Trust (London Love #5)

I’d closed all the doors, put the chain on and everything, and gone to sleep in the bed, yet I’d obviously been pottering around in the night. Now it was morning, and the curtains were letting in far too much light around the edges, and I was…

What the fuck was I doing on the floor?

Reuben had been right. What the hell was I doing here?

I tried to shake myself out of the weird haze of sleep. I’d only taken half a sleeping tablet and dropped off within the allotted hour like my doctor said I should, but I didn’t feel rested.

Which was why I needed to get back to some kind of normal functioning state. No more tablets. They obviously didn’t stop me sleepwalking, and the constant anxiety surrounding me, I needed…

I had no idea what I needed.

I shuddered with unease.

“So. Graham,” I said out loud. “What’s the plan?”

Breakfast, obviously. my imaginary friend answered because, apparently, I spoke fluent air-con, like I could say all the necessary phrases in Japanese, Korean, French—whatever language was spoken in whatever country we played in. It was part of the job, and I was drilled in the correct pronunciation before every show.

One day, I wanted to travel properly, immerse myself in the places, eat the food, meet people…real people. Not just people who worked for other people whose job it was to shove me from A to B in one piece.

I hated most people, I really did. I even had a strong dislike for my fellow band members. We might once have shared a great bond, but we annoyed the crap out of each other these days. Even though we publicly put on a front of sickeningly sweet unity, I dreaded going back to the studio—more than I wanted to admit to myself—and I knew the feeling was mutual, since we had a secret WhatsApp group. The bitchiness on there was real. Bash had got some girl pregnant and wanted out on every level. Cork was in ‘hospital’ again and would be a few weeks late into the studio. God only knew what was going on in Josh’s head. Musa was staying with his family in Sheffield. Lee hadn’t actually been online for…I didn’t even know. We weren’t friends. We were just humans who had to deal with each other in forced proximity, and it was starting to show.

I honestly wasn’t sure about anything these days.

That burger had sat comfortably in my stomach all night, but now, thinking about returning to a studio environment, I felt nauseous. And I was starving, like I’d run a marathon in my sleep. I hoped I hadn’t and looked around the room looking for clues, panic once again brewing in my chest.

The last album, I’d had all my lyrics completed and a theme of chords ready to go. I’d had beats and bass lines jotted down with a string of voice notes where I’d sampled different versions of future hits.

This time, I had nothing. Not a single word, note, chord. My head was as blank and flat as the floor I was still lying on, not even able to get myself up.

I did now, though, scrabbling around the room until I found my phone. At least I’d remembered to plug it in and it was back up to full charge. Good stuff. What was not so good was the notifications that were blowing up the screen.

I didn’t look at them. I never did. Just scrolled past and opened up my contacts. Dialled. Because. Yeah.

“Hello?” he answered. Thank God for that.

“Hey. It’s…Gray.”

“I know,” he mumbled. “Dude, it’s like…fuck o’clock and this is my day off. But yeah. What do you need?”

“You said I could ring you?” My face was flaming. How much of a dick was I? Well. He had said. And I was…

“Yeah, you can ring me. Sorry. Just grumpy in the mornings. Whatcha need?”

“I’m really sorry.” Fuck.

“No, you’re not.” That was the Reuben I liked. The one who spoke to me like a human being, a little laughter in his voice. “You’re a dick and you know it. And it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, you do,” I snarked back. “But there’s this huge, international star, super famous, and however much he would love to go downstairs and help himself to the breakfast buffet, that’s—”

“Not an option,” he finished my sentence. “There’s this lovely modern thing called Room Service. You go on that QR code by the bed…”

“Yeah, and then some stranger delivers me shit that I don’t dare eat because they might have licked my fruit or spat in the coffee or whatever. Did I mention I’m super famous?”

His laughter was nice, and I was kidding—not about someone tampering with my food and drink. It happened.

“I can ring someone,” he said. “We’re professionals in this place. I can get—”

“Can’t you do it? I mean, I’d rather you came. I’ll pay you. If you bring me proper coffee—a latte or something. I’m not fussy.”