him, was Greg. I had realised, in that split-second, that I actually did care about Richie being there, and Greg being around was going to mess it all up. He would be watching me, I was sure of it, so how could I talk to Richie, smile the sort of smile that I wanted to, with those eyes on me? I sat down and pretended not to have noticed either of them, forcing myself to concentrate on the music, but without much success.
When the time came for my first song, there was a shrill whistle from somewhere in the audience but I couldn’t enjoy it. How could I be sure it had come from Richie? It might have been Greg and that unnerved me. It didn’t stop me singing, and there was warm applause as I finished, but I felt as if I had performed with my foot slightly on the brake. I could have given it more and it was all his fault, that stupid, stupid man. Why did he have to come and spoil everything?
Then it was the interval, and we headed for the bar but, unfortunately, a lot of other people had the same idea, and it was ages before we were served. There was certainly nowhere to sit. I looked around for Richie, hoping that he would beckon me over, but he was nowhere to be seen, unlike Greg, who waved and smiled far too enthusiastically. I noticed he was not wearing his glasses, and I wondered if he had an array of unusual lenses to choose from. Maybe his eyes would be bright blue tonight, or green, like a cat’s. Hopefully, I would never be close enough to find out.
I could see that Olga thought it was strange, but she agreed to come to the toilet with me when the break was nearly over.
“I haven’t done this for a while,” she said, as we made our way down the corridor. “Do you want a girly talk?”
“No, it’s him – Greg. He’s here, and I was worried that he would follow me and want to talk to me. I’m probably being silly, as I know he’s been to other gigs, but there’s just something about him. The way he smiled at me.”
“Bloody hell!” said Olga. “A stalker!” But she was only joking, and I made myself join in with the joke. Of course it wouldn’t turn out to be anything that serious. It was just awkward.
My next song was first up in the second set, so we both went straight to the stage. There, I’ve done it, I told myself. He won’t be able to catch me alone now. He was still there, of course he was, but somehow I felt more relaxed now that I’d told Olga and we’d laughed about it together. Richie was there too, and he gave me a thumbs–up. Then the stage lights came on, the wall lights were dimmed and, strangely, for this had not happened before, a hush descended on the room. OK, there were still the sounds of people ordering drinks and a bit of conversation at the back of the room, but a lot of the audience were quietly waiting. Waiting for me to sing.
This time it was the old Lynyrd Skynyrd classic, ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ – again in the chilled out, dreamy style that Anton seemed to like for my songs. It’s a pub band classic and I knew that, but I was not expecting what happened when I got to the first chorus. People were singing along with me – not in the shouty, football-song way that they do sometimes, but properly singing – and this made me tingle. It also gave me a huge boost of confidence, and I really threw myself into the rest of the song, allowing myself to include a couple of things I had tried at home but not in practice; a little pause here, a little throaty ‘yeah’ there. Looking back, it was probably hopelessly cheesy, but the audience loved it and there were more than a few shouts of approval at the end.
“More from Amy later,” said Anton, introducing the next song, and then Olga joined me and handed me a tambourine.
“You may as well stay on stage,” she said.
Later, as I lay in bed, far too wired to sleep, I kept replaying that moment. It was the acknowledgement that I brought something to the band, that it wasn’t about them indulging Olga’s friend
When the time came for my first song, there was a shrill whistle from somewhere in the audience but I couldn’t enjoy it. How could I be sure it had come from Richie? It might have been Greg and that unnerved me. It didn’t stop me singing, and there was warm applause as I finished, but I felt as if I had performed with my foot slightly on the brake. I could have given it more and it was all his fault, that stupid, stupid man. Why did he have to come and spoil everything?
Then it was the interval, and we headed for the bar but, unfortunately, a lot of other people had the same idea, and it was ages before we were served. There was certainly nowhere to sit. I looked around for Richie, hoping that he would beckon me over, but he was nowhere to be seen, unlike Greg, who waved and smiled far too enthusiastically. I noticed he was not wearing his glasses, and I wondered if he had an array of unusual lenses to choose from. Maybe his eyes would be bright blue tonight, or green, like a cat’s. Hopefully, I would never be close enough to find out.
I could see that Olga thought it was strange, but she agreed to come to the toilet with me when the break was nearly over.
“I haven’t done this for a while,” she said, as we made our way down the corridor. “Do you want a girly talk?”
“No, it’s him – Greg. He’s here, and I was worried that he would follow me and want to talk to me. I’m probably being silly, as I know he’s been to other gigs, but there’s just something about him. The way he smiled at me.”
“Bloody hell!” said Olga. “A stalker!” But she was only joking, and I made myself join in with the joke. Of course it wouldn’t turn out to be anything that serious. It was just awkward.
My next song was first up in the second set, so we both went straight to the stage. There, I’ve done it, I told myself. He won’t be able to catch me alone now. He was still there, of course he was, but somehow I felt more relaxed now that I’d told Olga and we’d laughed about it together. Richie was there too, and he gave me a thumbs–up. Then the stage lights came on, the wall lights were dimmed and, strangely, for this had not happened before, a hush descended on the room. OK, there were still the sounds of people ordering drinks and a bit of conversation at the back of the room, but a lot of the audience were quietly waiting. Waiting for me to sing.
This time it was the old Lynyrd Skynyrd classic, ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ – again in the chilled out, dreamy style that Anton seemed to like for my songs. It’s a pub band classic and I knew that, but I was not expecting what happened when I got to the first chorus. People were singing along with me – not in the shouty, football-song way that they do sometimes, but properly singing – and this made me tingle. It also gave me a huge boost of confidence, and I really threw myself into the rest of the song, allowing myself to include a couple of things I had tried at home but not in practice; a little pause here, a little throaty ‘yeah’ there. Looking back, it was probably hopelessly cheesy, but the audience loved it and there were more than a few shouts of approval at the end.
“More from Amy later,” said Anton, introducing the next song, and then Olga joined me and handed me a tambourine.
“You may as well stay on stage,” she said.
Later, as I lay in bed, far too wired to sleep, I kept replaying that moment. It was the acknowledgement that I brought something to the band, that it wasn’t about them indulging Olga’s friend
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