DAYLIGHT FADING

twenty three | we leave just before it's gone

                       | twenty three: we leave just before it's gone |

                                                             or

                                 | daylight fading: counting crows |

I scowl at Justin when he brings me a long bag that I know is designed for keeping some kind of posh evening gown in.

“What’s this?” I sincerely hope that it is a joke because I am not prancing around anywhere, and especially not in heels. For god’s sake, why anyone would actually enjoy wearing heels I don’t know, unless they honestly needed them to look like they were a below average height.

“We’ve been instructed to attend a movie premiere tonight, which we were apparently told about weeks ago but we didn’t really give a shit. And you’ve been instructed to attend because apparently everyone is under the impression that this is some sort of permanent arrangement,” Justin snorts, though I know that it is not about the fact that I am only here for the studio work.

Everyone who has spent fifteen minutes with The Noise knows that their collapse is inevitable and that it will be happening very soon. There is a part of me that is glad that Declan takes the photos that he does – when they are eventually released onto the internet at the end of our time in the studio, they will provide an honest portrait of me.

I will be smiling, laughing, intently looking down at the guitar in my hands and crying, face contorted with anger, surrounded by the smoke from my spliff. I will be gently brushing roses with my fingers and leaning over Justin’s chair in the studio.

For the first time, the world will be able to see me as a person, not as a pop star or some warped figment of Adam’s imagination, with all of my bad habits and flaws and music as what might be the only redemption that I have.

“I am not dressing like a pop star,” I snarl at him, thinking of skin-revealing, tight dresses and stupid heels.

“I’ve been assured that it’s floor length and bares none of your legs,” that, at least, is more than I have been afforded in recent years, “and the heels in my car don’t look like knives in disguise.”

At least people seem to be getting the message that I am neither a pop star nor a doll. Maybe, at some point, I will throw my tattoos out there just for the shock value, but I doubt it’ll be now – this will probably be a conservative, not-that-amazing dress because I am not an official member of The Noise and record companies are stingy.

“No hair or make-up?” Justin shakes his head, “some guy called Leo Velez told them it was a bad idea.”

I’m not sure what I think of Leo. He seemed like such a bastard when he was the one keeping me at QOD but now, with this and the house he bought for Cam, I am not so sure. He is undoubtedly a money-driven opportunist but I am not sure if that makes him a bad person or just a practical one.

I take the large hanger from Justin, draping it over my arm as I go for the exit, out onto the crowded streets of Camden. I get halfway to the door before Dylan touches my shoulder.

“You’re carrying a posh gown, I’ll give you a lift,” I’ve never been able to get a handle on the slight undercurrent of an accent that he has. Both Matt and Justin are clearly from above the north-south divide but I can’t pin Dylan.

There are times when he sounds so well-spoken that I immediately think of private school down south but then parts of his vocabulary speak of colder climates. My best guess would be that he’s moved often enough to pick up bits and pieces from everywhere.