‘I’m just a musician, really,’ he said. ‘That’s my one big thing.’
‘I saw that,’ I told him. ‘You were great.’
In what seemed a strangely formal gesture he held out his hand. ‘Billy Riddle,’ he said.
‘That’s not your actual name, though, is it?’ I smirked as I shook his hand, but regretted it almost immediately. The snakebites had dissolved my ability to control my tongue.
‘Erm, yeah,’ Billy said, looking more confused than peeved. ‘It is actually.’
‘It’s not… like… a stage name or nothing?’
‘No, that’s my name,’ he said.
‘Oh…’ I gulped. ‘OK. It’s, um, a very good name for a musician, though.’
‘Though?’ Billy repeated. ‘Meaning, it’s not such a good name for an actual person?’
‘No, yeah… I just meant, you could have been called something awful like John Smith,’ I stammered. ‘That would have been harder to work with. For a pop star, I mean.’
‘Oh God, yeah,’ Billy said, mockingly. ‘I’d have had to call my band something terrible like The Smiths. Imagine!’
I laughed. ‘I s’pose,’ I said. ‘Not so shoddy after all.’
‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, I’m assuming you have a name?’
‘Oh, Dawn,’ I said. ‘Dawn Weaver.’
‘Cool,’ Billy said, dragging so hard on his cigarette that it crackled. ‘And how old are you, Dawn Weaver?’
‘I’m eighteen,’ I lied.
‘Cool,’ Billy said, breaking into a grin. And it was a grin that I understood was good news.
To avoid having to fake smoking again, I dropped my cigarette and, concentrating on accentuating my hip movement, ground it out with my foot. ‘So the jumpsuit thing…’ I said, sounding, I thought, rather sassy. ‘Admit it: it’s just part of your pop-star persona.’
‘My pop-star persona?’ Billy repeated, looking amused.
‘Yeah, for your band.’
‘No,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘It really is just practical. I’m kind of lazy. About laundry and shit. You know.’
‘Right,’ I said, trying to hide a smile, because I didn’t believe for one minute he’d chosen to wear a US Air Force jumpsuit for practical reasons. He’d chosen it because he thought it looked sexy, which, by the way, it really did. I couldn’t stop wondering if he was naked underneath it.
‘I like your thing, too,’ Billy said, appraising me.
‘My thing?’
‘Yeah, the boots. The skirt. The jacket.’
I was wearing purple Doc Martens boots, olive-green leggings and a tartan skirt, an outfit I’d carefully selected so it would appear to have been carelessly thrown together.
‘You could be a singer in my band like that, no problem,’ Billy said, nodding and grinning salaciously as he scanned my body from top to toe.
‘If I could sing,’ I said. ‘Only I can’t.’
