressed as a cowboy. I had to shut that down.”
“I’m glad,” I whisper behind my own hand. “You look good.”
He looks me in the eye and smiles. My heart flutters, reminded of his equally joyful glance from between my legs.
Ten minutes later, I find myself being ushered into the vast hall known as The Harlequin. I stick close to the boys as I gaze up at the sparkling lightbulb decorations dripping from the red-and-white striped ceiling. There’s some kind of circus theme, with trapeze artists and fire-eaters. Women wearing tall feather headdresses and not much else serve drinks.
I lean into Seth and quietly ask, “This isn’t the actual award ceremony... right?”
Together we share an exasperated glance. “One of these days, there won’t be a venue big enough to hold us. It’ll just be the live theatre show they want, with the actual nominees forced outside in the rain. Why don’t they go all-out and rope in a damn meteor?” Giving one of the servers a smile, he takes a proffered drink from a tray and says loudly, “Give me the moon, dammit!”
I laugh, accepting a drink for myself.
“Apologies,” Seth says, downing the sparkling beverage with haste. “But this is the only way I can endure — I mean, enjoy — these things.”
“No apologies needed,” I say, training my camera on him. “It’s stressful enough for me and I’m not even one of you guys.”
“Sure you are,” Seth says grandly. He clinks his half-drunk glass against mine. “We’re all guys together.”
He’s unusually hyperactive for someone who habitually hides from the limelight. It makes me wonder if this isn’t his first drink tonight. Leon’s gaze slides to meet mine, equally suspicious.
Thick red curtains part to reveal a transparent podium and microphone. The stage contains a large version of the Phony Award — a microphone with a smiley face. It looks quite demonic.
A British female voice booms around the room: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the president of the International Phonogram Association, Robin Merksworth!”
I hold back a gasp as the older man, the head of MCM, strides onto the platform. I glance at the others. Did they know he was head of the Phonies? But their faces are impassive.
“Thank you,” he begins in his monotonous drone. “Thank you to the panel and to all of you for coming here tonight.”
“I want to start by congratulating the International Phonogram Association on our fifty-third anniversary. Of course, we wouldn’t be here without certain people. To all the talent we’ve nurtured over the years: thank you.” There is polite, scattered applause. “I’m proud of what we have achieved during that time. These awards are unlike any other in music, catapulting even the most obscure talent to stardom and global acclaim. From singers to songwriters, and to those who are both, the Phonogram represents the very best in contemporary musical artistry.”
I can’t tell if he’s speaking in his capacity as Head of MCM or Head of the IPA. So far, it seems like it could go either way.
Beside Seth, Conor yawns.
I don’t blame him. Even I’m struggling to focus on his speech, and I’m the one pointing a camera at him.
Surely it’s a bit weird that the Phonogram Awards are chaired by someone who owns one of the world’s largest music labels? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a perfectly standard thing in this incestuous industry.
But I can’t help but think Royal Element’s nomination to this esteemed list is somewhat tarnished.