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Chapter
One
Evie
“Evie, we need to go!” Jonno, my youngest brother, shouts through the house. And there’s no missing the urgency in his voice.
“Coming.” Snatching up the baseball cap from the bed, I sprint through the house and down into the large open plan kitchen.
Jonno’s grabbing at bags of t-shirts and hoodies, merchandise that needed to be at the venue about an hour ago. “You’d be late for your own funeral, woman,” he grumbles goodnaturedly, transporting the large bags towards the front doors.
I plonk my logo’d baseball cap onto my newly dyed long hair, pink and silver this time, and pick up another bag containing even more baseball caps. “What the hell has Jackson been buying? He’s gone totally overboard again. There’s way too much stuff here. We’ll be storing it all for the next few years at this rate.”
“Got a bulk buy bargain. He was bored…”
“Bored? He runs a security business. How the hell can he be bored? He needs to go conquer another country. Somewhere big—America. Get him to set up a company there. There must be lots of people needing security services over there.” I grin at him. I am so proud of my brothers, my heart practically bursts every time I talk about them.
Jake, the oldest, running our farms in Devon. Jackson, a military man turned security mogul. Jude, running a property company with me. And Jonno, the youngest and arguably the most successful, set up a tech company at the dawn of the internet age, and boom. Any tech, he is all over it. Coupled with Jackson’s security interests, they are a force to be reckoned with in a cyber security age.
We load the car, and set off into the heart of London. The venue—The Green Dragon—is in Soho, and parking is a nightmare, so we need to drop this stuff off and park further away. At least it’s not raining. Yet.
“Are you happy he’s playing there? It’s a big gig for him, for them.” Jonno looks over at me. “Lots of exposure. B4d Intel has a following now, and it’s only going to get bigger, more well known.”
I nod. My son is my life. I’ll do anything to ensure he’s happy, healthy, and successful, in whatever he chooses. My heart swells with love and pride when I think about the man he is becoming.
We lapse into silence as the roads get busier. “Are you happy he chose music?” he asks me softly, his mind clearly staying on James.
I sigh out, trepidation about what James is going to face. “What could I do Jonno? He chose it, it chose him. Weird though, I can’t sing a note.” I grin and side eye him as he manoeuvres around a group of cyclists. But excitement starts to fizz through my veins, at how good they are, how good he is. “I’ll support him in whatever he does. It won’t be from lack of effort that this band doesn’t go anywhere—from me, him, and you lot, the boy is destined for great things.” He nods in agreement. “I notice you’ve ramped up the social media stuff. Gone legit now, instead of fake profiles.”
His grin widens. “You noticed. Well, I couldn’t hide him forever, or you. He’s eighteen now, an adult. He’s a fucking pop star, or will be. We need to go big, Evie.”
I look out the window at the streets of London, the scudding grey clouds above, remembering when I arrived here from the countryside of Yorkshire. Different colours, different smells, the constant noise. A sea of people, but I knew only one, my guardian of sorts. Marshall. I was seventeen, nearly eighteen, pregnant and distraught. And abandoning my provincial life a lot earlier than anticipated. I’d intended to go to university in a large city, but London, the capital, no. I also did not intend to be carrying a child with me. Parties, club nights, coffee shops, lazy mornings and studying had been on my horizon. Not pregnant, rejected, forsaken, alone.
But I’d got on with it, focusing only on the next thing in front of me. Being thrust in as the decision maker at eighteen is so hard. Looking at my eighteen-year-old son, I can’t fathom how my eighteen-year-old self managed. But it was one hundred percent worth it.
“Jackson’s set up some music people to come see James and the lads.” Jonno interrupts my reverie. “He’ll deal with them. Is that okay? He didn’t think you wanted to do it.”
“I don’t. We need objectivity, and when it comes to James, I tend not to be. I’m happy to look over the deal, but I trust Jackson to iron out the nitty gritty. So do the lads. And if all else fails, and they don’t sign them, we can always branch out into the music world. You own the internet, we’re all business people. How hard can it be?” I laugh.
“Jesus, you never stop. Lord help anyone who gets in your way.”
“You better believe it. If I let a small thing like ‘no deal’ stop us, where would we be?”
“Well you’ve certainly lived by that mantra. And thank god you have, sis. I fucking love our life here, all together.”
We pull up at the venue and unload as Jonno goes to park the car. I turn my face upwards to the turrets at the top of the old red brick building with huge, wooden, castle-like front doors, my face catching the first few droplets of rain. Whilst all around it things morph and change—upmarket bars, overpriced champagne brassieres, restaurants trying to cash in on the next big trend—this place remains unchanged at the front, standing guard over the heart of London’s West End. Iconic, and a must perform at location, it continues to welcome music lovers of all tastes year after year..
I walk in smiling at the hive of activity in front of me, winding down the stairs to the open bar area, and towards the back room. The musty smell of old trainers, smelly socks, stale beer and weed permeate the air. I don’t think even a deep, deep clean of this place could get rid of the smell. But what it lacks in aroma it makes up for in ambiance. New music. Excitement. Ambition.
The back room of the venue, is a bit like the frontage, eternal and unchanging. It’s been around for over seventy years. Dingy as can be, with old band posters still adorning the walls, where some of the biggest bands started, or played—whether it be on the way up or down. Most of the monies made are pumped into the front of house, keeping it up to date and moving with the times over the past decades. The only constants are those wooden doors to the outside, this back room, and a wooden floor throughout the venue that has withstood every type of shoe from flip flops to platforms, to the trendiest of trainers.
Regardless of the smell, I love this area more than the front. The excitement instigated here bleeds out onto the staged area and from there onwards out onto the streets around it. It’s exhilarating.
The Dragon has been a regular haunt of my son James’s band, B4d Intel. Not only the music drawing them in, but the legendary old bar, stocking everything from real ales to famous whiskeys. The memorabilia donated by grateful bands decorates the walls. The famous green chandeliers hang over the booth seating area to the right of the stage, creating pockets of shadows, as the air con gently swings them to and fro. Oh what stories they tell me, what secrets they share as every famous and infamous musician has taken time to park their arses on those seats at one time or another.
James, now officially legal, is playing the venue tonight with his bandmates. It could be the biggest crowd they’ve had all year. The last performance before I put my foot down and make them study for their exams.
Even at this early stage, the room is packed with movement. As usual, my adopted brothers are lifting and carrying gear and instruments back and forth. Jude (aka Brown, owing to his penchant for dressing in the colour from head to toe when we were younger) is responsible for the gear. Whilst Jackson our security mogul is doing what he does best and organising the security team. I see him quickly peeling off to go get everything set up. With several friends also lending a hand with merchandise and set-up, it really is a family affair. Or as Jackson likes to point out, free labour.
