Erin Hosegood For The Record

FOR THE RECORD

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ANTISOCIAL’S SUMMER UK TOUR! All the hottest gossip and latest reveals!!

The words flash up on my screen and I swipe the alert away. As if I need to be reminded how much better other people are doing than I am. How much better AntiSocial are doing than I am. And least of all how much better Quinn Thorn is doing than I am.

I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the obnoxiously pink headline ingrained in my mind. Everyone says time heals all wounds, but it’s been over a year and the band’s name still makes me cringe. His name still makes me cringe.

Guess that’s what I get for scrolling through Twitter when I’m meant to be working. I should be writing a song for my first, real, full-length studio album. Instead, I am wasting my time reading headlines about a band way beyond anything I will ever achieve. Especially if I don’t get anywhere with the writing. I currently have about three songs, and a full album needs eight. At least.

Actually, judging by the mess splattered across my notebook, it might be safer to say that I’ve got more like two and a half songs.

Can we just leave and drive away, smoke cigarettes and drink black coffee? I say that, but I still don’t smoke, and coffee makes me shaky now.

It’s not fair. I flip the notebook closed so I don’t have to see my awful attempts and shove it towards the end of my bed. My first EP came so easily. The songs sort of spiltled out of me; the lyrics and melodies appeared all at once, like they were fuelled entirely by spite and the coffee I can’t drink anymore. I think I drank too much writing that EP, I barely slept until it was finished. Maybe the first one was so easy because I actually had something to write about back then. Not something good, but something. Now, I struggle to start conversations with people, let alone attempt a relationship of any kind.

Laughter starts up on the other side of the wall, alongside the music I could already hear. Goddamn London flats and their paper-thin walls. Cris is an awful flatmate in general – she always leaves the lights on, never cleans her hair out the shower drain, and she hoards all the good mugs – but her wack sleep schedule means she puts up with my 3am ukulele practice. Well, more than anyone else. Which means we’re sort of stuck with each other. Not like I could afford London rent on my own. Even with Mum and Dad’s help.

So, Cris, already a shitty flatmate, except now she’s gone and nicked my best mate, and she subjects me to the horror of listening to them through the wall. Basically. Every. Night.

I smack my palm against the wall next to my bed a couple of times in a desperate attempt to remind them that I’m there. It doesn’t work. If anything, they get louder. The high-pitched giggle Cris lets out makes me want to scream. I’m almost certain she has the world’s most annoying laugh.

Fine. I grab my notebook from the end of my bed, rip out the half-finished song from before and start scribbling. Nate thinks I write best when I write from the heart? Well then, he’s gonna get a song about what it’s like to hear my best mates fuck through a wall when I am embarrassingly, tragically single.

The walls in this flat are about as thin as my fucking patience. I am so sick of all of this shit. Can someone put me out of my misery?

OK, no. It’s so fucking bad. I rip that attempt out too then throw it at the wall for good measure. It falls short, landing disappointingly past the end of my bed. Typical. I press my hands into my eyes until black spots dance in my vision. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t think here anymore. Can’t stay here anymore.

I swing my legs off the bed and shove my feet into a pair of trainers I’ve had since I was 15. I don’t know where I think I’m going, but I need to get out of here. I grab my phone and a hoodie then leave the flat. I know it’s childish, but I make sure to slam the door behind me. There’s no response. Obviously.

Once I’m out of the building, I just walk. I’ve got no clue where I’m going, but my feet are dragging me forwards like they have a plan my brain doesn’t know about. The sound of London thrums through my head like I’m at a gig. The heavy beat of my footsteps mixes with the hum of buses and the buzz of excited chatter as people spill out the pubs and bars that line this street. I guess I was fighting with my notebook for longer than I thought – most of the pubs are calling for last orders and the streetlights flicker above my head.

A group of lads from one of the bars shoves past me and I stumble. Someone catches me, a hand wrapping around my upper arm easily.

“Y’alright, mate?” he asks once I’m steady.

Course I’m not OK, wank-

Oh. My silent response cuts off when I look up. He’s got green eyes. Really green eyes. And a nice smile. One of those smiles where one side pulls up more than the other. Sort of like Quinn used to smile before he got his braces off. Not thinking about Quinn right now.

Green eyes, shy smiles on side streets, meet cutes and ‘nice to meet you’s

Bad, slightly better than my last attempt but far from good. The annoyance drains out of me and, instead of rolling my eyes at him, I nod.

“Yeah, I’m fine now, thanks.”

It’s probably the closest I’ve gotten to flirting with someone in over a year and it’s not exactly bold. Or mind-blowing. But it’s a start. Maybe?

He nods back then pats my shoulder a couple of times. “You have a good night, then, hey? Try to stay upright.”

I find myself smiling as I reply, “You too.”

I want to say more, but I can’t think of any way to keep the conversation going so I don’t. I fall silent and watch him nod a few more times. It almost looks like he wants to say something else.

“Wh–” he starts.

Holy shit, it’s happening.

“Wait! Shit!” A loud voice bursts from behind me as another group stumbles out of the next pub over. “You’re that singer bloke, ain’t you? The one with the little pink guitar? Alex something or other.”

“It’s a uku-” I try to correct him, but my voice is instantly drowned out.

“Wonderland,” someone else cuts in. This one is tall and built like a rugby player. He even has the crooked nose to match. “It’s Alex in Wonderland. I only know ‘cause Meg loves all that sappy shit.”

Wow, what a stand-up guy. I’m assuming Meg is a girlfriend. And I’m assuming that by ‘sappy shit’, he probably means any attempt at romance at all. Poor girl.

“Sick,” the first guy says over my head. His voice is so loud it makes me wince. I really hope he doesn’t catch me doing it, the last thing I need is for them to know I’m freaked out. Where did the pretty man with the green eyes and the nice smile go? I glance between the lads crowding me, but I can’t see him. Shit. He must have slipped away. The loud guy adds, “Mental that you’re here though, ain’t it?”

“Well.” I shrug. “Probably not, considering I live around here.”

It’s not the smartest thing I could have done – told this random bunch of lads where I live – but I’ve done it now. Hopefully, they’ll be too drunk to remember it by the end of the night. Some of them look like they’re already there.

“Yeah, yeah, course,” the loud guy continues. The man with the smile is gone for good now. Damn. Not that it would have gone anywhere, but the option would have been nice. No, the ego boost would have been nice. Shit. I shake my head. The guy in front of me is still talking. “Weird, ain’t it? Don’t think about celebs living in Whitechapel.”

Despite my racing heart, it takes almost everything in me not to laugh at that. A celeb? Me? Pretty sure being a celebrity is when paparazzi camped outside every hotel room and my face splashed across trashy gossip magazines, not sleepless nights, failed writing sessions, and a flatmate I can barely stand.

“Mate, can I get your signature?” the other guy asks – the one with the girlfriend. “For my bird, I mean.”

Lovely. They crowd around me until I can hardly breathe. The stale stench of sweat and beer seeps into my skin and makes my head hurt. God, my heart is racing, and my palms are all sweaty. I try to wipe my hands on my jeans without the lads noticing.

Deep breath. I can do this.

“Sure.” My voice cracks and my face burns. Keep going. “You got – you got a pen?”

They look blankly at one another over my head. There’s probably one brain cell shared between the lot of them. If that. The rugby player with the girlfriend looks down at me and narrows his eyes.

“You don’t like, carry ’em around?” he says slowly. “In case people ask.”

Does he mean autographs or pens? This time, I can’t help laughing. “No-one’s asking for my signature, mate.”

“We are,” the loud-voiced one says.

Shit, I just – what do I say? There’s far too many of them and they’re all far too big to piss off.

“I meant, not normally,” I force out, “that’s all.”

It seems to appease him. His shoulders slump and his chest relaxes. Thank God. Even so, my fists stay clenched at my sides, like that would be any help at all if this went sour.

“Can we get a pic instead, then?” the one with the girlfriend asks. “Least prove we saw you and all?”

I nod and force a smile as they crowd around me even more and shove a brand-new iPhone in my face. The flash is nearly blinding, and I am 90 percent sure my eyes are closed, but they seem happy enough. After a couple of attempts, they shout a couple of thanks and head off.

It’s only once they’re out of sight that I finally let myself relax. I let out a long breath then slump against the wall behind me. The brick catches on my hoodie as I shift slightly. I hope it hasn’t ripped. I drag my hand through my hair then tug slightly on the longer strands that fall over my face. God, that was exhausting. Shit like that always is. Not meeting fans at gigs, that’s chill and sort of nice, like when they’ve got an actual connection to my music. But I fucking hate strangers who have this weird vague idea of who I am and think they’re entitled to something because of it. I don’t know. It’s stupid maybe.

That’s what fame is, I guess. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

OK, enough feeling sorry for myself. I peel myself off the wall, check the back of my hoodie (not ripped), and keep walking. No idea where I’m going, but the streets are familiar, so I’m not that bothered. Not sure if I have it in me to be bothered about much right now. My eyes fall on an all too familiar sign swinging gently above my head.

Wait, no. I take it back, I definitely have it in me to be bothered about this.

Courtney Kerrigan-Bates

Courtney moves about a bit, but she currently lives like a little old lady in the Cotswolds, where she has swapped nights out for knitting. She writes YA Contemporary stories that are, at times, a bit sad (oh, life), but are sprinkled with lots of humour and romance.

When she’s not writing, she works in mental health. You may also find her buying berets or walking a little dog called Lola.

She earned a Distinction for her MA in Writing for Young People, where she wrote a million drafts of Effie Burbank Will Survive.

ckerriganbates@gmail.com / @courtneykbates

About Effie Burbank Will Survive

Effie Burbank lives in a cramped cottage alongside her overprotective parents, her lively little brother and her wild grandpa Presley. She loves to crochet, bake and dance around her room to disco. But Effie dreams of more; of leaving behind her little life and going on endless adventures with her infamous aunt Annie. Annie is everything Effie strives to be; glamourous, charismatic, outrageous. But when Annie is taken away from her, Effie is forced to try and make it on her own.