All the Rage - Chapter 1

Kristian Savage scanned the sweaty New Year's Eve audience - as
intently as he feasibly could whilst joggling about, tooting The Muppet
Show theme tune on a trumpet.
Instinct, rather than vanity, told Chantal that he was looking for
her.
Any second now, those cheeky blue eyes would shine upon her like
spotlights. Then he would indulge her with one of those secret grins
that sent the friends alongside her into a Mexican wave of nudges and
giggles.
Chantal, for her part, was gazing guppy fashion at the stage, tongue
prettily poised mid-lick in the rim of her Archers Aqua bottle. By any
other girl's standards, it was a mildly suggestive pose - but it
registered as 'brassy' on the Chantal Brown scale of flirtation. She
put that down to the alcohol, and the general festive vibes. She was
daring, willing, Kristian to look - yet knew that as soon as he did,
she would turn hastily away, her face as pink as her drink.
Just like a coy infant.
Or in this case a coy twenty-year-old secretary.
Not, in other words, the kind of sleek babe capable of snaring a man
like Kristian Savage.
The sexy beast!, she thought with rancorous lust as, true to form, he
grinned, she averted her eyes, and Jess and Lindsey giggled delightedly
beside her.
Chantal's insides were trampolining. No man ought, by rights, to look
tasty in a top hat, stripy leggings and a ringmaster's jacket, but
Kristian had the aplomb and humour to carry it off. To put it another
way, he didn't give a shit. None of his band did. Colonel K's image was
the very embodiment of tongue-in-cheek.
Beneath the wacky camouflage, though, lay five passionate and extremely
adroit musicians. Little wonder they were fast becoming one of the most
bookable party bands on the Black Country circuit.
Rather than be a laughing stock himself, in fact, Chantal bet
wretchedly that Kris was laughing at her; taking the piss. That had to
be the reason his eyes sought her at every gig. Yes, it probably fed
his pop star ego to observe their effect on the dumpy little blonde who
was Colonel K's most devoted fan.
Kristian plonked aside the trumpet and started frantically
tra-la-la-ing as the Muppet music segued into The Banana Splits. The
crowd erupted with delight.
It was this quintet's trademark to open their set with a medley of
children's TV themes. They entered the stage to Dangermouse - having
taken their name from a character in that 1980s cartoon - then Rainbow
would follow, then Muppets, then Banana Splits.
This idea had been Kristian's own and, even if he did say so himself,
it was a pretty inspired one. The other lads had taken considerable
convincing, though.
'It's the perfect intro for us,' he'd insisted, 'it'll set the tone of
the show and lift everyone's spirits. People love being transported
back to their childhood. We'll get them on our side straight
away.'
He was right. Just as he'd been right to suggest that surreal costumes
might make a fantastic trademark. No crowd yet had not responded to the
nostalgia and lunacy of it all.

Chantal herself had not been the same since her first Colonel K gig six
months ago, in this very room at Dilloway Social Club. It was Fate, she
decided, that had made her and her friends, at a loose end one Saturday
night, forsake their usual bowling alley and cinema haunts, and buy
spur-of-the-moment tickets for this group they'd never heard of.
She wondered if the lads employed hypnosis techniques. They certainly
possessed the power to make feet move, seemingly of their own accord.
They'd had nans and teenagers jigging boisterously between (or, in a
few extreme cases, on) the tables. It was literally impossible to stand
still or not grin inanely in their presence.
The small industrial town of Willenhall had never seen anything like
Kristian the sexy ringmaster; lanky, kilt-clad bassist Max Baggott;
laid-back Jim Willetts, on rhythm guitar, combat gear and ponytail;
shirtless drummer Jay Freeman who, with his six-pack and
pornographically tight leopardskin trousers, was the stuff of orgasms;
or pint-sized Elvis Bacon, inexplicably dressed as Austin Powers and
thumping the daylights out of his keyboard.
They barely paused for breath amid their set list, which eclectically
encompassed Madness, The Darkness and numbers from Jungle Book.

Chantal Brown fell in love that night. Kristian mesmerised her. Jay,
being the more conventionally sexy, was most girls' favourite - but
then, all through life, Chantal's tastes had rarely accorded with those
of 'most girls.'
'There'll be no man for me except him,' she dramatically announced to
Jess and Lindsey, her two best pals. 'I know he's well out of my reach,
but I don't even care if I die a spinster. I'd rather just gaze at him
once a week for the rest of my life than get married to some boring
welder or van driver.'
She meant it too. She knew he was special.
It wasn't just the poet-ish long hair, tattoos and gazelle physique
(though they helped) but, as a keen singer herself, she was turned on
hugely by talent and stage presence. Kristian was born to go on stage -
and what a voice he had! He was nimbly versatile too: singing one
minute, hooting a trumpet the next, then leaping into a bizarre kind of
morris dance before humming an exuberant tune on the mouth organ.
Chantal's fantasies (the cleaner ones, anyhow) involved the pair of
them performing stunning duets to spellbound audiences. Her sweet yet
powerful tones would complement his husky, from-the-heart delivery to
produce musical magic.
In reality, she'd have sooner died than dare sing in front of Kristian.
She had no right to even think herself into his league. He'd doubtless
scoff that there was vast difference between a starstruck office girl
who did the odd karaoke night, and a full-time frontman who clocked up
an average of four strenuous shows per week.
Chantal knew it was four because she knew Colonel K's tour itinerary by
heart. It was Blu-Tacked over her bed and served as her social diary,
for in truth she enjoyed few nights out that were not Colonel
K-related.
Since that heady evening in June, she'd seen them sixteen times.
Whenever they played in Willenhall - which was her home town - or
Wolverhampton, the city three miles west, she was there. Chantal lived
for those nights, when she would splurge her puny wages on gig tickets
and lip-staining, vinegary wine in musty pubs. It became her hobby. She
adored the cheesy and cheerful music Colonel K played, and found their
eye-catching image fun - but of course the powerful pull for her was
Kristian himself.
Her crush on him just about managed to stay the right side of
obsession. Jess and Lindsey would roll their eyes and remark that she
had 'got it bad' - in fact, they barely knew the half of it.
They didn't see her every day, eyes all glazed and dreamy and only half
attentive to her job, or her dinner, or her driving, or whatever.
Chantal had never imagined it physically possible to think about
another human being every second of the day, but he was in her mind's
eye through every traffic jam; every sandwich; every bodily function.
She felt embarrassed and pathetic going about her secretary-ish
business, while all the time picturing him doing terribly rock 'n' roll
things.
Tool much of this visualising, though, hurt her. It was masochistically
easy to wonder who might be sharing Kristian's bed on the nights when
she lay alone and yearning in hers.
Chantal loathed even knowing he had other admirers. She wanted him to
be her crush and hers alone. She felt wretched with jealousy when other
girls perved over him - even when they might stand slimmer chance with
him than she did. The very knowledge that her feelings for Kris were
not unique was a threat to Chantal.
But Jess and Lindsey were convinced that he reciprocated their besotted
mate's feelings.
'He must fancy you! He always makes the effort to say hi, and goes out
of his way to get eye contact when he's up there performing.'
'Yeah! Why don't you talk to him? You never know - he might be dying to
ask you out!'
'I don't think so somehow!' Chantal was witheringly dismissive of their
theories. 'He's just getting my hopes up, that's all. He probably gets
a right kick out of it.'
In this she did her idol an injustice, but she was acting in
self-preservation. It terrified and thrilled her to picture Kris as a
potential boyfriend. It was true to say he had begun to recognise her
and, of late, actually taken to acknowledging her existence. But
Chantal had always liked having her nice safe little crushes on pop
stars; unattainable boys on posters, whom she would never meet. She
lived for singing and admired singers, but there was that distance
there. Pin-ups would never break her heart.
The trouble was, Kristian Savage wasn't quite a pin-up. He did not
inhabit the pedestal to which she elevated him. He might earn his
living in music, but he was hardly a household name. He was a
Wolverhampton lad who lived with his mother, drove a rusting Datsun,
and quite possibly went to the toilet occasionally. He straddled the
line between fantasy and reality. When he talked, he ceased to be
untouchable. He became very, very touchable in fact, and this unnerved
Chantal.
It was scary loving someone like him. How on earth would a girlfriend
of his be expected to conduct herself? Fan him? Feed him grapes? Bow
down and kiss his boat-sized feet? Perform gymnastic groupie feats in
bed, to keep him hot for her?
Oh, she couldn't do it! They were worlds apart. She'd probably faint
with prudey embarrassment if she so much as saw his nob.
The very thought made Chantal bury her scorching face into her pillow
of a night. She'd just have to go on contenting herself with these
lonely little rubbing sessions, which made her duvet damp and her
fingers smell like a prawn sandwich.

The news, however, that Kris and his group were due back at the
Dilloway club on New Year's Eve had actually emboldened Chantal. It
seemed like an omen. The thirty-first of December was traditionally a
night when secrets might be confided and indiscriminate kisses
exchanged - then blamed on booze, if need be. A few Archers down her
neck might transform her into a brazen goddess.
Brazen enough, maybe, to put Jess's seemingly illogical little theory
to the test?
Oh, she had to risk it, she just had to - even if it meant being
spurned so mortifyingly that she could never bring herself to see him
again. What was life, after all, without a little risk? A girl had to
progress beyond crushes at some point.
It was the first time Chantal would get to welcome in January in
company other than her parents and budgerigar. And, if her fantasies
came miraculously true, in a pair of hunky male arms...

True to form, she scampered to the loos in the interval.
Daubing on fresh lipstick, Chantal cringed at the hairspray-smeared
mirror, despising what she saw.
You wet bint, she thought. So much for being a bloody goddess! You've
got to stop being half-hearted about this flirting lark. In future,
maintain his eye contact, make it plain you're interested, instead of
looking away like a timid little gerbil. She tossed the lipstick into
her handbag and twizzled before the mirror. And for God's sake pull
your tummy in! He'll think you're up the spout. Though that really
would be a miracle in the circumstances!
The physique of which Chantal was so self-critical was in fact
stunningly curvy, and inadvertently displayed to advantage tonight.
She'd chosen this calf-length black dress for the colour's supposed
slimming quality, but it clung so close that she now felt hideously on
show.
'Bloody knockers,' she griped, flattening the offending domes with her
hands as though she could somehow squish them down into svelte A-cups.
Chantal knew girls who would die to be a 34DD, but the humungous bra
size only made her feel ungainly and slutty.
In truth, she was the most elegant woman in the club. Her look made a
nice understated change from the denim minis and micro boob tubes of
the many fag-breathed heifers on the pull here tonight. Such a sweet
face too! It was of a sweetness that could break hearts, framed so
flatteringly by the loose blonde hair that she normally pinned into a
demure French pleat for work.
'Come on, girl - to the bar with you!'
She wasn't pissed enough, she decided. Like Jess and Lindsey, she was
usually well gone after one Archers, but tonight required industrial
strength Dutch courage.
Chantal hoisted her body erect and marched out of the bogs, back to her
mates. Tugging open the door, she all but collided with another girl
loping in.
'Ooh, sorry.'
The newcomer shot her a defensive look, but said nothing.
Chantal was ruffled again. She'd seen this girl before - with Kristian.
Not at every gig, but at one or two, each time nattering cosily with
him or with Rose, his vivacious mom. She looked younger than Chantal,
and very pretty in a spiky kind of way, with a sylphlike body,
Toblerone cheekbones and the kind of hair associated with fairy
princesses: silkily flaxen and long enough to sit her tiny bottom
on.
Yes, she was his type all right. His kind of arm candy. Gorgeous people
always chose mirror image partners. It was a narcissistic thing?
'All right, Chantal!'
The matey Black Country greeting cut across her jealous musing. Chantal
blinked and emitted a mangled sound midway between a gulp and a seal
bark.
The rangy frame of Kristian Savage was draped against the fire doors a
mere foot from her. Large as life and twice as gorgeous. And he was
smiling at her in that infectious way of his.
And speaking to her.
And addressing her by name.
Well say something back then, Chantal, you can't stand here mute all
night! And for God's sake stop blushing like the virgin you are!
'You know my name,' she sputtered, hopelessly red.
'Course I do!' He was amused at the implication that he wouldn't.
'You're our fan club, ain't yer? I think only me mom's seen us more
times than you.'
Oh wonderful - now he thinks I'm some loopy stalker who's obsessed with
him!
'Well you're a great band.'
Chantal became suddenly aware that Kristian was disconcertingly topless
beneath his flamboyant jacket. She could feel herself start to shake.
Look at his face. His face, Chantal!
Except his face was almost as disconcerting. Those eyes! They were
smiling down at her, as though they'd caught her out. She blushed even
hotter in their beam. She liked it, though. He was teasing but not, as
she'd feared, in a snide, piss-takey way.
'Me and the lads really appreciate hearing comments like that, believe
me,' he said earnestly. 'It's always the way when you'm starting out,
you never know how people are going to take to you, so it's mega
important to build up a loyal fan base. It means a lot to us if we see
folks coming back for more.' And he was definitely flirting when, with
a delicious twitch of the eyebrows, he added: 'We need the likes of
you.'
'Thank you,' she replied inadequately.
Kristian needs me, Kristian needs me!
'Did you have a good Christmas?' he asked.
'It was OK, you know. Just at home with the family.' She shrugged
carelessly, inwardly squirming at how un-rock 'n' roll it
sounded.
'Same here. Can't beat it, can you? Are any of your folks here
tonight?'
'God, no!' Chantal couldn't help but sman at the very idea of her
parents staying out late, pulling party poppers or - horror of horrors
- getting drunk. 'This would be far too lively for them. It'll be Jools
Holland on the telly, then straight up to bed for Mom and Dad.'
Kris was unbelievably easy to talk to; to laugh with. Even after these
few minutes, Chantal was wondering how she could have been so awed by
him. Far from starry, he had a gift for putting people at their ease by
discussing down to earth subjects.
'Well I hope you're enjoying yourself tonight, Chantal. Bostin'
atmosphere, ain't it?'
'Yeah, it's - '
'Oh Kris, that was absolutely wicked! You're gunna be a star, I just
know it!'
Chantal stepped tactfully aside, her entire body stinging with
disappointment. The Loo Girl, Kristian's fairy princess, had hurled
herself at him in a billow of hair and kisses.
Chantal started to back away, down the corridor. She ought to allow
them their privacy - after all, she had no prior claims on Kris. But
he, seeing her reaction and keen to set the record straight, untied
himself from the embrace.
'I love you for saying so, our Kar,' he reproved gently as though
addressing a cute but disobedient child, 'but mind your manners. I'm
talking here!'
Our Kar, whoever she was, turned to Chantal and told her in a sulkily
sheepish tone that she was sorry.
Kristian gave a little terse nod of forgiveness. 'Anyway, I'll
introduce you properly to Chantal, who you've just interrupted.
Chantal, this is Kara, me sister.'
Sister! Ah yes, it was obvious now, thinking about it. The eyes - they
were identical to his! Or was it the nose? Or the gangly body? Hell,
who cared what it was! Chantal could not have felt so bubbly had she
drained the bar's entire alcopop supply dry.
She gave Kara a kilowatt smile and keenly shook her hand. 'Hiya Kara.
It's really great to meet you.'
'You too.'
Kara was still lukewarm, but Chantal wasn't miffed anymore. The elating
news that this blonde totty was the very last person in the world who
could possibly be Kristian Savage's girlfriend qualified her for
automatic best mate status.
'She does tend to get a tad excited when she comes to our gigs, don't
you sis?'
'I don't blame her,' Chantal frothed, her powers of speech and
flirtation miraculously restored, 'not when she has such a talented big
brother.'
She and Kris exchanged a smile. It was suddenly not so difficult to
look him in the eye. Something special was starting here, they both
knew it.
And now it was Kara's turn to play gooseberry. Kris looked down with a
pang at her childlike face and scrawny frame. He adored his kid sister,
but there came a time when a man had to do what a man had to do?
He strategically ferreted a tenner from his pocket. 'Tell you what, our
kid, why don't you and Mom have yourselves a nice drink on me. Nothing
too potent for you, though, Madam!'
'Aw, Kris, I'm eighteen,' she pouted, but had the sense to know when
she wasn't wanted and trotted off to the bar.
'Sorry about that, Chantal,' Kristian grimaced. 'You know, I'm that
grateful to you for coming. I had a feeling you might be here, though.
I said to the lads in the dressing room: "I bet Chantal and her
mates'll be in tonight." As soon as I come out on stage, I was looking
out for you.'
'Were you?' She was fishing, for she knew full well he had been.
'Too right I was! Then I spotted you early on, singing along. You
always join in, don't you? You know all the lyrics.'
'Oh, I love singing.'
'Really?' He looked interested. Impressed even.
'I just do a bit of karaoke, that's all.' She gave an apologetic flap
of the hand. 'It's nothing compared to what you do.'
But Kris thought she was wrong to trivialise her hobby. 'Karaoke's
great. That's how I started out. Well, it's sort of how the band got
together really. Me and Max used to get up and have a sing-song every
week down our local - we've been mates since school, see - and one
night, gettin' on for two years ago, we met Jim in there. We all got
chatting, he said he was thinking of forming a band with a couple of
other lads, and would we be interested? He was into all the disco
stuff, you see - Play That Funky Music, that kinda thing - and that was
what we used to like singing at the time, bit of the old party music,
get the punters jiggin' about. Then he introduced us to Jay and Elvis,
and the rest was 'istory. I'd like to hear you sing some day.'
'Would you?'
Chantal's tummy did a forward roll. But this time her fear was tinged
with elation. She found she actually wanted him to hear her. She
sensed, despite her earlier fears, that he was not the type to
mock.
'Sure!' Again, her amazement and modesty seemed to amuse him. 'You'll
have to let me know when you're next performing. I'll get the boys to
come along too.' He checked his watch and did a double take. 'Look, I'd
better scoot. I'm due back on in a sec, but it'd be nice to chat a bit
more, after the gig like. I reckon the least I can do is buy a drink
for our number one fan. How about it - d'you fancy meeting at the bar
when I come off stage, in about an hour?'
'I'd love to.'
'Great! It'll be almost midnight then an' all. We could, er, see the
new year in together?'
'Yeah, I'd like that.'
'I'd better go now, but I'll be looking forward to it.'
'And me.'
He flashed her another gusset-flipping grin and was gone.
Chantal wilted, blinking, against the wall, thinking Did that really
just happen?

'You lucky bugger!' Lindsey squealed. 'Mind you, didn't we tell you all
along he was interested in you?'
'And you wouldn't believe us!'
'I guess you pair were right then.' Chantal couldn't stop her lips
curling into a smirk. This was one occasion when it didn't gall to be
proved wrong. 'He knew my name and everything. It's a real bombshell
that he'd even noticed I was alive. And better still, that girl he was
with - you know, the blonde one I bitched about cuz I thought she was
seeing him - Kara - she's only his sister after all!'
'Yeah, I thought they looked a bit alike.'
Neither Jess nor Lindsey could believe how Chantal had changed during
the mere course of a loo break. Their shy friend had barely been out
the room ten minutes, and returned fizzing with confidence. Even the
ways she spoke and stood were different. No more stuttering or
stooping; she was articulate and happy and proud to be
voluptuous.
Chantal was amazed by the change herself. A single conversation with
Kristian had transformed her into a woman: flirtatious and poised. The
few boys who'd asked her out in the past all met with coy, giggly
responses, never a self-assured 'I'd love to.' What could have got into
her?
Nobody yet, she thought bawdily, but I'm hoping Kris will sooner or
later!
He had touched some magic button inside her that no-one else had been
able to activate. Chantal may have been, technically, a grown-up for a
couple of years already, but this was her first taste of true 'adult'
passion. She wanted to connect with Kris on every level. He set her
latent juices pumping.
She took a glug from the drink Jess had just bought during her round.
It seemed to flow right around her body like an extra bloodstream. At
once she felt light-headed and triumphant.
'I love New Year's Eve,' she declared. 'Cheers, girls!'
'Cheers!'
'To Chantal and Kristian!' They clunked bottles.
The trio's friendship dated back to primary school. A cynic might
observe that it was based more on habit than on common interests, but
Chantal was happy enough with Jessica and Lindsey. They were sweet,
safe girls; good for a laugh. One or both of them invariably
accompanied and humoured her at gigs - though more because they didn't
get out much than because they had any great interest in the
music.
'Ooh, he's coming back on - look!'
Kris was loping back on stage, to booze-amplified cheers, and this time
Chantal didn't turn away as he grinned and winked.
'Here's one from Wilson Pickett,' he announced, giving her a very
naughty look, 'it's very appropriate for tonight actually - it's called
In the Midnight Hour!'

Chantal couldn't help feeling relieved Kris had put a shirt on. Not
that a bit of masculine body hair turned her off - quite the opposite,
that was the trouble. When you were trying to concentrate on a
conversation, it was just a little?distracting. He was asking her about
music - their shared pet subject - but intelligent replies would have
eluded Chantal had that lean, bushy chest remained exposed.
Colonel K's rapturous fans had reluctantly let them leave the stage at
twenty-past eleven, though only after three encores. Tonight's show had
been their best to date; a riot from start to finish. Partygoers were
always their best audiences. The boys had played their guts out, and
were now on a total high of camaraderie and congratulations. They were
also thirsty for the free beers that in Willenhall comprised their
'rider.'
Chantal kept an oh so casual eye on the dressing room door. What if he
doesn't come out? He might be hiding from me in there! With some other
bird! Or he could escape through the back window and leg it while I'm
standing out here like a lemon! He could have been having me on all the
time.
But before even ten minutes were up, Kris was with her at the bar as
promised, sexily perspiring but modestly shirted. He rolled his eyes
apologetically when blousy ladies swamped him with kisses,
congratulations and even autograph requests as he wove his way to
her.
He's so popular, Chantal thought, everyone wants a piece of him. But
it's me he's coming over to see! I must be the luckiest girl in the
world.
He generously bought drinks for Jess and Lindsey too, but they by tacit
consensus made themselves scarce and were last seen being chatted up by
Elvis and Jay.
'So what kind of stuff d'you like to sing, Chantal?' Kris asked,
motioning them into one of the few vacant leatherette seats that ringed
the dancefloor.
'Eighties mainly,' she shouted over the disco. Extensive concert
experience had made the pair of them proficient in the art of
lip-reading.
'Eighties? You don't remember that far back, surely?' He gave her arm
an embarrassed little nudge. 'Oops - don't take that the wrong way, I
wasn't trying to find out your age! I know it's not polite to ask a
lady such things.'
'It's OK.' It was. Anything was OK if it gave him an excuse to touch
her. Her bare elbow tingled hotly where his hand had made that
momentary contact. 'And no, I don't really remember that decade - well,
only the tail end of it. I was just born several years too late. I
don't churn out all the usual karaoke standards - you know, your Mariah
Carey, your Celine Dion. I love electronic stuff, and ballads,
something with lyrics I can actually identify with. Something I can
sing with a bit of passion.'
Kris was the one in awe now. This was the longest sentence he'd ever
heard Chantal say; she sounded so intelligent and intense. He'd long
admired this girl, by sight alone, and entertained secret hopes that
tonight might be the night they would get together, or at least
converse. The fact they had more in common than he could have imagined
was a fabulous bonus.
'Actually,' he said, studying her in an attentive way that she liked
very much, 'I'll tell you one I can imagine you doing - Yazoo, Only
You.'
She gazed at him as though he had just guessed her date of birth, told
her fortune and made contact with her late grandpa. 'That is so spooky!
I love that track, it's one of my favourites. But the one I like best
is actually Frankie Goes to Hollywood, The Power of Love. I guess it's
a man's song really, but I don't care.'
'You shouldn't have to think of it as "a man's song." Music is
universal. What matters - even with the cheesy stuff we knock out night
after night - is that it moves you, that you love it and that your
audience comes away from you feeling as though they've been
entertained.'
'Well you certainly succeed on all those counts. Although,' Chantal
paused slightly, pinking up, 'can I make a suggestion?'
'Fire away.' God, she was adorable! If her suggestion were that Kris
cut his hair, buy a rocking chair and start a Val Doonican tribute
band, he'd most likely agree to it. Just to please her.
'I think you should do a few Adam Ant numbers.'
'Adam Ant?'
'He's my hero. I could just picture you in a pirate's hat, belting out
Stand and Deliver.'
'You really were born too late, girl!'
'I know,' she giggled, 'I'm a young fogey!'
He looked intent, though, like he was contemplating it. Chantal was
warming to her theme. Little Chantal, who an hour ago had felt unfit to
kiss the tails of Kris's ringmaster jacket, was now telling him what
songs to put in his set list. It was incredible.
'I've always been mad on pop music. I could never wait to get down the
newsagents on the day Smash Hits came out. I used to blow all my pocket
money on magazines, and on tapes to record the charts on! Every Sunday,
religiously, I would tape the Top Forty on my little pink
transistor.'
'Naughty!' Kris wagged a knobbly finger at her in mock reproof at her
teenage piracy. 'So what got you into all this "fogey" music
anyway?'
'I grew up hearing my mom's records - she liked Adam and the Ants, and
also Blondie, bit of ABBA, that kind of thing - and she tells me I used
to try and sing along while I was toddling round the house.'
'So you've sung ever since you was a littl'un then?'
'Yeah. All through school, I was in the choirs and the shows. I was
dead quiet in class, but I discovered music as a way of expressing
myself. When people heard me, I think they were surprised I had a voice
at all.'
Kris could marry a woman like Chantal, he decided. She was gorgeous,
but had hidden depths too. She made a lovely change from the boob tube
tribe who usually descended upon him, hopeful of a post-gig grope.
They'd stood precious little chance with him before; they stood none at
all now he'd met Chantal. The only depths those girls had were their
cleavages - and they were certainly never hidden.
'What do you do for a living, Chantal?' He wanted to know everything
about her - favourite cereal, last book she read, what she looked like
when she was little - but was too much of a gent to freak her out with
a questionnaire. Mundane facts would suffice at this stage.
'I'm a secretary at an accountancy firm.'
'Where at?'
'Walsall. Sorrell &; Genge, they're called.' She pulled another of
her apologetic faces. 'Dead showbizzy name isn't it? The work's about
as exciting as it sounds.'
'Have you been there long?'
'Too bloody long! Since I left school at sixteen.'
Chantal spoke unusually bluntly, for she detested her job, talking
about it, and being in any way reminded that the place reopened for
business again in five days time. Christmas afforded her a lovely
fortnight's respite from the office, during which she offered up
fanciful prayers that it might miraculously burn down and she would
never again have to make coffee for Gary 'The Twat' Genge or be the
butt of his acidic so-called humour.
A complete change of subject was called for.
Chantal nodded towards Rose, a pocket-sized vision of mustard-coloured
hair and jangly jewellery who was presently rock 'n' roll jiving with
Max the bass player. 'It's brilliant that your family are so
supportive. Your mom's always down at the front, bopping away, isn't
she? She seems ever so bubbly.'
'Just a bit!' He laughed affectionately. 'She's a right little raver
once you get a few gins inside her. Do your parents go to watch you
sing?'
'They do,' Chantal replied with a hesitant little smile, as though
trying to be tactful, 'but not because they're particularly interested
in what I do. It's more because they don't like me singing in these
"rough" pubs and clubs. They're a bit on the protective side, you
see.'
'Oh, but I'm sure they'm interested in your music as well. Have you got
brothers or sisters?'
'Nope, there's just me - and Arthur the budgie.'
'Arthur? That's cute.'
Chantal scanned his face for evidence of piss-taking, but saw none. He
was astoundingly down to earth, despite his looks, majestic stage
presence and way-out dress sense. Even if he did attain well-deserved
celebrity status, Chantal couldn't imagine him being anything other
than totally grounded.
She'd been out with a few lads before - albeit she'd never progressed
beyond a bit of snogging - and it amazed her that this nearly pop star
should be the one she'd had the least difficulty conversing with.
On the dancefloor Kara, in a gale of giggles, was now being twirled
about by Max. She was not the best dancer in the world; she looked
surprisingly wooden and inexperienced in a boy's arms, and when she
happened to look up and catch Chantal's eye she felt horribly
self-conscious. Her way of disguising this was to shoot Chantal a
snotty glare and turn away.
She's the insecure one, it dawned on Chantal. All this time, I've been
so jealous of her, because of what I thought she was - and now she
resents me because she feels I'm taking her brother off her.
As though telepathic, Kristian leaned towards her and confided: 'Don't
let Kar bother you too much. She just gets a bit funny if she sees me
getting - er - friendly with anyone. I think she's scared she might
lose me. I've kind of been the man of the house since our dad
went.'
'Went?' Chantal took a puzzled sip of drink.
'He bogged off when I was seven, with some floozy. Mom divorced him and
we haven't seen hide nor hair of him since. Kar was only a bab when it
happened, see, barely a year old, so she's never known him. I'm the
only "Dad" figure she's ever grown up with.'
His matter of fact lack of bitterness was extremely humbling.
'That's terrible.' Chantal bit her lip guiltily. 'I feel awful now for
carping on about my old man being overprotective.'
'Don't worry. You weren't to know.' Kris snorted wryly. 'He's one of
those dads who'd probably come out the woodwork and suddenly get in
touch if I did become famous.'
'As I'm sure you will,' Chantal said, keen to sidestep thorny subjects
on such a special night.
'I don't know about that. We're hardly The Commitments. Not that that
matters. I'm just loving every minute.'
'You do loads of gigs, don't you?'
'Yeah, all over. Wherever Kev - he's our agent - sends us.'
'Do you do it full-time?'
'Oh ar. I used to work in a warehouse - dull as shit it was - I
couldn't wait to give it up when the band started to take off.'
'I wish I was talented enough to make my living singing,' said Chantal
wistfully, diverting the subject back to her work without actually
meaning to.
'I bet you could,' Kris said encouragingly, 'I don't see why you
shouldn't leave Sorry &; Grunge, or whatever they're called, if you
hate it that much. Life's too short to do something that makes you
unhappy.'
'What - walk out of my job, you mean?' She stared at him wide-eyed, as
though she had never heard such a radical idea.
'Why not? You're only young, you've got no mortgage to pay, no real
ties. I don't see why you couldn't give it a go.'
'I feel invisible there,' Chantal cried, amazed by her own openness but
feeling an ease and kinship with Kris. 'No matter how hard I try to
join in, I still feel as though I'm watching everyone through a window
and am not really there, as it were. I feel as though nothing I say is
of interest to any of them. When I do contribute something to the
conversation, they look at me as if to say "Oh, what do you know?"
Sometimes I wonder whether I am in fact a ghost, who nobody can
see.'
'They sound a right bunch of arse-wipes,' Kris sympathised, though it
was the sympathy of someone who has spent so long doing what they love
for a living as to have only blurry memories of repellent tasks and
colleagues. 'You're certainly not invisible to me, Chantal - nor would
you be to an audience.'
'Thank you.' She played with her drink. It was a flirty gesture, but
also served to conceal the blushes that were glowing beneath his
gaze.
'You ought to get yourself signed up with an agent. I'll put you in
touch with ours if you like. Kev's a good bloke. He'd get you some
gigs, I'm sure. Hey, you could even be our support act!'
'That's one hell of a gamble, Kris. What if it doesn't come off?'
'And what if it does? Sometimes you just have to take risks in life. It
paid off for me. I couldn't see me doing anything else now. When I'm
eighty and toothless, I'll most likely still be performing, probably at
the Age Concern day centre or summat, waving me Zimmer frame
around.'
'With grannies chucking their bloomers at you, I bet!'
Chantal loved a man who could laugh at himself. Kristian's humour was
so self-deprecating and warm - not of the superior, acidic variety so
beloved by her workmates and the type of guys her mom no doubt wanted
for her.
Kris, meanwhile, had fallen silent. He broodingly drained his pint and
slapped the glass down with the air of a man who'd come to a
decision.
'Fancy a dance?'
Dancing would lift them on to new planes of intimacy. Chantal ought to
have been scared and reluctant. But her booze-loosened lips very
assuredly answered 'Yeah, all right,' and she slunk into the pool of
disco light with him as though accustomed to it. She marvelled at
alcohol's magical inhibition-shedding powers.
Kristian was so lanky, he had to virtually bend his body in half to
hold and look down at her. It was a moment that thus ought to have been
awkward - yet so, so wasn't. Chantal enjoyed being towered over; she
felt protected.
'I'M DANCING WITH KRISTIAN SAVAGE,' voices were squealing jubilantly
inside her brain. 'Kristian and I are having our first dance, to In
Your Eyes by Kylie Minogue, which will go down in history forever as
Our Song.'
Chantal always noticed music, even background CDs in restaurants. It
was a subconscious trait she'd had since she was extremely young. Music
was her stimulus in life; associating songs with events came naturally
to her. She could tell you what was playing on the radio the day her
nan died; the morning she started her hateful job at Sorrell &;
Genge; the night of her first date with her first boyfriend Dean.
'We're just seconds away from that magic midnight hour,' the DJ
hollered across Kylie. 'Now I wanna hear everybody counting down to the
new year with me! Ten - nine - eight - '
Is it that time already? Chantal had been too engrossed to even peek at
her watch. Now she became all trembly and expectant. Midnight was Kiss
Time - an excuse for a mass snog if ever there was one.
Kristian, if the way he was zooming in on her mouth was anything to go
by, obviously wanted to get in early - about seven seconds early, to be
precise.
'Seven - six - '
Whoa - hang on! He's kissing me?
'Five - four - '
My fantasy man and I are locked at the lips - is this real, or some
alcohol-induced mirage? If I blink now, will he disappear in a puff of
smoke?
'Three - '
Ah sod it, girl, get stuck in! Stop having inane conversations with
your brain, and just enjoy it!
'Two - one - HAPPY NEW YEAR!!'
Streamers unfurled, party poppers resounded like grenades, friends
linked into circles for Auld Lang Syne. And at the heart of it all were
Chantal Brown and Kristian Savage, entwined like bonsai and snogging
for England. They'd flowed obliviously into it, and were now just as
oblivious to the thumbs up signs being exchanged by their respective
friends; the boozy cheers and Get in there, my sons from some
onlookers; the bitching and glowering from certain branches of Kris's
female fan club.
They cleaved apart only when their suction powers gave out and oxygen
became a necessity.
'Happy new year,' mouthed Kris. He looked besotted yet sardonic at the
understatement.
His face, with those kiss-swollen lips, was all dreamy and soft.
Chantal sagged against him. Kissing was such a relaxant - but then so
was drink, and a combination of the two turned her muscles to
rubber.
She loved it - this helpless, floaty feeling - yet it scared and almost
shamed her that she'd gotten so carried away. It was out of character.
She'd always been Miss Tin Knickers, able to hold back, so wary of
Giving Herself. It was easy to blame this reticence on her cosseted,
old-fashioned upbringing - but perhaps her exes' hands had been so easy
to slap away simply because they weren't such attractive lads as this
Kristian? He could unleash the inner slapper that no-one else could
guess existed beneath her frigid surface.
But before she set the whore free, Chantal still needed reassurance
that she was not about to be seduced by one those 'philanderers' her
mother warned her about.
'Are you sure you won't regret this when you're sober?' From anyone
else the question would have sounded flippant and coquettish, but she
accompanied it with a look of genuine anxiety in those heartbreaking
blue eyes.
'I am sober, sweetheart.' Kris was initially amused, but then saddened
that she could be so self-deprecating at such a time. He wanted to
reassure her; take care of her; this young angel who truly had no idea
how beautiful she was.
His rope-like arms wrapped her in a hug, which flowed, inevitably, into
another snogathon. This ritual went on until two: snog - and relax -
and hug - and chat - and snog - and rest. They had long ceased being
aware that other people occupied the room; ceased being aware, in fact,
that they were in a room, in a tinsel-strewn social club in the very
early hours of January. This love-drugged pair inhabited a planet of
their own making.
'What you doing tomorrow?' Kris asked during another oxygen
break.
'Today, you mean?'
'I s'pose it is today, yeah - New Year's Day.'
'Sleeping off my hangover, I expect.'
'Fancy meeting me once you've woke up?' He'd much rather have slept it
off with her, but knew better than to be so forward.
'That'd be great.' Kristian's asked me out! Kristian's asked me ou-ut!!
'Where have you got in mind?'
'We could go for a hair of the dog drink tomorr - I mean, this evening.
Do you live local?'
'Just round the corner - five-minute walk from here. How about
you?'
'Penn, the other side of Wolverhampton. D'you know it? We could meet
halfway? Or how about I come and pick you up?'
'Might be a good idea - I'm bound to still be over the limit by then!
I've had a right skinful - by my standards in any case. I know I'm
gunna suffer for it. In more ways than one as well - cuz me mom's bound
to give me a lecture to go with the headache.'
'Teetotal, is she?'
'Brandy sauce with her Christmas pudding is about as far she
goes.'
'You should introduce her to my mom - she'd soon get her out of
herself!'
'Can't see it somehow. But anyway, you wanna drive out somewhere
tonight, do you?'
'Yeah, maybe Walsall or Sutton Coldfield way? I dunno. D'you know any
decent boozers round here?'
'You should be the one to know,' she teased, 'you've played in enough
of 'em!'
'Nah, them are all grot-holes. They must be if they have us back so
often!' He laughed in his now familiar easy, modest way. 'I'd like to
take you somewhere a bit pleasanter, somewhere we could chat and maybe
have something to eat too. You probably know more places like that than
I do.'
Kris's expectant look, and implication that he thought Chantal too
classy for dives, touched her. She raked through her limited 'decent
boozers I've been to' catalogue, feeling wildly important that he
should leave the decision to her.
It struck Chantal that she ought to be flustered. A girl who had been
known to lose sleep wondering what colour to paint her nails should be
nearing a nervous breakdown under the pressure of choosing a First Date
With A Demigod venue.
But Kris was changing everything. He made her feel so liked and
interesting. She knew she could trust him now.
'I'll go anywhere except the Hardwick in Streetly, cuz that's where we
have our Christmas do! Every year without fail - and it's only because
Gary the twat lives within convenient staggering distance.'
Kris grimaced sympathetically. 'And tough tits to everyone else who has
to fork out for taxis or drive, I bet! I know the type. So do you know
anywhere else?'
'The Long Horn's nice,' she offered, in blas?, socialite tones, 'out
towards Aldridge.' She'd been to the Long Horn once, about two years
ago, on her one and only date with a mechanic by the name of Simon. The
only pubs she patronised now were Colonel K gig venues - not that she
intended telling Kris that, for fear of sounding sad.
'We'll go there then. What time shall I pick you up?'
'About seven-ish?'
'Seven-ish it is. Want me to fetch you from your house, or would you
rather not trust a strange man with your address yet?'
'It's OK, I'll scribble it down on this,' she picked a beer-sticky gig
list from a table and magicked a very gnawed biro out of her
handbag.
'Well done that girl! Bet you were in the Brownies, eh?'
She jotted down her address for him. He admired the flowing, pretty
handwriting for a second before secreting the folded gig guide in his
pocket.
'I'll see you then - if I can last that long. In the meantime,' he
reeled her pliant body back in, 'you'd best give me another of those
nice kisses to keep me warm!'