The final note faded; the silence held for a further second, then was broken by thunderous applause. The intense concentration on Niall’s face relaxed into a grin and he raised a hand in acknowledgement. He held it for several seconds before relaxing, letting his hand drop and clapping a hand on Chris’ shoulder as the guitarist took his own bows.
With a final wave the band left the stage – they’d already played two encores; despite the cries from the crowd, they’d finished their performance.
Even in the corridor backstage the noise was deafening. Jack leaned over “Gary can get the tour bus to the gates; he’ll be there in 40 minutes,” he shouted.
Niall nodded. “Just enough time for a quick shower,” he shouted back and Jack gave a nod of agreement.
It wasn’t an impressive dressing room; a small room with chipped off-white paint on the walls, barely big enough for its simple furnishings: one table and a couple of chairs. But it did have a shower, and that was good enough as far as he was concerned.
Niall gave a sigh of relief as he peeled off his sweat-dampened clothes and stepped under the jet of warm water. Maybe one day we’ll be big enough to have the rider from hell, he thought. He gave the crooked grin that had left more than one fangirl smitten. Yeah, no brown m&ms. Still, it wasn’t that long ago that where the band were now seemed like an im-possible dream – having to get changed in the back of a van or in a draughty corridor back-stage. He touched the pendant he always wore around his neck with a light fingertip. Celeste had promised him that he would see all he desired come to pass if he followed her words, and although he’d doubted her at first, it seemed that she had been telling him the truth. Still, he felt the occasionally twinges of uncertainty, of unease.
He turned off the shower and shook his head, scattering droplets of water before grabbing a towel. Forget it, he told himself firmly, you’ll get where you want to go; that’s all that matters, right?
***
There was the tour bus: a long, lean shadow in the gloom, with only the gleam of a streetlight on the polished chrome of the engine grill and mirrors to break the darkness. And a small knot of fans, waiting to beg autographs or photos.
He was happy to oblige – these were the people that came to their concerts, listened to their music – if signing his name or letting them take a selfie with him made their night, then who was he to say no? It was just a few minutes of his time and made the night extra special for them.
There was the normal thrusting of programmes and photos: could he sign it to Abby, to Kimberley – he scribbled down the requests, posed with a small group of girls that wanted their photo taken with him and Chris and finally broke free from them.
Standing at the door of the bus he turned and saw her. He was about to ask if she wanted a photo or something when he was struck by her eyes – there was something fascinating about her eyes, no, in fact there was something fascinating about her face.
He smiled: no staged pose this time, just an automatic reaction to her looks. “Hey; you okay there?” Not the smoothest start to a conversation, but he hoped he’d get some response from her.
With a final wave the band left the stage – they’d already played two encores; despite the cries from the crowd, they’d finished their performance.
Even in the corridor backstage the noise was deafening. Jack leaned over “Gary can get the tour bus to the gates; he’ll be there in 40 minutes,” he shouted.
Niall nodded. “Just enough time for a quick shower,” he shouted back and Jack gave a nod of agreement.
It wasn’t an impressive dressing room; a small room with chipped off-white paint on the walls, barely big enough for its simple furnishings: one table and a couple of chairs. But it did have a shower, and that was good enough as far as he was concerned.
Niall gave a sigh of relief as he peeled off his sweat-dampened clothes and stepped under the jet of warm water. Maybe one day we’ll be big enough to have the rider from hell, he thought. He gave the crooked grin that had left more than one fangirl smitten. Yeah, no brown m&ms. Still, it wasn’t that long ago that where the band were now seemed like an im-possible dream – having to get changed in the back of a van or in a draughty corridor back-stage. He touched the pendant he always wore around his neck with a light fingertip. Celeste had promised him that he would see all he desired come to pass if he followed her words, and although he’d doubted her at first, it seemed that she had been telling him the truth. Still, he felt the occasionally twinges of uncertainty, of unease.
He turned off the shower and shook his head, scattering droplets of water before grabbing a towel. Forget it, he told himself firmly, you’ll get where you want to go; that’s all that matters, right?
***
There was the tour bus: a long, lean shadow in the gloom, with only the gleam of a streetlight on the polished chrome of the engine grill and mirrors to break the darkness. And a small knot of fans, waiting to beg autographs or photos.
He was happy to oblige – these were the people that came to their concerts, listened to their music – if signing his name or letting them take a selfie with him made their night, then who was he to say no? It was just a few minutes of his time and made the night extra special for them.
There was the normal thrusting of programmes and photos: could he sign it to Abby, to Kimberley – he scribbled down the requests, posed with a small group of girls that wanted their photo taken with him and Chris and finally broke free from them.
Standing at the door of the bus he turned and saw her. He was about to ask if she wanted a photo or something when he was struck by her eyes – there was something fascinating about her eyes, no, in fact there was something fascinating about her face.
He smiled: no staged pose this time, just an automatic reaction to her looks. “Hey; you okay there?” Not the smoothest start to a conversation, but he hoped he’d get some response from her.