Backstage Pass
I’m looking around the dressing room backstage on my own, big coat on, feeling a bit out of my depth. I just want to get this box of flyers delivered and then I’m gone. There’s no one to sign for this and I was supposed to get a signature. Things get lost backstage at these venues all the time, I can’t just dump them, last time I got in big trouble for doing that. The room is pretty bare for a venue like this. Just a fridge, a sofa, TV, dressing table and wardrobe. Not even much on the walls. I always imagined these places as really glamorous, with food and drink laid on, hangers on everywhere, and groupies laid out on sofas like evening gowns. This is little better than a staffroom except I don’t see any Hobnobs around. There’s always Hobnobs in a staffroom.
I can’t believe I am this close to meeting one of my favourite bands. I mean, I don’t expect to actually meet them here while I’m working, but they are in the next room, walking through the corridor behind me, backstage somewhere I guess. I don’t know. I can still hear the crowd roaring as the band take their final bow. The reunion tour has been so massive, everyone has been talking about it, tickets sold out within minutes. The atmosphere in the auditorium is electric. I’m standing there for several minutes unsure of my next move. Not sure where to put this box and it’s getting heavy so I turn to place it on the table behind me and the door swings open and bangs against a metal chair. I jump, look up and freeze. Liam Gallagher is standing in the doorway swaying slightly, a glazed look on his beautiful, flawless face.
I can’t think of a single thing to say. A small noise leaves my throat.
He says something welcoming like ‘…..Fuck are you – ?,’ and walks over to the fridge, and I mutter something about the flyers and dropping them off.
I trip over my words and he looks back at me blankly. In my fantasies about meeting someone like Liam Gallagher I always imagine a witty exchange, him roaring with laughter and unable to tear his eyes away from mine but in the real world I am just standing there, hunched over these bastard flyers and unable to speak. My heart is absolutely pounding. He’s taller than I thought he’d be.
I repeat myself and ask about a signature for the flyers and he just shrugs, he’s breathing heavily, he’s just come off stage. Proper rock star. Who gives a shit about that, that’s what PA’s are for. Where is that PA – ? I was supposed to meet her or the publicist back here. My mouth has gone dry. He grabs a beer from the fridge and slumps onto the sofa. He puts his feet on the coffee table and takes a long swig and stares at me. I am still standing there and feel like I should have left already so I turn toward the door and he says,
‘What’s your name?’
I clear my throat and tell him; I stumble over my own name, I have to say it twice. You only get one chance to make a first impression after all so I am rocking it. Why can’t I be called Claire? Where IS that PA?
‘How did the gig go?’ I ask.
‘Fuckin’ mayhem at the end but crowd were fuckin’ great. See it, did ya?’
‘I saw some of it. I’m working, I didn’t have time to see it all but you were uh.. amazing. I liked Up In The Sky the best.’
‘Yeah? Usually passes people by that one.’
‘It’s a fantastic song…. Anyway I don’t want to keep you.’
He must have all sorts of people waiting for him out there, I am expecting the door to swing open any moment. I really should leave but I am riveted, unable to tear my eyes away. He’s as gorgeous as I have ever seen him and Liam is one of those celebrities that can look terrible one day and beautiful the next. I’ve got him on a good day.
“Aren’t you hot in that big fuckin’ coat?”
“Actually I’m boiling.”
“Take it off. Sit down with me a minute.”
“Uh… ok.” So witty. Such a clever conversationalist. My coat comes off.
I take a few steps towards him and stumble over the coffee table. He leans forward to catch me and I land heavily on the very low sofa rather too close to someone whose poster I had on my walls in the 90s and I lusted after for years. This couldn’t be any more simultaneously hideous and exhilarating.
“Want a beer?”
Without waiting for an answer he reaches over for a bottle of Heineken, takes off the top and hands it to me.
I can feel sweat pooling in awkward places, my heart is hammering, my mouth is dry. I am really close to him now. His hair is damp and his skin is glowing from the exertion of being on stage. I can see a line of sweat down that glorious neck of his and I want to lean over and kiss it. His white t-shirt makes his skin look tanned and he’s in good shape, you never see his body really in the papers, he always has on a massive parka even in the summer. I never really thought about his physique before and it’s here right in front of me and I can confirm he is actually pretty ripped. It’s hard not to give him a real once over. I am trying to remain professional; I am working apparently. I can see his stubble really close up and those incredible eyes of his are just looking at me glittering and expressionless. It strikes me the years have been very kind to him considering the hell raiser he used to be.
He asks me what else I liked about the gig and I tell him Slide Away is probably their best song – as I am describing what I liked he reaches across and pushes some hair out of my eyes. I feel unbelievably self-conscious, like a virgin on a first date.
Come closer, he says. “I can’t,” I hear myself say. “You’re – you’re -”
“What – I’m Liam Gallagher? Fuck that. Come here.” It was more an instruction than a suggestion.
“I really can’t. I – I’m married.”
“Me too. Twice. Fuck that n’ all.”
I look up at the ceiling and laugh and before I know it he’s leaned forward and is kissing my neck. I am so surprised I stop laughing and look at him. Then he leans in, cups my chin in his hand and kisses me on the mouth, softly at first and then harder. He puts his beer and mine down and shifts towards me. I can’t believe this is happening. My stomach flips over and I kiss him back. I put my hands through that beautiful hair and touch that mesmerising neck I have watched straining from a million pictures. Everyone says Noel has the talent and the intelligence and Liam is nothing but an arrogant frontman with a potty mouth and a drug problem but he is kissing me now and I can confirm he’s also pretty good at something else.
He smells delicious, a mixture of sweat, aftershave and adrenaline. We’re kissing for some time and his hands are all over my neck, my back, my hair and it’s getting pretty out of hand. I put my hands under his t-shirt and feel his back muscles under my hands, his skin damp to the touch. He groans and pushes me back onto the sofa and has his full weight on top of me, his hands under my t-shirt, his lips kissing my neck, my ears, my lips. It’s utterly intoxicating and I am breathless with excitement. I groan back, my hands on his ass. His jeans are bulging and I am wet.
Then the door bangs open and there is Noel is standing in the doorway with a few other people behind him talking loudly. We spring apart and I look up at the other one of my heroes. The squashy low sofa is really hard to right myself in, but Liam is already sitting up, looking quite together. I am not. This can’t be happening. Liam laughs, I look at the floor, excruciatingly aware of myself, how this looks, what I must look like.
‘Come on our kid! Who’s this?’ Noel takes it all in.
‘Meet Carolyn.’ I wave meekly as if we are miles from each other.
‘Alright love. What are you doing in here?’
I was dropping off flyers, I say, absolutely mortified, smoothing my skirt. My hair looks like a birds nest and I am scarlet with embarrassment. I swear you can see my heart beating through my t-shirt.
‘Been a long time since I saw Liam backstage with a girl,‘ Noel says approvingly. This I find hard to believe but he always was the more charming one. Nice to get called a girl after all these years of being called Mrs, Madam, Mum etc.
‘Look the press are waitin, our kid. You comin?’
‘Fuckin… No. You fuckin do it.’
Liam slouches back on the sofa and takes another swig.
‘Liam we gotta go man. Come on. Sorry darlin, stuff to do.’
‘Of course, look I better go,’ I say, standing up and smoothing myself down.
‘You’re going nowhere,’ he says to me, eyes like headlights. He turns back to his brother and says, ‘I’ll catch up with you in the car man. Help me out, yeah?’
‘Honestly I am holding you up,” I say. “You go. It was nice to meet you.”
I might has well offered him my hand to shake. I am all too aware what this is, I am just another evening gown, I have no right to be here. I only came for a signature.
‘Fuck. Can I have your number?’
Thrilled, I write it on the top of a copy of the Mirror on the coffee table with a blunt pencil. Noel makes a comment about my also being left-handed; the older I get this seems to be a badge of cool I am only too happy to wear. I am beaming.
I straighten up too quickly, knock the beer all over the newspaper, trip on the coffee table again as I put on my huge coat. I feel beer dripping all over my feet and am spluttering apologies. I can’t bear any more of my clumsiness and I hear Liam calling my name as I run out of the door. I hear the door bang again and peals of laughter as I hurry down the corridor, without my signature, blushing furiously, shaking with adrenaline but utterly and secretly triumphant. No one will believe this ever happened to me.
Melissa Cogavin 