The Cure

Chapter 14

The glow of last night's success had come off like cheap glitter from Lola's skin under the shower's warm cascade, and the clock darted unforgivingly towards her afternoon shift, each tick etching uncertainty and self-doubt into her thoughts.

Had it really been any good?

She looked mournfully at her guitar as she dressed in barmaid black, tying the habitual checked shirt about her waist, trying to replay her set, to find the echo of appreciative applause in her mind's eye; but she heard nothing, and Jared hadn't even sent her a message – had he kissed her, fully, proudly, like that, in front of everyone? – and it might as well have never happened, because it wouldn't happen again.

Shit like that only happened in dreams, to the lucky; not to her. She stared at herself in the mirror, and saw no star; no, only a meek, feeble girl with deer-in-headlight eyes, destined to pump beer and be done with it.

How had she even got up there?

She would never dare again.

The peaceful comfort of that morning, when the look in Nate's eyes as she bit her lip had been the only thing that made her heart speed up, had long since been forgotten; she was glad that he had shared his breakfast, because now she couldn't stomach the thought of food, surviving only on a hot stream of cigarette smoke sucked desperately to calm her nerves.

The sun was beating down when she left the block of flats, the air had forgotten her fame, and nobody turned their heads.

When she walked into the bar, nobody mentioned her performance.

It might as well never have happened.

Their greetings felt sub-par, a smiling nod or a quick finger to the temple in mock salute as they pacified weekend customers at the midday rush, serving up overpriced platters of reheated bar snacks; no, there were no blues to be heard today, no skipping on the wholesome promise of folksy elation.

Only soggy onion rings and too-sweet cosmopolitans, and whispers between barmaids that she was sure were about her.

She fought back tears for the first half an hour of her shift, before staring herself down in the misty ladies' room mirror, reprimanding herself for having ever hoped for anything beyond this.

'You OK?' Jules asked between the midday and evening rush, as they returned polished glasses to their shelves and gutted the coffee machine.

'Yeah.'

'Just quiet?'

'Yeah.'

She stared at the stage as she turned her tea-towel about a wine glass, trying to imagine herself seated on the high guitar stool, with a real microphone before her, her weathered guitar plugged in like it belonged to a real celebrity.

Somebody worthwhile.

It was the loneliest place on earth on those well-walked planks, but it had felt like home. She dreamed blissfully of countless heads watching her in silent appreciation until six P.M, when the evening drinkers arrived punctually, thirsty, mostly casually dressed, one hauling a gig bag and musicians in tow.

'Where do I set up?'

The singer was barely beautiful, but that didn't matter; her confidence was irresistible, undeniable, and she sang a two-hour set of good soul, and Lola didn't smile at a single customer, her heart a rigid and aching cage of jealous disappointment.

The fluttering, flirty bird that had flown thrillingly in her chest less than twenty-four hours before slumped, appropriately shushed, behind its bars.

The colour drained from her soul.

Her tip jar was almost empty at the end of the night.

'It's OK, my love. They just don't know a good thing when they see it.'

'What if it just wasn't any good?' Lola balanced the phone between her shoulder as she smoked furiously on her midnight break.

'Of course, it was.' Her mum was soothing, as expected, but it wouldn't stop the tears from threatening. She blinked in the dark of the smoking area.

'You're my mum. You're supposed to say stuff like that.'

'Well, what do you want me to say, that it was surely rubbish? You'd never play again.'

'Probably never should.'

'Come on, now, girl, pick yourself up and brush yourself off. Life's too short for moping.'

Lola felt swiftly childish, unbearably selfish.

'Yeah. Yeah, you're right. How are you feeling?'

'Well, that's why I'm calling.' Lola swallowed, pulling another cigarette out automatically as she steeled herself. 'You know those tickets I got you? Well, turns out – the doctor said, anyway – that I probably won't be up to it.'

They had both known it from the moment those small squares of hopeful paper had left her mother's hand and slid into her own.

But no one had dared to say.

'It's nonsense, obviously, but you'll have loads more fun with a friend, or something, when you're not worrying about me—'

'I'm always worried about you.'

'—don't be silly, I'm fine. Anyway, Fred's got me a lovely DVD recording of a performance in Paris, so I'll watch along with you from the comfort of my own home. It'll be just lovely.'

That Nicks courage, shrugging her shoulders at injustice, finding a shit alternative and calling it exquisite; Lola's chest was pinching, and her boss had rapped on the window, beckoning furiously before the lurching crowds of weekend punters.

She nodded, unable to voice her agreement, stubbing her cigarette furiously against the low brick wall of the beer garden.

'I've got to go back to work, mum. But I'll call you tomorrow. I love you.'

'Love you too, my girl. I'm proud of you.'