If We Ever Meet Again. Portia MacIntosh

I’m glad I became a journalist – no one cares what we do.

       Chapter Seven

      The Name’s Wilde, Nicole Wilde

      I was about fourteen when I went to see my first proper concert and it was mesmerising. I think that’s when my love of the music biz started – I was just so fascinated by all of it.

      I remember not long after that, I was hanging around outside the arena in Sheffield with my friends. We would turn up at 10 a.m. and wait for the bands to arrive, just hoping to catch a glimpse. That time in particular we were standing at the temporary metal fence in the huge, empty car park when the bus pulled in. I just stared in amazement as it drove past us. It seemed huge – like the band were travelling around in a hotel on wheels. It’s funny, I’ve been on so many since then that these days they all seem so small to me – tour buses that is, not bands.

      Peeping through the fence, I watched them unload the bus. After the roadies had done all the heavy lifting, the doors would open and out strolled the important-looking people like managers and publicists. Then my favourite bit, the band would step off the bus, usually surrounded by girlfriends and friends. I wanted to be one of those people, following them around like a puppy, being the envy of every girl standing around in the car park. Well look at me now, I’m living the dream. Well, almost. Let’s just say things aren’t exactly the way I imagined them to be. I thought it was going to be pure glamour, but the reality of it is rather different. OK, so the five-star hotels are pretty glam, but even the most beautiful hotel room can seem like a shithole when you add a gang of lads who invite thirty of their closest friends for an impromptu party. Without entertainment planned, people will make their own fun and that is when things get messy. There’s nothing glamorous about a luxury bath when it’s nearly full to the top with beer, vomit, piss, fag ends and anything else that happens to be within reach.

      I like to think I’m rock and roll, but I remember seeing a huge flat-screen TV taken down off the wall and being promptly thrown off the balcony and into the river that our formerly beautiful room overlooked. The band thought this was hilarious – it was no skin off their noses because their record label would foot the bill – but I’d kill to have a TV like that at my place, it was such a waste.

      When I find myself alone in a hotel room I’ll order room service, throw on a fluffy dressing gown and see what the movie channels have to offer. The only things I have ever thrown off a balcony, well technically spat off a balcony, were orange Revels – abominable.

      Don’t get me wrong though, I am a party animal. Put me in a hotel room with a bunch of drunk band boys and a few friends and things will always get messy. I’ve thrown up in a bath or two in my time, but that will not be happening on this tour, I’m not going to be able to seduce Luke with vomit.

      At the moment I am hurriedly packing my bags so that I don’t miss my train to Manchester. That’s where I’ll be meeting up with Luke’s band, Two For The Road, and joining them on the last week of their tour.

      Packing for tour requires two bags. I have a small bag to take to gigs with me – big enough for my phone, purse, camera and make-up – and a huge bag that could rival a suitcase for space. Inside this bag I have successfully crammed enough items of clothing to at least create the illusion that I am wearing a different outfit every day of the tour, my vital grooming items like my hairbrush and the super-important things like my phone charger. I lift it up before I squash in the last few items, just to see if it’s too heavy to carry and it almost certainly is, but I’ll manage.

      As I frantically cram the last few things into the two bags, I mentally tick them off my list of things to take with me. Of course, the problem with a mental list is that you have to actually remember the things on it and you can guarantee I will always forget something.

      Guess what? I’m running really late. It’s nearly 7 p.m. by the time I am making the short journey from my flat to the train station. I probably should have checked the train times, but I know there is one every half an hour so it should be fine. I really am so disorganised, but I think I secretly enjoy the drama. A few taps on my phone would tell me what time the train is due and what time it arrives in Manchester, but that would be way too easy, and if I start messing around with my phone then I’ll definitely miss my train.

      After buying my ticket I check the departures board and learn that not only is my train due to depart in three minutes, but that it is departing from platform sixteen. Just brilliant.

      I knew that I’d be running late, so I decided to get ready for the gig before I left home. The downside of this is that I’m freezing in my little dress but on the plus side it will save me loads of time when I get there, and at least I’m wearing my cosy Ugg boots. My pretty shoes are in my bag, I’ll make the swap when I get there.

      Running down the steps to platform sixteen I hear the all-too-familiar whistle, the one that means the train doors are about to close and I’m about to miss my train. Before I know what I’m doing, I am diving through the closing doors, landing upright and still holding my things as the doors shut behind me. The train is absolutely packed and all the people standing in the doorway cheer and applaud my James Bond-style manoeuvre. That is probably the most energetic thing I have done in a long time, so I smile and curtsy for my audience before composing myself and trying to find my phone. This is one of those moments in life that is totally Twitter-worthy, in fact I think Twitter was designed with moments like this in mind.

      Impressed with myself, I wonder how I managed to move so gracefully with my big bag and, of course, it is then that I realise I have left my big bag at home. This means that I have no clean clothes, no hairbrush and, worst of all, no pretty shoes. Shit. It’s too late to do anything about it now, I’ll just have to try and manage. I’ve survived on low-budget tours, sleeping in the back of dirty old vans and trying to make my face of make-up last for more than one day – I’ll be fine. I’m touring with Two For The Road, they have a big, glamorous tour bus and we’ll be staying in a few hotels. I guess I’ll have to buy some new clothes, but that is hardly an idea I am against.

      About an hour later, the train pulls into Manchester Piccadilly station and I hop off far less gracefully than I got on. My friend, Gemma, is stood waiting for me. She’s a huge Two For The Road fan and I remember exactly what it’s like to be a fan, desperate to meet the band, so I told her that if she wanted to come along I would introduce her.

      ‘Are you excited about tonight?’ I ask.

      ‘I am so, so nervous. I don’t know how you keep your cool being friends with all these bands! Just promise to introduce me to Eddie.’

      She does look nervous, bless her. I remember when I was nervous.

      Eddie is the lead singer of TFTR and like every front-man ever, he is gorgeous, charming and as shallow as a puddle.

      I resist telling Gemma about Luke – it’s not that I don’t trust her, I’m just worried. What if he acts like we never had that conversation? What if he was just drunk? I am not going to make a fool of myself tonight, although I’m not sure how easy that is going to be as I do plan on getting a little bit drunk.

      Finally outside the venue, a big, scary-looking doorman ticks our names off the guest list. I can hear the music from out here, it’s Two For The Road. I told you that I was going to be very late.

      Our first stop is the bar and it’s only as we’re ordering our drinks that I realise I am probably just as nervous as Gemma is tonight. It has been such a long time since I felt nervous about meeting a band, and I know these guys so well, but this Luke stuff is having a strange effect on me. I’ve always kept my crush on him under wraps, but now that he might actually fancy me back, everything is different. Oh God, I’m sounding like a schoolgirl again.

      Armed with our drinks, we make our way towards the stage where the show is already in full swing. Eddie, the singer, is upfront and smack bang in the middle. He’s very typically good-looking (think Alex Pettyfer, but brunette) and he really knows how to work the crowd. The only time he isn’t surrounded by a crowd of girls