can put out the official statement saying the tour’s off.”
Stefan shook his head. “No, she can put out a statement saying we wish Mark all the best in his future career and we’re starting the audition process for a new guitarist as soon as possible.”
Paul spoke for all of us. “Are you out of your mind? Do you seriously expect us to find someone to replace Mark before next week?”
“Of course. We might have to reschedule the first couple of dates on the tour, but I’m sure the fans would rather see us later than not at all.” He pulled his bass lead out of the amp, a sign we would not be rehearsing today. “But Paul’s right. We all need a drink. Come on, I’m buying.”
As we followed him out of the rehearsal room, I couldn’t help admiring Stefan’s confidence in our overcoming this unforeseen setback. It was one of the things I loved best about him, along with his soft hazel eyes and his deliciously firm arse. But somehow I found it impossible to share that confidence. Mark had been such an integral part of Sweet Lies, I simply couldn’t imagine life without him.
* * * *
I was still thinking about Mark’s departure when I stepped into the shower that evening. Stefan, Paul, Davey and I had decamped to the pub for a couple of hours, though we’d spent more time reminiscing about our more outrageous adventures on the road than discussing a potential new guitarist. We’d managed to let Martine know the bad news before it popped up on the cyber-grapevine. A no-nonsense Geordie, she took it in her stride, as she always did everything. As the band’s PR officer for over ten years, she’d grown very practiced at dealing with our various upheavals, whether musical or domestic. As the only girl in the band, I sometimes needed to get away from the boys’ club atmosphere that could take over, particularly when we were on tour, and I’d come to regard Martine as my closest female friend. She’d been a shoulder to cry on when relations between Mark and I had become strained, and I’d shared secrets with her I didn’t think even my husband knew about. But though I could discuss Mark’s departure with Martine on a purely emotional level, I doubted she would really understand how the arrival of a newcomer—always assuming we managed to find one—would affect the dynamic within the band.
With the water beating down and the glass door of the shower cubicle steaming up, I wasn’t aware of Stefan’s presence till he pushed open the door.
“Room for one more?” he asked.
As he joined me, I drank in the sight of his gorgeous naked body. A couple of years shy of forty, he still had an enviably thick head of chestnut hair and the solid, muscular build that first attracted me to him. He’d been working hard in recent weeks to get in the best shape he could, in preparation for an extensive, gruelling tour, and the results were clearly visible.
Even though he spent most of the set lurking towards the back of the stage, laying down a simple, steady beat on his bass, Stefan still needed to be fit. We all did. We simply had different approaches to fitting the necessary exercise into our lives. I took weekly classes in jazz and contemporary dance at the Pineapple Dance Studios. Stefan went jogging in Hyde Park. Davey rode his horses, Butterscotch and Bonnie, in the countryside near his Rickmansworth home. Paul claimed he kept fit by chasing women.
“Need a backrub?” Stefan joined me beneath the almost tropical spray.
“Mmm,” I replied. His fingertips might be calloused from years of pressing against the thick bass strings, but there was magic in their touch. Martine swore by her aromatherapy massage sessions at her favourite day spa in Covent Garden, but as far as I was concerned there was no better masseur than my husband.
“Wow, these are serious knots in your shoulders,” he commented, working his fingers in hard, circular motions. “You’re tense, Aimee.”
“Wouldn’t you be,
Stefan shook his head. “No, she can put out a statement saying we wish Mark all the best in his future career and we’re starting the audition process for a new guitarist as soon as possible.”
Paul spoke for all of us. “Are you out of your mind? Do you seriously expect us to find someone to replace Mark before next week?”
“Of course. We might have to reschedule the first couple of dates on the tour, but I’m sure the fans would rather see us later than not at all.” He pulled his bass lead out of the amp, a sign we would not be rehearsing today. “But Paul’s right. We all need a drink. Come on, I’m buying.”
As we followed him out of the rehearsal room, I couldn’t help admiring Stefan’s confidence in our overcoming this unforeseen setback. It was one of the things I loved best about him, along with his soft hazel eyes and his deliciously firm arse. But somehow I found it impossible to share that confidence. Mark had been such an integral part of Sweet Lies, I simply couldn’t imagine life without him.
* * * *
I was still thinking about Mark’s departure when I stepped into the shower that evening. Stefan, Paul, Davey and I had decamped to the pub for a couple of hours, though we’d spent more time reminiscing about our more outrageous adventures on the road than discussing a potential new guitarist. We’d managed to let Martine know the bad news before it popped up on the cyber-grapevine. A no-nonsense Geordie, she took it in her stride, as she always did everything. As the band’s PR officer for over ten years, she’d grown very practiced at dealing with our various upheavals, whether musical or domestic. As the only girl in the band, I sometimes needed to get away from the boys’ club atmosphere that could take over, particularly when we were on tour, and I’d come to regard Martine as my closest female friend. She’d been a shoulder to cry on when relations between Mark and I had become strained, and I’d shared secrets with her I didn’t think even my husband knew about. But though I could discuss Mark’s departure with Martine on a purely emotional level, I doubted she would really understand how the arrival of a newcomer—always assuming we managed to find one—would affect the dynamic within the band.
With the water beating down and the glass door of the shower cubicle steaming up, I wasn’t aware of Stefan’s presence till he pushed open the door.
“Room for one more?” he asked.
As he joined me, I drank in the sight of his gorgeous naked body. A couple of years shy of forty, he still had an enviably thick head of chestnut hair and the solid, muscular build that first attracted me to him. He’d been working hard in recent weeks to get in the best shape he could, in preparation for an extensive, gruelling tour, and the results were clearly visible.
Even though he spent most of the set lurking towards the back of the stage, laying down a simple, steady beat on his bass, Stefan still needed to be fit. We all did. We simply had different approaches to fitting the necessary exercise into our lives. I took weekly classes in jazz and contemporary dance at the Pineapple Dance Studios. Stefan went jogging in Hyde Park. Davey rode his horses, Butterscotch and Bonnie, in the countryside near his Rickmansworth home. Paul claimed he kept fit by chasing women.
“Need a backrub?” Stefan joined me beneath the almost tropical spray.
“Mmm,” I replied. His fingertips might be calloused from years of pressing against the thick bass strings, but there was magic in their touch. Martine swore by her aromatherapy massage sessions at her favourite day spa in Covent Garden, but as far as I was concerned there was no better masseur than my husband.
“Wow, these are serious knots in your shoulders,” he commented, working his fingers in hard, circular motions. “You’re tense, Aimee.”
“Wouldn’t you be,
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