Viki

If I were to make a list of the top fifty places where you’re likely to find me on a Friday night, Abbey Tavern in Kentish Town would never make the list.

The simple fact that it has Tavern in its name would have my mother erupting in hives if she knew where I was.

She would say a young lady like me ought not frequent such dark, loud, wild places. Most certainly not on a Friday evening. Most certainly not while still wearing my pristine Guildford uniform.Yet here I am.

As the crowd moves and pushes around me in expectation, I try to unstick the pleats of my skirt from the metal barrier I’m pressed against. My friend Emma is excitedly explaining something to my right, but I’ve tuned her out.

I wouldn’t go as far as claiming to be mad at her, but I’m not pleased with her for inviting me out for tea and cake after school only to drag me, unsuspecting, to this place.

What are we, and the other hundred or so people pressing behind me to get a better look at the still-dark stage, doing here?

Apparently, we’re here to, and I quote Emma, have our socks rocked right off.

I like my socks where they are, thank you very much.

“Relax, Vik.” My friend’s voice tends to go really high when she’s excited, and she’s excited enough to sound like a tea kettle now. “You’ll love this. You need to let your hair down once in a while, and these guys are awesome. Plus, half the people in this room are from my high school. You’re perfectly safe.”

I open my mouth to say Emma’s high school is not exactly known for good behaviour or high standards of education, but I stop myself before the words leave my lips.

Sometimes I terrify myself with how much I almost sound like my mother.

“It’s taking an awfully long time to start,” I complain.

Emma elbows me.

“You’ll love it, they’re...”

A low note cuts her off. 

I recognise it as a bass guitar, though certainly not from any rock concert. We do have an optional study of modern instruments in choir class.

The stage goes completely dark.

The sound that follows is almost deafening, and once again I make a mental note to tax my dear friend Emma for neglecting to tell me exactly where she intended to drag me tonight. At least if I’d been properly informed, I could have purchased protective earplugs.

She’d also insisted we stand all the way at the front of a crowd that seems far too loud and enthusiastic for whatever is about to happen.

I feel like I should be excited, if only not to disappoint her.I simply don’t know what I’m supposed to be excited about yet.

Then the lights come back all at once.A young man jumps high into the air while playing his guitar in a way that looks almost angry. 

He is the kind of man I have only ever seen in movies, the kind my parents would certainly frown upon if they knew I was watching.

I have to grab the barrier with both hands as two things happen at once.

The apparition comes down like an angry thunder god, making the old speakers directly in front of us screech so loudly I feel the sound in my chest. At the same time, the crowd surges towards him like a tide, crushing me against the metal rail.

The crowd screaming sounds like a stadium, not a room containing roughly one hundred and twenty people, based on my admittedly hurried estimate. I’m quite good with mathematics, to my father’s continuous surprise and discomfort.

Emma makes a sound that worries me for a second, and I think to check on her. But then my eyes adjust to the lights, and I’m transfixed. The guitarist is standing right at the edge of the stage now, his rhythm joined by the drums.

I haven’t even seen who is producing the bass and I’m not sure I ever will, because I don’t think I can look away.

He’s wearing ripped black jeans and Dr. Martens. The jeans are fairly tight and scandalously low, and his loose tank top is nowhere near long enough.

He lifts his guitar as if to kiss it. The movement exposes enough of his stomach to make me wonder whether he’s walked straight out of some ridiculous fantasy.

His skin has the warm tan of someone who has spent his life somewhere with beaches, wind and sunlight rather than dreary London.

Finally, I force myself to look at his face, hoping that might break the spell.

Not a chance. I’m not a poet. I prefer the exact sciences. But this is, without question, the most gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on.

And then he looks straight at me.

And winks.