Three Years Without Freya Sherman

Prologue

 I’ve never had much time for magazines, or anything written by journalists, really. They’re all dirty liars. Especially her. But I still thought about her. I was thinking of her as I wrote our second album. I thought about her when I read the first article declaring it to be a flop. I thought about her as I sat alone in my library, every single edition of Magnify piled beside me, just so I could read her words. Hear her voice in them. And I wished she was with me. My week with her was paradise. But three years without her was hell.

 She moved away. Magnify got big and moved to London. Became bigger, better. And I stayed put. My affair with Ellie ended as quickly as it had started. I only wanted to hurt her; hurt her the way she hurt me. Running back to Jamie like I didn’t matter. No call. Nothing.

 But I still missed her. Every day.

 Sometimes, I thought I saw her in a crowd. I’d see some stylish brunette, head held high, and I’d rush to her, only to realise I’d made a mistake. Sometimes I I heard her laugh, but only in the echoes of a fading dream. Nightmare, I suppose. I’d wake up and realise she was gone, bringing reality crashing down on my shoulders. Burying me alive.

 And every day I’d feel foreign hands on my shoulders, and I’d pretend they were hers. But this grip was hard and heavy. Smoky breath on my face.

 “You ready, babe?”

 My nostrils burning, I’d turn and kiss the strangers lips. The heat of vodka on their tongue. The high would hit me in half an hour or so. And then I’d temporarily escape to a world where she doesn’t exist.

 Freya Sherman. Look what you’re doing to me.