“I didn’t know whether to stay with him. We literally hadn’t met before, so I kind of just dropped him off in reception and said goodbye. He went for a hug when I leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. All the while, he’s still buzzing from the vibrator in his ass. It was a total disaster. I ended up just giving him a pat on the shoulder and walking out.”
And for the first time in months, I laugh. I really laugh. Tears stream down my face, and my stomach muscles ache as I gasp for air, trying to steer. Gemma joins in, filling the car with a joyous sound. It’s a moment of pure, unfiltered happiness that I hadn’t realised I so desperately needed.
I squeak out, “It’s all for the plot, Gem.”
“I don’t think I’ll see him again,” she says through her gasps.
“No,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. “I don’t think so.”
She turns to me, scanning my face intently.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just … nice to see you smile,” she says, the corners of her mouth curling up.
I glance at her, feeling a warmth spread through me. “It feels good.”
We spend a beautiful morning together laughing and shopping. We both leave the market with a bag of goodies each, happy with our small treasures. Gemma stocked up on incense, candles, and crystals, and I walked away with a pair of handmade clay mugs.
I feel so inspired after our visit to the markets that, once I drop Gemma home, I pull my old pottery wheel and materials out of the shed. Dusting off the surface, I clear away years of debris and spider webs before setting myself up in the courtyard. I’d expected a wave of grief or guilt to hit me as I revisited my love for ceramics. But instead, I only feel comfort. The hum and thud of the wheel is soothing as it spins, and the clay is cool between my fingers. My foot works in sync with my hands, almost on autopilot, and I press and pull on the clay. It’s messy and imperfect, a product of being out of practice for so long, but for the first time in years, it feels like a step towards healing. It’s been a good day.
Eventually, I head upstairs for a hot shower, letting the water wash away the mess of clay before getting ready for the evening ahead.
Chapter 15
James
We’re so close—sodamn close to getting this set just right. Tonight, we’re playing a gig at the Mayfair Lounge, one of my favourite bars in Central London. The atmosphere there is incredible, and they’ve always been good to us, hiring us regularly and giving us a chance when other places wouldn’t.
This venue has become our home base, where we’ve built a solid following from the ground up. Any chance to play here is a no-brainer—we take every gig we’re offered, and we treat every performance as another step closer to perfecting our songs for the big audition.
Tonight, we’re playing a mix of covers and originals. We figure it’s best to keep things balanced—if we only play our own stuff, the crowd might not connect as easily. Mixing in some well-loved covers keeps the energy up and the audience engaged. Plus, it gives us the perfect opportunity to showcase our versatility and let people see what we’re really about as a band. Seeing the crowd react to our music will never get old.
My arms ache from a long day of setting up scaffolding and wrestling with wet concrete, but the exhaustion doesn’t keep me from picking up my guitar and playing. I’m completely lost inthe rhythm, plucking away at the strings of my bass when the intercom buzzes, cutting through my focus. I lift the strap over my head and carefully place the bass in its stand before heading over to buzz the guys in.
Swinging the door open, I’m greeted with claps on the shoulder and nods from Will, Tom, and Oliver as they step inside.
“You lads want a drink?” I offer.
“Yeah, mate. Just a lager,” Tom replies.
I glance at Will and Oliver, and they both nod. Heading into the kitchen, I open the fridge and grab a few beers before returning to the lounge, offering one to each of them.
We clink our bottles together in cheers, then lift them to our lips, taking long pulls of the cold beer.
“So, how are you guys feeling?” Tom asks as I drop onto the sofa, leaning back into the cushions and spreading my legs to get comfortable.
Will wanders over to the bookshelf along the far wall opposite the sofa and TV.
“Feeling great,” he replies over his shoulder as he begins thumbing through the rows of books. “James, do you actually read all this shit?”
“Thatshit,” I say with a smirk, “is called philosophy. And yes, I’ve read every one of them.”
Oliver strolls over, pointing his bottle at Will. “You ever read a book, mate?”
“Of course I have,” Will says, sounding defensive.
“Spot Goes to the Zoodoesn’t count,” I deadpan.
