Tender (A britpop era fiction)

Frankly, Mr. Shankly

I stand in the door frame watching the van with Matt and the camera team driving away. For a moment I stand there and look after them driving down the road and vanishing in the hectic London evening traffic. I feel unbelievable tired. It's been a very long day and I feel like we've been talking our way through years of memories although we haven't even left the year 1994 in the interview today.

Somehow, I managed to tell him the light version of what happened that evening in that hotel. That Tony blurted out our relationship and everyone got angry and there was a lot of shouting and crying and a fight. I made it as short as I could and Matt was sensitive enough to let it be, not having a clue of the amount of memories running through my mind at the same time.

I close the door and lean against it for a moment. That was it with the interviews until next month. The weeks ahead will be very stressful and between Dylans fashion week debut, Missys concert and all the annual appointments with the schools the kids go to, not to mention my own business and Damons upcoming tour - I couldn't manage to go through the past while doing all that.

I look at my watch. I've got two hours before Damon comes home with the little ones. Enough time to get some unpopular tasks off my desk. I stroll to the kitchen to make me another cup of coffee and then walk to the tiny room next to the living room, where I have made up my office.

It contains nothing more than an old, wooden desk faced to the window and a shelf where we store all our folders with the documents life and work require but it's one of my favourite places in the house. Besides me, no one's interested in it, Damon only comes here when he needs something and so it's practically my own little space. I sit down at the table and look at the letters I haven't opened yet. And on my iPad I can see even more unopened mails. Sighing I take the first letter.

It's a handwritten invitation to the Stella McCartney fashion show next week for Damon and me. As I unfold the letter, something falls out between the paper. I pick it up. It's a polaroid of her and me at the Vivienne Westwood fashion show in spring 1995. On the back something's written in her elegant hand writing.

My darling Claire bear!

Found that one the other day while going through my stuff with dad,

he sends you peace and love as always!

I can't wait to see Damon and you next week,

lots of love,

Stella.

It makes me smile to look at the photograph. The first fashion show I was ever invited to and it happened that Stella sat right next to me. The start of a long and enduring friendship that helped both of us through some hard times and even made me the godmother of her youngest daughter. She's inviting me and Damon for a fitting a few days earlier and a lunch after. I write it down in my calendar, adding a note to get a little present for my god child beforehand.

The next envelope has a check in it from my part of the Spotify royalties from The Strokes' last album I helped to produce. It's only a few dollars though the album has had millions of streams since last year. I put the envelope aside. The music industry has changed completely since the 90s and it wouldn't be worth to moan about it. But still, sometimes I can't help but think that the big music business becomes more of a travesty each day. It's one of the reasons why I decided to be strictly independent with what I'm doing.

The next two letters are for Damon and I put them aside. The rest is just bills, a letter regarding our taxes and advertisement. The latter I throw in the bin, the others I read and put them in order and the tax stuff I put in a folder. As soon as I've written the checks for the bills I'm putting all of them away. Damon can't be arsed with all the daily paper work so it's mostly me dealing with it but I don't mind. I like to have an oversight over our situation and I like organizing all the stuff. As someone from a family where we had to turn every penny around it gives me a sense of security to know where we're at.