DAYLIGHT FADING

four | and those little things define us forever

             | four: and those little things define us forever |

                                                   or

                                  | bad blood: bastille |

I’ve been sat in my changing room for the last two hours, cycling through songs that remind me of a time perhaps better forgotten, waiting for the call just before eight for me to get on set. I’ve been fretting over why exactly Chaos Theory are all here. I hope they’re not planning to do some sort of surprise reunion live on air. I don’t think anyone wants to see me being throttled to death.

“You’re up, Miss D’Angelo,” is the yell through my cocoon of music. I pull my headphones off my ears and put them and my iPod back into my satchel underneath my Oasis t-shirt. Whilst no one here would dare steal anything from me for fear they’d be fired on the spot, which is exactly what would happen, it's always better to be safe.

I ruffle my hair a little to try and disguise the headphone circles on my hair a bit before I step out of my changing room. I don’t miss the slight look of surprise on the young man they’ve sent to come and get me before he covers it up. Then again, he looks to be in his early twenties, so I can’t really call him young if he’s older than me.

I mentally cross my fingers that they’re not going to pull a reunion on me and follow the back of the nameless person’s head to the side of the stage. I can see Moira Young – blonde and tanned with a perfect, gleaming white smile – and a plush red sofa that’s waiting for me. I could take the sofa as a warning sign, but they always use sofas.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” there’s a small cheer even though Moira hasn’t finished her sentence yet. Great, they brought in the pièce d’résistance – a live audience. “The media’s been alight with questions about this young woman. What exactly is her relationship with her touring bassist, Cameron Davis?” there’s a scream as people know who Moira is set to introduce, “what exactly is in the past she’s so carefully kept out of the media? And what was her motivation behind her performance of a rock song on the final show of her tour last night?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Angel!” I roll my eyes at the deliberate use of my stage name because Moira Young is smart enough to know it has far more impact than saying my actual name. It also makes me slightly wary because I hate getting interviewed by the smart ones. They’re always looking for little loopholes and subtext in whatever you say.

I walk on without waving, even though it’s not commonplace for a so-called pop star to do so and smirk rather than smile at the little surprised gasp of the crowd. For once, I’m not dressed up and styled like a doll. I’m not wearing some floaty, softly-coloured thing and my face is dotted with freckles. Admittedly, I’ve used special oil to smooth out the frizz in my hair and make it look like I’ve got perfect ringlets, but at least it’s not straight.

I settle myself down on the sofa next to one of the armrests, picking the most comfortable place even though it will make me look smaller. I’m safe in the knowledge that I’ve got at least two inches on Moira Young.

“So, Angel-”

“Lacey,” I cut her off with a cool word. I can’t allow myself to get flustered over anything. Even if she brings up him and my stomach twists itself into knots and I want to cry, I have to act completely emotionless. As my mother once said to me: ‘The best way to avoid getting your heart broken is to pretend you don’t have one’.