“Sassy,” she teased. “No, I’m not coming back. Remember that band I travelled across Europe with? The American one?”
“Yeah, Nocturnal or something like that.”
“Noctis,” she corrected, and I muttered that it was close enough. “They’re heading back to Europe for another tour. I was supposed to go with them, but as you so eloquently put it, I’m up the duff. Also, morning sickness is a motherfucker.”
“So...” I took a sip of my now lukewarm tea, waiting for her to finally get to the point.
I regretted it immediately when she said, “So, I want you to go in my place.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I sputtered, coughing between every syllable. “You w-want me to what?”
“You’re more than capable, Iggs. Bloody good, in fact.” I couldn’t help the tiny spark of pride that flared at her praise. “And come on, they’re a rock band. It’s mostly eyeliner and black eyeshadow. Nothing like that avant-garde look we did for Fashion Week.”
I set my mug down on the coffee table, not trusting myself not to choke again, and dragged a hand down my face. At some point I’d started sweating, my palms damp and my heart pounding like it was trying to crack my ribs from the inside. Had Sasha lost her mind? Was this a pregnancy-hormone feverdream? Why would she ever think I could do something like this?
Sure, she’d taught me everything I knew, and every face I’d ever touched with a brush had left the chair happy. But if anything went wrong, Sasha had always been there to bail me out, to steer me right, to tell me what I could fix next time.
This time I’d be completely on my own, expected to just... know. And it wasn’t like I’d be working on randoms either. These werecelebrities. I had no clue who they were, but that didn’t mean anything, since the only music I ever listened to was either classical or blasting out of a club speaker at three in the morning. Sasha said they were well known, though. Big enough that she hadn’t hesitated to join their tour the first time.
“I’m not qualified,” I burst out, and Sasha sighed at me like a mother about to deal with a very difficult child. It was easy to recognise, since I’d heard that sigh a lot growing up. And from Gloria in recent years.
Maybe I was just inherently troublesome.
“Look, Iggy,” she said, her tone softening, like she could sense me unravelling even through the phone. “My name’s attached to the band, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
“I . . . I just . . .”
“Plus, the pay is pretty fucking generous since it’s a last-minute request. The band and their team are super nice, and you’ve always been good with people. The whole tour’s one long party, so it should be right up your street.”
That was the moment I should’ve said no. Should’ve said I couldn’t. Should’ve told her about rehab, about sobriety, about how fragile everything still felt. I was two months sober, for fuck’s sake. The rock-star lifestyle wasn’t where I should be planting myself, not even as a crew member.
And yet... Sasha was desperate. Her life was changing—massively—and she needed me to step up. She trusted me. After everything she’d taught me, how could I tell her no?
I couldn’t.
“Okay,” I whispered, the word slipping out before my brain could catch it.
“You mean it?” Her excitement was palpable, and when I grunted in confirmation, she squealed. “Oh, Iggs, thank you so much! I promise, you’ll love it. And hey, if you do a good enough job, maybe they’ll keep you on as my permanent replacement.”
I fought the urge to snort out a humourless laugh. Chance would be a fine thing. I was happy to do Sasha a favour, but if the tour was anything like she’d described, I’d be lucky to make it through with my sobriety intact.
“I’ll pass your number on to Clara, the band’s manager. She’ll be in touch to confirm all the details.”
“That’s fine,” I said with a sigh, reaching for my tea, now completely cold. “When do I leave?”
“Ten days.”
And there I went, choking again.
When Sasha finally said her goodbyes and hung up, I stared at my phone for all of three seconds before arranging an emergency appointment with my therapist from the Willow, Dr Williams.
Sure, I’d managed to land a job, so I could call that a win, but the real test would be making it to the end of the tour without checking myself into rehab again.
Christ. This was going to be a disaster.
Turns out that travelling is a real sobriety test.
Considering the flight from Gatwick to Paris was just over an hour, I expected the journey to be fairly easy. But like with most things, I was completely wrong.
