Ch 2. The Perfect Pitch

“…….So you can see between the two of us we have both the marketing and the PR of your event in March pretty much covered,” Aysha was saying as she finished her coffee. I agreed with her, ooh yes it looks marvellous I said, and it did. I was very impressed, I was just anxious to get moving, I had so much to do before picking up the kids at 3.

I don’t know why I schlepped all the way up to Camden Town so she could pitch her company to me in this cramped little office. She should have come to me really, I am the client after all. They were really nice and certainly capable; I was just always doing stuff like this, chasing around town for people to sell me stuff when it should be the other way around. I cursed my time management and inability to say no.

Amber’s phone pinged and she stood up, saying her next client was at the door.  She left the room apologising.  Aysha was updating me about other events they’d done but I was only half listening, putting my stuff away, desperate to escape and warm up on the tube, it was chilly in that meeting room.

Amber returned, bringing in a man behind her and said, “Sorry Carolyn, my client’s a bit early, he said he can hang on outside till we’re finished.  But I should introduce you all the same – Liam this is Carolyn, Carolyn you probably know Liam.” And she stepped sideways to reveal what appeared to be, unbelievably, Liam Gallagher, hands in pockets, hips pitched forward, with that cocky ‘Come on let’s ‘ave yer’ look on his face. I laughed out loud in surprise. My innards lurched. She smiled at me and winked.

They say that very charismatic people fill up a room and that’s really true. The room took on a claustrophobic quality and suddenly it seemed terribly cramped in there. He was wearing blue jeans, a brown leather jacket zipped up and his hair was cropped short so you could properly see his mesmerizing, slightly asymmetrical face. Suddenly I wasn’t in such a tearing hurry after all.

He leaned in, said hello and shook my hand across the table and chairs which now seemed to have taken on monstrous proportions. I leaned toward him over all that furniture, mouth dry and heart pounding, doing that silly thing when you meet a Grade A famous person and act as if he isn’t famous at all, indeed it’s as if you can barely put the face to the name.  I might have babbled something about being an Oasis fan I think; even though I knew Aysha and Amber had some big name clients and they’d told me about Liam Gallagher before, I was caught totally off-guard. He was actually quite charming, smiled hello, said it was nice to meet me. Then he doffed an imaginary cap, said he’d be outside and in mock-theatrical fashion, backed out of the room.

“I’ll be with you in a minute Liam ok?” Amber called to him. “Sorry about that,” she said, “I hope you didn’t mind that interruption. So look, this is all excellent and I think we can do some great stuff together,” sweeping her arms at the paperwork in front of us, smiling at us both, oblivious that internally I was doing lavish cartwheels and couldn’t have cared less about any PR campaign, least of all my own.

“Oh no,” I answered, “that was a lovely surprise – I’m kind of blown away actually!”

“Yes I remember you mentioning you were a fan when we met at the awards,” Amber nodded. “He’s a sweetie really, he gets a lot of negative press… but when you have a tendency to punch photographers….” She laughed and rolled her eyes.

She started shuffling paper, signalling the meeting was coming to a close; I hardly heard a word. I was actually shaking, I felt a bit breathless even, how loony is that. I’m a married middle aged mother of two, I have met countless celebrities, travelled the world, I’m MD of my own international business, I’m capable of addressing hundreds of people assembled in a room unscripted and yet here I am, reduced to absolute jelly by a rock star. An aging rock star at that. I even know I am 6 months older than him, and his birthday is September 21. Pathetic. The girls and I said our goodbyes and scheduled next steps – I was in such a state I have no idea what these were.

 Bouncing out of the room a minute later,  adrenaline surging, I called out chirpy goodbyes and strutted down the corridor. I swung open the fire door and thundered down the stairs two at a time with ‘OMG I just met Liam Gallagher! I just met Liam Gallagher!’ sing-songing in my head with a huge smile on my face – I believe I may have squeaked out loud – when I heard an unmistakable voice behind me say,

‘Hey Wanda Woman.’

I whirled around and there he was, leaning on the railing above me in the concrete stairwell, looking relaxed, improbably gorgeous, half smiling down at me. Wanda Woman? WANDA WOMAN?! How on earth could he know about that? Wanda Woman was the name of a blog I’d written containing just one story, a steamy, entirely fictional encounter with Liam Gallagher backstage in his dressing room. Never meant for anyone’s benefit, least of all the subject of the story himself. The blog had just one follower: me.

I said, “What? What did you say?” I was motionless on the stairs, horrified.

“I liked your story. The girls showed it me. Very funny.”

I had a faint memory of meeting Aysha and Amber a few months ago; we were at an awards dinner and once I’d heard about their famous client I’d showed them my blog on my phone. We were all very pissed; did I send it to them? I can’t remember. I had forgotten all about it and certainly never thought they’d have ever actually read it. I was surprised to even hear from them again. Blogs are generally interesting only for the writer; if you’re extraordinarily lucky they are maybe interesting for the reader.

“I – I don’t understand,” I stammered.

He added, “There’s no meeting today with the girls,” shaking his head, motioning toward the office. “I got them to bring you here. So I could meet you.”

The stairwell started to swim before me. Liam was still talking but he sounded very far away. I reached blindly for the railing and fell forward as the blackness closed in, legs buckling. I heard a ‘Fuck!’ as he came running down the stairs. I can’t remember much after that except finding myself being fanned and slapped by all three of them some time later, lying on the freezing concrete stairs, extremely uncomfortable and sore. Oh no oh please no.

Appalled, I managed to sit up, drink some water handed to me and the lead singer from Oasis appeared to say, “Fuck me. Been a while since I had that effect on a woman.”  Aysha told him to shut up.  I smiled weakly, mute with embarrassment. My knees were scraped, tights ripped and my cheek was ringing, I must have hit something on the way down. My phone, wallet, keys, a tampon and, I noticed, a child’s purple sock were scattered around the stairwell below me and my bag was at the bottom of the steps. I closed my eyes. I wanted to die.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “You alright?”

The girls fussed over me for a few minutes, putting a plaster on my knee and dabbing tissues while Liam stood behind them trying to make me laugh, and then he took over, telling them to get back to work and he had it from here. I was so mortified by all this that I assured them I was fine and not to worry.  A flurry of are you sures? and are you alrights? followed and then they were gone.  I heard laughter in the corridor.  No wonder.

“I’ve had all sorts over the years,” Liam was saying, collecting my things to my absolute horror, “but I ain’t never had a story written about me, not one like that. I really enjoyed it. Turned me on. You got one thing wrong though.”

“What’s that?”

“I fuckin’ hate lager. I’m more the real ale type.”

I laughed weakly and stood up, swaying slightly.  “Whoa, steady. You ok? Come on, we’ll get you a cup of tea, something to eat.  I shouldn’t have told you like that,” he said. “I didn’t think. It must have been a bit of a shock I spose.”

“You think?”

He looked sideways at me, trying to hide a smile. “I just thought it would be a laugh…”

I felt lightheaded but more because I seemed to have Liam Gallagher now zipping up my coat, standing a few steps below me on the stairs.”Nice parka,” he was saying. I could smell his aftershave, the leather of his jacket, the scent of his shampoo on his hair, he smelled gorgeous.

He took my hand and led me down the steps to the bright winter sunshine outside. We were in a side street in North London, not a place I know well and I had to let him take control and find our way to the main road.

A few minutes later we were in a low-rent transport cafe, the type with red and brown sauce on the tables, and I had a mug of strong tea and some buttered toast in front of me. I don’t think the clientele even noticed the A lister and the injured woman in the corner.

“Your cheek looks a bit angry,” he said. “Anyone would think you’d fallen down the stairs.”

I was feeling much better, the shock was subsiding. I was determined to make the best of this and started asking him general questions about the music, the band, his next album. Keep things polite. Best thing really when your private sexual fantasy has been exposed to the very subject of that fantasy. Grill the man about his solo career.

He waved my questions away and said with a half smile, “Let’s talk about your story.”

“Oh God…What do you want to know?”

“Why? What made you think of it? I couldn’t write – not like, fuckin – “

“It’s no big deal…I don’t know… I’ve always, er, had a little thing for you, I realise that’s no big deal for you Mr Rock Star, I know, you have women throwing themselves at you all the time. Must be a crazy way to exist, I guess it’s normal for you.”

“But this has just happened lately. I mean, I’m not the obsessive fan type. This has come out of nowhere, rather late in life as well. Turning 40, getting older, being a mum, I don’t know. It’s a big shift, a lot to come to terms with. It’s made me nostalgic for the 90s, the music, flatsharing in London, a happy time in my life – not that I’m unhappy now – and I saw you in the press a lot with that movie coming out, I saw the film – which was great by the way.  A little fantasy began I guess, it’s just… escapism. And a serious celebrity crush, I mean, might as well call a spade a spade,” I added carelessly. What did it matter anyway?

I looked up at him; he was listening intently and I continued, “I never wrote it with anyone in mind you know, to actually read it. I can’t believe I’m here explaining myself – to you of all people!” I laughed out loud and a couple nearby turned to look at us and I saw one nudge the other. He’d been recognised. He looked down and smiled at the table. “Mad. Fuckin mad,” he said quietly, more to himself I think than anyone else. “Fuckin internet, it’s mental.”

“I …I don’t know if this is making any sense…” I added, looking at my uneaten toast. I’d run out of words and appetite. This was so insane. I looked up at him.  “Do you take all your crazed fans out for coffee?”

He laughed and said, “Only the really mental ones – they get the VIP treatment. But no, I get it. You might think it’s brilliant to be so famous but it’s a pain in the arse a lot of the time, I can’t go anywhere, you know what I mean? So yeah, I know all about escapism… and getting older ain’t great either is it. It took me back and all, your story, it was all mad back then. I loved every minute of it. Wish I was still there.” He gazed out of the window for a few seconds, lost in thought. “I loved your story. Gonna write any more?”

“Is that an order?”

His striking features were weathered now after all these years of having it and having it and being mad for it, but even up close he still looks incredible. His expression softened and he said,

“Too right. I want first look. I think it’s only fair,” he grinned at me. “Make it more juicy next time..”

Something smashed in the kitchen behind us and brought real life flooding back. Suddenly the atmosphere changed and he sat up straight, ran his hand over his day old stubble and said, “Come on, let’s get you in a cab.” My heart sank.

Outside in the street, he asked me where I was going, where I lived, about my kids, my husband. Wasn’t I clever for marrying a musician, and an Irish one at that, he said. A taxi pulled up quickly. Too quickly.

He leaned into the open window. “Waterloo please mate”, he said then turned to me. He said,  “There… now,” he smoothed my hair down and righted the hood on my parka. “You look lovely. Sorry I gave you a fright.”

I moved towards the cab to open the door and he pulled me back. He sneaked a look up and down the street behind him and said in a low voice, “…Was this what you thought it would be like?”  He lifted my chin, bent his head and to my amazement kissed me softly on the lips. He put his other arm around me and and leaned in a bit more, kissing me more firmly. I let out a sigh and just submitted to it, let the experience take me over. My legs weakened and I felt his hand move down to the small of my back and pull me towards him, supporting me. I just melted. It was intoxicating, suffocating, exhilarating. I didn’t want it to end.

He gave a little moan and came up for air, oblivious the meter was running. The cab driver was looking at his phone, not noticing any of this. “Wow,” he said, kissing me on the cheek, then a slow kiss on the mouth one more time. “I might have nearly killed you but it was worth it for that,” he stroked my sore cheek. “Looks a bit better now.”

He opened the cab door and I got in.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I told him and he wrinkled his nose and shook his head. He leaned into the open window, kissed me again. He rapped the roof of the car, the cab pulled away. I looked out of the back window; he blew me a final kiss and turned to go. I turned back to face the driver, stunned and motionless. Had that just actually happened?

When I finally got home and turned on the laptop, I saw I had gained a new follower: Boywanda.

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