uncomfortable and paranoid that I would catch on something and tear the delicate rubber apart, leaving me naked on the dance floor.
When we arrived, Fran had seemed at home immediately, bouncing from room to room, eager to explore each cranny of the venue, an old theatre which was filled to capacity on one of their biggest nights of the year.
She glared at Chris, who was surveying the crowd with wide eyes. ‘Some rock star you’re going to make,’ she said, ‘if you find this lot shocking. I bet Viggo Franck has a dressing room full of naked women. Men too, probably.’
‘Don’t you start,’ Chris groaned. ‘I think every woman I’ve ever met has rung me since the posters went out, asking for a backstage pass.’
‘He’s not my type,’ Fran replied, ‘but I reckon he’s right up Summer’s street. She always makes a beeline for the bad boys.’
I blushed. Viggo Franck was half Danish and half Italian, and The Holy Criminals, already well established in Europe, had risen seemingly from nowhere in the UK to become a massive hit almost overnight when he’d been pictured tumbling out of a hotel in Chelsea with not just one, but three women, including the granddaughter of a Conservative politician and a young actress who had made her money from Disney-produced family-friendly romcoms. Viggo was immediately tarred with an almost god-like womaniser status while the women had been flamed in the press, which had generated even more news coverage when feminists had been up in arms about the sexual double standard evidenced in the media.
As a result of his sudden success, The Holy Criminals had been accused of selling out, and Viggo’s once indie underground status had been abandoned in favour of a stadium-filling mainstream audience. According to Chris, Viggo had managed to maintain his street cred amongst fellow musicians by gaining a reputation for promoting struggling small-time bands.
He’d met Chris at a party where they’d been hanging out with Black Hay, another band we used to share the stage with occasionally, who’d just been taken on by The Holy Criminals’ record label.
‘Well,’ Chris said, ‘I did get you two backstage passes so I guess we’ll soon find out.’
Fran whooped. ‘No wonder you haven’t come home, Sum,’ she said. ‘London is way too much fun.’
One of the club’s photographers asked if he could take a picture, and before I could step away, Chris and Fran had agreed and both leapt into fearsome monster poses for the shot.
I pulled my sailor’s hat down to cover my face just as the flash went off. Being a minor celebrity with a conservative fan base had made me more worried about my public image.
‘Are you sure you’re OK with having your picture taken?’ the photographer asked, noticing my reticence.
He sidled alongside me to show me the shot, standing close to avoid having to lift the camera strap over his head. He had a wide smile and friendly eyes, lined with dark eyeliner, which matched his outfit of a latex shirt in a purple so dark it looked black, and wrist cuffs in the same colour that reached almost to his elbow, gladiatorial style.
‘No, it’s OK,’ I said, peering at the image on the lens. It was a good shot. Fran and Chris were unrecognisable in their thick make-up and I could have been one of a dozen girls in my sailor suit with my hat obscuring almost all of my face, just a lipsticked grin visible and a flash of my red hair bright against the white paint on Fran’s shoulder.
‘Email me if you change your mind,’ he said, handing me a plain black business card with just his name printed across in white, simple font. Jack Grayson. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
‘Stop flirting, would you,’ Fran complained. ‘We want to go and dance!’
Jack was already a few feet away, taking another picture, his tall body curved into a slight crouch and the big SLR covering one eye and half of his wide smile.
We headed off to find the music, passing by the dungeon on
When we arrived, Fran had seemed at home immediately, bouncing from room to room, eager to explore each cranny of the venue, an old theatre which was filled to capacity on one of their biggest nights of the year.
She glared at Chris, who was surveying the crowd with wide eyes. ‘Some rock star you’re going to make,’ she said, ‘if you find this lot shocking. I bet Viggo Franck has a dressing room full of naked women. Men too, probably.’
‘Don’t you start,’ Chris groaned. ‘I think every woman I’ve ever met has rung me since the posters went out, asking for a backstage pass.’
‘He’s not my type,’ Fran replied, ‘but I reckon he’s right up Summer’s street. She always makes a beeline for the bad boys.’
I blushed. Viggo Franck was half Danish and half Italian, and The Holy Criminals, already well established in Europe, had risen seemingly from nowhere in the UK to become a massive hit almost overnight when he’d been pictured tumbling out of a hotel in Chelsea with not just one, but three women, including the granddaughter of a Conservative politician and a young actress who had made her money from Disney-produced family-friendly romcoms. Viggo was immediately tarred with an almost god-like womaniser status while the women had been flamed in the press, which had generated even more news coverage when feminists had been up in arms about the sexual double standard evidenced in the media.
As a result of his sudden success, The Holy Criminals had been accused of selling out, and Viggo’s once indie underground status had been abandoned in favour of a stadium-filling mainstream audience. According to Chris, Viggo had managed to maintain his street cred amongst fellow musicians by gaining a reputation for promoting struggling small-time bands.
He’d met Chris at a party where they’d been hanging out with Black Hay, another band we used to share the stage with occasionally, who’d just been taken on by The Holy Criminals’ record label.
‘Well,’ Chris said, ‘I did get you two backstage passes so I guess we’ll soon find out.’
Fran whooped. ‘No wonder you haven’t come home, Sum,’ she said. ‘London is way too much fun.’
One of the club’s photographers asked if he could take a picture, and before I could step away, Chris and Fran had agreed and both leapt into fearsome monster poses for the shot.
I pulled my sailor’s hat down to cover my face just as the flash went off. Being a minor celebrity with a conservative fan base had made me more worried about my public image.
‘Are you sure you’re OK with having your picture taken?’ the photographer asked, noticing my reticence.
He sidled alongside me to show me the shot, standing close to avoid having to lift the camera strap over his head. He had a wide smile and friendly eyes, lined with dark eyeliner, which matched his outfit of a latex shirt in a purple so dark it looked black, and wrist cuffs in the same colour that reached almost to his elbow, gladiatorial style.
‘No, it’s OK,’ I said, peering at the image on the lens. It was a good shot. Fran and Chris were unrecognisable in their thick make-up and I could have been one of a dozen girls in my sailor suit with my hat obscuring almost all of my face, just a lipsticked grin visible and a flash of my red hair bright against the white paint on Fran’s shoulder.
‘Email me if you change your mind,’ he said, handing me a plain black business card with just his name printed across in white, simple font. Jack Grayson. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
‘Stop flirting, would you,’ Fran complained. ‘We want to go and dance!’
Jack was already a few feet away, taking another picture, his tall body curved into a slight crouch and the big SLR covering one eye and half of his wide smile.
We headed off to find the music, passing by the dungeon on
Similar Books
