Rob was eighteen now and so ignorantly convinced of his own masculinity, so much so that not even two years in a bubble gum pop band could polish the bad boy image he tried so desperately to boast.
He lay down on the white leather sofa in the corner of the studio, clutching his knees to his chin as the room spun circles around his head; he was so hung-over he could practically hear his hair growing. The lights were flicked on and an aggressive clapping entered the room followed by its creator; Nigel Martin Smith. Rob groaned loudly and pulled his knees from his chin to his ears as his manager stormed through the door, shouting Rob to wake up and immediately join the others.
“I don’t care if you’re feeling rough. That’s your doing. I am not having you ruin this performance so get up and get your lazy arse into that dance studio.” He wailed, the camp emphasis behind his voice irritating Rob to his very core.
He slid off the sofa after Nigel had left the room and held his head in the palm of his hands, groaning with every outward breath as his eyes slowly adjusted to the new lighting. He imagined the inside of his stomach as a washing machine full of his organs, spinning round and smacking hard against one another with every breath.
Finally, Rob stood up. He tucked his vest top into his jogger bottoms and proceeded to tuck those into black Adidas socks. His head still spinning, he made his way into the dance studio next door.
“Rough?” Mark whispered as quietly as possible, standing next to Rob as the five young men took their positions in a line opposite the mirrored wall.
“You’ve no idea.” He grumbled back. “And I can’t say having that voice as my wake-up call soothed the pain whatsoever.”
Mark dropped his head to hide a laugh as Nigel took his place in front of the group, his eyebrows drawn together in frustration as they always seemed to be. He stomped his left foot and threw his head back, exaggerating the first eight steps to a dance routine they had been collectively practicing for weeks now.
“Okay, on three. One. Two. Three, and –“ He bowed slightly, sweeping a stubby hand through the air.
The five of them repeated the dance back to him, perfectly in time and nobody missing a beat.
“Stop! Awful, Rob. Wake yourself up, you’re miles behind.” He rolled his eyes with a harsh tut, clapping once more and counting them in again.
So they did it again, perfectly in time and nobody missing a beat.
It wasn’t good enough, of course. He had them repeat it five more times over, each time being Rob’s fault, if he wasn’t “too slow” he was “too sloppy”.
There were no arguments, not even a roll of the eye, until Rob’s patience came to an end, his head pounding louder than Nigel’s clapping that echoed around the studio violently.
“I’m not behind.” Rob sighed.
“That’s my call to make. And I say you’re behind, by a long way. These boys work so hard day in day out, and every rehearsal you come here still pissed up from the night before and show a severe lack of effort. If you think you know it, then by all means, leave now. I can’t stand to watch you any longer.”
“It would be my absolute pleasure.” Rob spun on his heel and almost skipped towards the exit. “Enjoy, boys. If you need me, I’ll be at the butchers buying four backbones and a crown for queen Nige’. In a bit.”
He swung the door open and made his way back to the sofa where he had left his jacket and a bottle of Stella Artois. Picking both up, he exited, a smug grin plastered across his tired face.
“Where to, Rob?” The chauffeur asked politely as Rob climbed into the back of the blacked out Mercedes.
“The nearest Southern fried chicken place please, mate. I’m marvin.”
Back at the studio about half an hour later, Nigel had called an end to the rehearsals and sent everybody away except Gary, whose shoulder he now had a chubby arm slung across.
“He’s a good lad, is Rob; he’s just young.” Gary sighed.
“He’s a damned idiot, is what he is. But I can’t deny the kid has talent. You and he are the only reason this band exists! Without him, we’re trash. And without us, he’s trash. We need each other.”
Nigel shrugged, slapping Gary on the shoulder and leaving him stood alone in the dance studio. He was wrong, Gary thought. They weren’t trash without Rob, they were better off.
