The Saving of Benjamin Chambers (The Uni Files) (3 page)

The Gig

We are on in five. We finished our pint at The Globe in Borough Market and then had another two for good measure. Thankfully Caitlin was not there so that was one easy escape from another uncomfortable conversation where I would have had to pretend I remembered having sex with her. I don’t even know why that pub is our local; it just always has been. It’s a really old-fashioned, proper drinkers pub and there are not many of those left in London. It’s always full of market traders with their booming voices and crude talk and much to the delight of Dave, it always has a group of girls having an after-work drink who are trying to keep it real by not going to a wine bar.

I think I like it because it was the first pub I went to in London. Like I literally fell off the train and instead of going to try and find digs to live in I ended up in there for six hours and got completely off my trolley.
Ah, fond memories.

After we finished our sneaky extra pints we popped back to the flat and got changed—obligatory black all round—before loading up all the stuff into Mondeo Man’s car that is no longer a Mondeo and heading to the gig in Canary Wharf.

It’s some bank, and it has its own function area roughly the size of a football pitch, able to hold the however-many employees that will be here shit-faced in a short while.

I hate corporate do’s. The audience is always vastly superior and think they know best because they have hired you to perform. Pub gigs are much better where people turn up to watch you play because they want to and not because they have to.

The others are outside having a last-minute smoke and I am twirling the microphone cable like a lasso when I am interrupted.
Embarrassing.

“Do you guys need anything?” calls a voice behind me.

I turn to answer and then stop mid-spin.

I don’t know what I was expecting but the woman in front of me is not it at all. For one, I was anticipating someone all done up and ready for a flash Christmas party, not dressed in jeans, Converse, and a long cardi, hands stuffed into the pockets.

She takes a step closer and gives me a cursory look up and down, and for the first time, well, ever, a woman looks at me without doing a double take.

It’s not that I am vain but it does happen a lot. Her eyes, which are the single most amazing colour I have ever seen—grey with flecks of light in them—just slip right over me.

“Where is the guy with the dreads, the one in charge?” She scrunches herself further into her comfy cardigan with her words.

“Uh, Dave? Uh, I don’t know,” I stammer.

So not cool.

Why on earth does she think Dave is in charge? He is just on the drums. I am the one that bloody sings. I want to tell her this, but then I also don’t want to come across as an obnoxious prick, so I stop myself.

I look her up and down. Five-six, I reckon, with long hair that hangs down her back in a sheet of shiny melted chocolate. The eyes truly are extraordinary and I want to lean in a little to look at them closer. Just one step won’t hurt, so I do. It is automatic and I close the gap between us in one swift move. If she notices she does not show it, nor does she move away.

“Are you not going to the party then?” I ask.

The words just fall out of my mouth before I can hold them in. Something about her going off to find Dave, who shags anything that moves, makes me feel a little uneasy. Scrap that, it makes me feel very uneasy like I might be sick if I think about it too much.

She gives a little sigh and flicks her hair back with one hand.

“Yeah, for my sins.” She smiles and I am completely distracted and more than likely standing there with my mouth open. That smile is something else entirely. I reckon it’s got a filthy laugh attached to it.

I wish I had something funny to say to make her laugh, and then I would know for sure.

“Bit like I have got to play for my sins.”

Was that my best funny? I sound like a complete dork.

The grey eyes that are impossible to describe glance over me quickly, and for the first time in my life I am desperate for someone to notice me.

Just look at me, for god’s sake.

She doesn’t though. Nor does she laugh.

“Well I am sure you will have more fun than me. Tonight is going to be a pile of crap and frankly I would rather have my nails pulled off.”

She speaks with the clipped tones of someone who has been well educated, but I get the impression that she hates it and probably swears like a trooper when she can.

I want to hear it. I want to hear dirty words come out of her mouth.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She looks at her watch, a battered leather brown one and not unlike my own. “Speaking of which, I had better go and get changed.” She stops and gives a little pout—
oh, good lord
—before continuing with, “And get this fucking nightmare over with.” She gives a sarcastic burst of laughter.

I don’t know what she is laughing at but I don’t care. The laugh, while short, has a ring to it and I know it is just a teaser, a taster of something else that will sound even better to my ears, better than the Gibson did earlier today.

That’s it, one naughty word and a hint of a dirty laugh and she has completely undone me. For the first time ever, I want to actually grab a woman by the hand to stop her walking away so that I can listen to her laugh, maybe forever. I am about to, I am going to reach out and touch her elbow. I may take that one step closer, so that I am completely in her space and breathing the same air as her, but I hesitate and the moment is gone.

She walks away, and I don’t reach my hand out to stop her.

“Oh, if you see Dave, can you tell him my dad says he wants it kept clean, so no swearing on stage. He has heard rumours about you guys.” She turns and gives me an impish smile. “Frankly I’d tell him to fuck off, but that’s just me.”

Then she is gone.

Dave walks in about thirty seconds later and finds me rooted to the spot.

“What ya doin?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Some girl came looking for you. She said, um, she said . . .” I trail off.

“She said?”

“I can’t remember.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you just met Lilah McCannon.”

“Lilah?”

“Lilah, or Delilah, or something. I thought you might like her.”

Now I know what he was grinning at earlier.

“But how did you know?” I turn and ask.

“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “I met her last week. She kind of reminded me of you, I guess.” Dave the Neanderthal of Emotions finishes his report.

“What? You met her and did not try and shag her.”

“Dude, don’t be gross. I just said she reminded me of you.”

“Oh.”

Delilah, Deilah, Delilah.

“Come on, Romeo, we have got to get on stage.”

So we do. I can’t see Lilah, even though I search the crowd desperately for five full songs.

It’s rammed to the rafters, and, as expected, everyone is crazy drunk and doing some mighty scary dance moves.

One woman is on her knees on the floor bent over backwards with her head on the ground pretending to play air guitar. Her knees are going to really hurt tomorrow.

As is her head.

We are just coming back from our break when I catch sight of her again. I actually drop my guitar.

Delilah, Lilah or whatever she is called is, standing over on the far side of the room, her back against the wall wearing a figure-hugging red, floor-length dress. Her dark hair and eyes stand out in contrast. She looks like a Forties movie star, all curves and perfect poise, watching everyone with a critical eye. She hates this place and she hates the people that are here, that is clear to me straight away.

I want to jump off the stage to get to her. I can’t tear my eyes away, even though Dave has picked up my guitar and shoved it back into my hands, hissing, “Play, you idiot.”

I am walking to the front of the stage still staring when I notice that I am being watched but not by her.

Some guy who looks like a pretentious arsehole is watching me watch her and then he starts to move across the floor to get to her before I can leave the stage. I am stuck like a rabbit in headlights, rooted to the spot as I watch him clearly move towards her like he is proving he has ownership.

When he gets to her he pulls her in close and winds his hands around her waist. I have to physically restrain myself from leaping off the stage and punching him. That’s what I want to do, a deep urge burning inside me. Jump from the stage, bop him on the nose, hopefully causing significant blood loss, and then throw Lilah over my shoulder and march her off with her someplace. Someplace where I can kiss her and talk to her, in no particular order. Then I may well ask her to marry me because I am pretty sure that I want to.

I don’t though. I don’t move from my spot on the edge of the stage. I start to play my guitar instead but not the song the rest of the band are expecting. Luckily it has a long intro so they are able to catch up.

As I start to sing “Wonderwall” I watch as the banker wanker twirls her onto the dance floor.

It’s not a song for twirling. What is he doing, the bloody arse?

She has her hands on his shoulders and her back to me but I can clearly see an enormous diamond ring sitting on her left hand from my spot quite a distance away on stage.

Damn it to hell.

I nearly stop singing, but I hold it together, and as I head into the second verse my choice of song becomes even more appropriate.

The banker wanker pulls her in even tighter and I get a nasty taste in the back of my mouth. I am just in the middle of the chorus when they take a turn and I catch a glimpse of her face.

That’s what does it. That very moment gives me something completely different to live for.

Her.

She is biting her lower lip and the beautiful grey eyes are staring far away in the distance, framed by a frown. She looks like she would rather be anywhere than where she is right now. She looks lost, but on top of that she looks lonely, and I feel a bubble of something well up inside me, something like joy.

Joy at the fact that this guy holding her, who’s obviously bought her the ring, has no idea what she is feeling. I don’t think he has looked at her face once, not to read it the way that I am. This is good. It means that if I can get to talk to her again then I can make sure my words are the right ones, the ones to make her notice me, the ones to make her want to at least talk to me. And, well, if that fails, then I will just crinkle my freckles at her, pick her up and throw her over my shoulder, and march off with her hoping for the best.

I know that I will do anything to save her from whatever is causing her sadness and by doing that I have a feeling she will save me.

I don’t though, of course.

I don’t talk to her and say the right words. I don’t crinkle my freckles at her and I don’t throw her over my shoulder and march off with her someplace where she can be just mine.

She is gone before I get off stage.

I never get to tell her that I want to be the one who saves her.

Nor that I wish she would save me.

I do try to find her but it seems the banking community has a wall of silence that the KGB would be proud of. I ask all around but by the time I have pushed through the throngs of drunken revellers I may be looking a little frantic and they all eye the wild guitarist dressed in black with a serious level of caution.

No one seems to know her or if they do they aren’t going to tell me. I remember her mentioning her dad, so maybe she does not actually work for the bank at all. Maybe she was just helping organise it.

Eventually I find myself in front of the head honcho. “Excuse me, but I don’t suppose you know who the girl in the red dress was?” I run an exasperated hand through my hair as my eyes continue scanning the room.

He looks me up and down and I meet his critical stare.

“I don’t think she is anyone you need to worry about,” he says. He continues to meet my gaze over the top of his varifocals, a stern expression on his face. His attitude gets my back up instantly.

“Jesus, I just want her number, not to ask her to marry me.”

Where the hell did that come from?

He just walks away from me, and I watch him go with an unsettled sensation sinking deep in my stomach, and I have a feeling that it is not going to go away until I see her again.

Once everyone has left, I am sitting on one of the speakers contemplating life.

I have just realised something truly profound. Tonight is the first time I have ever wanted to get a phone number from a girl. Twenty-four years old and it is the first time I have ever wanted to write down eleven digits. It is also the first time I have ever got to the end of an evening and not left with someone’s eleven digits scrunched on a piece of paper in my pocket waiting to be put through the wash cycle.

I keep thinking of that miserable old git and the look on his face as he told me ‘she was not someone I needed to worry about.’ Then I think of her face as she bit her lip and I have the distinct feeling that she is the only one I should be worrying about.

Then I think about my response to him and I can’t help but grin to myself, and, yes, I am sitting on a speaker in the middle of an empty room grinning like a complete idiot.