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The persistent ringing of the phone drove me from my bed. Absentmindedly scratching my balls, I tiptoed down the coarse coir matting that the landlord had fitted to the stairs and picked up the handset.

"It's about time!" an irate voice said, "I need you."

"Mmm," I answered still half asleep and wondering who it was.

"I've got an audition," the voice continued "and I want you to drive me."

"Who is it?" I managed, my eyes still firmly closed. It was cold in the hall and I was in imminent danger of waking up.

"They don't have a name yet, but ...."

"No, who are you?" I felt snappy so I snapped.

"Ian," he said, sounding upset. "You said to call."

"Yes, but not when I'm asleep," I was waking up and snappy had morphed to grouchy. "What kind of person wakes … somebody up to ...?"

"It's three in the afternoon!"

I didn't have a riposte for that, so I hung up, knowing he'd call back. You couldn't get rid of Ian. Ian got what he wanted through shear determination.

"Who was it?" a voice called down from the top landing. I nearly laughed.

"If you'd bother to answer the phone once in a while you'd know, wouldn't you," I shouted and tiptoed back upstairs to get a shower.

I had a rehearsal studio for bands that several bunches of no-hopers rented out. It almost kept me in rent and food: almost, but not quite. So I took on the occasional job as a roadie and sound engineer. I'd met Ian that way. He was a keyboard player, or so he said, and I had to admit that he posed well enough to look the part. He paid me paltry sums to move his keyboards around and not to mind when he called me 'his roadie.' I didn't mind in the slightest as I found it funny which upset him. I never told him that was the point.

"Audition!" I said once I'd had my shower, a slice of toast, coffee and he'd turned up on my doorstep. "That's great. So who is it?"

"They don't have a name yet," he said, "but they have management!" Management: the Holy Grail. I was impressed, even though I tried hard not to show it.

"And you … want me to …?" I asked, waiting for the punch.

"Oh, just drive me down to the singer's house," he paused, "in Guildford."

"You've got the petrol money?" I asked, sealing my fate. Guildford was miles away and I was skint.

"I'll pay you twenty quid," he said as if it was a done deal.

"Thirty or twenty five and the petrol," I countered. He went for the thirty.

I'd permanently borrowed an old Ford Transit which was so clapped out I said a prayer every time I got in it. It was dark blue and one of my friends had blacked out the battery warning light with a felt tip pen because it annoyed him. It annoyed me, too, but I figured that as it was always on it didn't matter if I could see it or not.

'Muncher' lived on the van's bench seat. He was an old Hitachi mono cassette recorder and radio I'd had at school, and he'd eaten more tapes than I'd probably had hot dinners. We set off to collect Ian's keyboards from the rehearsal studio where he somehow managed to keep them without paying storage. Every time I mentioned it he came up with a reason why they should stay there, and why he shouldn't pay. It had become a bit of a game.

Then we were off. Around Hammersmith Broadway, and across the river bridge, then on past Roehampton to the A3.

"This is fucking miles!" I moaned as I bought petrol and saw Ian smiling.

Past Richmond Park and on we went, with Ian rabbiting on about how he hoped he'd get the gig and how good the band was. I feigned disinterest, though I was secretly hoping he'd manage to get them to book my studio.

"Ian."

"Mmm?"

"If you get the job, which I'm sure you will 'cause you're really good, could you see if you can get them to book my studio?"

"Your studio?" I heard the sneer in his voice and looked across at him playing riffs on the dashboard.

"Yeah, my studio. What's wrong with that?"

"They're much too good. They'll probably use Nomis or something." Nomis was the professional rehearsal place that everyone aspired to. I wanted, really wanted, to hit him.

"Fine," I said, glad that I'd got the money up front and half thinking I might leave him and his fucking keyboards in Guildford. "Fine."

"Don't take it personally; it's just ... well, you know."

"No," I said, knowing full well.

We navigated around the one-way system in Guildford's town center and out on the other side into a small suburb.

"There it is, number three," he said, sounding excited. "Pull over, pull over!" I wondered if he'd be quite so confident with a black eye.

I backed into a parking space and turned off the engine, the van pinking for several coughs, then backfiring. Ian scowled at me, leapt out and went to ring the bell, while I opened the back door. I hung around for ten minutes in the cold before he came back and picked up the smallest of the keyboards.

"Bring the synth would you?" he asked. I grabbed the flight case, shut the van up and followed him in. The door opened right into the living room and I put the keyboard down in parallel to Ian's then turned around for a look at a real musician's house. Ian was in the kitchen talking to a spiky haired blond guy with tight red vinyl trousers and a black t-shirt, so I closed the door. The blond guy turned away from Ian and looked at me.

"Who's this?"

"The van driver," Ian said, and I winced. The blond guy grinned at me, all too aware why I'd winced.

"And would the van driver like a cup of coffee?"

"Yes please," I said before Ian could scotch the idea. "That'd be really nice." Ian was frowning, but smiled as blond hair glanced at him before looking back at me.

"And does the van driver have a name?" his eyes were twinkling.

"Does the musician?" I replied, fed up with the whole thing but intrigued at the same time. He grinned again.

"Touché," he said, walking over his hand outstretched. I grasped it expecting a limp shake. Instead it was firm, his hand warm and hard. "I'm Mike," he said.

"Neil," I replied, smiling and watching Ian as he stared at me icily.

"Help yourself to coffee, there's plenty in the pot and I'll get Ian sorted." He turned, "Come on mate, the studio's in the basement." Flustered, Ian grabbed the small keyboard and looked pointedly at the other one, then me. I sighed, picked it up and followed them down the stairs.

"Where do you want it?" I asked, rather than just dump it in the corner as Ian had. Mike looked at me, then nodded to a keyboard stand before starting to talk to Ian. I got bored and went back upstairs.

I found a mug, poured myself some coffee and added milk and sugar. It was a nice house, though somehow it didn't seem like the sort of place a musician like Mike would live. I sat down on the couch not sure if I should stay or go. Mike was nice, of that there was no doubt, and I was only sorry that I hadn't met him under other circumstances. But then maybe I'd get a chance to get to know him if Ian got into the band and I continued as his roadie. I was miles away when someone coughed. I looked up. It was Mike, and he was giving me an odd look.

"Would you like a fish?" he asked. I blinked.

"Sorry?"

He rolled his eyes dramatically. "I said would you like a fish?"

"Umm."

"I was given a few trout the other day and I've got one left over."

"Oh." I was perplexed. It seemed an odd thing to be offered, but then I was probably looking too deep. "Yes, thanks," I said, unsure of what I'd do with a trout, but feeling kind of obliged to accept it nonetheless.

"Good!" I watched him as he walked over to the freezer. He pulled out an object wrapped in silver foil and handed it to me. "Trout," he said. I nodded.

"Yes, thanks." I put it on the side table and picked up my coffee and drained it. Then I stood. He was a few inches shorter than me and, though not classically good looking, he was cute as hell. He was so close I could smell his 'fresh from the bath' scent, which flustered me.

"Nice place you have," I said inanely.

"Yes, it is," he said looking at me and not moving away. "It's a friend's. He's a producer and away working so he said I could stay."

"Oh," I wasn't sure why I was sweating or what I should do with my hands, so I stuck them in my pockets. "That's decent of him."

"Yes, he's like that." Had he moved closer, or was I the one that moved? I was unsure. I breathed in deeply and hoped to God he didn't see the reaction I was having.

"So, erm, you're looking for a keyboard player?" He nodded and I saw his blond hair had darker roots and guessed it was a bottle job. It didn't matter at all.

"Yes, for gigging. I play myself, but I'm the singer and I don't want to do both." Fresh mint breath over red lips.

"Right."

"Do you play?" It wasn't just a polite question; he was interested, I could tell.

"Yes, drums." His nose was just a little on the large size, but his lips were just perfect. I wanted to touch him.

"In a band?"

"No, well kind of. I've got a rehearsal room."

"Oh, well we're going to need a place to rehearse, I'll speak to my manager." He smiled, his tongue briefly wetting his lips. Then Ian came upstairs.

"You can go, Neil. I'll be leaving my keyboards here and getting the train home." Mike's expression changed. He picked up my mug and took it to the kitchen, putting it in the sink. I nodded to Ian and walked to the door.

"See ya," I said, looking past Ian to Mike. He looked back at me and nodded.

"See ya," he said.

Ten days later I was in the kitchen washing up when the phone rang. I dried my hands and answered.

"It's Ian." We hadn't spoken since the outing to Guildford, but I knew he had a gig with his old band coming up and I couldn't afford to tell him to go and fuck himself. He sounded flat; depressed.

"Yes."

"I need you to go and pick up my keyboards from the house in Guildford," he said and my heart sank. He hadn't got the job which meant I'd only see Mike once more. "Oh, and I got the job, too!" his tone changed to suppressed laughter. He'd been winding me up.

"That's great!" I said. "I'll go now."

The door was answered by an older guy with ultra short hair wearing black. Black from head to toe. "You must be Neil," he said, ushering me in. "The keyboards are in the hall cupboard, but I need to talk to you about your rehearsal facility."

"Oh," I said, almost laughing at the idea of having a facility. "Okay." Then Mike came up from the studio and my mouth went dry. He was wearing a different pair of red trousers and a loose white chenille top. He grinned at me and my heart flippity-flopped.

"You've met my manager, then," he said. I nodded. "The keyboards are ...."

"In the hall cupboard," I interjected, smiling. He laughed.

"Yes, and a pig they were to move, too. We need a roadie, don't we John?" John, the manager, who had walked over to the couch and was in the middle of a phone conversation, looked up at him, then over at me.

"Probably," he said.

Mike helped me get the keyboards into the van, then sat on the back of the loading area and looked at me. Tentatively I sat next to him, our legs touching.

"We've got a stack of gigs coming up," he started, looking into the distance and smiling. "So, we'll need a couple of weeks in your studio to start with."

"But you haven't seen it," I said, aware I wasn't being a very good salesman. "You should, before ...."

"I'm sure it's better than a lot of the shit holes I've rehearsed in," he said, looking at me. "Isn't it?"

"Yes, but honestly it is a bit of a one."

"Will you be around?" He got up and I followed suit. We closed the doors and I locked them.

"Yes."

"Well then," he said, and clapped me on the back. "I've got to get on, John's here about contracts."

"Oh, cool," I managed, and held out my hand. We shook.

"See ya," he said, smiling.

"Yes." I watched him go in and close the door. "See ya."

A few minutes later I was sitting in the van about to start it when he tapped on the window, looking serious. I wound it down. We stared at each other, then he grinned and brought out a carrier bag from behind his back and handed it to me. It stank and I screwed up my nose.

"You forgot your fish," he said roaring with laughter, and ran back indoors.

 

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