The Art of Keeping Faith (19 page)

That cow—I may have to kill her. I am sure I would be excused.

I have no idea what to say back to Ben. What do you say to that? I haven’t spoken to him in days since we had our massive birthday cock-up falling out, and now I am on the Internet singing a romantic duet with another guy.

It kind of sucks. Big time.

I have to remind myself that I have nothing to feel guilty about. I don’t even remember the hand holding situation.

Me:
Guess you would sing it better?

Ben:
I guess that would be a matter of preference?

What does that even mean?

As I have the Internet up on my phone, I end up—my fingers with a will of their own—looking up the Sound Box website.

The link to the live outtake is easy to find. I hesitate. Do I really want to witness the thing that was far more important than my birthday?

Actually, yes I do.

It starts with the tail end of one of their songs from the album. I recognise it straight away. When it ends Ben is sitting on a stall in the middle of the others and he looks up at the camera and pushes the hair out of his eyes. I am shocked. Shocked by just how thin and tired he looks—the partial view Skype has allowed me hasn’t told me the whole story. His hair is the longest I have seen it and hanging in his eyes, which means he is constantly pushing it out of the way. My hand itches with the need to do it for him.

“You okay, Ben?” asks a voice behind the camera.

Ben looks at his watch, it’s his old one, and gives a little shrug.

“Oh just ignore him, he is just pissed off that he is missing his girlfriend’s birthday,” Dave chides from behind the safety of his drum kit.

Ben just glares at him.

My heart sinks to the very bottom of my stomach.
Shit.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Ben? There have been rumours, but no confirmation,” says the camera voice again.

Ben looks right at the camera. “Yes, I do.”
Shit.

“And it’s her birthday?” asks the voice again.

“Yeah, it is and I am supposed to be on a plane home to her.”
Shit.

His voice stutters over the word home and my mouth goes incredibly dry.

“Well, I am sure she will understand.”

Dave laughs out loud and leans into his microphone, “Uh, no she won’t.”

Shit.

Then it hits me. People actually expect me to behave like an out of control nutter—because that is what I am.

Crap.

Ben smiles and leans into his guitar, “Hopefully I will be able to win her over.”

Then his fingers start to strum “Hey There, Delilah,” and I feel like I am going to be violently sick with no alcohol to blame.

He sings the whole thing with the others joining in after the first verse.

“And her name?” jokes the camera voice.

“Delilah McCannon and I love her,” he tells the camera and me, then it goes blank.
Shit.

“Noooo,” I shout at the phone and me.

Noooooooo!!!!

2.00 a.m
.

Me
: Nice singing.

And I attach the link to the gig.

I don’t hear back although I stay up all night just in case I do.

8th December

“Am I the biggest idiot that you know?”

I have called Beth, I need some moral support during the whole video link/non-comunicado that is currently taking place.

“Do you want the truth or the nice best friend answer?”

“Truth of course, otherwise I would not have asked you.”

“I have never known an idiot quite as big as you.”

“Oh.”

“Well, you did say the truth.”

“You could have sweetened it a little bit.”

“No sweetener with me, love.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the video earlier?”

She laughs very loud.

“Lilah, you are impossible to talk to when in a strop. That’s probably why Ben has steered clear for a few days, giving you the chance to cool down.

“No, he is ignoring me because I sang a duet with another guy.” I don’t know this for sure but I am going to go out on a limb and say that it has not helped the situation.

“Well you were holding his hand. You would shit bricks if you saw Ben holding another girl’s hand.”

It’s true. I would.

“So now I am in the wrong?”

“I’d say so.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it, precisely.”

“Got to go, I have to cook dinner.” I grumble.

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

I am just about to hang up when she calls my name.

“Yes?”

“Enjoy your cheerios.”

Cheerios it is. One pathetic dinner for one pathetic person.

9th December

Professor Pilchard’s Last Hurrah

The bad news: Things are a bit shit.

Ben is gone. I have behaved like a spoilt brat and refused to talk to him. He is now refusing to talk to me due to the fact I was filmed holding hands with another guy. Well, I assume that is why he is ignoring; confirmation has not been forth coming.

At about three this morning, I woke in panic covered in sweat because I truly realised what a dick I had been and text Ben to tell him I was sorry.

He has not answered.

I know there was nothing in the hand holding, I haven’t even spoken to Richard since. However as Beth quite rightly pointed out I would have performed an impressive, Oscar worthy Incredible Hulk performance if I had seen Ben doing the same thing.

The good news: Today is my last lecture with Pilchard—thank God for that. If I am a little more careful in my module choices next year I may never have to see him again.

11.55 a.m.

The bell has rung and as is normal after one of Pilchard’s lectures, the students are running for freedom as if they are fleeing from a burning building.

I’ve been a little slow off the starting blocks and I’m dawdling behind.

“Ah, Delilah,” he calls as I reach the door.

Rolling my eyes I turn around to face him, plastering a fake ‘interested’ smile on my face. “Yes?”

“We are having an end of term faculty drinks on Friday. I thought you may like to come to represent the second year, there will be a few others there that the other lecturers are going to ask along.”

My ears are playing tricks.

“Excuse me?”

“Well I have decided that your dedication to attend at least eighty per cent of the lectures this term should be rewarded. And that reward can be a glass of wine and some cheese.”

“Couldn’t you reward me by giving me a first for my blindingly excellent essay?”

“Are you going to write a blindingly excellent essay?”

“Maybe?” I tell him hopefully.

Maybe not.

“Well then. Let’s have cheese and biscuits just in case.”

“Lovely.” Not.

“Seven-thirty at Southlands bar. I will see you there.”

Excellent. I hate Southlands bar. It has got to be the most lacking in soul bar I have ever had the misfortune of going in.

“Mm great. See you there.”

Bad News:

Things are shit.

Ben is gone.

I have to go and socialise with lecturers on a Friday night.

Can December get any worse? I’d like to think not, but it is only the 9th and there is still a large percentage of the month of hell left.

10th December

Oh, it can get worse. I have been Mum’d.

“Dharling, where on earth have you been?”

“Studying.” I haven’t obviously. I have been watching the “Hey, There Delilah” outtake on loop cursing myself to the pits of hell and sulking.

“Dharling really, you don’t have to lie to me. I am your mother. Are you hiding because of Ben and all those awful skinny American girls?”

“No!”

“Well, Ben always seemed quite excepting of your curves. But let’s face it, Delilah. It’s hard for you to compete with girls in bikinis with six packs.”

“Mother, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Ben, Dharling, in the paper today. Did you not see?”

“What do you think?”

“Do I need to send you some vodka? Are you running low of funds and supplies?”

“Mum, for goodness’ sake, I don’t need vodka. I have no idea what pictures you are talking about but I trust Ben, and I am sure everything is fine.”

“They were in the Sun if you are interested,” she helpfully tells me. “Not that I read that filth but the gardener left his copy behind and I couldn’t help but notice.”

“Mum! For goodness’ sake. Is there any point behind your call or are you just ringing to make me feel shit?”

“Language!”

“Whatever.”

“Well actually I was ringing to invite you for Christmas, I just need to plan numbers.”

Oh, God. It’s
that
phone call.

I walk out of my room and wave at Tristan who is creating something disastrous in the kitchen.

‘Mum,’ I mime.

He rolls his eyes and gestures a shooting motion at his head, which makes me giggle.

“What’s your brother doing?” Mum snaps.

“Nothing, he is not even here,” I lie.

“Well, when he gets home can you ask him if he is coming? I need to know numbers.”

“Isn’t it just going to be the four of us as usual?”

“Well there may be some others.”

She is up to something.

“Who are the others mum?”

“Oh, Dharling. No need to worry about that now.”

“Tell me,” I warn.

“John and Annabelle. Got to dash Dharling, toodle pip.”

Toodle pip, my arse.

I call straight back.

“I’m not coming and don’t bother asking again.”

“Don’t be silly, Dharling. It will be nice …”

I cut her off, “Bye, Mum.”

Then I hang up the phone with a resounding curse, which I may or may not have been muttered before pressing the red button.

“What’s going on?” Tristan asks with a tone of trepidation.

“Tell you in a minute,” I say as I jog to the front door. “I’ve got to go and buy The Sun.”

“But you hate that paper. You say it’s for wiping your arse on?” he calls after me.

Ten minutes later

I may well use it to wipe my arse. Mum was right, the pictures are there for all the world to see on the showbiz pages.

Pictures of Ben, not singing, not touring, not working his bollocks off or whatever it is he is supposed to be doing. Instead he is on a beach, low-slung board shorts showing far more of his shit hot body then I would want anyone else to see.

He is frolicking in the sea with a blonde woman who has her back to the camera wearing a bikini made out of dental floss.

Mhiir-fucking-rhandah.

I have two questions that I need answered.

When did he get famous enough for his pictures to make it into a daily rag?

Why the fuck is he nearly fucking naked in the sea with that fucking bitch?

That feels a bit better.

Now I need some bloody vodka and lots of it.

11th December

I have a hangover, a bad one. I could have lain in bed and reached for the bottle again but I caught sight of myself in the mirror—it wasn’t pretty. Seriously, what am I doing?

Ben came home

Ben left

Ben is famous and has his photo taken in the sea.

Ben is over me

I sing Karaoke

What can vodka honestly do to help this situation?

Instead I have gone for a power run. There was no jogging involved.

Richard even struggles to keep up with me—and yes I did invite him, but not out of revenge. He is the only person I have to jog with and the mornings are pitch black and I don’t want to go out by myself.

When I eventually come to a gasping, shuddering, halt by Putney Bridge, Richard screeches to a stop by my side.

“Everything okay, Lilah?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” Well this is what I try to say but my lungs are screaming and it comes out more as a high-pitched squeak.

“You just ran like you were in the hundred meter sprint at the Olympics and taking on Bolt.”

“I would have won.”

“Yeah, I think you may have.” He chuckles a little and takes a deep lungful of air, his hands on his hips. He has not even broken a sweat, and is standing there looking all cool and trim. I on the other hand am soaking wet, and I would imagine on the purple side of the colour chart.