Tender (A britpop era fiction)

The Girl In The Dirty Shirt

London, November 1994

„Jesus fuckin' Christ, hang on a minute." Noels annoyed gaze meets my face, his blue eyes piercing right through me.

„You dragged me to a fuckin art exposition?" He shakes his head, looking out of the car window as if he's going to prison.

„No fuckin' way I'm going in there like some posh wanker!"

„Calm down, I'm dragging you to a John Lennon art exposition." Mistrusting he looks out again, watching the people in their best attire stiring up in front of the entrance of the museum.

„We're not proper dressed for this shit." He mumbles hesitant. I laught out loud.

„When has that ever stopped us before, Noelie?" I ask and take his hand. „Now don't be a bore and come with me. You'll love it, it's Lennons art for Christs sake. And besides-" I lean over. „Rebecca's gonna be there." He tilts his head.

„Yeah?"

„I promise. She called me earlier and asked if I'm coming. Meg'll sure be around too." Suddenly Noels hesitance seems non existent. He gets out of the car and smirking I follow him, entwining my arm with his.

„Speaking about, how are things going between the two of you?"

„Good" he mumbles.

„Good?"

„Yeah."

„Don't be a stuck-up. Tell me."

„Nothing really to tell. She's fun. And hot. And a pretty good shag."

„And?" He rolls his eyes.

„And that's it." I strengthen my grip. I know exactly what this means. It means he still lies awake at night thinking about Louise. That girl still holds his heart in a tight grip. Sometimes when we had to share a room on tour I could hear him mumble her name. One time I catched him sitting on his bedside, whispering into the phone on the nights table.

„Just tell me how you are...good...good...is it true with that fella...you're too good for him...don' know, just know it...no, don't...Promise you'll come to our next Manchester gig. I'll have tickets prepared for you. Yeah...I know...promise me."

„Be good with her. I like Rebecca."

„Why shouldn't I be nice to her?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop myself.

„Because you still write love songs for someone else." Noels cold look meets my face and I feel my lips dry. It's his way to tell me not to go further, not to agitate him. I'm dangerously close to the invisible line, a line created by the friction caused by everything that happened in Japan and the two months after. It's still a fragile peace between the two of us. I have to remind myself.

Silent we enter the building, greeted by the staff that takes our coats. Irritated they note the ugly sweater Noel's wearing and the oversized, blue-checked flannel I wear over my short and tight black dress. Both of us sport our favourite pair of Sambas and in true rockstar fashion we both have a pair of sunglasses on our noses. We must stand out like two sour thumbs between all the blazers and high heels and up-do hair, him with his scruffy looking hair that falls in his forehead and I with my bob cut I decided to grow out.

„Fuckin' stuck-ups" Noel says as he takes my arm and we enter the exhibition. He grabs two glasses of champagne from a waiters tray and hands one to me.