For the Record

“Again,” I say, which is how I discover that twelve people can glare at you in perfect unison.

Behind me, someone drops dramatically onto the rehearsal-room floor.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I press my palms together, my microphone trapped between them. “But if I’m still turning when the chorus starts, I’m going to sing the first line directly into somebody’s armpit.”

Liv studies our reflection in the wall of mirrors, one hand resting on her hip. She’s been teaching me choreography for three years, so she’s familiar with both my limitations and my tendency to negotiate with them.

“We can lose the second turn,” she says.

“I like the second turn!”

“You also like breathing,” she points out.

I pout a little in thought. “I’m willing to compromise on that.”

She laughs, then steps towards the strip of pink tape marking my position. “Start travelling on five instead of seven. You can take the turns on the way forward.”

I follow her through it slowly, my trainers squeaking against the floor. Around us, the dancers get back into position. I catch the eye of the man who was on the floor and blow him an apologetic kiss.

“Last one,” I promise.

He points at me. “We have witnesses to you saying that, Lacey.”

The music starts halfway through the verse. I find my mark, bring the microphone up and let the familiar rhythm settle into my legs. Step, slide, shoulder. The dancers close around me, then peel away as I travel forward earlier than before.

First turn. Second turn. Chin up.

The chorus lands exactly where it should, and this time I have enough air to sing it.

By the final beat, I’m grinning so hard it slightly interferes with the last word.

“There,” Liv says as the track cuts. “That’s the one.”

I bend forward, hands on my thighs, and attempt to recover enough breath to be gracious about it. “You’re a genius. Everybody’s beautiful. I’m buying dinner.”

That gets a much warmer response than asking to do it again. Liv goes to retrieve the phone she’s been filming us on while the dancers scatter towards their bags.

While someone begins taking orders, I retrieve my water bottle from beneath a chair. In the mirror, a strand of blonde hair is stuck to my cheek, my pink vest has developed a distinctly darker pink patch down the front, and there’s a smear of mascara beneath one eye.

Excellent. Exactly the polished image I’m hoping to bring to several sold-out arenas.

I take a long drink, lower myself onto the chair and check my phone.

There are messages about tomorrow’s rehearsal, a photograph of a possible tour costume, and an email with GRAMMYS written in the subject line that I leave unopened until I can give it my full attention.

Eight weeks until opening night of my sold-out world tour, and my inbox is apparently determined that I won’t spend any of them sitting down.

I open Instagram instead, which is a reasonable professional decision. I’m sitting down right now, so technically it’s working.

The first video on my feed is a man screaming into a microphone.

I stop scrolling.

Oh, hello.

I recognise the song before the camera finishes pulling back. Votive. Their last album, Where the Light Fails, has been getting me through early treadmill sessions for months, although I generally keep the volume low enough that my trainer can still tell me to stop holding on to the sides.

Onscreen, their frontman grips the microphone stand with one tattooed hand. His black T-shirt clings to his chest, dark hair falls across his forehead, and there’s a silver ring on practically every finger I can see.

Gabriel Ward.

Gabe, according to every interview I’ve watched. Which is a normal number of interviews.

He finishes the line, leans back from the microphone and smiles at someone beyond the camera.

I watch that part again.

There’s something very unfair about a man looking like that and then smiling as though he’d happily help someone’s mum carry a bookcase upstairs.

“Food?” Liv asks, appearing beside me with her phone.

“Yes, please.”

“What do you want?”

“Something with chips.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Glad I could help.”

She glances at my screen just as the video loops.

“Ah.”

I turn the volume down. “What?”

“Nothing. You looked very focused. I thought you were watching the rehearsal back.”

“I’m broadening my musical education.”

“Is that why you’re drooling at your screen?”

I laugh and nudge her shoe with my own. “Go away.”

She leaves me to my educational material, smiling to herself.

The clip ends with Gabe crouching at the edge of the stage, microphone held towards the crowd. A wall of voices answers him. Beneath the post, the band have written something about missing this and getting back out soon.

I tap the comments.

I could put a flame emoji. That’s fairly standard. Supportive. Collegial, even.

Instead, I type:

@lacey: watched this three times for the vocals, obviously 🤭

I read it once, then press post before I can turn leaving a comment into a committee decision.

There. Perfectly harmless.

I lock my phone and set it face down on my thigh.

Across the room, Liv is explaining to someone that buying dinner does not mean I’ve agreed to buy them a new car. I call out that it depends how much the chips cost, which starts an argument about delivery fees.

My phone vibrates.

Then again.

Then enough times that I pick it up.

Gabriel Ward has replied to your comment.

I sit a little straighter.

INSTAGRAM · @votiveofficial

[Reel: Votive performing live. Gabe Ward stands at the front of the stage, dark hair damp and tattooed arms exposed.]

CAPTION: Missing this. Back soon.

COMMENTS

@lacey: watched this three times for the vocals, obviously 🤭

↳ @gabeward: Appreciate the commitment. Any feedback on the other two watches?

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“Oh, that’s good,” I murmur.

His profile picture is small, but I can still make out the same smile. I tap it, then stop with my thumb hovering over the follow button.

I’m being ridiculous. I can follow a man. People do it all the time. There are entire apps built around the concept.

I follow him and return to the comments.

@lacey: excellent stage lighting. v flattering

I’m still smiling when a notification appears at the top of my screen.

@gabeward started following you.

My stomach does a small, deeply unnecessary flip.

“Oh, grow up,” I tell it quietly.

Unfortunately, the internet has also noticed.

When I refresh, my original comment has acquired several hundred likes and an expanding collection of replies already.

@laceyfan184: LACEY??? babe we can all see you

@votiveupdates: did not have this crossover on my bingo card

@sunsetsanddreams: someone check on him

I bite the inside of my cheek, amused and abruptly aware that I’ve walked into somebody else’s comments section wearing the social-media equivalent of a flashing neon sign.

Usually, when people notice me online, it’s underneath something I’ve posted. I’m prepared for it. This was meant to be a tiny moment of being appreciative about a very attractive man, and now strangers are tagging their friends beneath it.

Another reply arrives.

@gabeward: I’ll pass that on. Our lighting guy will be delighted.

I laugh again, shaking my head.

Well. He doesn’t seem distressed.

Still, I open his profile and tap Message before I can spend another five minutes contemplating the etiquette.

INSTAGRAM · PRIVATE MESSAGES

@lacey: sorry i seem to have brought a small crowd into ur comments 😂 they’re usually v nice. occasionally loud

I stare at what I’ve sent.

Should I have just said hello?

Hello would have been good. People have been getting excellent results with hello for years.

“Lacey?”

I look up.

Will stands in the doorway, coat already on, his phone loose in one hand. In the time I’ve known him, he’s developed an impressive ability to make standing beside a door look like a complete occupation. He’s the main person on my protection team, which means he’s seen me in considerably worse states than this and still opens doors for me. I appreciate that about him.

“Car’s ready when you are.”

“Thanks. Two seconds.”

I gather my things, sliding my phone into the side pocket of my tote before tucking the water bottle into the middle. Liv catches me on the way out and holds up the dinner order for approval.

“Did everyone get something?” I ask.

“Everyone got several things. Yours is coming here too?”

“Yes, please. Will can get someone to bring it out when it arrives.” I glance towards him, and he nods. “And send me that last run when you get a chance? I want to check the transition.”

“The transition is fine.”

“I know. I want to enjoy being right about keeping the turn.”

She rolls her eyes, air-kisses my cheek and tells me to go home.

Will waits while I pull on my coat, then leads the way down the corridor. He checks something with the driver through his earpiece before taking me outside. The building is quieter now, music thudding faintly through a closed studio door. My legs are beginning to register their objections to the day.

Outside, the London air is cold enough to make me tuck my chin into my scarf. Will opens the car door, and I slide into the back seat with a grateful little sigh.

My phone vibrates inside my tote.

I pull it from the side pocket.

INSTAGRAM · PRIVATE MESSAGES

@gabeward: No apology necessary. Most people who turn up here are loud. Occupational hazard.

There’s another message beneath it.

@gabeward: Though I am interested to know what you thought of the vocals, since we’ve established the lighting was a success.

I settle back against the seat, smiling down at my screen.

@lacey: honestly? v good. u should consider doing it professionally

The driver pulls away once Will has settled into the front passenger seat. Gabe’s reply arrives before we reach the end of the road.

@gabeward: Thanks. Been looking for a way out of the book club.

I laugh, properly this time.

“Good rehearsal?” Will asks from the front.

“Yeah,” I say, watching three little dots appear beneath Gabe’s message. “Really good.”