Tender (A britpop era fiction)

Far Out

Lennon. It suddenly all makes sense. Dylan yelling „Ask Missy" at me on the phone, Missy not wanting to tell me the name of the boy that texted her. Anaïs' cryptic comment, maybe Dylan wanted the attention on herself for once. It wasn't aimed at me, it was aimed at Missy. And Missy, asking about Damon and me.

But it was inevitable, wasn't it? The publicity, I mean. You're a Gallagher. And he's an Albarn.

Only she's the Albarn this time. And Lennon's the Gallagher.

And her step cousin, of all things.

It's been two days since I peaked over Missys shoulder and connected the dots. Two days thinking the matter over and over, without telling Damon anything. Freaking out would be the underestimation of the century. He would directly head to Hampstead Heath and strike my nephew down for touching his daughter and causing trouble for his step daughter and all of our family. Dylan took a bullet for her sister, the biggest bullet she could've taken.

Because in spite of our hopes, the frenzy hasn't cooled down. It has exploded in our faces.

Our bad luck began when someone sold the exciting news of Zayn Maliks new girlfriend to American trash magazines. All of a sudden, I got phone calls from friends in New York and L.A., telling me about articles and one very disturbing call from Johnny Marr, who's on tour in the Midwest at the moment.

„One of my crew members just read a gossip magazine and there was a huge photo on the cover of your daughter snogging that one boyband lad. And they're not nice in the article, I tell you."

If it were only the dozens of paparazzis on our front door. But it has happened that someone leaked our phone number and day and night, we don't only get calls from journalists, but also from One Direction fans, threatening my daughter. I wish it would be as absurd as it is shocking. My mail account is overflood with regards of interviews, with threatening mails and internet bots. Damon's record label had to redirect all the spam and hate mail they get.

The front of Stella McCartneys atelier is full with photographers and journalists and they hope that Dylan will arrive there. It went so far that Stella called us and with tremendous sadness in her voice, she told Dylan over the phone that she couldn't carry on her internship under such circumstances. It still breaks my heart to think about Dylans burst of tears, begging Stella over the phone to keep her. When I took the phone away and wanted to pull her in my arms, she pushed me away, yelled this all was my fault and went into her room. I could hear the keys click as she locked the door.

It's almost impossible for any of us to leave the house without getting microphones stuffed in our face. We took Missy to Suzie and after a journalist chased Paul down from his training, we decided yesterday to bring the kids to the country side for a few days. I wanted to cry when Alex agreed to take the three of them in.

„We already have five" he said, cheerful as always. „I won't even realize there are three more."

We've left London quite a while ago and drive through the beautiful landscape of Hampshire, through forests, hills and little villages. Damon behind the wheel looks as tired as I feel. He misses his eldest daughter and he suffers with Dylan who hasn't left her room. That he can't go to the studio is just the tip of the iceberg. The fact that we feel we have to bring our younger kids out of the city like in some war movie, makes the both of us utterly miserable.

I look behind me. Alika has fallen asleep, thank God and Finan is playing quietly with his dinosaur toys. He smiles sweetly at me when he notices my look on him. Paul has head phones on and looks out of the window with a grim face. To my surprise, he was the one most hesitant of going.