Agh, I know! It's taken me ages to update. But the good (bad? I don't know) news is that this fic is close to finishing. Ish. At least I know where I'm going. The plan's been properly written out now.
Please forgive me! School is kicking my bum big time. I'll try not to wait so long next time.
But on the plus side: 100 reviews!! Thank you so much!
"Wake up, birthday girl. I've got a surprise for you."
Surprise. Anyone who knew me well knew I hated surprises. Which may have been the reason that I lay there awake, but with my eyes closed. I wasn't sure I wanted to open my eyes just yet.
Today was my birthday, and it had been three months or so since Kelly had died. These days nobody talked about her, as if she hadn't existed at all. I didn't bring her up, for fear that the dark cloud that had descended onto me since that night would hover over everybody else as well. So I kept silent, and suffered alone.
Paul and I were, for want of a better word, together. This meant he held my hand when we ventured out in public, kissed me goodnight, and now, apparently, gave me birthday surprises. It wasn't how I'd pictured us together. But I was starting to learn that life didn't work that way.
Finally surrendering, I rolled over and embraced Paul, who was crouched by the side of my bed. "I hate surprises," I whispered in his ear, and he chuckled, like I was joking. "Good morning." Today he smelled of citrus fruit and tobacco, like he had the first day I met him. That was a birthday present in itself.
"You won't hate this surprise," he said, and I sat up, waiting. He grinned, and got to his feet, perching on the side of my bed, on top of my toes. "This is the best birthday surprise in the history of birthday surprises." I rolled my eyes, and held out of my hands.
"Go ahead."
"Nuh-huh," replied Paul, and I sighed. Of course. You could never get a straight answer out of Paul. "You have to guess." God.
"Is it bigger than a bread box?" I asked, and he laughed, a big, booming laugh.
"Yes, it's bigger than a bread box. It's huge! It's massive!"
"You haven't bought me a jumbo jet, have you?" This wouldn't be surprising. Last week alone he bought me my first car, plus an expensive watch. Like he was trying to make up for something.
Paul shook his head. "Fine, I'll tell you. Close your eyes." I did so obediently, and I felt him drop something into my hands, something slim and made from cardboard. It didn't feel bigger than a breadbox.
My eyes flew open, and I saw that in my hands lay a ticket, small and rectangular, with big, bold, black lettering. I read it aloud.
FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY: SUSANNAH SIMON, LIVE IN CONCERT!
I looked to Paul for some kind of explanation, and he blushed.
"Look," he said, uncomfortably. "I know you miss it, O.K? And I know that if there's anyone who can prepare for a concert in just one afternoon it's you. I just thought it would be a good way for you to get back out there after…" He trailed off, not putting into words what happened. Nobody ever did.
"It's perfect," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "Thank you." And I leant in to kiss him, wrapping both arms around his neck and trying to lose myself in his scent. It almost worked.
"So I guess I'll just leave my little rock star to it, then?" he asked, and I nodded, pushing back the covers and finally getting out of bed. "You have a sound check at 2pm, and then hair and make-up at four. We let the crazy fans in at 6:30pm sharp, and then your support band starts at seven. Deal?" I nodded again, taking in all of this. I'd forgotten the craziness of organising a show.
Paul kissed my forehead one last time and then disappeared, leaving me with my thoughts. I mentally ran through the schedule one more time before crouching on my knees to find what I'd hidden weeks ago underneath my mattress. And when I finally found it I was surprised by how battered it was.
Songs, it said explicably on the front, and I flicked through it to find the lines and lines I'd written in secret since that night. It was time to share them with the world, I thought, as I got to my feet and began searching for my guitar.
-x-
"You're late!"
Not the words you want to hear as you walk through the door. As if I didn't already know everyone in the room had been talking about me by the way all their heads turned in my direction as my sneakers scuffed the floor. Paul's eyes flickered dangerously at me as I drew nearer, and I knew at that moment that the honeymoon period of my birthday was officially over.
Appearances, appearances I thought, and plastered a smile on my face.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice bouncing with false cheeriness. "Some fans stopped me on my way in here – asked for autographs." I flashed a what-can-you-do look at one of the men Paul had been talking with. "You know pre-teens." The response I got suggested he really didn't.
This was a lie, of course. But I wasn't about to announce to the world – and Paul – that I'd spent the previous half an hour spewing copiously due to pre-gig jitters.
"Suze," Paul said, pleasantly, and he leant over to kiss my cheek. This was merely a cover, however, an opportunity for him to hiss in my ear, "Get your ass to sound check. Now." Restraining the urge to connect my guitar with his temple, I stepped back and waved to his companions.
"Duty calls," I said, before heading towards the main hall. "See you at the show!"
The sound check went without a hitch – I stuck to playing my old stuff, keeping my new material a secret only to be unveiled later – and it was only later, when I was sitting in make-up battling with my claustrophobia – management had stuck me in a whitewashed room with no windows, bastards – that I met an obstacle. It shouldn't have been any surprise to me really that it came Paul-shaped.
"Hey," he said, not even waiting for an invitation to come in. "I come bearing gifts." I sighed, and turned to look at him, anticipating more. "Look," he said eventually, like I'd demanded it of him. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you earlier, O.K? I know how dedicated you are to your fans, and I guess it's all good for publicity…" He trailed off. "It's just I worked really hard to get you this gig, O.K? And you very nearly screwed up the whole schedule."
"I'm sorry," I said, because it was what he wanted me to say. "But if it helps I'm all ready to go now – give or take a few applications of foundation." Paul grinned.
"You are not," he argued, and he reached for my fingers. Playing with my hands was a particular past-time of his. "You're nervous as hell; I can see it in your eyes." I sighed again, and he squeezed my fingers. "I knew it. See, this is why we're perfect for each other."
"Who are you trying to convince?" I asked, avoiding his gaze.
"What?" Paul's smile faltered slightly.
"Nothing," I said, and I slid my arms around his neck. "Now go, before I throw up all over you."
Paul laughed, a big booming laugh, before reaching into his pockets. "These," he said, leaving a tray of white pellets on my dressing table, "are for you. Antacids." I smiled, trying to make it reach my eyes.
"Thank you," I replied, and I kissed him, breathing in his citrus-y scent and trying to pretend like it was that first day all over again. "I'll see you later."
"You bet," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll be the crazed fan in the front row waving my cigarette lighter." And then he left, winking at my make-up artist as she entered the room.
"Hey," she said, waving the pot of foundation triumphantly. "I found your shade, finally. Are you ready?"
"Um," I replied, casting a glance at the antacids Paul had given me. Popping one from its case, I put into my mouth before answering. "Yup. Let's go."
-x-
The Staples Centre in downtown L.A. seats 20,000 people, and by the sounds of things back stage, most of them were chanting my name. And having thousands of people calling your name at the same time? Yeah, that's really scary.
"Hey, rockstar," said Paul, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. "How you feeling?"
Instead of answering verbally, I was surged by an urge to take him by the jacket collar and kiss him hard on the mouth. We were still going when the countdown began for me to appear on stage.
"What was that for?" Paul asked, as I was dragged away by stage management.
"Something to remember me by!" I called, before I was yanked out of sight.
"Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze!"
The shouts were even louder under the stage. I suddenly got the feeling my head was about to explode, and I just knew my forehead was breaking out into all kinds of sweat. Was anyone else feeling like this? The stage management person who had my arm in a deadlock appeared fine. My back-up singers looked fine. Was it just me?
"Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze! Suze!"
"Here." I was handed a microphone, and winced as a fluorescent spotlight found me. Were those lights always that bright? The stage piece I was standing on began to rise, and suddenly I was faced with the din that was my audience. My mouth ran dry, my hands became clammy… this wasn't just nerves. Something was wrong.
The music started, making me jump. The microphone collided with my abdomen, sending feedback ringing through the arena, and the first few rows cringed.
"I..." I began, my mouth feeling numb. "Inerthor…" My words were slurred, and my lids were drooping. What was –?
Before I could compute anymore, I had the feeling of falling and the last thing I remember was the sound of feedback from the microphone one more time before my head hit the stage floor.