Evie | H.S |

97. Mad and sad, meet petty

My headache in the morning was a cherry atop of a contrite cake frosted with shame and guilt.

I was shitty with myself.

It was rare I'd ever walk off stage feeling one hundred percent happy with a performance; it was just in my DNA that I'd inevitably find something to nitpick about, fussing over what I wish I'd done differently.

But I'd never felt like this.

Come to think of it, the only time I'd ever walked off stage feeling like I'd genuinely given my best was my Forum show. And maybe that was just because I was in a euphoric state of happiness as someone I'd quickly realised I loved, stood in the wings.

Last night was absolutely not my best. And it should have been.

So, I was mad.

Mad that I'd ruined my moment because I was sad. Mad that I'd let myself get sad to the point where I couldn't get through a fucking song without a bottle of wine. I was especially mad that I'd let down my guard and put myself in a position where I'd even let another person make me sad.

How was it that the person I was liking that I was becoming was quickly now becoming someone I didn't like?

There's a reason you were the way you were, Evie.

The walls I'd built to protect myself. The coping mechanisms I'd put in place. They were all necessary precautions, like bumpers on a bowling alley. They'd long kept me on the straight and narrow.

Straight and narrow?

Well I guess everyone's version of that is subjective. But for me, those fences I'd put up had protected me. Maybe they weren't a fault after all. Maybe what he saw as my downfall was actually the one thing that could have seen me avoid all of this.

With heavy black headphones sat over my head, cupping my ears, I toyed with the hem of my oversized pinstripe blazer jacket, waiting for the a song to play out. Greg, the breakfast radio presenter at Radio 1 sat across the desk from me, toying with the knobs, lining up whatever he needed to, for the next segment.

I'd done the odd radio interview at home, but those were with indie stations in Melbourne. Those studios were always a little run down, relying heavily on community support to keep them going. They were nothing like the studio I sat in now.

Mainstream radio was foreign to me. And the reason I was here wasn't lost on me, no. It was just another harsh reminder that I'd have to live with for the rest of my career, no doubt.

Evie the coattail rider.

As a kid I'd practiced interviews like this.

I'd sit on the edge of my bed with my Dads massive headphones over my head. They'd weigh so heavy that my little neck would ache, but it was all part of the bit.

I'd hold a hairbrush in my small hands as the microphone. With my legs kicking back and forth above the carpeted floor of my bedroom, I'd practice all my poised responses around my 'latest single', how I was dealing with 'newfound fame' and the schedule for my impending 'world tour'.

Though naive at the time, my passion and tenacity had remained true, and with all of that practice, I thought maybe it would serve as somewhat of a preparation for this.

But even with all of that practice, misguided or not, what I hadn't prepared for was this scenario.

A scenario where the questions were not regarding my music, but instead alluding heavily to a world-renowned artist who I'd not only toured with, but ended up in a foolish and short-lived relationship with, that would end abruptly leaving me feeling short-changed.