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I left the band the next day and vowed I was done with the music industry and all its fakery. It was a trauma so great for our fans, the record label had to set up a helpline to support them through their grief. That cemented it had been the right move for me; while the fans got a helpline, I had zero contact from anyone in the band, the management team, or the record label. Apparently, there wasn’t an ounce of concern for me. I’d been written off as a selfish wanker who walked away from them.
But here I was fifteen years later, sober for the last twelve and bouncing off the walls because of the love, respect, and energy amplified at me when I was on stage. I pulled out my key card, opened the door to my suite and walked in.
The second I turned on the light, something felt off. As soon as I walked into the bedroom that feeling was validated. Instantly the joy and love I felt after the concert was replaced with a sense of fear and dread. My mouth dried, my stomach sank, and a cold sweat broke out over me.
The first thing that caught my eye was the bottle of champagne sitting on the bedside table. The rose petals all over the bed were next, and lastly, the photo frame – a picture of me and a fan from what must have been seventeen years ago. I see the card sitting in front of it and I don’t need to lift it to know who it is from.
My disgusted curiosity got the better of me, though, and I grabbed the card she had placed in front of the picture of us. I let out a long puff of air in an attempt to give myself time to change my mind about opening the card. Biting my lip, I turned the envelope over and pulled at the overlapped section of paper.
The card itself was harmless enough, a cheerful ‘congratulations’ message across the front with bright, bold writing and shiny foil embossed balloons and streamers. Inside there was something just that little more intimidating. When I opened the card a folded-up note fell onto the floor. Stooping to pick it up, I could feel the bile start to rise.
This wasn’t the first time I had heard from Natasha. She had been getting more and more daring in her contact, but I never believed she would go to this extreme. Thinking of her here in the room where I was meant to be sleeping made my blood run cold. Carefully, I unfolded the note and sat on the arm of the sofa by the bed to read what was inside.
My darling Lennox,
I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you for getting back on the road again and starting touring. It’s where you belong; on stage, shining like the beacon of perfection that you are. You have an amazing gift, and I am so glad to see you finally sharing it with the world again. It’s where you belong, out in the spotlight with all of your adoring fans there to cheer you on.
And I want to be cheering you on, my darlin’. I will be in the audience tonight watching you, waiting for the moment when you sing me our song. I know that you said in an interview that you wrote it for someone who was incredibly special to you, and that you lost them because of your drinking, but I just wanted you to know that you haven’t lost me. I’m still here. I’m always here waiting for you, my love.
I know that the day we can be together is getting closer and closer and I’m looking forward to it so much. When a love is as strong and beautiful as ours, you know it can never be denied. We are made for each other. Soulmates. I know you feel the same way about me as I do about you, it’s all there in our song.
It won’t be long, my love.
All my love, now and always,
Your Natasha xox
The letter was trembling. Realisation hit me; it wasn’t the letter quaking, it was me. I didn’t know how to react to her words. She had always been a little over the top, but it had never been like this. If I was honest, in the past she didn’t seem the type to go to this extreme.
My thoughts focused on the song she was talking about. It wasn’t our song. Hell, it wasn’t even about a romantic relationship, or even about a relationship with a woman. I wrote the song about a close friend I made in rehab, a friend who, after several years of being sober, relapsed.
We had bonded over fame, self-medicating, and being stuck in the closet. When he fell off the wagon, he never got back on it, and despite pleading with him to get help, he didn’t. He was dead within a year, his liver just couldn’t take it, and I lost one of the few people in this world that really understood just what I had been through. That’s what ‘our’ song was.
Doing the only thing that I could think of in that moment, I pulled out my phone and called Alex. “Umm, I’m honestly not sure how to deal with this, but I think we need to call the police,” I blurted out the second he answered the phone.
“Lennox? What’s happened?”
“Someone has broken into my hotel room.” I sighed and licked my lips, attempting to get some moisture back into my mouth.
“Lennox, are you okay? Are you in danger?”
My cheeks puffed out as I thought about how to tell Alex exactly what had been happening lately. “This isn’t the first time something has happened, but until today, I didn’t think it was anything serious. But this…it seems like it’s escalating, and it’s kinda fucking scary, mate.”
There was a muffled call for Johnny, Alex’s partner, bandmate, and the co-owner of the record label I was signed with.
The next voice I heard was Johnny’s. “Don’t touch anything, okay?” While he phrased it as a question, I knew from his tone it was more of a command. “I’m going to call Carl now, and you’re going to go to his room and stay there until Alex tells you that it’s all good, okay? I’m going to pass you back to him now.”
“Uh huh,” I murmured, unable to really take in everything that had been happening this evening.
While Alex spoke, I could hear Johnny on his phone in the background, making calls, barking orders and generally taking control. “Why didn’t you tell us there was stuff happening? We’re here to look out for you, Lennox.”
I shook my head. I didn’t know how to answer that one. I guess it was because I thought there was nothing to actually be worried about. I was familiar with love-crazed fans, because twenty years ago it would have been played off as nothing, and any suggestion of anything else would have been dismissed as an overreaction.
“I didn’t think it was anything to really tell you about. You know how fans can be,” I admitted.
I heard the tone of Alex’s voice change. “Oh yeah, I know exactly how they can be,” he acknowledged softly.
“It’s been silly cards and notes. They were all sent to the post office box I have set up. The closer it got to the tour, the worse it seemed to get, but all still fairly innocuous. Bunches of flowers, boxes of chocolates, things like that, but they were showing up in places I didn’t think people knew I was at.”
