Viki

“Emma, hold on a minute. Where are we rushing?”

I try asking again, but my friend seems to be in some sort of trance. There are no guards or security to stop us, so I follow automatically, still not entirely sure what I’m getting myself into.

“You saw the drummer, yeah? His name is Leo. I wrote to him and told him I went to the same high school as Oscar and Roxanne, and I showed him my blog about the band. He said I could visit them backstage after the concert. He’s the band leader.”

She explains all of this in such a rush that I only manage to absorb about half of it. I did not sign up for this. I’m out of breath, my hair is a mess, and my skirt now has a five-pence-sized tear in it.

I forget half the names she mentioned almost instantly as she continues dragging me after her. Before I know it, we are inside a small room that smells heavily of tobacco and alcohol, and I wrinkle my nose in displeasure.

I’m not certain I’m comfortable with this whole thing, but Emma has already made a straight line for the one called Leo and started introducing herself, so I follow her lead as far as stepping into the room.

The backstage artist room is a joke. In my humble opinion, it could have been a shoe closet, though of course I don’t say this aloud. Instead, I stay a step behind Emma and quietly observe as she starts speaking so quickly to the drummer that I doubt he understands half of what she’s saying.

On a horribly battered couch, the bassist is lying down with his face covered by the black hat decorated with a fancy feather that he wore onstage. He appears to be either sleeping or making a very convincing attempt at it.

Neither the guitarist nor the singer is here.

I start feeling increasingly uncomfortable, but interrupting Emma’s conversation would be incredibly rude, so I wait and fidget with my fingers, hoping she won’t take too long. My eyes wander over the scribbles covering the walls, most of which seem to be inappropriate messages of one kind or another, and I decide it might be better to find a neutral point to stare at until she’s finished.

Before I can settle on one, a deep voice comes from somewhere behind a curtain.

I recognise it immediately.

Another voice answers, louder, and I realise they’re arguing in another language. I’m too flustered to identify it, and as I think I’ve established before, I’m considerably more drawn to numbers than arts and languages anyway. The way they speak is rapid and staccato, almost melodic despite the obvious argument, full of emotion in a way that makes me flush just listening to it.

I’ve been raised to be restrained and proper and all that.

These two clearly have not.

The curtain is pushed aside and he enters the room first.

Up close, he is two things: tall and stunning. He was plenty stunning onstage, obviously, but in this tiny room I can see the sheen of sweat on his sun-tanned skin, the long black hair falling loosely around his face, and those strange eyes that really do look dark violet beneath the ugly neon light.

The singer follows directly behind him. She’s half a head shorter than he is but still towers over me, and I genuinely don’t understand how this woman isn’t on the cover of every magazine trying to sell anything that sex appeal can possibly sell. Even an innocent nerd like me can see it.

She could sell me bottled water by a mountain spring. And I’m sure I would never be able to look away from her if he wasn’t there. But he is, and my eyes are drawn to him like a magnet. He notices.

His mouth curls into something that is technically a smile but looks much more like a grin, the lazy expression of a predator who knows he doesn’t even have to chase anything because the prey will probably fall dead on its own.

I am, of course, no prey.

“Got lost, little fox?” he asks.

My traitorous pale skin bursts into flame, and I would give almost anything for one of my oversized hoodies to hide my ginger hair and most of my face inside.

“It’s her first time seeing you!” Emma interferes, stepping half in front of me.

I would like to think she’s being protective, but I know my best friend better than that. Judging by the way she’s standing, I strongly suspect she’s hoping Ox will notice her impressive cleavage.

I fail to produce an answer, which Emma naturally takes as permission to continue speaking on my behalf.

“And she absolutely loved it,” she adds in the honeyed tone I’ve heard on numerous occasions whenever she’s trying to get something.

“Is that so?” Ox asks, his attention still fixed entirely on me. “Which one of us did you enjoy the most? And do you have a name, little fox?”

His smile has returned to something almost predatory, but I refuse to take a step back.

“Victoria,” I finally manage, though it comes out much quieter than I would have preferred.

“Victoria…”

Apparently I have now attracted the singer’s attention too.

She steps closer and bends slightly to inspect me, taking one strand of my copper hair between ring-covered fingers. Her fingers are long, her nails perfectly black, and I have the uncomfortable impression that I’m being examined by some beautiful and potentially dangerous creature that hasn’t yet decided whether I’m interesting.

“A daring name for a shy little thing.”

I frown at the infantilisation, particularly because I failed to react nearly as strongly when he did essentially the same thing.

“I had no part in choosing my own name,” I say, forcing myself not to retreat.

The singer’s smile widens.

“The foxy has claws. I like that.” She releases my hair and gives me an approving look. “Good for you, girl.”

With a wink, she pulls away and walks towards the battered couch, where the bassist remains impressively committed to sleeping through everything happening around him. She swats away at his feet and he curls them towards himself enough to make space for her to sit.

That leaves me with Ox.

The same man who had girls screaming themselves hoarse less than half an hour ago is standing in front of me with his eyes still plastered on my face, and I’m suddenly not certain what I’m supposed to do with my hands.

“Don’t mind her. She eats babies for breakfast,” he explains casually, taking a cigarette from his pocket and placing it, unlit, between his lips.

I heard them speaking another language only moments ago, but his English is flawless, no different from someone born and raised here. Born and raised on the streets of London perhaps, rather than Oxford, but still. I find that strangely fascinating. I wonder if two different worlds live inside their heads, each one taking on a different colour depending on the language they happen to be speaking.

“Did you like the show?”

The question is so unexpectedly mundane that for a moment my brain fails to create a plausible answer.

“Ye...” I stop and frown at my own inability to form a proper word. “I mean, yes. I certainly did. Did you?”

I fight the urge to slap myself across the forehead and instead produce what I hope resembles an artful smile.

He must think I’m a complete idiot, in which case I blame myself entirely, but to his credit he doesn’t laugh. He simply continues staring at me with that strange expression.

“Oh yeah,” he finally says. “I had a great view.”

Emma elbows me.

I assume it’s because I’ve started gaping like a fish again, or perhaps because she thinks I’m not participating enthusiastically enough in this increasingly bizarre fever dream. Either way, I offer a smile and a nod because that is apparently the full extent of social interaction I’m capable of right now.

“Why don’t you join me for a fag and you can tell me all about how good I was?”

“We were,” a voice corrects him from somewhere behind us.

I think it’s Leo. He’s still talking to Emma, though she’s barely pretending to pay attention anymore because her eyes keep darting between me and the guitarist.

“I don’t...” I start, but another sharp elbow from Emma changes the trajectory of the sentence. “Sure.”

Ox grins, takes my wrist, and before I can reconsider that answer, I’m being spirited out of the room with him.