ã€ŠCool Britanniaã€‹


 One - Jess

    January 1993

    Jess weaved through the clusters of art enthusiasts, her boots clicking against the polished floor of the gallery. Around her, the stark white walls were adorned with still lifes of clunky, masculine objects. She knew she should be focusing on these paintings, analysing them for her article and coming up with a discerning critique, but her mind was scattered. It was impossible to focus on still lifes when Imogen Redfield, darling of the avant-garde art scene, was standing just twenty feet away.

    Not that it mattered to Jess; she was here to write an article on Paul Henderson, the only third year art student who had been granted a fully-funded solo show by the university. Imogen Redfield might be Henderson¡¯s chief rival, but she wasn¡¯t Jess¡¯s concern.

    Except¡­ There she stood, surrounded by admirers, casting her critical eye over the still lifes, eviscerating them with her barely-repressed scorn. Imogen looked every inch of the fashionable London artist: tall and spindly thin, with long red hair that had been flat-ironed straight, and dressed in a black kaftan cinched at the waist with a gold belt. In comparison, Jess felt distinctly unglamorous in her white-washed jeans and Smiths hoodie.

    Really, there was no reason for Jess to feel intimidated by Imogen. They were in the same year at uni. They¡¯d even taken some classes together and had spoken on a few occasions. But Imogen was everything Jess wasn¡¯t: popular, effortlessly talented, and going places. Meanwhile, Jess couldn¡¯t even get her creative writing professor to say a single nice thing about her novel. Lacklustre, he called her pieces. Technically good, but missing the essential ingredients of life.

    Whatever that meant.

    A waiter holding a tray of wine passed by, and Jess seized one of the glasses. Sipping it slowly, she tried to relax. Turning to the wall closest, she squinted up at the painting. It displayed a man¡¯s razor and a bottle of shaving cream in a bowl shaped like a breast.

    Lad art, Jess thought ruefully. It would be funny if it weren¡¯t so cringe.

    The mediocrity of the painting gave Jess a burst of confidence. She might not be the novelist she wanted to be, but at least she wasn¡¯t this bad. And it¡¯s not like all her writing was terrible; her journalism portfolio was more than adequate. She¡¯d be able to get a journalism job after graduation, maybe even somewhere prestigious, a serious periodical like the London Review of Books¡­

    Jess took another sip of wine and tried to banish this thought from her head. She would get a journalism job, no matter what. She was smart, ambitious, and determined. What did it matter if her novel left something to be desired? She didn¡¯t need to write fiction to be a serious writer.

    ¡°It¡¯s shit, isn¡¯t it?¡± A voice came from her right, and Jess started and looked around. Standing next to her, staring up at the painting with a pained expression on her face, was none other than Imogen Redfield.

    Jess¡¯s heart began to race, but she smoothed her face to a neutral expression before responding, carefully, ¡°Ghastly. I¡¯d guess it was a parody, except I know Henderson isn¡¯t that self-aware.¡±

    Imogen snorted. She glanced at Jess, her green eyes sparkling from underneath gold-rimmed spectacles. ¡°You¡¯re funny,¡± she said, cocking her head to one side. ¡°It¡¯s Jess, right?¡±

    Jess¡¯s heart thumped louder. She remembers me. ¡°Yes. We took Sullivan¡¯s Introduction to Medieval Art together in second year.¡±

    Imogen frowned slightly, then nodded, and Jess¡¯s stomach dropped. Imogen didn¡¯t remember her being in that class. Still, she knew Jess¡¯s name, so that was something. ¡°Of course,¡± Imogen said politely. ¡°And you wrote that article in the Weekly about Tracey Emin, right? I loved your analysis of her takedown of the male gaze in contemporary installation art.¡±

    ¡°Oh¡­ yeah, that was me.¡± Jess was surprised Imogen had read that article. Very few people read the Queen Mary Weekly. It was just a student publication, after all, and not a serious newspaper. And while Jess had been proud of her piece on Tracey Emin, her editor had slashed the article up, leaving it--in Jess¡¯s opinion--toothless.

    But before she could apologise for the article¡¯s lighthanded touch, Imogen continued, ¡°I was happy when I saw you here. Are you here to review the show?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    Imogen smiled. ¡°You¡¯re going to take Henderson down a peg, I hope?¡±

    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Jess said at once. In reality, her editor had advised her to go easy on Henderson. His family are big donors. But now that she was speaking to Imogen, Jess couldn¡¯t imagine not ripping Henderson apart in her review.  ¡°He  doesn¡¯t have a single original idea in his head,¡± she continued, and gestured at the wall behind her. ¡°These aren¡¯t just sexist, they¡¯re boring, which is even worse.¡±

    Imogen nodded fervently. She leaned toward Jess and said, conspiratorially, ¡°Just wait until you see my piece for the end-of-year showcase. It¡¯ll blow this garbage out of the water.¡±

    Jess raised her glass. ¡°I have no doubt.¡±

    There was a burst of cold air as the gallery door opened, and both women turned to see a man in a black trench coat enter. He was looking around, a disgruntled look on his face, and Imogen¡¯s expression darkened. She grabbed Jess¡¯s hand. ¡°Would you want to get out of here?¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± Jess tried to sound casual, but her heart was hiccuping with excitement. Imogen Redfield wanted to go somewhere with her?! ¡°Where?¡±

    Imogen hesitated, thinking. Then she said, ¡°My friend¡¯s roommate is playing a show in Hackney Wick¡­¡±

    ¡°Sounds great.¡± Jess threw back her drink, shrugged on her coat, and followed Imogen along the edge of the gallery. The man in the trench coat was now talking to the admirers, his arms folded and her eyebrows knit together. Imogen pulled Jess¡¯s hand sharply, until both women fell out the front door and out onto the cold, wet London pavement. Imogen let out a bark of laughter.

    ¡°That was a narrow escape!¡± She gasped, pulling Jess along as she headed for the main road.

    ¡°Who was that guy?¡± Jess asked, following in her wake.

    ¡°Just some guy I slept with. Men¡­¡± She shook her head. ¡°They¡¯re so clingy. They think just because I want to use them in my art that I love them.¡±

    Jess made a noncommittal noise of sympathy and agreement. Her own experience with men was far too limited to be helpful. And so far, none of the men she¡¯d slept with had shown any signs of clinginess--or any interest in seeing her again, for that matter. But Imogen wouldn¡¯t understand that. Her liaisons with Queen Mary¡¯s hottest, wealthiest, and most charismatic male students were well-known.

    Hackney Wick was only a short bus ride from the gallery in Mile End, so Imogen and Jess hopped on a bus and arrived at the venue within half an hour. There was a long queue outside, but after a quick word from Imogen to the bouncer, they were admitted inside. Jess followed Imogen down the narrow stairs, through the heavy iron door covered in graffiti, and into the red-lit basement-turned-rock-venue where the scream of electric guitars and pounding drums filled her ears.

    The venue was grimy and crowded, with low ceilings and sticky floors that made a velcro sound every time Jess lifted her shoes. To her right was the bar, around which had been strung Christmas lights. In front of her stood a low stage. A band was playing: men in baggy shirts and greasy hair, cans of beer at their feet. They were in the middle of a loud, raucous number, pumped full of bass, that made Jess¡¯s body thrum with adrenaline. All around her, young men and women were dancing to the music, smoking, and drinking beer from plastic cups. Sweat streamed from them, filling the room with a hot humidity that made Jess¡¯s head spin. Not that she minded. She had never felt so alive, so close to the pulse of her generation. For the last two and a half years, she¡¯d been so focused on becoming a writer that she¡¯d done nothing but go to class, study, and write for the Weekly. She¡¯d made very few friends in uni, determined not to lose focus on her goals. But here, in this dirty, grungy rock venue in Hackney Wick, she wondered if what she¡¯d been missing--what her novel had been missing--was real life. Here, far from her stuffy, academic writing classes, she was living life, not trying to create a neutered, lifeless facsimile of it.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Imogen interrupted her thoughts by grabbing her hand again and pulling her deeper into the crowd. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s find my friend!¡± she shouted over her shoulder.

    After struggling through the press of people, Jess and Imogen emerged into the back garden. Jess looked around. The ¡°garden¡± was really just a concrete smoking area, but at least it was outside, and she took a deep, grateful gulp of cool air. It had stopped drizzling, and there was a warm, jovial feel in the garden. It was full of young punks with green hair and denim jackets, laughing as they flicked cigarette butts into the night. Jess lit a cigarette too, then looked around to see where Imogen had gone. As she did, her stomach nearly dropped out of her.

    Imogen was standing several feet away, talking to a tall, golden-haired man in a leather jacket. He was handsome and aristocratic, his hair thick and lustrous, and brushed back from his face with rugged charm. His shoulders were broad, and he moved with an air of confidence, as if he was used to taking up space; as if he knew exactly who he was and his place in the world.

    The man looked up, and his bright blue eyes snapped to Jess¡¯s. She shifted but didn¡¯t look away. Bringing the cigarette to her lips, she sucked in the acrid smoke, blowing it out in a slow stream, like a femme fatale in an old movie. The man did not so much as blink. His gaze was intense, heavy; as if it might leave a mark on her.

    Sensing the direction of her companion¡¯s gaze, Imogen turned and spotted Jess. She waved her over. Jess put out her cigarette and joined the two of them.

    ¡°Jess, this is my friend Sebastien,¡± Imogen said, gesturing at the man. ¡°Sebastien, Jess. She studies journalism, and she¡¯s writing an article about what a hack Henderson is.¡±

    Sebastien held out his hand. ¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you, Jess.¡± His accent was posh--West London--and his handshake was strong and firm. Reaching into his pocket, Sebastien produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered Jess one, and she took it. After letting him light the cigarette, she blew out another stream of blue smoke, her eyes smarting. She wasn¡¯t used to smoking this much, but she wasn¡¯t going to say no to Sebastien Montague.

    Of course, she knew who he was.

    Anyone who wrote for the Weekly would know who Sebastien Montague was. The son of a Tory MP, Sebastien was an outspoken leftwing activist on campus, famous for his stinging rebukes of his father¡¯s policies and his sensationalist protests. Of course he was friends with Imogen Redfield. Jess should have known.

    ¡°It¡¯s preposterous that Henderson got a solo show,¡± Imogen was saying, twirling her own cigarette between her long, thin fingers. ¡°There are so many visionaries at Queen Mary pushing the boundaries of contemporary art, and they choose Henderson?¡±

    Sebastien tore his eyes away from Jess and looked at Imogen. ¡°You do know who his father is, right?¡±

    Imogen snorted. ¡°Of course I do. But in a way, that¡¯s why I feel sorry for him. I¡¯d hate for people to think I only got a solo show because of who my father was.¡± She fixed her eyes on Jess. ¡°Money can only get you so far. The true geniuses will always rise to the top, in the end. Make sure you put that in your article.¡±

    Sebastian cocked his head to one side. ¡°I don¡¯t agree. There are plenty of talented people who never get the chance to ¡®make it,¡¯ because they¡¯re stuck working dead-end jobs to make ends meet.¡±

    ¡°Then they¡¯re not real artists,¡± Imogen said at once. ¡°A real artist will make art even if they have to fit it into whatever spare time they can find outside of their shitty, minimum-wage job.¡±

    ¡°The UK doesn¡¯t have a national minimum wage,¡± Sebastien pointed out. ¡°Which is exactly my point. When you make fuck-all and need to feed your family, you¡¯re going to choose taking a second job over making art.¡±

    ¡°What would you know about it?¡± Imogen asked. ¡°You¡¯re not an artist.¡±

    ¡°And I talk to people all the time who make ¡ê3/hour an hour and can¡¯t afford food for their table, let alone an easel and paints.¡±

    Sebastien had recently staged a sit-in at the reelection rally of a Labour MP who refused to come out in support of a national minimum wage. He and several friends had been thrown out, although they all came from posh families, and had avoided jail time.

    ¡°I covered your protest at Harris¡¯s event,¡± Jess said, and Sebastien blinked in surprise. ¡°You were very brave.¡±

    He opened his mouth to respond, but couldn¡¯t seem to think of anything to say, because he closed it again. Jess wasn¡¯t sure if she was imagining it or not, but his ears looked a little pink as he smiled in thanks.

    ¡°It was brave,¡± Imogen agreed, arms folded. ¡°And obviously I get what you¡¯re saying; I¡¯m not a fucking fascist. But art doesn¡¯t have to be easels and paints. It can be anything: it can be trash from the bin, or found objects on the street. And I think it¡¯s a little condescending to act like only rich people can make art.¡±

    ¡°I think his point isn¡¯t that only rich people make art,¡± Jess said. She felt nervous to voice her opinion in front of Imogen and Sebastien, but she also knew that if she didn¡¯t, she¡¯d regret it forever. ¡°It¡¯s just that some people can¡¯t dedicate themselves to their art, or find critical and commercial success from it, because of their economic circumstances.¡±

    ¡°Precisely,¡± Sebastien crowed, grinning at Jess before turning back to Imogen, who looked ready to begrudgingly concede the point. ¡°See? The pretty writer agrees with me.¡±

    If Jess¡¯s stomach had felt wobbly before, it was nothing to how it felt now. Her cheeks burned, and she stared straight ahead, afraid to look at Sebastien for fear that he¡¯d read the mixture of pleasure and mortification on her face.

    ¡°Of course she agrees with you,¡± she heard Imogen mutter, but she was laughing. ¡°You¡¯re right, you¡¯re right. All I know is that nothing would ever stop me from making art. Not a lack of money, or fame, or even everyone hating my work. And if for some reason I couldn¡¯t make art, I¡¯d die.¡±

    Jess nodded in agreement, but she was thinking of the unfinished novel currently languishing on her ThinkPad. Her professor¡¯s lack of faith in her writing had certainly shaken her confidence. Most days, she felt ready to give up on fiction. She doubted she had what Imogen did--that certainty that art was what she had to do; that belief in her ability to keep going, despite the setbacks.

    Just then, the music inside stopped, and the crowd began to cheer. Sebastien checked his watch. ¡°We should go in,¡± he said, stumping out his cigarette in a nearby plastic cup. ¡°Union Jack is starting now.¡±

    He wasn¡¯t the only one eager to get inside. The green-haired punks were also beginning to stream back inside. As the crowd swept her along, Jess felt momentary panic that she would lose the others. Then strong hands grasped her arm, and she looked up to see Sebastien. He wasn¡¯t smiling anymore. There was a hard, blazing look in his eyes as he looked down at her.

    ¡°Careful, it can get a little crazy when Union Jack plays,¡± he murmured, and goosebumps shivered up her spine.

    ¡°What¡¯s Union Jack?¡± she asked stupidly.

    ¡°My roommate¡¯s band. Just wait. You¡¯ll love them.¡±

    He led her inside, then towards the front of the stage--Imogen was nowhere to be seen--until she was pressed against it, Sebastien next to her. Their shoulders were touching, the proximity not just a concession to the crush of the crowd but a mutual choice. His hand rested lightly on her lower back, as if to protect her from the dangers of the thrashing, moshing crowd. She was hyper-aware of his touch. Her breathing was coming in short gasps, and a tingling sensation was radiating throughout her body. Jess had never felt this way before, and she didn¡¯t know what it meant. All she knew was that she never wanted this feeling to end.

    Then a spotlight lit up the darkened stage.

    A lone man stood under the hot, bright light. His head was down, bent over a guitar, almost as if he was praying. Silence filled the venue. Another shiver went up Jess¡¯s spine at the rapt attention the man commanded, at the way her own awareness had sharpened onto him. The audience seemed to be collectively holding its breath, waiting for whatever came next. Then the man raised his arm high and brought it down on the guitar strings. A wailing opening chord filled the venue. Jess felt the vibrations of it beneath her feet, like the stir of potential rising in a wave, ready to crest and break.

    The guitarist looked up. He had a transcendent look on his face. He looked out over the audience, like a cult leader surveying his flock, and the crowd went wild. Behind him, the rest of his band materialised--a scrim must have gone up, the reasonable part of Jess¡¯s brain said--and music filled the room.

    ¡°Is that your roommate?¡± Jess shouted to Sebastien over the din.

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s Alastair,¡± Sebastien shouted back. Then he leaned closer and murmured in her ear, ¡°Do you see that? He''s got it¡ªthe indefinable it. You can''t teach that kind of presence.¡±

    Jess nodded. Her eyes were still fixed on Alastair. When she looked at him, she saw not just a performer, but an artist on the cusp of something monumental, a force poised to shape the zeitgeist. As his voice soared over the crowd, Jess forgot about her article, her novel, her worries about finding a job, and even about Sebastien. She was lost in the sway of people and the soaring notes, transported beyond the present moment to the place where only great art can take you.

    In Alastair''s music, Jess heard echoes of her own dreams, harmonising with the pulse of a society on the brink of transformation. It was as if the chords wove themselves into a tapestry of hope and ambition, a shared vision made manifest in song.

    ¡°His lyrics... they''re not just words; they''re a call to arms,¡± Jess found herself saying.

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Sebastien said, his eyes aglow with fervour. ¡°And people like you and me¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªare going to help amplify that call,¡± Jess finished for him. He nodded, grinning, and took her hand. She didn''t pull away, feeling the complicity of their shared intent. In this moment, they were more than spectators at a concert; they were witnesses to the genesis of an era, one where anything was possible, and where the only limits were their dreams.

 Two - Sebastien

    As Alastair''s set drew to a close, Sebastien and Jess were jostled by the crowd, which surged forward, as if trying to touch the performers who had transported them so viscerally. As bodies pressed in around them, Sebastien felt an instinctive urge to protect Jess from the onslaught. He put out his arm around her shoulders, not quite touching her but ensuring that no one could slam into her.

    ¡°Let''s find somewhere quieter,¡± he suggested. It was so loud he had to lean close to speak into her ear, and he was careful to not let his lips graze her skin. Jess smelled wonderful, like toasted almonds and coconut shampoo. Locks of her black hair were still wet--from the shower or the drizzle earlier, he wasn¡¯t sure--and they stuck to the back of her neck in a way he found disconcertingly alluring. He wanted to reach out and touch one, but of course, he didn¡¯t.

    Jess nodded, and Sebastien navigated them out of the crush, until they emerged into a dimly-lit alcove tucked away from the main hall. The thud of the bass was muffled here, allowing for actual conversation rather than the shouted exchanges that passed for dialogue amid the chaos. Leaning against the wall to catch his breath, Sebastien looked down at Jess. Her cheeks were red from the heat, her hair had begun to frizz, and her eyes were gleaming with frenzied excitement.

    ¡°That was really good,¡± she breathed. ¡°Your roommate is very talented.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s incredible,¡± Alastair agreed. ¡°And he¡¯s more than my roommate. We¡¯re friends from school.¡±

    ¡°Huh.¡± Jess tilted her head to one side. ¡°He doesn¡¯t seem the Eton type.¡±

    Sebastien blinked in surprise. He hadn¡¯t realised Jess knew who he was. Of course, she wouldn¡¯t be the first girl who¡¯d heard of him. But it wasn¡¯t always an upside, having a famous family. People heard about his pedigreed upbringing and the fact he¡¯d gone to Eton and assumed he couldn¡¯t really be passionate about helping the working class. But Jess didn¡¯t look judgemental. A coy smile was playing across her lips, and he allowed himself to relax.

    ¡°Yeah, he isn¡¯t really,¡± Sebastien conceded. ¡°Alastair went to Eton on a music scholarship. But he hated their approach to music and eventually got into rock and roll and started a band. They were quite popular, but the school administration didn¡¯t like it. Said that it wasn¡¯t good for the reputation of the school; not the bahviour of an Eton man. They made him shut it down. He started Union Jack once we got to uni, and he¡¯s pretty protective of it. I think he¡¯s always afraid that someone is going to take it away from him, like his school band was.¡±

    ¡°I can see why he¡¯s so protective. There¡¯s something about him¡­ you listen to him and you just know, if anyone is going to make it big, it¡¯s him.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t let Imogen hear you say that,¡± Sebastien said, raising his eyebrows. ¡°She thinks that designation should be hers.¡±

    Jess smiled again. There was something disarming about her smile that intrigued Sebastien. It was sarcastic and sweet--teasing and genuine--at the same time, which it had no right to be. He couldn¡¯t decide if she was being purposefully opaque, or if he was simply bad at reading people.

    ¡°You agree, though, don¡¯t you?¡± She asked, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. ¡°That Alastair is going to be a big deal?¡±

    ¡°Of course I do, he¡¯s my best friend,¡± Sebastien said, a little more waspishly than he intended. He paused, unsure why he¡¯d just felt a surge of annoyance. Was it possible he was jealous of Alastair? He¡¯d never been jealous of him before--they were too different to be competitive--but there was something about the admiration in Jess¡¯s voice that made him want to take his friend down a peg. ¡°But it¡¯s notoriously very difficult to ¡®make it¡¯ in the music world,¡± he added. ¡°Talent guarantees nothing, despite what Imogen might think.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I agree with you,¡± Jess said thoughtfully. She leaned back against the wall as well, and her eyes smouldered as they met his. Sebastien¡¯s stomach jolted. Jess was very pretty. It was an understated beauty, one he wasn¡¯t used to. She didn¡¯t wear makeup or dress provocatively. It was as if she were trying, as a journalist, to disguise her good looks so as not to throw off her subjects. But she didn¡¯t fool Sebastien. She had dark, wild hair, like a sea nymph, and her face was sharp and intelligent-looking. Her eyes were a light blue touched with coldness; not cold enough to frighten away potential interviewees, but just cool enough to tell him this was not a woman to be fucked with.

    ¡°What about you?¡± she asked. ¡°What do you want out of life?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± Sebastien hesitated. His father had asked him this question so many times that he¡¯d come to hate it. But when Jess asked him, it didn¡¯t feel like a test he would inevitably fail. It felt like an opportunity to share a piece of himself with her; and to figure out what, exactly, he wanted out of life. He gave her a crooked smile. ¡°Off the record, right?¡±

    Jess laughed, perhaps even blushed, but it was too hard to tell in the dim light. ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°So you clearly know who I am, which means you know who my father is. And my grandfather.¡± Both Tory MPs. Sebastien came from a long line of Conservative leaders, something his forebears never failed to remind him whenever he was home for school holidays. ¡°Of course, they think all this activism is just a phase. You¡¯ll grow out of it, they say, once you make some money. But they don¡¯t understand. I want to change the world, and I¡¯m not going to sell out the moment I make any money. If anything, it¡¯ll just motivate me to keep fighting for those who have less.¡±

    Sebastien wasn¡¯t sure why he was sharing all this with Jess--a reporter, no less. He never talked about his family, in private or in public. Reporters had asked him about his family dynamics before, but he always declined to comment. He¡¯d speak out against his father¡¯s policies, but not his father as a person. But Jess felt like someone he could open up to. Maybe he was also trying to show off a little bit, too: to show Jess that Alastair wasn¡¯t the only impressive one; the only one going places.

    And from the gleam in her eyes, Jess looked impressed.

    ¡°So you¡¯re going to keep working in politics?¡± she asked.

    He nodded. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine doing anything else with my life. Maybe I¡¯ll even run for Parliament someday. With Labour, of course. Can you imagine? I could run against my own dad, try to flip his seat.¡± He laughed, and she smiled as well. ¡°It¡¯s probably impossible; Ashford hasn¡¯t gone liberal since the 1920s. But I can dream. And if it¡¯s not running for Parliament, it¡¯ll be something else. Maybe working for charities or in community organising. All I know is that I can¡¯t give up. Not until others have access to what I was just given freely. That¡¯s what pisses me off the most: I didn¡¯t have to earn my privilege. It was just handed to me. It¡¯s so unfair.¡±

    Sebastien took a deep breath. He was ranting, which he knew was annoying. But Jess didn¡¯t look annoyed. If anything, her eyes were sparkling with interest and admiration.

    ¡°I really like that,¡± she said quietly. ¡°Most people with your background would take a cushy job from their dad after graduation and try to make a lot of money. But you have principles. It¡¯s¡­ rare.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t give this man too many compliments,¡± a voice said from behind them. ¡°The last thing we need is another eejit with a bloated ego in politics.¡±

    Sebastien and Jess turned to see Alastair walking towards them, a wide grin on his face. Imogen followed closely behind. Despite the heat and crush of the crowd, she looked unruffled.

    Sebastien greeted Alastair with a one-armed hug. Alastair was hot and damp, and the smell of his sweat was ripe, but Sebastien didn¡¯t mind. This was Alastair: tall, lanky, long-haired Alastair, pouring every ounce of his energy, heart and passion into his music. He looked euphoric, as he often did after a show, and energised by the exertion.

    ¡°You were incredible,¡± Sebastien said as he released his old friend. ¡°Maybe one of your best sets yet.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, man, thanks.¡± Alastair ran a hand through his long hair, seeming to glow even more at the attention and compliment. ¡°It was a good audience tonight. The vibes, man¡­ the vibes were so good. And we were on fire.¡±

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°You were,¡± Sebastien agreed, then brought a hand to Jess¡¯s arm. The moment he touched her, he felt her shiver. ¡°This is Jess, by the way. She¡¯s a writer.¡±

    From the way Jess glanced at him, he could tell that she liked being introduced this way, and he felt a rush of pride at having made her feel good about herself. She deserved to feel good about herself. She¡¯d feel good about herself all the time, if he had any say in it.

    ¡°Hi Jess, thanks for coming,¡± Alastair said, shaking Jess¡¯s hand. ¡°I hoped you liked the music?¡±

    ¡°I did, very much so,¡± Jess said. ¡°The sound is so interesting¡­ more The Beatles than the Smiths. Are you influenced by punk, or by older movements?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m influenced by it all, honey,¡± Alastair crooned. Sebastien rolled his eyes. Alastair was being groovy right now, which is how he and Imogen described when Alastair seemed stoned but wasn¡¯t; it was just the high of the concert making him act like an LSD-rattled hippie. Or so Sebastien hoped.

    ¡°Don¡¯t call her honey,¡± Imogen objected. ¡°It¡¯s infantalising and sexist.¡±

    ¡°My bad, my bad.¡± Alastair held his hands wide in apology and grinned at Jess, who didn¡¯t look offended. Her cool blue eyes were snapping between the three friends, as if trying to piece all the different undercurrents together into a coherent picture. ¡°Why don¡¯t I make it up to you with shots? Who wants shots?¡±

    Jess laughed in surprise. ¡°Okay¡­ I''ll take a shot.¡±

    Moments later, it seemed, Alastair had returned from the bar with a tray of whiskey shots. ¡°To my fans and friends!¡± Alastair said, raising his shot glass high. ¡°May I always have more of both.¡±

    ¡°To new friends,¡± Sebastien said, glancing at Jess. Her cheeks flushed, and she didn¡¯t quite meet his gaze.

    ¡°To art that is transgressive and unafraid,¡± Imogen said, clinking her shot glass against the boys¡¯. Jess took her shot, hesitated, then raised it high.

    ¡°To being the changemakers this decade needs,¡± she said.

    ¡°I¡¯ll drink to that!¡± Imogen cheered, and Alastair nodded fervently. The four of them threw back the shots. The rich, brown liquor burned Sebastien¡¯s throat on the way down. He coughed, his eyes watering. From the look on Jess¡¯s face, she was similarly vanquished by the whiskey. Alastair, meanwhile, looked ready for another one as he slammed the shot glass back onto the tray and let out a loud, warrior-like whoop.

    ¡°Damn that¡¯s good!¡± he shouted.

    ¡°Good?¡± Sebastien wiped the back of his mouth and stared at his friend incredulously. ¡°Alastair, that was awful. Did you ask for the cheapest possible whiskey?¡±

    ¡°Oh, is it too rough for the Eton boy?¡± Alastair teased, clapping Sebastien on the back. ¡°And here I thought you were a man of the people.¡±

    Sebastien snorted. ¡°Comrades don¡¯t let other comrades blind themselves drinking moonshine.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s do another,¡± Alastair said eagerly, but Imogen, who was still daintily sipping her shot, shook her head. ¡°I think that¡¯s enough for now. But I have another idea.¡± She looked at Jess. ¡°Did you know Tracey Emin¡¯s gallery is just around the corner from here? We should go!¡±

    Jess nodded and looked excitedly at Sebastien, and, again, he felt so irresistibly pulled into her orbit that he knew he would do anything that she wanted. ¡°Do you want to go?¡±

    Tracey Emin¡¯s gallery was small but elegant, with red brick walls and tall windows to let in natural light, tucked into a back street of Hackney Wick. It featured mostly abstract paintings of women, but in the final room, the centrepiece was a quilt that had been stitched together from fabrics that had been meaningful to the artist at different times in her life. Emin had even written the stories of how she¡¯d acquired the fabrics onto some of the panels. Sebastien took his time in front of the quilt, peering closely at each panel to read the story written there. One in particular caught his attention. It had been cut from a white silk scarf embroidered with red and yellow flowers. Between these flowers, Emin had written about how she¡¯d gone to Greece in 1987 and had an affair with a man 18 years her senior. He had a wife and four children, and at night, Emin would hear him making love to his wife. When she left, the wife was so sad to see her go that she gave her the headscarf as a parting gift.

    ¡°You saw that one?¡± Jess asked, coming to stand next to him as he read and reread the words.

    ¡°Yeah.¡± His voice caught in his throat, and he cleared it. ¡°Do you think the wife knew that Emin was having an affair with her husband?¡±

    ¡°Hard to say,¡± Jess said, squinting down at the panel. ¡°But I¡¯d guess so, yeah. Wives always know.¡±

    Sebastien frowned and put his hands in his pockets. ¡°Why do you think she was sad to see Emin go, then? You¡¯d think she would be glad to see the back of her.¡±

    Jess thought for a moment before responding. Her brow was crinkled in an adorably thoughtful way that made Sebastien want to reach out and smooth it. This was probably what she looked like when she was working on an article and trying to craft the perfect sentence.

    ¡°Maybe she liked seeing her husband that way, after so many years¡­¡± Jess said slowly. ¡°Maybe she¡¯d forgotten he was a sexual creature, after four kids and countless years of doing the laundry and cooking for him all the other boring things married couples do. Or maybe she just liked having someone to help take care of the kids, and it didn¡¯t matter if the help was also fucking her husband if it meant she got a break.¡±

    There was something in Jess¡¯s voice that made Sebastien pause and look at her more closely. Her eyes were gleaming as she surveyed the quilt, and, if he wasn¡¯t mistaken, it was a gleam of hunger.

    ¡°You sound¡­ envious,¡± he said uncertainly.

    Jess laughed, and the ravenous look in her eyes disappeared. ¡°I am, a little. Tracey Emin has really lived, you know? Having affairs in Greece, befriending the wife of her lover¡­ No wonder she¡¯s a great artist. I think my novel might be better if I had more experiences like that.¡±

    Now she definitely sounded wistful. Sebastien turned her around by the shoulders so that she was facing him. She blushed as he did so, but held his gaze.

    ¡°Tracey Emin is ten years older than you,¡± he said gently. ¡°You¡¯re going to have those kinds of experiences, too. I¡¯m sure of it. And I am also sure that you¡¯re going to make great art.¡±

    She looked defiant as she raised her chin. ¡°How do you know that? You haven¡¯t read my writing.¡±

    ¡°I can tell.¡± Sebastien had no doubt in his mind that Jess was a good writer. He could tell from the way she spoke and thought about things that she was brilliant. ¡°And if you need to have a torrid love affair to improve your writing, well¡­¡± His hand tightened on her shoulder, and her eyes grew a little wider. For a moment, he thought he was about to make some wild confession. Then he smiled. ¡°...I know a lot of pervy MPs who would be more than happy to oblige.¡±

    Her shriek of laughter startled several well-to-do patrons standing closeby and earned them a reproving stare from Imogen. ¡°What are you two doing?¡± She hissed at them from across the room.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here,¡± Sebastien mouthed at her, as Jess clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle.

    ¡°This place is too quiet anyway,¡± Alastair said, sidling up behind Imogen. He had his guitar strapped onto his back and looked completely out-of-place in the gallery. ¡°Let¡¯s get some beers and then go to the after-party at The Hen. It¡¯s gonna be wild.¡±

    Which is how they found themselves walking the streets of Hackney Wick, cars rushing past on the main streets--leaving trails of red and yellow behind them--as they drank their way through a 24-pack of Foster¡¯s. Everyone was in high spirits. Alastair, of course, was still riding the high of the show, talking loudly about his next gig in Manchester; Imogen was quietly happy, laughing at Alastair¡¯s jokes and singing along when he unstrapped his guitar and began to strum some chords; Jess talked the least, but each time she did, her acerbic wit made them all laugh, for which they were rewarded with more of her strange smiles halfway between teasing and tender. Sebastien, for his part, felt as if an electric current was sizzling through him, animating his body and mind. Every time he looked at Jess, the electric current seemed to give him a small, and not unpleasurable, shock.

    When they arrived at The Hen, it was already crowded, and the music was so loud Sebastien couldn¡¯t hear himself think. Alastair and Imogen wanted to stay, but Jess said she should catch the bus home. Sebastien offered to walk her to the bus stop.

    It was quiet on the streets, and no one else was around as they came to stand under the neon sign of the bus stop.

    ¡°I¡¯d like to read your writing,¡± Sebastien said, after a short silence. ¡°If you¡¯re comfortable sharing.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s see,¡± she said, smiling slightly. ¡°My novel certainly isn¡¯t ready yet.¡±

    ¡°Well what about your article on Henderson? I could read that, maybe.¡±

    ¡°I suppose so.¡± Jess¡¯s eye had been caught by the bus, which had just rounded the corner towards them. She held out her hand to flag it down. ¡°But I don¡¯t know if I want to write about Henderson anymore. He¡¯s not very interesting. I¡¯d rather write about¡­ you.¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± Sebastien was taken aback, and he gaped at her.

    ¡°Well, all three of you,¡± Jess clarified. ¡°There¡¯s something about you all¡­ this energy, like I know you¡¯re going to change the world.¡± The bus was slowing down, and Sebastien¡¯s heart rate seemed to speed up in response. He had only moments left with her. When would he see her again? They went to the same uni, yes, but tracking her down could still be difficult.

    The bus pulled to a stop, and the doors creaked open. Jess gave him a last smile, then put her foot on the first step.

    ¡°Jess!¡± Sebastien called after her. She turned and looked at him. ¡°It¡¯s not just the three of us.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the four of us. You have that energy, too. Like you¡¯re going to change the world.¡±

    She laughed, shook her head, and then disappeared into the bus, the doors clanging shut behind her. Sebastien stood still, watching as the bus pulled away and then rounded the corner. He stayed like that for a long time, just staring into space, lost in thought.

    At last, he roused himself. Although he was close to his bus route home, he decided to walk back to the flat. It would take a few hours, but he didn¡¯t mind. He¡¯d never felt so awake or alive. And the streets were empty, except for the mist coming in off the Thames. It was the perfect time to think, to imprint the memory of tonight on his mind forever. Somehow, he had a feeling he would remember it forever.

    He was still feeling so good by the time he arrived home that he didn¡¯t even mind when he found Alastair passed out drunk in the kitchen, again, his hand around a half-empty bottle of vodka; or when he had to carry him to bed and tuck him in, just as the first rays of dawn appeared above the horizon.

 Three - Alastair

    Alastair''s fingers danced upon the strings of his guitar, a soft yet urgent melody filling the cramped bedroom. The space was chaos incarnate ¨C piles of dog-eared notebooks teetered precariously on every surface, each one scrawled with verses and chords, the detritus of endless nocturnal musings. A slanted shaft of moonlight cut through the gloom, illuminating Alastair¡¯s furrowed brow as he coaxed the tune from his instrument, a silent plea for it to be the one, the anthem Union Jack needed to break through to fame.

    Alastair¡¯s mind whirred with the blend of notes and lyrics, a private symphony that drowned out the hum of London just beyond his window. Here, in this cluttered sanctum, he was not just a man with a guitar: he was a conduit for something greater, a vessel for the raw energy of potential and promise.

    ¡°Do you think that¡¯s the one?¡± Sebastien asked from the doorway, interrupting Alastasir¡¯s flow. Distracted, Alastair looked up to see his old friend watching him, backlit by the light from the hallway. Sebastien was wearing pyjamas and his hair was rumbled, his eyes blinking with weariness, and Alastair felt a tug of guilt. What time was it? Had he woken Sebastien up again? He tended to lose track of time when he was writing music, but recently, whole hours would go by without him even noticing. That was the flow state, and it was essential to creating great music. But it came at a cost¡ªmostly Sebastien¡¯s sleep.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Alastair said, running a hand through his head. ¡°I can¡¯t seem to get it quite right¡­¡± Hearing the worry in his voice, he forced himself to smile. He didn¡¯t want Seabstien to think he doubted himself. Of course, sometimes he did doubt himself, but he didn¡¯t want anyone to know that.

    ¡°Are you nervous about tomorrow night?¡± Sebastien asked, his gaze lingering on the notebooks scattered on the ground.

    Alastair shook his head. The lie seemed to rattle around inside, clanging against the sides of his skull. ¡°Nah, it¡¯ll be great. You get some sleep, okay? I¡¯m done for the night anyway.¡±

    Sebastien nodded, said goodnight, and headed back to his room. Alastair put the guitar away and tried to take his own advice and get to sleep. But it was several more hours before the music inside his head finally died away and he was able to drift into an uneasy dream of performing on a brightly-lit stage, while in front of him, his screaming fans were swallowed up by a gaping black hole.

    The following day, Alastair loaded his things into the van Union Jack had rented and drove the four and a half hours north to Manchester, where he and his bandmates would be playing their biggest gig yet. Although they were a London-based band, their gigs in the city had been small so far, confined to cramped venues with the same fifty or so attendees. Alastair was grateful for their loyal fanbase, but he knew they could be bigger. They just needed a break.

    It was in one of these London venues that they¡¯d gotten it: a roadie for the the Carpet Cleaners had heard them perform and passed on their information to the band. After listening to some of their demos, the Carpet Cleaners had invited Union Jack to open for them in Manchester. Alastair knew it was a huge opportunity. Sebastien was right to ask if he was nervous. Of course he was nervous. But he could barely admit that to himself, let alone to his friend. Tonight he had to put normal human emotions like nerves aside. Tonight he had to forget Alastair the person and become Alastair the rock star. Tonight he had to create a legend.

    And when Union Jack took to the stage that night, it was with an almost palpable need to conquer the room. As Alastair stepped up to the microphone, he was heartened to see more than a few familiar faces in the crowd. Their fans had actually followed them up north. If that wasn¡¯t a good sign, he didn¡¯t know what was.

    An electric charge surged through him, boosting his confidence. He¡¯d been crazy to be nervous. He was Alastair Mooney. He was Union Jack. There was nothing to fear.

    ¡°Evening, folks,¡± he said into the mic, his voice warm and uplifting. Alastair knew he had the kind of stage presence that could intoxicate; he knew he could work a crowd better than most. And he was rewarded for his cocky confidence with a burst of applause from the audience. He grinned out at them. ¡°We¡¯re so grateful to be here tonight with the Carpet Cleaners. Thank you to the lads for inviting us up, and thanks to all our fans who made the trek from London. We¡¯re honoured, truly honoured, to play tonight with a band we admire so much. It¡¯s a dream come true.¡± He strummed a chord, teasing the first song¡ªa crowd favourite that he knew would delight both their hardcore fans and those new to their music¡ªand was rewarded with gasps of excitement and recognition and a smattering of applause. ¡°For those of you who don¡¯t know us, we¡¯re Union Jack, and this is Kids of the Rock ¡®n¡¯ Roll Age!¡±

    As the first chord struck, a rippling cheer went through the audience. Then the crowd was dancing, throwing themselves into the music, losing themselves in it as completely as Alastair was on the stage.

    The set was a blur of motion and sound, the band members feeding off each other''s infectious energy and the wild enthusiasm of their audience. It was their best performance yet, and by the end of the set, Alastair was sure that they had won over the Carpet Cleaners¡¯ entire fan base.

    ¡°They¡¯ll be coming down to London to see us next,¡± he gloated to the rest of the band as they sat at the back of the venue later, sipping bottles of beer and watching the Carpet Cleaners perform. Was it just Alastair, or did they seem just a touch lacklustre after Union Jack¡¯s electrifying performance?

    ¡°Shhh, be quiet,¡± Bobby, the bassist, said nervously, looking over his shoulder at the stage, as if expecting the Carpet Cleaners to be listening in on them. ¡°We¡¯re lucky they invited us.¡±

    Union Jack¡¯s drummer, John, nodded his agreement. ¡°We were good, but let¡¯s not get cocky. Or ungrateful.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not being ungrateful,¡± Alastair said, frowning at the two of them. ¡°I¡¯m just stating the obvious. You heard the audience tonight. They were eating out of our hands, and they¡¯re going to want more. We need to get another single out as soon as possible.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the point of a single without a manager?¡± The other guitarist, Mitch, asked. His arms were folded, and he looked annoyed at everything Alastiar said. ¡°We know we can write music. What we need is someone to find an audience for that music.¡±

    Alastiar frowned at Mitch. This was an argument they¡¯d had several times already, including on the car ride up to Manchester. ¡°Managers are just marketers,¡± he said. ¡°They act like they¡¯re essential, when in reality all they do is leech off of their musicians¡¯ talents. We don¡¯t need that. What we need is to write the best music possible. Then our audience will follow. Not the other way around.¡±

    ¡°Lots of bands have talent,¡± Mitch pointed out. ¡°A manager can help ensure our talent isn¡¯t wasted.¡±

    ¡°No one is as talented as I am,¡± Alastair insisted. ¡°As we are. We have to have faith in that and stay the course. Get our game to the absolute top. Be the best. Then, and only then, can we look for a manager. If we find one now, when we¡¯re still moulding our sound, he¡¯ll try to change us. Make us more commercial. Chase a trend. But we¡¯re not here to follow trends. We¡¯re here to set the trend.¡±

    Alastair looked around impressively. He was expecting his bandmates to be nodding in agreement, wonder and awe at his wisdom etched in their faces. Instead, he was greeted by an awkward silence and avoided gazes.

    ¡°What?¡± he frowned at Bobby, who was usually the first to cave to his wishes. ¡°Do you not agree? Bobby, look at me.¡±

    Bobby grimaced and looked up. His expression was guilty, and he fidgeted under Alastasir¡¯s stare. ¡°Of course I agree, Alastair,¡± he mumbled. ¡°It¡¯s just, well¡­ we all want to make it big. As badly as you do. And it seems like the best way to get there¡ªand we all agree on this¡ªis to hire a manager.¡±

    ¡°Oh, do we all agree?¡± Alastair asked mockingly. ¡°And tell me: when did we all get together and decide this?¡±

    ¡°A week ago,¡± Mitch said. Alastair¡¯s eyes snapped back to him. He didn¡¯t look remotely embarrassed as he held Alastair¡¯s gaze. ¡°When we invited a manager to come hear us play tonight.¡±

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°What?¡± Alastair wanted to jump up from his seat and seize the front of Mitch¡¯s shirt, but he restrained himself. ¡°Who? How did you even find a manager?¡±

    ¡°He approached me after our last show,¡± Mitch said with a shrug. ¡°Said he¡¯d be interested in talking to us about representation.¡±

    ¡°Where was I?¡± Alastair demanded. ¡°And why didn¡¯t you mention this sooner?¡±

    ¡°You were off with your friends,¡± Mitch said with a shrug.

    ¡°And¡­ he¡¯d heard you were resistant to management,¡± John added. He looked apologetic, at least. ¡°Just hear him out, won¡¯t you, Alastair? It could be a good thing for us. Just hear what he has to say.¡±

    Mitch nodded at someone over Alastair¡¯s shoulder. Seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared at their table¡ªa man whose tailored suit and slicked-back hair seemed at odds with the griminess of the venue. He extended a hand to shake, but Alastair didn¡¯t take it.

    ¡°Name''s Ian,¡± the man said. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he spoke, reminding Alastair distinctly of a used car salesman. ¡°Ian Baldwin. I represent talent, take it to new heights. Tell me, Alastair: have you ever considered how far Union Jack could go?¡±

    For a brief moment, Alastair allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement. Of course he had considered how far Union Jack could go. But who was this outsider, this interloper, to try and sell him on a vision he had been crafting, perfecting, and working towards for years? This man didn¡¯t care about him, or the band, or what they were trying to say. He looked at them and all he saw were pound signs.

    At least, that¡¯s what Alastair told himself as he glared at Ian.

    ¡°I appreciate it,¡± he said roughly, ¡°but we''re doing alright on our own.¡±

    Ian''s smile didn¡¯t falter, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, took in Alastair¡¯s guarded stance. ¡°You''re more than alright, mate. You''re a bleeding comet awaiting orbit. But even a comet needs gravity to guide it. Let me be your gravity. I can help take Union Jack to places you¡¯ve only ever dreamt of before. Together, we could be unstoppable.¡± When Alastair didn¡¯t respond, Ian reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card. As he tapped the card on the table, his mouth seemed to stretch across his entire face, lurid and gaping. ¡°Look, I get it: you don¡¯t know me, and you have no reason to trust me. But I¡¯d like to change that. Here¡¯s my card, and when you¡¯re back in London, why don¡¯t we get together and have a little chat? Hmm? I can tell you about my experience in the industry, and you can tell me about your hopes for Union Jack. Maybe then we can figure out how we might help each other.¡±

    Alastair didn¡¯t take the card. It wasn¡¯t that he was an idiot; he knew that having a manager could change everything. Without one, they would never reach superstardom. But there was something so oily about Ian Baldwin¡ªabout every man in a suit Alastair had ever met¡ªthat made his stomach turn. Memories came swirling back to him: memories of his time at Eton, of condescension dripping from the fathers of fellow students as they offered to introduce him to people they knew ¡°in the industry¡±; as they offered him a ¡°leg up¡±; just as they¡¯d offered a ¡°leg up¡± to their own sons, those spoiled pieces of shite who were handed opportunities Alastair¡¯s friends from back home would have killed for. And always, every one of those introductions, those ¡°legs up¡±, had come with a catch: because these men never wanted to give out of the kindness of their hearts. They wanted to control him. He was nothing more than an investment, and they wanted to see a return on that investment, artistry be damned.

    Alastair was ready to sacrifice almost anything for his music, but the one thing he wouldn¡¯t sacrifice was his integrity. He wouldn¡¯t be bought. Not by anyone, and certainly not by Ian Baldwin.

    ¡°I said no,¡± Alastair said. Without realising it, he was on his feet, glowering down at Ian Baldwin from his full 6¡¯2¡± until the man¡¯s smile began to slip. ¡°Now get lost.¡±

    Ian Baldwin¡¯s eyes flicked to the other band members. Bobby¡¯s mouth was slightly open in incredulity and John was wide-eyed, but Mitch looked angry. His face was red and he looked as if he were grinding his teeth.

    ¡°I¡¯ll leave this here,¡± Ian Baldwin said. He set the card down on the table. Straightening, he affixed a smile to his face and nodded at each of them. ¡°Hope to hear from you soon.¡±

    After he was gone, Alastair let out a long sigh and collapsed back into his seat. When he looked up, all three of his bandmates were staring at him. Mitch wasn¡¯t the only one who looked angry, now.

    ¡°What the fuck was that?!¡± John shouted. ¡°That was a real opportunity for us to work with a manager!¡±

    ¡°Yeah dude, that was fucked,¡± Bobby murmured. ¡°I know you want to do things on your own, but you were mental.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t mental,¡± Alastair snapped. ¡°Did you see that guy? He was a joke!¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s actually a serious manager,¡± Mitch said. ¡°He represents some big names.¡± His fury was emanating from him so powerfully that it made the back of Alastair¡¯s neck prickle. Was it possible he¡¯d made a mistake? But no, Alastair shook himself, dislodging the thought. He was Alastair Mooney. He didn¡¯t make mistakes.

    ¡°Oh yeah?¡± Alastair sneered. ¡°Like who?¡±

    ¡°Like the Diamond Dozens, Hotshoe, and Vengeance For the Few.¡±

    Alastair swallowed. Those were big names. But he wasn¡¯t going to admit that to Mitch. ¡°Just because he¡¯s right for those bands doesn¡¯t mean he¡¯s right for us,¡± he said instead.

    ¡°But that¡¯s the thing,¡± Mitch said, his eyes boring into Alastair¡¯s, ¡°it doesn¡¯t feel like any of us get any say in it¡ªor in anything! You make all the decisions, and even if you¡¯re outvoted 3-1, you won¡¯t listen to us. It¡¯s not fair!¡± Mitch looked around at John and Bobby. Both were nodding. Bobby once against wouldn¡¯t meet Alastair¡¯s eyes.

    Alastair¡¯s hands balled into fists at his side. His head was pounding, and a rushing sound filled his ears. ¡°That¡¯s because this is my band,¡± he snarled, his voice barley above a whisper but still deadly. ¡°I write the music. I write the lyrics. I come up with the ideas, the vision, the roadmap for success. I¡¯m the one who¡¯s spent years studying rock ¡®n¡¯ roll, listening to classic albums over and over again, incorporating them into our sound. This is my band. GOT THAT? MY BAND!¡± Alastair suddenly realised that the back of the bar had gone eerily silent. Even as the Carpet Cleaners continued playing on stage, the buzz around them had faded. Heads had turned in their direction, their faces wearing apprehensive expressions. But Alastair didn¡¯t care. He was too angry to worry about the optics. He glared at Bobby, John, and Mitch in turn.

    ¡°If that doesn¡¯t seem fair to you,¡± he hissed, ¡°it¡¯s because it isn¡¯t. This isn¡¯t a democracy, it¡¯s a dictatorship. And if you don¡¯t like it, then you can leave and start your own band. But good luck trying to write music without me.¡±

    Alastair was fully expecting Mitch to cave; for him to look down, nod, and tell Alastair he was right; for him to beg for forgiveness. Which is why he was shocked when Mitch narrowed his eyes, stood, and slammed his hand down on the table.

    ¡°Fine,¡± he said. ¡°I will leave. I¡¯d rather be in a shitty band that never makes it big than spend any more time part of the Alastair-Mooney-ego-trip-show.¡±

    Mitch gave Alastair one last contemptuous look, then turned and left. Alastair had to work to keep his jaw from dropping as he watched Mitch disappear into the crowd of people, who were starting to talk amongst themselves again, although their eyes kept darting in Union Jack¡¯s direction. He couldn¡¯t believe Mitch would really leave.

    ¡°Well, that just goes to show what an idiot he is,¡± he said, trying to force a laugh. ¡°He¡¯d rather be in a shitty band than deal with me?! Pathetic.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how much of an idiot he is,¡± John said. He had set his beer down and pushed out his chair as well and now clambered to his feet. ¡°I think you¡¯re the idiot, Alastair. You¡¯re pushing away the people who believe in you most, and why? Because you can¡¯t relinquish control? Fuck that. I¡¯m out, too.¡±

    ¡°Me too,¡± Bobby said. He gave Alastair a sad, sympathetic look as he stood. ¡°I joined Union Jack to have fun, but this isn¡¯t fun anymore.¡±

    ¡°Being a rockstar isn¡¯t about having fun!¡± Alastair shouted. ¡°It¡¯s about making music that lasts.¡±

    Bobby shook his head. ¡°And I¡¯m sure you will, Alastair. Hell, I¡¯ll be the first to buy your albums. I just don¡¯t want to be part of it any more.¡±

    He and John left, leaving Alastair sitting alone at the table, staring after them and trying to ignore the feeling like a hole had opened up beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole.

    It took Alastair a week to pull himself together. A week when he drank a bottle of vodka every day, wrote music alone in his bedroom and then wandered the streets until all hours of the night, waking suddenly at the kitchen table around five or six in the morning without any memory of how he got there. He didn¡¯t tell Sebastien or Imogen what had happened with the band. Sebastien was never around anyway, spending all his free time with that writer, Jess. And Imogen¡­ she¡¯d probably take the band¡¯s side, accuse him of letting his ego waste a great opportunity. Anyway, he didn¡¯t want to worry his friends. He just needed a week to lick his wounds, to remind himself that he was Alastair Mooney, and that he didn¡¯t need those hacks anyway; that he could make a band all by himself.

    At the end of the week, he finished the song he¡¯d been struggling with since before Manchester. Sebastien had asked him if it was the one--and it was. It was the anthem he¡¯d always wanted to write: an ode to the history of rock ¡®n¡¯ roll and a manifesto for his generation. It was perfect, and he knew he could never have written it with his old band. Fuck those guys.

    Later that day, Alastair threw out the rest of his vodka bottles, then went to the printer, where he printed around fifty hand-drawn signs. He hung these around Hackney, on every music venue bulletin board and bus shelter window he could find. They read:

    Musicians (guitar, bass, drummer) needed for new rock band A-La-Stair, fronted by Alastair Mooney.

    Auditions held Sunday 4pm at the The Bottom Line

    The following Sunday, after he¡¯d finished auditioning what felt like half of London (his name carried weight in the music scene, he was gratified to learn) and found his new (and better) bandmates, he fished a card out of his wallet--where it had been burning a hole in the brown leather--found a telephone box and dialled the number written on it.

    Ian Baldwin picked up on the first ring.

    ¡°Hi,¡± Alastair croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. ¡°This is Alastair Mooney from¡ª¡±

    ¡°I know who you are,¡± Ian interrupted. Alastair heard him smile through the phone. ¡°Are you ready to talk about your future?¡±

 Four - Imogen

    April 1993

    Imogen Grant had never been good at taking criticism. This wasn¡¯t because she was sensitive, or easily offended, or because her confidence would be shaken if someone didn¡¯t like her work. The problem was the opposite. Imogen wasn¡¯t good at taking criticism because she literally wouldn¡¯t take it. Every negative comment about her art went in one ear and out the other. It wasn¡¯t that she didn¡¯t hear it, it was that she didn¡¯t agree or even really care what anyone thought. If the criticism came from someone she respected, she would consider it, but usually came to the conclusion that she didn¡¯t really respect that person as much as she thought she did. It was well-known amongst Imogen¡¯s friends, admirers, critics, and rivals that she had the kind of unshakable¡ªand not unearned¡ªconviction in her own talent that most artists would kill for.

    Which is why it came as such a surprise when Professor Caldwell stopped her halfway through her presentation for the Third Year Showcase by slamming her hand down on the table where the adjudicators sat and fixing Imogen with a furious glare.

    At that moment, Imogen was halfway through being dragged from the room by the four actors she had hired to play her doctors from the psychiatric ward. It took all of them a moment to realise what was going on: that the performance piece had been interrupted and that Professor Caldwell was shouting at them to ¡°Desist with this travesty at once!¡±

    The doctor-actors set Imogen back on the ground and looked at the professor warily; Imogen wondered if they thought this was a pre-arranged part of the piece. A performance within a performance! But it wasn¡¯t, and she was disoriented as she tried to collect herself and focus on what Caldwell was saying.

    ¡°This is not art!¡± Caldwell was shouting. She was red in the face, her frizzy hair standing up as she pulled her fingers through it. For a brief moment, Imogen felt a tug of satisfaction that her piece had caused such a visceral reaction. Then she registered what her professor was saying, and satisfaction was replaced by anger.

    ¡°What do you mean it¡¯s not art?¡± she demanded. ¡°It¡¯s performance art. We covered Dennis Oppenheim and Vito Acconci last semester and the provocative approaches they took to performance pieces. You called yourself a great admirer of their work!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t compare yourself to Oppenheim and Acconci,¡± Caldwell seethed. ¡°This vulgar display is not the mature and grounded work of those masters.¡±

    ¡°Mature and grounded?!¡± Imogen bristled with indignation. ¡°Acconci lay under a ramp and masturbated while visitors walked above him.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me¡­¡± One of the other adjudicators cleared his throat. ¡°I think Miss Grant has a point about Acconci and performance art in general, Professor Caldwell. Her piece is not more incendiary than, say, Carolee Schneemann¡¯s Interior Scroll.¡± He shuddered, the thought of a woman retrieving a scroll from inside her vagina and then reading aloud the feminist manifesto written on it clearly too visceral for his delicate sensibilities.

    ¡°This¡ª¡± Caldwell gestured at Imogen, barefoot and dressed in her hospital gown, tears streaming down her face, sick all down her front ¡°¡ªis no Interior Scroll. Schneemann¡¯s work was a commentary on gender and feminism, a potent political message about women¡¯s perceived passivity. This mockery of the form that Miss Grant has shown us today is nothing but a self-indulgent farce by a spoiled little girl with so few real problems that she has to invent them.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t invent this,¡± Imogen said, blood rushing to her face as anger heated her. ¡°This really happened to me. I was sent to a psychiatric ward at eighteen against my consent. The doctors really had to drag me away like this.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Miss Grant, I am aware,¡± Caldwell said coolly. ¡°I have read your artist¡¯s statement. But a simple recreation of true events does not art make. What is it trying to say? What is it trying to achieve? Where is the artistic merit?¡±

    ¡°Why does art have to try to achieve anything?¡± Imogen argued, folding her arms. ¡°Why can¡¯t it just be self expression?¡±

    ¡°And what are you expressing here?¡± Caldwell raised her eyebrows. ¡°If you had tried to capture the experience through a different medium, perhaps removed your personal involvement and given your viewers a chance to witness the experience objectively, then I might feel differently. But as it is, you are manipulating your viewer into having the emotional reaction you desire, instead of letting the art speak for itself.¡±

    Imogen stared at Caldwell, disbelieving. This piece, this performance, was the culmination of three years of artistic study. She had planned it so minutely, curated it so specifically, trained and practised for dozens of hours. Did Caldwell think it was easy to make herself vomit on cue? Or to get into the mindset of her adolescent suicidal ideation? She¡¯d worked hard to prepare this piece, and everything was perfect, down to the surprise performance. (She had told Caldwell she would be presenting a painting). Surprise was the point: to shock the audience, the way she had been shocked, when her father had told her she was being sent to a psychiatric ward. To evoke the sensation of betrayal, confusion, hurt, and fear she had felt as he¡¯d introduced the strange men on the sitting room couch as doctors.

    And by working through those feelings in her art, Imogen also hoped it might heal her; heal the wound that the stint in the psychiatric ward had left behind. But she wasn¡¯t going to tell Caldwell that. The professor would just say that art wasn¡¯t meant to be therapy and that Imogen should be more removed from her work.

    ¡°Even if I am manipulating my viewers,¡± Imogen said finally, ¡°so what? Who says art needs to be objective, to let the viewer come to their own conclusions? I¡¯m the artist. This is my vision. My viewers can feel what I want them to feel, and if they don¡¯t like it, then they can leave.¡±

    But Caldwell didn¡¯t seem to be listening. She was shaking her head, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Miss Grant, but I can¡¯t allow this piece to be shown in the Third Year Showcase. It¡¯s not just a matter of taste. It¡¯s too disruptive to the other students¡¯ pieces; pieces, I might add, that rely on carefully-refined craft, not shock value.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª¡± Imogen could barely believe what she was hearing. ¡°The Third Year Showcase is where agents scout for new talent! I have to exhibit!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Caldwell repeated, although she looked anything but sorry, ¡°but my decision is final.¡±

    As Imogen stormed from the lecture hall, she had to bite back the stream of furious invectives that she longed to throw at Caldwell. The professor was nothing but a jealous, washed-up bitch, she thought furiously. She¡¯d never had an original idea¡ªthat¡¯s why she was a teacher, for God¡¯s sake¡ªand she resented Imogen because she was young, vibrant, and going places.

    ¡°She¡¯s going to regret this,¡± she muttered to herself. ¡°She¡¯s going to regret this.¡±

    ¡°Is she, though?¡± Sebastien asked her the next day, as he sat across from her in their local, The Book End. ¡°Caldwell got exactly what she wanted. She kicked you out of the show, and there isn¡¯t anything you can do about it.¡±

    ¡°Exactly what she wanted?¡± Jess looked between the two of them, confusion wrinkling her brow. ¡°She wanted Imogen out of the show?¡±

    Sebastien took up a sip of his beer before responding. It was warm in the pub, and Imogen felt a little calmer today, surrounded by the familiar wood panelling and her loyal-to-a-fault friends. Even her new friendship with Jess had proved soothing; Jess was cool and calculating in a way that evened out Imogen¡¯s fiery tirades.

    ¡°Caldwell¡¯s been after Imogen since first year,¡± Sebastien explained to Jess now. ¡°Imogen made a parody of her most famous work that was somewhat¡­ mocking.¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t mocking it,¡± Imogen cut in, grinning nevertheless at the memory of Caldwell¡¯s face at the unveiling. ¡°I was responding to it. I took issue with her sanitised depiction of motherhood.¡±

    ¡°Caldwell had done a series of photos on giving birth¡ª¡± Sebastien began, but Imogen interrupted him.

    ¡°It was a cowardly capitulation to the male gaze,¡± she said dismissively. ¡°Women are goddesses, childbirth is beautiful and natural bullshit, which, sure, it can be, but it¡¯s also messy and animalistic.¡±

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    ¡°Which you know because you¡¯ve given birth, have you?¡± Sebastien rolled his eyes, then turned back to Jess. ¡°Being the expert she is on childbirth, Imogen recreated the same images in a multimedia painting that depicted things a bit messier.¡±

    ¡°The baby was a monster, in my version,¡± Imogen said with a grin. ¡°And there was blood¡­ everywhere.¡±

    ¡°Her own period blood,¡± Sebastien added.

    Jess snorted into her beer. Wiping foam from her nose, she shook her head at Imogen. ¡°No wonder Caldwell hates you.¡±

    ¡°I admit that work was a bit¡­ unnecessarily personal,¡± Imogen admitted. She held up her hands in an apologetic gesture. ¡°But I was young and angry. I wanted to disrupt the system, to challenge the academics who acted as gatekeepers to my self-expression. My work is more evolved now, but Caldwell clearly can¡¯t get over it. It¡¯s so petty. I¡¯d be honoured if a student responded to my work like that.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, because you wouldn¡¯t see it as criticism,¡± Sebastien said. He sighed. ¡°You never see anything as criticism.¡±

    ¡°Surely Caldwell not letting you be in the show is criticism,¡± Jess pointed out.

    ¡°Sure,¡± Imogen said with a shrug, ¡°but it¡¯s her problem, not mine. The piece is great. She either can¡¯t see that because she¡¯s a blind old bat, or she¡¯s jealous and doesn¡¯t want agents seeing my work at the showcase.¡±

    Jess nodded, her eyes momentarily distant as she grew thoughtful. ¡°Maybe you could hold your own showcase¡­¡± she suggested suddenly. ¡°At the same time as the Third Year Showcase. You could upstage her.¡±

    Sebastien¡¯s eyes grew wide. ¡°But Imogen wouldn¡¯t want to draw attention away from the other students.¡±

    ¡°No, but you could tell the other third years that Caldwell is censoring you and invite them to be part of your showcase,¡± Jess said eagerly. ¡°And you could find a really rad place to host it, like a warehouse or an up-and-coming gallery. Somewhere outside of the ivory tower. You could even invite the agents that were going to be at the Third Year Showcase.¡±

    Jess¡¯s eyes were gleaming with excitement, and Imogen couldn¡¯t help but notice the way Sebastien watched her with admiration. She wondered briefly if they were fucking yet, then forgot about it at once. The image Jess had painted for her was glittering too appealingly in her mind¡¯s eye.

    ¡°I can see it¡­¡± she said slowly. ¡°A sort of 1960s-esque Happening. The mixing of students, non-students, art professionals, and amateurs. A protest against the elitism of the academy and its bourgeois puritan aesthetics.¡±

    ¡°You could use that warehouse the cannery just vacated,¡± Sebastien suggested. ¡°My guys in the union could help get you in. They¡¯ve hated the owner ever since he started sending jobs overseas.¡±

    Imogen nodded. ¡°We could invite them, too. Another searing indictment of the ruling class¡¯s taste and politics.¡±

    Sebastien managed not to roll his eyes, but just barely. Imogen wasn¡¯t offended, though. She was never offended. Instead, her mind was whirring with ideas: planning her strategy for how she¡¯d convince the other students to go along with her, designing the space, and imagining the articles that would circulate in the weeks to follow about the daring student art exhibition led by Imogen Grant.

    It wasn¡¯t very hard for Imogen to convince her fellow third years to ditch the university-sponsored showcase in favour of her own. Once they heard what had happened, they shared her righteous outrage over Caldwell¡¯s censorship. The art department was small, and all of them had worked with Imogen at one point or another. They knew her as a very serious¡ªif somewhat pompous¡ªartist worthy of being featured in the Third Year Showcase. The only holdout, of course, was Paul Henderson. The university¡¯s darling for his classical style and gentle ¡°critiques¡± of masculinity, Henderson preferred to show his loyalty to the administration that had given him his own solo show.

    Imogen didn¡¯t care. In fact, she thought the show would be better without Henderson. Not only because his art was terrible, but because it would feed the narrative that she and Henderson were rivals. Well, it wasn¡¯t just a narrative; they were rivals. But if the drama of their opposing showcases generated publicity, so much the better.

    Everything was going as planned for the showcase: the third year students had created astonishing pieces that Imogen was proud to show her work next to; Sebastien was promoting the event with everyone he knew, and he knew everyone; Alastair and his new band¡ªridiculously named A-La-Stair¡ªhad agreed to play several sets throughout the night; Jess had written a profile of Imogen and the showcase in the Weekly, which it seemed everyone on campus had read; and, best of all, several prominent agents had RSVPed yes. A few had even confided in her how exciting and rebellious it was that she was going behind the university¡¯s back.

    It was going to be a success. Imogen knew it. She¡¯d set her mind to something, and now she would succeed. Everything was going to turn out perfectly.

    A few days before the showcase, Imogen was working in her campus studio when she was interrupted by a knock. When she opened the door, she found herself face-to-face with Professor Caldwell.

    ¡°Miss Grant.¡± Caldwell frowned as she looked up at Imogen¡ªwho, at 5¡¯10¡¯¡¯, was taller than most other women. ¡°May I have a word?¡±

    Imogen hesitated. She¡¯d been in a flow with one of her paintings, but she supposed she should hear what Caldwell had to say. Nodding, she stood aside to let the professor enter.

    Caldwell took her time to look around the studio. Her eyes trailed over the large abstract paintings that depicted Imogen, or a version of her, in the hospital gown she¡¯d worn in the psychiatric ward. Caldwell stood for a long time in front of one of these, gazing raptly at it with an intrigued look on her face.

    ¡°You know, if this were the piece you¡¯d submitted to the Third Year Showcase, I wouldn¡¯t have rejected you,¡± she said finally.

    Imogen came to stand next to her and looked critically down at the painting. ¡°Maybe I wanted to get kicked out. Maybe that was part of the performance: to shock and disturb the establishment.¡±

    Caldwell sighed. Imogen thought she sounded deeply tired. ¡°You think I don¡¯t understand that urge?¡±

    Imogen snorted. ¡°I know you don¡¯t.¡±

    Caldwell didn¡¯t respond at once. Imogen had just started to feel uncomfortable in the silence when Caldwell said, ¡°You know, when I was making art in the seventies, it was radical to depict childbirth as beautiful. Women were rejecting the medicalised birthing their mothers had been forced into, going out into the forest and birthing their own babies, being one with their bodies. Sure, it wasn¡¯t always easy, but it was liberating. We felt like we were at the forefront of feminism, creating new gender norms and disrupting the male-centric medical establishment. My art reflected that. You might look at it and see something old-fashioned and outdated, but there was a time when my ideas were the avant-garde ones.¡±

    Imogen drummed her fingers against her thigh. ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡±

    Caldwell ran her hand through her hair, then turned to look at her. The two stared at each other. ¡°It happens more quickly than you think,¡± Caldwell murmured.

    Imogen frowned. She wasn¡¯t in the mood for Caldwell¡¯s esoteric musings. ¡°What does?¡±

    But Caldwell didn¡¯t seem to be listening. She was lost in thought, her eyes unfocused as she stared at something over Imogen¡¯s shoulder. After several long moments¡ªduring which Imogen contemplated clearing her throat loudly and rather rudely¡ªCaldwell snapped back to herself. Her expression returned to its usual look of lofty disapproval and her eyes narrowed.

    ¡°Your work has been reinstated in the Third Year Showcase,¡± she said. ¡°We kindly ask that you contact the curator as soon as possible to discuss your specific installation needs.¡±

    Caldwell gave her a cold smirk and turned to go. She was almost at the door when Imogen spoke.

    ¡°I won¡¯t be at the Showcase.¡± Caldwell stopped, hand on the door. Imogen couldn¡¯t help but smile as she imagined the look on the professor¡¯s face. ¡°I¡¯m hosting my own showcase with the other third years. One that is free from censorship.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Caldwell said without turning. ¡°I heard about this.¡±

    ¡°Well then you already knew my answer.¡±

    Caldwell turned. Her eyes were ice as they met Imogen¡¯s. ¡°You can¡¯t do this. The university will take action.¡±

    Imogen laughed and folded her arms. ¡°I¡¯ve read the student handbook cover to cover. The Third Year Showcase isn¡¯t a requirement for graduation, and there¡¯s nothing that says we can¡¯t host our own exhibition. You can¡¯t stop me, and if threatening me is how you think you¡¯ll get me back, you¡¯re gravely mistaken.¡±

    Caldwell¡¯s mouth was a thin line of fury. ¡°You always have to win, don¡¯t you?¡±

    Imogen couldn¡¯t help but smile. ¡°Winning is a foregone conclusion, when you¡¯re the best.¡±

    If Imogen was worried she was overselling herself, then her improvised third year showcase in the former cannery erased all her doubts. Everyone was there. Not just the agents who had been invited, but artists and critics Imogen would never have dared to invite; not out of modesty, but because even she understood that some people were out of art students¡¯ league. There was a queue to get in, and every time Imogen escorted a VIP past it, she knew they were impressed. Her work was happening. She was happening.

    A-La-Stair was on fire that night. Everyone was dancing wildly to their music, and when they finished their first set, the audience chanted for more. Alastair waved them away, laughing. ¡°We have another set in fifteen minutes!¡± he shouted into the mic. ¡°Greedy bastards¡­¡±

    Which was Imogen¡¯s cue. As Alastair left the stage, the lights in the warehouse went out all at once. Several people gasped. A few screamed. Then a spotlight snapped on, illuminating Imogen where she stood on her mark. Stillness fell over the warehouse. The room¡¯s attention sharpened around her.

    A voice boomed out over the loudspeaker: her father¡¯s voice. You¡¯re sick in the head. Her mother¡¯s voice. You need help, sweetie. Help we can¡¯t give you. Her own voice. I don¡¯t want to be here anymore.

    And then the performance began.

    Later, Imogen would say this was the moment her life really began. The applause that filled her ears after was like the coven¡¯s scream that summons the devil, and she was ready to sign away her soul.

    After, as tears still streamed down her cheeks, hands found hers: congratulatory handshakes and cards pressed into her palm by eager agents. Whispers filled her ears: promises of representation, of solo shows, of money and fame and exposure. All the things she dreamed of.

    But for once, Imogen wasn¡¯t thinking about any of that. Maybe it was because of how emotionally drained she was after the performance, but the only people she wanted to see were her friends. And there they were: Alastair, jumping down from the stage to hug her; Sebastien¡ªhis arm around Jess¡ªshaking his head in wonder as he congratulated her; Jess¡¯s slow, thoughtful smile. And as the three of them hugged her, Imogen realised something she wasn¡¯t expecting: it was this love that healed her, far more than any performance.

 Five - Sebastien

    April 1993

    There were going to be people who called him a traitor; people who said he was justifying violence; even those who sent him death threats and called for his arrest. But Sebastien didn¡¯t care. He was scheduled for a debate that afternoon with the President of the Young Tories, Andrew Marvin, on whether Sinn Fein should be included in peace talks with Northern Ireland, and despite all the reasons not to, he was arguing the affirmative.

    Sebastien could understand why people would hate him for it. The Bishopsgate bombing was still fresh. People were justifiably upset. He¡¯d been upset, too, when he¡¯d first heard the news. Violence was always upsetting, especially when lives were lost. Even though the IRA had sent a warning of the bombing an hour ahead of time, a photographer had still been killed, and dozens had been injured.

    Sebastien wasn¡¯t justifying violence. He abhorred violence. But he also believed that the fastest way to ending violence was to bring your opponent into the conversation. The British could not just ignore Sinn Fein and pretend it wasn¡¯t a major actor in Northern Irish politics. They had to take them seriously; especially now that they had the firepower to decimate large sections of the City of London.

    Anyway, violence always had a root cause. This is what his involvement in the radical leftwing anti-colonialist struggle had taught him: violence didn¡¯t come from nothing. It had been created by the unjust policies of the UK, which had occupied Ireland for centuries, caused a famine that had killed millions, and then persecuted the Catholic majority through a segregated system enforced by an anti-Irish police force.

    And if people didn¡¯t want that violence to continue¡ªon both sides¡ªthen the biggest and most influential Catholic political party had to be included in peace talks. It was just logical.

    Usually, a debate between two university students would not be widely attended; even a debate on a subject this controversial. But Sebastien was used to the attention that his name brought to any event in which he participated. And because the son of Sir Reginald Montague, MP of CC Ashford, would be arguing in support of Sinn Fein¡¯s inclusion in peace talks, reporters would be there. So would Blunt, of course.

    Sebastien straightened and shuffled through the cards he was holding. He didn¡¯t really need them; he¡¯d memorised all his talking points, and he was very good at thinking on the fly. It was an ability that people had always admired about him. Most people, when they argued about something they believed in, got emotional and tongue-tied. This never happened to Sebastien. Maybe it was because he kept his emotions in check in all matters of his life, including politics. Or maybe it was because at the end of the day, nothing he advocated for would actually affect him. He had no real stake in them.

    Sebastien wasn¡¯t a Catholic in Northern Ireland, plagued by violence and discrimination by the government and the marauding UVF. He would never earn minimum wage, so was largely unaffected by the campaign he headed. He¡¯d been educated at a public school, so any reforms to state schools would not apply to him. There were a million other examples of this, and sometimes, Sebastien feared that his lack of personal investment in his causes left him cold and detached. He compensated for this by learning as much as he could about the people who were affected. Their suffering fuelled his fire and gave him the firebrand temperament that people associated with his political speeches. But underneath the rhetoric, he always kept his emotions at bay. He was protected by his class, wealth and gender, insulated from the worst of the world, and thus able to stay partial and unemotional when things got heated.

    Sebastien supposed it was a good thing. It allowed him to use his prodigious speaking skills for the betterment of those who needed an advocate. It wouldn¡¯t do for him to lose control when he was fighting for those who had nothing.

    Still, he sometimes wondered what it would feel like to lose control.

    The door to the auditorium¡¯s antechamber opened, and Sebastien looked up, expecting to see the Debate Club supervisor, Professor Dillard. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see Jess. She looked elegant and unusually conservative in a simple black dress, stockings, and low pumps. As she walked towards him, he tilted his head to one side and gave her a cheeky smile.

    ¡°You¡¯re dressed as if you¡¯re supporting the opposition,¡± he said. ¡°Should I take that personally? Have you lost faith in me already, without even hearing my arguments?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly,¡± she scolded, as she came to stand in front of him. ¡°I¡¯m covering the debate, so I have to dress professionally.¡±

    As she spoke, she reached up and straightened his tie. The gesture seemed reflexive to Sebastien, as if she hadn¡¯t even thought before doing it. But it set his heart hammering to feel her fingers grazing over his chest, even through the fabric.

    ¡°You¡¯re always working, aren¡¯t you?¡± he asked as she smoothed down the silk.

    ¡°Well that makes two of us, doesn¡¯t it?¡± The side of her mouth quirked up. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why we get along so well.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of which, how is your novel going?¡±

    Jess dropped her hands to her side. ¡°It¡¯s going well. My professor said I¡¯m on track to finish this summer, if I stick to my word count goal. He even said I could use Part One as my senior thesis.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s very exciting!¡± Sebastien grasped her arms, and the warmth from her body sent a tremor through him. ¡°You¡¯re doing so well, Jess. I¡¯m so proud of you.¡±

    Jess laughed and shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s the first draft of a first novel by a university student. It¡¯s probably utter shite. Anyway, this is your day, not mine. You¡¯re about to walk into the hornet¡¯s nest! How are you feeling? Are you ready?¡±

    Sebastien shrugged. Then, without warning, he grabbed Jess¡¯s hands and spun her away from him, then back in, catching her in a low dip. She screeched in fear and delight, and as he bent her low, her eyes sparkled. He grinned. ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡±

    Part of Sebastien¡¯s confident nonchalance was genuine; he really didn¡¯t mind if he pissed people off. He¡¯d already lost the approval of the person whose opinion mattered most¡ªhis father¡ªso what did it matter what anyone else thought?

    However, another part of his nonchalance was put on. Sebastien was nervous, as much as he didn¡¯t care to admit it. Not exactly about his performance, which he knew would be on point, but by Jess being in attendance. It both scared and electrified him to realise that he did care what she thought: that he wanted to impress her. Usually his indifference was his armour. But Jess, with her thoughtful eyes and careful opinions, kept him on edge. He knew she liked him, but he wasn¡¯t sure how much or in what way. In the months since they¡¯d met, they¡¯d seen each other constantly, but nothing had happened between them. Sebastien contributed this to two factors: firstly, Jess was stubbornly opaque. Every time he thought he had cracked her shell, she slipped back inside it. Even now, as he righted her, the gleam of joy and laughter slipped from her eyes, replaced by their usual calm detachment.

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    The second reason was Sebastien¡¯s fault. He had dedicated himself so single mindedly to his political goals that he had completely neglected his romantic life. Not that he was completely useless. He knew he was good-looking, and women often flirted with him. When he was drunk and feeling confident after some victory or another, he was even able to bring one of these girls home with him. But he hadn¡¯t learned how to woo a woman he was serious about. How did he show Jess he liked her without making her feel like he was only after one thing? Where was he supposed to bring her on a date? What was too fancy and what was not fancy enough? How did he act on a date? And how could he make her feel like the precious and rare woman that she was?

    It was times like this that he wished he could ask his father for advice. But while Sir Reginald would probably welcome the chance to school him on the art of seduction, Sebastien couldn¡¯t bear the thought of asking for his father¡¯s advice, then turning around the next day and lambasting him at some political rally or another. Not to mention that his father would be dreadfully superior about the whole thing. He probably also had antiquated views on women that would be more infuriating than helpful.

    No, it was better not to involve his father. Sebastien would have to find another way to figure out how to tell Jess how he felt.

    It didn¡¯t help matters either that she often wrote about him in the Weekly. Jess was a consummate professional, and he knew she wouldn¡¯t want to compromise her integrity by dating one of her subjects.

    But there was no denying there was something between them. Something that made him want to pull her into him now and kiss her until they were both breathless.

    But he didn¡¯t. Instead, he let her go, and she smoothed down her dress before looking him over carefully.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± she asked, her brow crinkling just enough to give away her concern.

    Sebastien grimaced. ¡°Did you see a balding man sitting near the back in a grey suit?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember¡­¡±

    ¡°Well, he¡¯s there. He¡¯s always there. Take a look when you¡¯re back out and you¡¯ll see him.¡±

    Jess frowned more deeply. ¡°Who is she?¡±

    ¡°His name¡¯s Blunt. He¡¯s my father¡¯s spin doctor.¡± Sebasiten sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ¡°He¡¯s always at these debates; any of my public appearances, actually.¡±

    ¡°Is he here to intimidate you? Is that even legal?¡±

    Sebastien laughed hollowly. ¡°It¡¯s perfectly legal. And no, he¡¯s not here to intimidate me. At least, not officially. His official purpose is to record and report back on everything I say, so that my father can be prepared for any questions he might get from reporters or constituents. It makes sense, really. He can¡¯t be blindsided by something I say, it would only make him look more foolish than I already do every day.¡±

    ¡°That seems¡­ really controlling.¡±

    Sebastien tried to shrug. ¡°I can¡¯t complain. He gives me more freedom than a lot of fathers in his position would. He doesn¡¯t try to stop me from speaking my mind or making public statements. Just tells everyone I¡¯m in my rebellious phase, that I¡¯ll grow out of it. And by pseudo-allowing it, he undermines me, makes me look like the ungrateful son and him the indulgent, long-suffering father.¡±

    Jess reached out and touched his arm. It was a small gesture, but the comfort of it made Sebastien¡¯s eyes water. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Jess murmured. ¡°That sounds really hard. But¡­ you¡¯re not making a fool of your father. You can¡¯t help it if you believe differently from him, and on some level, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s proud of you for being your own man.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know about that. I think he¡¯d prefer if I was his man.¡±

    Jess thought for a moment. ¡°You said Blunt¡¯s official purpose was to record you. But does he have an unofficial one?¡±

    ¡°Well, you said it: to remind me that my father is always watching, and that, at the end of the day, he has the control. That he could make my life a living hell, if he wanted to.¡±

    There was a short silence as Jess absorbed this. Then she took a step closer to him. ¡°You¡¯re very brave, Sebastien,¡± she said softly.

    Sebastien gazed down at her. She was so close, and he could see the soft glisten of sweat on her brow, the imperfect line of black eyeliner on her eyelid, the soft puffiness of her lips as they opened slightly. She was close enough to touch, to taste, to kiss, all he had to do was lean down and¡ª

    Just then, the door banged open, and Sebastien and Jess leapt apart, as if shocked by an electric current.

    Dillard stood in the doorway, sweating slightly. ¡°Are you all ready, Montague?¡± he asked, clapping his hands together. ¡°We¡¯re about the start.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Sebastien said distractedly. He glanced at Jess; she had moved away from him.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you after,¡± she said with a small smile. ¡°Or if you¡¯re mobbed by fans¡ªand enemies¡ªthen I¡¯ll see you at Imogen¡¯s showcase later?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Sebastien laughed. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t miss that for the world.¡±

    Jess left, and Sebastien straightened his tie once more. Then, steeling himself, he left the antechamber with Dillard to face the proverbial firing squad.

    Afterwards, Sebastien was buzzing. Verbally eviscerating Andrew Marvin always did that to him. Hearing the shouts of approval and disgust from the audience, feeling their collective adoration and hatred did it, too. Maybe the hatred should have disturbed him more, but if anything, it just reminded him that he was doing something right: something provocative and challenging to the status quo. Something that would piss his father off.

    And when Sebastien wasn¡¯t feeling melancholic or guilty about his father, he very much enjoyed pissing him off.

    The auditorium was crowded after the debate, and Sebastien had to fight to untangle himself from the admirers, reporters, and occasional hecklers who had gathered around him. It took a long time, and he was feeling good enough that he agreed to give several interviews, which prolonged the whole affair. Sebastien could get a little cocky when he was on the buzz of his own brilliance.

    The downside was that he missed Jess. By the time he was able to free himself, she was nowhere to be seen. Darkness had fallen, and when he checked his watch, he realised he was late for Imogen¡¯s showcase.

    He took a taxi from the university, and by the time he arrived at the warehouse, the performance had just begun. He stood in the back and watched over the heads of the crowd as the voices of Imogen and her parents filled the room, then the doctors ¡°entered¡±, surrounding Imogen and lifting her up, dragging her away as she screamed, cried, and puked.

    It was a bit on the nose for Sebastien, if he was being honest. He preferred Imogen¡¯s more subtle work. But he couldn¡¯t deny the emotional impact of the piece, and he thought she was very brave for putting herself out there so unapologetically. He would never have revealed the worst moments of his life like that. In fact, he couldn¡¯t think of anything more terrifying than being so emotionally vulnerable in front of a whole crowd of people.

    His eyes lit on Jess, who was standing near the front, watching Imogen with wide eyes. When she didn¡¯t think anyone was watching her, her face was more expressive than usual, and he watched with interest as shock, disgust, rage, and sadness passed over it. He liked her like this, he realised: open and vulnerable.

    Maybe she would like him like that, too.

    He didn¡¯t have to be vulnerable in front of a whole audience, like Imogen was. But he could summon the courage to be vulnerable in front of one person.

    Moving slowly but purposefully, Sebastien made his way through the crowd. When he reached Jess¡¯s side, he put a hand on her arm, and she looked up in surprise.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure you¡¯d make it,¡± she whispered. She placed her hand over his, then turned around to face him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I left without seeing you. I didn¡¯t want to miss Imogen¡¯s show.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± he murmured. ¡°I¡¯m just glad you¡¯re here now. Jess¡­¡± He swallowed. His throat had gone uncharacteristically dry. ¡°There¡¯s something I need to tell you.¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡± Her eyes, always so unreadable, seemed to be pulsating intensity, and for the first time in Sebastien Montague¡¯s life, words failed him. For the first time, his emotions could no longer be kept at bay. For the first time, he was tongue-tied and out of control.

    So he didn¡¯t use words. Instead, he kissed her. And she kissed him back, until the world around them melted away. Imogen¡¯s strangled screams; the audience¡¯s gasps and tears; everything faded. It was just the two of them, hot lips pressed into each other, and the feeling that the world was theirs.

 Six - Jess

    May 1993

    ¡°Hello? Professor Davidson?¡± Jess pushed open the door of the office and squinted into the dimness that greeted her. Her creative writing professor was sitting at his desk grading papers by the light of a small lamp, and he looked up at her knock.

    ¡°Ah yes, Miss Stevens, come in, come in,¡± Davidson said. He removed his spectacles as she sat down across from him and rubbed his eyes. When he glanced up at her, he looked tired. ¡°You wanted to talk about your novel?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Jess said hesitantly. She was perched on the edge of her seat, nerves making it difficult for her to get comfortable. ¡°I got your notes¡­¡±

    She pulled the manuscript from her bag and set it down on the table. Even on the first page, red marks covered the entire surface, suggesting words, advising changes, and scratching through words, sentences, and even entire paragraphs.

    When she looked back up at the professor, Jess was embarrassed to find that eyes were full of tears. ¡°You seem to hate my work,¡± she whispered, trying not to let her voice quaver.

    Professor Davidson frowned. His expression was not completely unsympathetic, but she knew him too well as a hardass to fool herself into believing he was about to go easy on her.

    ¡°You¡¯re not an untalented writer, Miss Stevens,¡± Davidson began. ¡°I¡¯ve told you this before. But your drafts are becoming increasingly overwritten. In each version, your characters get more unrealistic and harder to relate to. Where they were wooden and lifeless before, now they¡¯re over the top, almost caricatures. It¡¯s as if you take advice and then go to the opposite extreme.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to incorporate your feedback,¡± Jess rushed to say. She could hear the desperation in her voice, and it filled her with self-disgust. Couldn¡¯t she have any dignity in front of the professor?

    ¡°I understand,¡± Davidson said more gently, ¡°and I applaud the effort. You¡¯re a very hard worker. That¡¯s admirable.¡±

    There was a short silence as Jess chewed over her next words. ¡°Do you think¡­ I¡¯ll be able to use it for my senior thesis?¡±

    Davidson¡¯s frown lines deepened. ¡°Your novel? I would advise against against it. It¡¯s not in any shape for that. What about a portfolio of your nonfiction work? Would that suffice for a thesis?¡±

    Jess blinked, taken aback. Davidson taught the fiction course, and, as far she knew, had never read her nonfiction.

    When she said nothing, he leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. ¡°You write for the Weekly, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Uhh¡­ yeah. Why?¡±

    ¡°I read one of your articles. The one on the student showcase at the warehouse.¡± Davidson chuckled. ¡°Now that showed chutzpah, the way the art students thumbed their noses at Caldwell. Reminds me of how things were back in the seventies, when art was still radical¡­ And that Imogen Redfield, she¡¯s a character, isn¡¯t she?¡± Davidson¡¯s eyes briefly glittered, then he shook himself. ¡°Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that I was impressed your writing.¡±

    ¡°Thanks¡­¡± Jess wasn¡¯t quite sure where Davidson was going with this, but the reminder that Imogen made brave, radical art, whereas her writing was wooden and lifeless, was only making her feel worse.

    ¡°Tell me, Miss Stevens, do you want to be a journalist?¡±

    ¡°Oh¡­¡± Jess sat up a little straighter. ¡°I mean yes, of course I¡¯d love to work as a journalist. But my eventual goal is to become a novelist.¡±

    ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Davidson didn¡¯t look fully convinced by this. ¡°I was surprised reading your article by how funny and full of life it was. A far cry from your fiction, if I¡¯m being honest. Maybe it¡¯s easier for you to draw from real life than to make something up. Now now, don¡¯t look like that! It¡¯s not an insult. Every writer has to be honest with himself about his strengths and weaknesses. If fiction isn¡¯t your strong suit, that¡¯s nothing to be ashamed of. Having a dab hand at journalism is nothing to scoff at. There¡¯s more money in it than in fiction, anyway.¡±

    Jess didn¡¯t know what to say to this, so she said nothing. Davidson, however, wasn¡¯t done.

    ¡°You know, I have a friend who¡¯s starting a new magazine,¡± he said, leaning forward slightly. ¡°He asked me if I knew any students who might be interested in applying for the internship. It¡¯s paid, and if you do well, has the potential to turn into a full-time position.¡±

    Jess blinked. The dread, embarrassment, and annoyance that had filled her stomach just moments before had been distinguished, replaced with a new, hopeful feeling.

    ¡°And you thought of me?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Not at first,¡± Davidson admitted. ¡°But then I read your article. It was very funny, and my friend said specifically that he¡¯s looking for funny writers. You don¡¯t expect women to be funny, do you?¡± He shook his head, as if astonished by the discovery. ¡°But you¡¯re quite witty. I think you should apply for the internship. I¡¯d put in a good word for you with my friend as well, of course.¡±

    ¡°Oh, wow,¡± Jess sputtered. She could hardly believe her ears. ¡°Are you serious? Professor, thank you! Thank you so much!¡±

    Davidson smiled indulgently. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, dear girl. I¡¯m happy to help. Here, I¡¯ll get you his address. Send him your CV and a writing sample as soon as you can. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be as impressed with you as I am.¡±

    It was only when Jess was at the door to leave that she thought to ask what kind of magazine Davidson¡¯s friend was starting.

    The professor chortled. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s one of those new magazines¡ªwhat are they called? Lads mags. You know the ones. They cater to young men and their interests. Now run along Miss Stevens, I¡¯ve got a lot of grading to do.¡±

    Jess had heard of lads mags, alright. She¡¯s heard of them and she¡¯d fully written them off. No political aware young woman in the early 1990s looked kindly on a lads mag, and no self-respecting journalist aspired to work at one. Lads mags, such as Loaded and FHM, often featured covers of scantily-clad starlets, while the pages inside were similarly devoted to the objectification and exploitation of women. It wasn¡¯t just the pictures. The magazines were full of articles on how to ¡°get¡± women, usually utilising tricks and dubious methods of persuasion. They taught men to treat women, and dating, like a competitive sport. There were other, more tame elements of the lads mag, of course: articles on football and beer and other staples of ¡°lad¡± culture. Sometimes, sure, they were humorous. But more often they were cringey or even outright offensive.

    A lads mag was something that the Paul Hendersons of the world would read, and as she walked away from Professor Davidson¡¯s office, Jess didn¡¯t know whether or not to be offended by his suggestion she should write for one.

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    On the one hand, it was an honour that he would single her out for a job, especially with a friend from his well-known circle of literati. Davidson had plenty of students to choose from, and he didn¡¯t have to pick her. It was especially gratifying considering how much he seemed to hate her fiction.

    And yes, that stung. It hadn¡¯t been easy to hear his criticism, or his not-so-subtle misogyny. You don¡¯t expect women to be funny, do you? Jess grimaced and tried to push the comment from her thoughts. She was funny. Many people, including Sebastien and her editor, had commented on how amusing her articles were. Still, it gave her pause that someone who thought so lowly of women writers would present her with such an opportunity.

    Could it be a backhanded compliment? A way of telling her that she was only good enough for an unserious, sexist publication geared at young men who could barely read?

    But beyond the intention behind the offer, Jess¡¯s real question was whether it went against her moral compass to write for such a publication. She cringed at the thought of what Imogen would say if she knew Jess was considering it.

    Still, it was a writing job, right out of uni¡­ A chance to make money doing what she had always wanted to do. How many young writers got that kind of opportunity?

    These thoughts were still swirling through her mind when she met Sebastien later that afternoon. It was an unusually warm day for London in May, and after drinking some beers in Victoria Park, they walked to his flat. Even after a month of seeing each other, Jess still felt woozy and heady in Sebastien¡¯s presence. Her thoughts became muddled, and she feared that the poker face she had spent so many years perfecting slipped away, giving way to a mad, delirious happiness.

    Today was no different. She and Sebastien had barely made it through the door before they were ripping off each other¡¯s clothes, feverishly kissing as they undid buttons and pulled at zippers. After a frantic few moments of groping, they fell through the door to Sebastien¡¯s room and onto his bed.

    It was only then, when she and Sebastien were tangled up in the sheets, that her doubts and fears finally abated, replaced with an easy bliss that seemed to erase all thought, reducing Jess to pure instincts, pure feeling, pure pleasure.

    Later, however, as they smoked cigarettes in bed, her insecurities all came rushing back.

    ¡°You¡¯re quiet,¡± Sebastien said after several minutes. ¡°How was your meeting with Davidson?¡±

    ¡°It was good,¡± Jess lied, careful to keep her face neutral. ¡°My novel is on track to be ready for my senior thesis.¡±

    Sebastien¡¯s smile was vaguely concerned, and Jess wondered if she was losing her touch¡ªor if all the time they were spending together meant that Sebastien was learning how to read her. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, then?¡± he probed.

    She hesitated, but then decided she might as well tell him the truth. Anyway, if she took the job, he¡¯d find out soon enough.

    ¡°Davidson said he might be able to get me a job¡­¡± she began slowly. ¡°Writing for a friend¡¯s new magazine.¡±

    Sebastien¡¯s reaction was immediate and unsurprising. ¡°What?! Jess, that¡¯s amazing! I knew something like this would happen for you. You¡¯re so talented.¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± It was hard to keep some of the pleasure from her smile. She supposed it was pretty fabulous. Here she was, just twenty-one, and already being offered work as a writer. ¡°There¡¯s a catch. The magazine is sort of¡­ disreputable.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean? It¡¯s not The Sun, is it?¡± Sebastien laughed, as if the thought of the woman he was sleeping with working at The Sun was completely ludicrous.

    ¡°No,¡± she said, forcing a laugh, ¡°but it¡¯s not far off. It¡¯s a new lads mag called BOOM.¡±

    It took a moment for Sebastien to comprehend what she was saying. ¡°A lads mag¡­ like those ones with busty women on the cover?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. They¡¯re not just about women, though. They also have articles on football and drinking and such. You know¡­ lad culture.¡±

    ¡°But¡­¡± Sebastien looked confused. ¡°You don¡¯t know anything about lad culture. You write about art and politics for the Weekly. That¡¯s the kind of writing you should be doing.¡±

    Jess felt her face grow warm. ¡°Well, yeah, of course that¡¯s what I would prefer to do. But those jobs are few and far between, and usually go to the nieces and nephews of people who already work there.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s tr¡ª¡±

    ¡°It is true,¡± Jess interrupted, her annoyance flaring. What did Sebastien know about how hard it was to break into the UK writing industry? His family was rich and famous. Even if he spurned his dad, doors would open for him his whole life. It was different for her. She was from a lower-middle-class family with no connections. People weren¡¯t exactly eager to throw open doors for her. Added to which her more ¡°literary¡± writing was apparently shit¡­

    ¡°I¡¯m lucky to be offered a job like this,¡± she said after a calming breath. ¡°The editor is looking for funny writers, and Davidson thinks I¡¯d be a good fit. It makes sense, Sebastien. I need to work after uni. I don¡¯t have any money, and my parents can¡¯t afford to help me. It¡¯s a paying job, and from there, I can work my way up to more serious publications.¡±

    But Sebastien was shaking his head, and the look on his face was incredulous. ¡°You don¡¯t want to start out at a place like that,¡± he insisted. ¡°It will hurt your reputation in the industry. I mean, no one at the LRB is going to hire a writer who wrote for a lads mag!¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know that!¡± Jess felt her temper rising. Why was Sebastien being so unsupportive?

    ¡°I do,¡± Sebastien said flatly. ¡°I know those types of people, and trust me, they¡¯re snobs.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re the one who¡¯s being a snob right now!¡± Jess snapped. She stubbed out her cigarette on the nightstand, then threw back the covers. ¡°I thought you would be pleased for me. Proud, even. But instead, you¡¯re making me feel like shit for something I¡¯ve worked really hard for. BOOM might not be the most prestigious magazine, but it would give me a leg up in the industry, and, more importantly, would allow me to support myself as a working writer.

    She was half dressed by the time Sebastien seemed to realise what was happening.

    ¡°Wait, Jess! Don¡¯t go!¡± He pushed back the covers and struggled to dress himself as she reached for the door. She had already gotten down the corridor to the kitchen by the time he caught up with her.

    ¡°Jess, wait,¡± he said, catching her hand. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Really, I am. I didn¡¯t mean to offend you.¡±

    Jess paused and turned to face Sebastien. He did look earnest as he gazed down at her, his hair still rumpled from bed and his clothes crooked. Even in his dishevelled state, he was so handsome it took her breath away.

    ¡°The only reason I pushed back was because I think you¡¯re too good for it,¡± he said softly. ¡°You¡¯re one of the best writers I¡¯ve ever met, and I know you¡¯re going to get a good job at a place you¡¯ll be proud to work. It¡¯s scary, I know, to start out in this field. But I want you to have as much faith in yourself as I have in you. Because trust me, you¡¯re special.¡±

    Jess took a deep breath and allowed herself to relax. It was hard to stay mad at Sebastien when he was looking at her with such ardent admiration. And she wanted his words to be true so badly¡­

    ¡°The truth is, I was defensive because I know it¡¯s a shit magazine,¡± she said finally. Sebastien¡¯s mouth quirked up in amusement, and she laughed. ¡°And I¡¯m afraid that taking the job¡ªif I can even get it¡ªwould be selling out. I don¡¯t want to be the kind of person who settles. I¡¯m just scared. What if¡­ what if I never make it?¡±

    And then suddenly she was crying. Hot, thick tears were rolling down her cheeks, her nose was running, and hiccuping sobs jolted from her chest. In the space of seconds, the mask she had so carefully constructed for herself had fallen away, and she was admitting her worst fears to Sebastien Montague.

    What was happening to her?

    ¡°Oh, Jess¡­¡± Sebastien pulled her into a tight hug. ¡°Of course you¡¯re going to make it.¡± He released her and kissed the tip of her nose. ¡°I¡¯ve never been so sure of anything in my life.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± she blubbered.

    ¡°Really. You don¡¯t have to work at a lads mag. We¡¯ll find you something better.¡± He chuckled. ¡°We¡¯re far too young and idealistic to settle, right?¡±

    Jess agreed with him, and so for that afternoon, she allowed herself to believe him and the faith he had in her. Even for the next few days, his certainty buoyed her. It gave her the confidence to look for other jobs; to not send off her CV to the editor of BOOM.

    But it didn¡¯t last. She¡¯d known it wouldn¡¯t, because Jess wasn¡¯t like Sebastien. She didn¡¯t have his safety net and she didn¡¯t have his blind confidence. All she had were her own talent and seering ambition, both of which were screaming at her that she¡¯d be a fool to throw away an opportunity to work in journalism just because she thought she was too good for it.

    So at the end of the week, she secretly sent off her CV and her funniest, tritest piece to Professor Davidson¡¯s friend.. Within the week, he¡¯d written back to congratulate her on becoming the newest editorial intern at BOOM Magazine.

    There was no need for Sebastien to know, she told herself. At least not yet.

 Seven - Alastair

    June 1993

    Graduation was upon them, but Alastair had barely noticed. In a strange twist of fate, graduation week had coincided with A-La-Stair¡¯s release¡ªthanks to the help of Ian Baldwin¡ªof their first single. Even more bizarrely, graduation day fell on Sunday, the same day BBC 1 released the Official Chart that would tell him how well the single had done in its first week. On the exact day Alastair graduated from uni, he would also find out if he was on his way to becoming a rockstar.

    In the meantime, the song was out on the air, being played on independent rock stations all across the UK to commuters driving home from work, shoppers perusing window displays at the mall, and kids lounging around parks with their portable walkmans. On top of that, the single was being sold on CDs and cassette tapes at all the major music stores. All of this was being promoted and supported by the band, which was playing five nights a week at London venues. Alastair was simultaneously always exhausted and full of a constant, buzzing energy. It was the strangest feeling of his life¡ªand helped along by the little baggies of cocaine that Ian Baldwin had started providing to all the members of A-La-Stair.

    ¡°Just a little pick-me-up,¡± he explained to Alastair, the first time he handed him the small plastic bag. ¡°To get you through this busy time.¡±

    The result of all this hubbub was that Alastair barely noticed that his graduation day was upon him and had to ask last-minute if they could cancel their gig for the night. Ian wasn¡¯t pleased, but Alastair had to insist. It was a miracle that he¡¯d been able to graduate uni while starting a rock band, and he wanted to celebrate this moment, and this achievement, with his friends.

    The day after graduation, A-La-Stair would be leaving on tour. It was a modest endeavour, just around the UK. But it would help them gain exposure. So even if the single wasn¡¯t a success today¡ªor in the next few weeks¡ªit could become so. Baldwin told him he had to be patient, that success didn¡¯t come overnight. ¡°We¡¯ll build you up through word-of-mouth,¡± he¡¯d said during their last meeting. ¡°You¡¯re not a pop artist, so exposure will take time. But once people hear your sound, they¡¯ll be hooked.¡±

    Of course, it could all turn out for naught. The single could flop, Ian Baldwin could turn out to be a dud, the record label could drop them, and he could find himself starting all over. Except it would be even harder, the older he got, to get a band off the ground. Producers wanted acts that were young and in touch with the zeitgeist. If A-La-Stair failed, then he would just be older and more washed up¡ªnot to mention probably still broke. At least he¡¯d have a university degree, he supposed, although the idea of working an office job felt particularly bleak.

    This thought was looming over him the morning of graduation as he and Sebastien walked the familiar route to uni in their caps and gowns.

    ¡°Are you feeling nervous about the single?¡± Sebastien asked him, as they paused at an intersection.

    Alastair quickly smoothed out his expression and let out a laugh. ¡°No way, mate. I¡¯m buzzin¡¯.¡±

    Sebastien nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. There was a distant look in his eyes that felt incongruous with the jovial spirit of the day.

    ¡°Are you nervous?¡± Alastair asked, although he wasn¡¯t sure what Sebastien would have to be nervous about. He had landed a job working as a policy advisor to a Labour MP in Greenwich. It even paid well, which those jobs never did. Anyway, Sebastien wasn¡¯t exactly prone to dread about the future. Alastair loved the man, but everything in life had been handed to him, and it had given him an outsized notion of what lay in store for him.

    Not that Alastair ever said this. He didn¡¯t like to bring down the good mood by bringing up class dynamics.

    ¡°I¡¯m not nervous,¡± Sebastien said slowly. ¡°It¡¯s Jess, actually¡­¡±

    Alastair gave him a bracing smile. ¡°I¡¯m sure you two will stay together after graduation. You both seem really smitten.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that. Did she tell you she got a job writing for a lads mag?¡±

    ¡°A what?¡±

    ¡°You know, one of those magazines that have naked women on the covers. They¡¯re all about lad culture.¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, she didn¡¯t. But that¡¯s great! Good for her.¡±

    Sebastien frowned. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯ll be great for her. I just wish¡­¡±

    The light changed, and in the surge of people crossing the street, the friends got separated. It was only once they reached the other side that Sebastien was able to finish his thought.

    ¡°We talked about it, and she said she wasn¡¯t going to take it,¡± he said, as they turned left up Morpeth Street. ¡°But then she went ahead and applied without telling me.¡±

    ¡°Maybe she changed her mind.¡± Alastair was always the first to give someone the benefit of the doubt, and he wasn¡¯t entirely sure what the problem was. Jess was her own woman, and she was allowed to apply to a job without consulting Sebastien first.

    ¡°I just wish she¡¯d told me¡­¡± Sebastien grimaced. ¡°I mean, I think she¡¯s too good for that kind of magazine, but she still should have told me. I would have been happy for her. It makes me feel like she doesn¡¯t trust me.¡±

    ¡°Maybe she knew you disapproved and didn¡¯t want to disappoint you,¡± Alastair said gently. ¡°You know, your approval means a lot to people.¡±

    Something in his voice made Sebastien turn towards him, his eyebrows knit together. ¡°Does it mean a lot to you?¡±

    Alastair looked away. He tried to appear casual as he shrugged. ¡°It doesn¡¯t mean nothing. I¡¯m not Imogen, after all. I can feel self doubt.¡± They both laughed, and Alastair threw an arm around his old friend, trying to lighten the mood. ¡°When you¡¯re very opinionated, it can make the people worry they¡¯ll do something that will piss you off. It¡¯s not a bad thing. We all love your opinions. We just don¡¯t want to get on the wrong side of them.¡±

    ¡°Give me an example,¡± Sebastien said.

    ¡°Well¡­ why do you think I never dropped out of Eton? Or uni? I mean, Jesus, I was close a couple of times. But I could always hear you in the back of my head, telling me that my education would be something I could fall back on, if the music didn¡¯t work out. Jess is probably the same way. She wants a career in writing, but she¡¯s afraid to go about it in a way that the effortlessly perfect Sebastien Montague wouldn¡¯t like.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not effortlessly perfect,¡± Sebastien said, frowning.

    ¡°I know, dude,¡± Alastair said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. ¡°I know you work hard at it.¡±

    They both laughed again, and Alastair felt the usual surge of joy he got every time he managed to cheer someone up. Apart from making music, it was the thing he was best at. That was part of what he loved about music. It brought people together, made them feel good. And that¡¯s what Alastair was all about: making people feel good.

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    ¡°Just give Jess a break,¡± he said now. ¡°She¡¯s just starting out. We all are.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a far cry from just starting out,¡± Sebastien pointed out. ¡°You released a single this week!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well¡­¡± For a moment, Alastair thought about telling Sebastien the truth: that he was scared shitless; that the pressure to succeed was making him turn more and more often to the baggie of cocaine; that he worried constantly he was too old, too stubborn, and too talentless to make it big. But he couldn¡¯t bring himself to do it. Sebastien was already worried about Jess, and he didn¡¯t want to add to his anxieties. Anyway, his friend seemed so excited for him. How could he ruin that by expressing his doubts?

    So instead, he pointed to an off licence on the corner and said, ¡°Speaking of, we should celebrate! Why don¡¯t we get some cheap bottles of bubbly to split with the girls?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s ten in the morning,¡± Sebastien said uncertainly. ¡°And do we really want to be drunk when we pick up our diplomas?¡±

    ¡°Fuck yeah we do!¡± Alastair shouted, causing a few passing people to stare at him. ¡°If we can¡¯t drink the morning of our graduation, when can we?! C¡¯mon, Seb, I released a single this week, we¡¯re graduating uni, we¡¯re young and full of life¡­ Let''s celebrate!¡±

    ¡°Alright¡­¡± Sebastien still looked doubtful, but he followed Alastair into the shop, and by the time Alastair had purchased the bottles and opened one outside on the street, all his sadness seemed to have evaporated.

    They met the girls outside of the auditorium where they were going to get their diplomas. All around them, their fellow students were dressed in their caps and gowns, drinking beers, and posing for pictures. Alastair opened the second bottle, and the four of them took turns swigging from it. They were all delirious with excitement, and when they finally separated to line up in alphabetical order, Alastair¡¯s head was spinning: not just from the alcohol, but from the magic of the moment. He had no way of knowing how the single was doing. He had no idea if things would work out. He was still scared shitless. But as he filed into the auditorium, seated himself in a metal folding chair, and listened as an anticipatory hush fell over the audience, an unprecedented optimism filled him. Whatever happened next, he was here now, and it was exactly where he wanted to be.

    Afterwards, the friends met at The Book End to celebrate. None of Alastair¡¯s family had been able to make the ceremony, so he had no well-wishers to shake off and arrived early. Both Jess and Imogen¡¯s families had come, so they took a bit longer to arrive at the pub. Sebastien¡¯s father, of course, had been in attendance. The university president had made a point of welcoming him during his opening speech. But things were frosty between the younger and elder Montague, and Sebastien turned up to the pub fairly quickly, looking mutinous. Seeing his father always did that to him. In fact, it was their mutual strained familial relationships that had drawn Alastair and Sebastien together in the first place. And the moment he saw his friend, Alastair slid a pint across the table towards him.

    ¡°Something to help the pain go down,¡± he joked.

    Sebastien grunted and seized the pint, gulping down half of it in one go. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, ¡°Leaving uni will be a new start, right?¡±

    ¡°Of course it will,¡± Alastair assured him, grinning broadly and signalling to the waitress for another round. Now that he was good and loaded, he was feeling good. It was amazing how a few pints could wash away all his fears and doubts.

    The girls got there soon after, and then the party really started: rounds of pints, open bottles of sparkling wine, and greasy pub food to keep them from getting too drunk and passing out. There were other graduates in the pub, as it was a favourite of the more artsy Queen Mary crowd, and the atmosphere was boisterous. Even Jess, who was usually more restrained than the rest, was getting proper pissed. It made her looser, and as the afternoon wore on, she put her arm around Sebastien¡¯s shoulder. Alastair had never seen her acknowledge their private relationship in public before, and he was warmed by the soft, dewy look Sebastien gave her. It seemed that all had been forgiven in regards to her taking the lads mag job.

    Ian Baldwin had told Alastair to call at four o¡¯clock, which was when the Official Chart would be announced on BBC Radio 1. And as four o¡¯clock approached, Alastair¡¯s nerves intensified. Even with the blunting effect of alcohol, he could still feel his heart rate beginning to pick up and the back of his neck and palms beginning to sweat. It only made him louder and more exuberant, however, in order to disguise his feelings from his friends.

    At 3:50, he excused himself to the bathroom. Bypassing the urinals, he locked himself in one of the stalls, then took out the bag of cocaine he¡¯d hidden in the inner pocket of his suit. He¡¯d promised himself he wouldn¡¯t do any today, but now that he was a few pints in, he didn¡¯t see the problem.

    It¡¯ll give me a boost, he told himself. In case things go bad with the single.

    He dipped his pinkie into the bag and brought out a small bump, which he snorted quickly. The effects were almost instantaneous: a rush of energy and confidence, the feeling that he was invincible. Leaning back against the metal stall door, he closed his eyes. This is what being a rockstar would feel like all the time. He was sure of it.

    After another minute, he did another bump¡ªwhat could it hurt?¡ªthen headed back out into the pub. He was still sniffing a lot, so instead of going back to the table, he went straight to the bar. It was better if his friends didn¡¯t know about the baggie of cocaine. Somehow, he knew they would disapprove.

    ¡°Hey Tom, can I use your phone?¡± he asked the bartender. ¡°I want to check how the single¡¯s doing.¡±

    ¡°Sure thing.¡± Tom slid the phone across the countertop. ¡°We¡¯ve been playing it all week, if that¡¯s any comfort.¡±

    Alastair grinned. ¡°Cheers, mate.¡±

    He dialled Ian¡¯s number into the phone and then listened as it rang once, twice, three times¡­

    ¡°Is that you, Alastair?¡± Baldwin¡¯s voice, always so cheerful, sounded euphoric as he answered the phone. Alastair¡¯s hand tightened on the receiver. His mouth was so dry it was difficult to speak.

    ¡°It¡¯s me,¡± he croaked. His back was turned to his friends. He didn¡¯t want them to see the nervousness on his face.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve got good news for you, my boy,¡± Baldwin boomed. ¡°Great news, really. Are you ready for this?¡±

    Alastair nodded into the receiver, but Baldwin didn¡¯t wait for him to speak anyway. ¡°A-La-Stair¡¯s debut single, ¡°Unsung Heroes¡±, has hit number 21 on the UK Charts. It¡¯s happening, Alastair. You¡¯re an indie rock musician, and within one week of releasing your first single, you¡¯ve cracked the top 25. Congratulations, my boy. You¡¯re a rockstar!¡±

    Alastair didn¡¯t hear any more. The phone fell from his hands and skidded across the countertop. Tom reached for it, looking concerned.

    ¡°It¡¯s good,¡± Alastair managed to choke out. Then he turned around to face his friends. They were all watching him with anxious expressions.

    ¡°We hit number 21,¡± Alastair heard himself say. ¡°We hit number 21!¡±

    All three friends began to shout in delight, and they weren¡¯t alone. Everyone who drank at The Book End knew Alastair. He¡¯d been playing there for years, and they¡¯d watched him hone his skills and signature sound. And as the news spread quickly throughout the pub, there were gasps, cheers, and applause from all corners.

    ¡°Alastair!¡± Imogen screeched, jumping up from her seat and running across the room to wrap her arms around him. ¡°You did it! You really did it!¡±

    Moments later, Sebastien had also barrelled into them, followed quickly by Jess. Alastair was crushed and winded, but he didn¡¯t care. Energy like he had never felt it was coursing through him, and he didn¡¯t think it had anything to do with the coke. He was on top of the world. Number 21 was better than he ever could have hoped for. It wasn¡¯t unheard of for a new act to debut on the Official Chart, but it was rare for an indie rock band. Usually, it was shiny pop stars groomed by the industry¡ªand who didn¡¯t write their own music¡ªwho had chart-topping hits right off the bat. But here Alastair was writing heavy rock anthems about youth culture and his love affair with rock¡¯n¡¯roll and still cracking the Top 25. It was unbelievable. And it was happening.

    The four-person hug disentangled, and then Alastair was being congratulated by a crowd of admirers. They all wanted to shake his hand and tell him how they¡¯d always believed in him, how they¡¯d been rooting for him from the beginning. Tom was one of the last to congratulate him.

    ¡°Don¡¯t forget about us,¡± he joked, his eyes sparkling, ¡°when you¡¯re rich and famous.¡±

    ¡°Never,¡± Alastair promised. ¡°I¡¯ll never forget where I come from.¡±

    It was almost too good to be true, and as Alastair sat back down with his friends in their booth, where Tom brought a complimentary bottle of bubbly, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a nagging doubt that it was.

    Much later, after the rest of the city had fallen asleep, the four friends sat on Imogen¡¯s balcony and looked out over the rooftops of London. Dawn was just beginning to peak over the horizon, a splattering of pink against the dark greys of the capital. They¡¯d been up all night celebrating. Now, the city was quiet; they were quiet. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to discuss. Each of them, Alastair knew, was thinking about the future: Imogen would be starting a residency in Hackney, secured for her by her agent; Jess would begin writing for BOOM; Sebastien would move to Greenwich to change the world; and he, Alastair, would be leaving on tour. He was calmer now. Less afraid. Accepting, finally.

    Life would never be the same again, he knew, but he didn¡¯t want it to be. Life was his for the taking, and now that he¡¯d seized it, he was ready to see what unknown roads awaited him.

 Eight - Jess

    PART II

    1993 - 1997

    ¡°Maybe I will never be

    All the things that I wanna be¡­¡±

    <ul>

    <li style="text-align: center">Oasis, Live Forever</li>

    </ul>

    <hr>

    November 1993

    ¡°Jess, is it?¡±

    Jess looked up to see a tall, well-dressed man standing in front of her, a pleasant¡ªif plastic¡ªsmile on his face. She had seen Dominic Harrow from a distance before, but this was the first time they had interacted. The editor of BOOM was surprisingly posh, with a fine, aquiline nose, chic Prada glasses, an expensive suit and neatly polished loafers. He looked like someone she¡¯d expect to find at The New Yorker, and exactly like how she¡¯d imagined Professor Davidson¡¯s friend. The only curious part was why he was the editor at a place like BOOM, where most of the reporters dressed like teenage boys and acted even more juvenile.

    Dominic Harrow held out his hand, and she scrambled to her feet, shaking it in what she hoped was a firm-but-not-too-enthusiastic-manner. Sebastien, of course, would have known exactly the correct way to shake this man¡¯s hand. Jess had to fake it.

    ¡°Please, come in,¡± Harrow said, gesturing towards his office. Jess followed him inside. The office was spacious, with tasteful modern furniture and large corner windows that looked out over Westminster. When Jess pictured who she wanted to be in fifteen years, this was the kind of office she saw herself in, overseeing some prestigious magazine or else as a columnist at an important paper. Perhaps if she ever became a novelist, she¡¯d have an office like this at her home.

    A twinge of guilt filled her stomach at the thought of her novel. It had been months since she¡¯d worked on it. When people asked her what she was doing now that she was out of university¡ªor, more condescendingly, what she wanted to be when she grew up¡ªshe would tell she was an aspiring novelist. ¡°But I work at a magazine as my day job.¡± If they enquired more about the magazine, she¡¯d say vaguely it was a lifestyle magazine. They usually wanted to know more, at which point she would have to admit she worked for BOOM. Depending on who was asking, she¡¯d get a mixed reaction. Most of her parents¡¯ friends hadn¡¯t heard of it, thankfully, but most of the other twenty-somethings she met at bars had. Some would raise their eyebrows, others would laugh. A few would congratulate her on landing a job in print media. Many asked how she could stand working for such a sexist publication. And Jess would give some run-of-the-mill answer about how it was just a stepping stone to bigger and better things, but truthfully, she didn¡¯t know how she stood it.

    No one had done anything outright rude to her during her tenure at BOOM. Sure, some colleagues had told her she should wear high heels, if she wanted to be taken seriously. The male reporters often talked over her, even occasionally took credit for her ideas. But the worst part was the constant lad humour, which she felt on the outside of. She had tried going to drinks with her coworkers, but they talked only about football and women, and she¡¯d felt uncomfortable and stupid.

    The internship itself was fine. It consisted more of copyediting than actual writing, but she didn¡¯t mind. She felt like she was putting in her time, and anyway, she hadn¡¯t exactly been eager to write articles about why liking football didn¡¯t make you a hooligan and who was the sexiest actress on TV. The longer the internship went on, however, the more small writing assignments she was asked to do. Which is why she was here, speaking to Dominic Harrow.

    ¡°So Jess,¡± he said, settling himself in the chair behind his desk and motioning that she should sit as well. ¡°Have you been enjoying your time here at BOOM?¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes,¡± Jess gushed, painting a smile on her face. ¡°I¡¯m so grateful for the opportunity, and I¡¯ve learned so much. I can¡¯t thank you enough for letting me be part of this.¡±

    ¡°Well, you¡¯ve earned it. From everything your colleagues have shared with me, you¡¯ve been doing a wonderful job.¡± Harrow smiled benignly. It didn¡¯t extend to his eyes, which were looking her over in an uncomfortably appraising kind of way. ¡°Which is precisely why I wanted to talk to you today. Originally, we had planned for the internship to last six months, which means it would be over by the end of this month.¡±

    Jess felt her stomach churn. As little as the internship paid, she wasn¡¯t sure what she would do without it. The rent on her apartment was steep, and she didn¡¯t have any other writing jobs lined up. She¡¯d been applying, and trying to freelance on the side, but so far there hadn¡¯t been any bites.

    ¡°However, I know we had mentioned that the internship could potentially turn into a full-time job,¡± Harrow continued. ¡°Is that something that would interest you?¡±

    ¡°Yes, absolutely.¡± Even though Jess had a lot of misgivings about working at BOOM, she was no longer so naive as to even consider turning down a paid writing job¡ªespecially one with benefits. ¡°I would love to work here,¡± she added. Her cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling, but she didn¡¯t dare stop.

    ¡°That¡¯s fantastic to hear. Before we make a final decision, however, we¡¯d like to ask you to write a full article for us, complete with research and interviews. You¡¯ve learned how to do this while at BOOM, correct?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Jess thought of the interviews she¡¯d sat in on¡ªmostly late-twenty-something male reports getting pissed with athletes and musicians. ¡°I also interviewed people when I wrote for the Queen Mary Weekly.¡±

    ¡°Fantastic!¡± He spoke, Jess decided, like a used car salesman. All exclamation points and no depth. ¡°We¡¯ve put a call out for interviewees. Girls in their twenties who want to talk about what they¡¯re really looking for.¡±

    The smile on Jess¡¯s face finally slipped. ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked.

    Harrow drummed his fingers on the desk. ¡°We want you to write an article on the secrets that girls are too embarrassed to tell men: the things they really want in a relationship, especially in bed. You know, like how some girls like it rough in bed, but are afraid to say so because it might not be feminist.¡±

    Jess¡¯s mouth had gone dry. ¡°And you want me to write that?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re perfect for it,¡± Harrow said, nodding. ¡°You must have noticed, but we don¡¯t have a lot of female reporters on staff.¡±

    ¡°Umm, yeah, I guess I noticed.¡±

    ¡°Which is why you¡¯re so valuable. You can talk to girls in a way that our male reporters can¡¯t. Really get them to open to you¡­ to confide in you. Nothing is off limits. Just make sure you get their written consent to use their responses before the interview, okay? We don¡¯t want them getting their knickers in a bunch later if they¡¯re embarrassed by what we print. Do you know what I mean?¡±

    Jess nodded. She was fairly certain that she was being asked to make women confess things they absolutely would not want printed in a paper. And the reason she was being asked to do it wasn¡¯t because of her talent or hard work, but because she was also a woman.

    ¡°Very good!¡± Harrow clapped his hands together. All that was missing, she thought, was for him to smack his lips together like he was about to dig into a juicy steak. This was why he worked at BOOM, not The New Yorker. He might look posh, but he was a lad underneath. ¡°I knew you were the girl for this job!¡±

    Jess wanted to correct him¡ªshe was a woman, not a girl¡ªbut she didn¡¯t think Harrow would look kindly on it. He had turned back to his computer, and Jess realised she was dismissed. Rising, she thanked him for his time and for the opportunity. She was just on her way out the door when Harrow called her name.

    ¡°Yes?¡± she said, turning back.

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    ¡°Do the interviews at a bar,¡± he said. ¡°Girls are looser when they¡¯re drunk.¡± He winked, and she smiled tightly before beating a hasty retreat.

    ¡°You can¡¯t write that article,¡± Sebastien said, staring at her over his half-raised glass of wine. ¡°It goes against everything you believe in.¡±

    They were out for drinks at a wine bar halfway between their offices, where they often met after work. It was a nice place, modern and trendy and a little bit out of their price range, but both of them pretended otherwise. Jess suspected they were trying on the identity of successful, office-going, nine-to-five-working adults who could afford to spend ¡ê7 on a glass of wine. She liked this version of herself; or at least, she liked the idea of this version of herself. When she saw herself as the successful writer with the corner office, she saw herself as someone who drank at this kind of place. And Sebastien, she imagined, had always seen himself going to posh bars. For all his politics, he wasn¡¯t someone who would drink at a grimey working-class pub. Unless Alastair was around, of course. But Alastair hadn¡¯t been around in months.

    Right now, however, Jess felt very far away from the successful writer with the corner office. She¡¯d just told Sebastien about the article Harrow wanted her to write, and already, she regretted it. He was looking at her with such horror¡ªand was it judgement?¡ªthat she wanted to slam her wine down on the table and storm out of the bar.

    ¡°It¡¯s not as bad as you think,¡± she said instead, carefully placing the glass on the table. ¡°It¡¯s not like I¡¯ll be writing anything the women haven¡¯t consented to being printed.¡±

    ¡°But you heard him¡­ he wants you to manipulate them. Get them drunk, make them feel safe, and convince them to say things they wouldn¡¯t otherwise.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s called journalism,¡± Jess said sourly.

    Sebastien raised an eyebrow. ¡°Well it¡¯s not the kind of journalism you used to do.¡±

    ¡°What do you want from me, Sebastien?¡± She kept her voice quiet, but she knew he saw the hard glint of anger in her eyes. They¡¯d been having this same argument for six months now: him telling her she should quit BOOM, that she was too good for it, that it was a sexist, garbage publication; her insisting that she needed the money and experience. ¡°Harrow pretty much made my full-time employment contingent on writing this article. What choice do I have, if I want a full-time writing job?¡±

    ¡°You know what I want from you,¡± he said, his voice still even. ¡°I want you to believe in yourself and live up to your potential.¡±

    ¡°I do believe in myself. This is just what I have to do right now.¡±

    Sebastien took a sip of wine before answering. When he lowered his glass, he looked at her pointedly. ¡°How¡¯s your novel going?¡±

    That was the final straw. Jess stood, her chair scraping against the ground. She tried not to draw too much attention to herself as she grabbed her purse and coat from the back of the chair. ¡°You,¡± she hissed, ¡°can be such an arsehole.¡±

    She was half-expecting him to chase her out of the restaurant and and beg her forgiveness. She shouldn¡¯t have been surprised when he didn¡¯t. Ever since graduation, things had been steadily worsening between the two of them. While they saw each other regularly, their fights were getting more regular and more vitriolic. Jess didn¡¯t understand why Sebastien couldn¡¯t just support her career. She knew it wasn¡¯t ideal, but what twenty-two-year-old had their ideal job?

    The answer, of course, was Sebastien Montague.

    That was why he was so hard on her, she knew. He had his dream job right out of uni and judged her for settling for less. Maybe he also thought it reflected poorly on him, having a girlfriend who wrote for a lads mag. He probably worried it would impede his rise through the ranks of the Labour Party if she worked for a place that was so contrary to his values.

    Except Jess wasn¡¯t even sure she was Sebastien¡¯s girlfriend. They had never defined their relationship, and while she knew he cared for her deeply, she was also sure he would choose his career¡ªand his convictions¡ªover any personal relationship. He¡¯d chosen them over his own father.

    It made her feel constantly on edge in the relationship¡ªand unsure if she wanted to risk her career for the approval of a man who couldn¡¯t even commit to her.

    The next day, she was still thinking about Sebastien¡¯s words when she arrived at the office. The problem with his criticism was that she agreed with it. That¡¯s also why she wished so badly that he would just have her back. It was hard enough hating her job and questioning herself every day, wondering if she was doing the right thing, without her boyfriend making her feel like shit about it. Didn¡¯t he know she was torn? Couldn¡¯t he put his own feelings aside and tell her he trusted her to find her own path forward?

    For the morning, Jess buried herself in copyediting work. Meanwhile, her email kept dinging with new responses to the advertisement for the interview on ¡°what women really want.¡± She tried to ignore them. It wasn¡¯t possible to put off scheduling the interviews forever, but she wished it was.

    What kind of women respond to that kind of interview anyway? She thought angrily as her email dinged again. Attention-seeking slags, probably.

    A shiver of self-disgust went through her as she realised what she¡¯d just thought. This place was starting to rub off on her. If she wasn¡¯t careful, she would start thinking like the men who worked here.

    At lunchtime, she logged out of her email and went to the kitchen, where she was just getting her leftovers out of the refrigerator when she heard a woman¡¯s voice behind her.

    ¡°Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the coffee filters?¡±

    Jess turned and nearly dropped her lunch. Standing in front of her was Julia Brentwood. Jess would have recognised her anywhere. Julia Brentwood was a legendary columnist. She¡¯d written for all the major publications, including the London Review of Books, the Paris Review, and Granta. She was an icon and one of Jess¡¯s favourite writers.

    ¡°Oh my god!¡± Jess couldn¡¯t help the exclamation from slipping. ¡°You¡¯re Julia Brentwood!¡±

    Julia looked momentarily taken aback, then smiled. ¡°Yes, I am.¡± She held out her hand. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±

    ¡°Nice to meet you too,¡± Jess said, shaking it. ¡°Jess Stevens. I¡¯m a huge fan of yours.¡±

    ¡°Are you?¡± Julia¡¯s eyes sparkled. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not too humble to admit that it¡¯s always a pleasure to meet a fan.¡±

    ¡°Your article on Joan Didion in the Paris Review is what made me want to be a writer,¡± Jess gushed. She felt star-struck. In her six months working at BOOM, she¡¯d never crossed paths with anyone she admired so much. Nor had she suspected to. BOOM¡¯s corridors weren¡¯t exactly teeming with respected writers. ¡°What¡­ what are you doing at BOOM?¡± she asked, hoping her tone didn¡¯t suggest any judgement.

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m here as a favour to Harrow,¡± Julia said with a shrug. ¡°We used to be at The Guardian together. I¡¯m writing the next cover story on Cindy Crawford.¡±

    ¡°You are?¡± This time, Jess couldn¡¯t keep some of the surprise from her voice. ¡°For BOOM?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t look so shocked,¡± Julia said with a laugh. ¡°Harrow will take it personally. He¡¯s very sensitive, you know.¡±

    Jess flushed at once, her armpits prickling with sweat in embarrassment. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to imply¡ªit¡¯s just¡­¡± She swallowed, unsure if she was bold enough to ask what she needed to. But this, she reckoned, might be her only chance to get advice from someone whose career she actually wanted. ¡°My boyfriend doesn¡¯t really approve of me working here,¡± she blurted out. ¡°He thinks the articles are chauvinist and that I should be¡­ I dunno, doing something different.¡±

    There was a short silence. Julia tilted her head to one side and considered Jess, who could feel the heat on her cheeks and neck. She was sure Julia thought she was crazy, but at least she was still there, so that was something.

    ¡°Harrow wants me to do this article,¡± Jess continued, before she completely lost her nerve, ¡°but it¡¯s kind of taking advantage of women, and I don¡¯t know if I should do it. I want a career like yours, and I¡¯m afraid that if I do it, no one will take me seriously. But I¡¯m afraid if I don¡¯t, I¡¯ll lose my job, and never make it as a journalist and writer. And I just¡ª¡±

    ¡°Can I give you some advice?¡± Julia interrupted. She didn¡¯t seem annoyed, but there was a businesslike tone to her voice that told Jess this conversation would soon be coming to a close.

    ¡°Of course,¡± she rushed to say. ¡°Please.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to your boyfriend. He¡¯s not a journalist, I¡¯m assuming? Because if he was, he¡¯d understand that to make it in this industry, especially as a woman, you have to be a bitch. People are not just going to hand you the opportunities you want. You have to take what you¡¯re given and be the best at it, and then keep taking and taking, until you¡¯ve created the career you want. No will give a fuck about an article you wrote exploiting women when you were twenty-two. They¡¯ll give a fuck that you can follow directions, write quickly, get good interviews, and sell papers. That¡¯s what this industry is all about: selling papers. It¡¯s a business, like anything else. And here¡¯s the thing no one else will tell you: if you sell enough papers, then you can write whatever the fuck you want. So I¡¯d suggest you do this article, make it the best it can be, and show Harrow that you have what it takes to claw your way to the top.¡±

    Jess¡¯s mouth was slightly open, and she shut it quickly. ¡°Thank you, Ms. Brentwood,¡± she murmured. ¡°I really appreciate that.¡±

    Julia Brentwood gave her a sly smile. ¡°Good luck, Jess. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll be great.¡±

    ¡°Coffee filters are there.¡± Jess pointed to the press above the toaster. She then left the kitchen before she said or did anything else to embarrass herself. In a daze, she made her way back to her desk. Only once she was there did she realise she hadn¡¯t heated up her leftovers. She stared at her computer, her heart pounding. Had that really just happened? She¡¯s just met Julia Brentwood, and she¡¯d told her to be a bitch. Well, that tracked. Julia Brentwood was known for her no-holds-barred approach.

    Logging back into her email, Jess saw three more emails from women interested in being interviewed for her article. For a moment, she stared at them, thinking hard. Then she clicked into the first one.

    At the same time, something seemed to unlock deep in her belly. It was as if she¡¯d been holding something back, burying it down, and now it was finally free: the feeling of giving no fucks; of wanting to be good at her job; of wanting to be unapologetic. The force of the feeling surprised her. She hadn¡¯t even realised how badly she¡¯d been wanting to write the article for Harrow.

    It was permission, she realised. She had finally given herself permission to pursue what she wanted, not what Sebastien told her she should want.

    Jess smiled as she read the email. The woman sounded insipid, easy to crack. Jess would crack her. And then she would write the kind of article that had people reaching for the magazine on the newsstands; the kind of article, as Julia had said, that sold papers.