“Nearly there now!” I tweet.
“He’s probs getting ready backstage!” Mabel squeaks.
Suddenly, I’m fifteen years old again, on my way to the Manchester Apollo to see the Take That and Party tour with Auntie Julie; the two of us are linking arms and the excitement is vibrating through me.
I’ve no idea why I was nervous about tonight.
I hold out my arm for Mabel to link it. She threads hers through.
“That was unbelievable!” I gush. “He’s literally a god!”
“Unreal!” chimes Mabel. “What was your fave bit?”
“‘Sign of the Times’,” I yap. “And I found ‘Matilda’ really moving. I should have put that in my top five, by the way.”
“Oh my god, we’ll have to do them again,” declares Mabel.
We’re in the car on the way back, our faces flushed, our voices hoarse from screaming, our legs aching from dancing. Although our feather boas are thinning and mine’s plastered to my neck, neither of us wants to take them off.
“My fave bit was probs ‘As It Was’,” Mabel rabbits on. “I loved it when everyone sang along.”
“Me too,” I say. What I don’t mention is that I particularly enjoyed singing along with her. “Oh, and I liked that One Direction song. When all the mums and aunties joined in.”
“Yeah, that was fun.”
It’s dark, except when we pass through the odd street-lit village. When this happens, I notice Mabel has no hair in front of her face.
“I loved it when he wore those dungarees with hearts on them,” she babbles. “They were so cute!”
“And when he held up the Pride flag and helped that girl come out!” I add, tapping on the steering wheel.
“Oh my god, that was incred! Although I think my fave bit of the whole show was when they told him he was the most popular singer they’d ever had in Lucca—and he started crying.”
I smile and allow a pause to fall. “You know, not everyone gets to see that.”
Mabel twists to face me. “Do you not think so?”
“No, you can’t fake that kind of emotion.” Although I’m not sure this is necessarily true, I think it’s important for her to hear it.
“He did seem really emotional. He can’t get like that at every concert.” Mabel pulls down the sun visor so she can look at herself in the mirror and rearrange her boa. Even though I can’t see her, I sense a huge grin on her face.
“Oh, and he’s so hot!” I slip out. “I can’t believe we haven’t discussed that!”
Mabel remains silent.
Shit. I hope I haven’t messed up. After all, I am in a relationship with her dad, and Harry Styles is probably twenty years younger than me. Will she think I’m gross?
But she lets out a giggle. “I know! I love his hair. And his smile!”
As relief rushes in, my grip on the steering wheel loosens. “And those tattoos!”
“I keep thinking if I could just meet him,” she goes on, “he’d realize we’re perfect for each other and he’d fall madly in love with me.”
I don’t like to tell her that every girl in the arena was probably thinking that. Instead I say, “I used to think that about Howard Donald.”
“Who’s Howard Donald?”
“He was in Take That. Well, he still is, but he was when I was obsessed with them. I used to fancy him so much, and he wasn’t even gay.”
