Emma Heatherington - Rewrite the Stars

‘Well, I’d love to hear your songs one day,’ said Tom, much to my delight and surprise. He leaned forward, resting his drummer-boy arms on his knees. The top of his T-shirt gaped open ever so slightly, allowing me to glimpse a light sprinkling of very manly chest hair, just enough to make me want to reach out and touch him. I may have swooned out loud. Again.

‘You really wouldn’t want to hear them,’ said Matthew. He sniggered a bit. I so wanted to swing for him, briefly recalling a time we took lumps out of each other as we fought over who was the funniest character in Friends or when we wrestled over the last mango in the supermarket, much to our mother’s humiliation.

‘I really would,’ said Tom. ‘I think we all need to be educated on how to drink more beer and break more hearts. Maybe you could teach me something too, er, Charlie?’

He quickly sat up and drummed on his knees a bit, reflecting my irregular, pumping heartbeat, and all of a sudden I felt a bit sweaty in my Disney pyjamas that had seen better days. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ears, wishing I was looking more presentable, but I was smitten, and so it seemed, despite my somewhat unique appearance, was Tom Farley.

And he called me Charlie.

We stood there in momentary silence, breathing in and out, not having to say a word as the universe weaved its magic around us.

‘Why don’t you go get your guitar, Charlotte ?’ Matthew suggested seconds later, with a cheeky grin on his face while emphasising my proper title. It was obviously OK for him to shorten my name, but not for anyone else, especially if it was meant in an endearing way. ‘Go on. Give us one of your country songs. No time like the present, is there?’

I took a long, deep breath through my nose then pursed my lips to consider the challenge. He was really trying to get rid of me now.

‘But I thought you were having a meeting?’ I said. ‘You know, about the band?’

‘We can wait,’ said Matthew. He had just scored a goal and he knew it. ‘You have time for a song, don’t you, Tom?’

Tom beamed that glowing smile at me again.

‘Of course I do,’ said Tom, not knowing if he was giving the right answer. ‘The others are running late so if you don’t mind, Charlie, I’d love to hear some of your work.’

My brother’s grin echoed his now, only Matthew’s was much wider and full of sarcasm as opposed to Tom’s smile of anticipation. He was really going for gold in the embarrassment stakes.

I weighed up my options for as long as I could get away with. I couldn’t do it. No way was I going to let myself down in front of my brother’s hot new band member by singing my cheesy lyrics of how I’d loved and lost (or thought I had) in my wonder years. I’d only written a handful of stuff and most of it was for my ears only. But then out of the blue something struck me. Something told me that I’d an opportunity to either make a fool out of myself or, on the other hand, to really impress this delight in front of me. Something told me to go for it that day, that in fact I’d nothing to lose, and I think that ‘something’ was the energy between me and Tom Farley. I had a feeling, despite my brother’s indifference, that Tom was going to like my humble efforts, even if my writing was in a genre that turned my brother’s stomach.

‘OK, I’ll do it,’ I said, surprising even myself. ‘I’ll sing you a song.’

‘ What ?’ Matthew burst out laughing and looked at Tom, but he wasn’t laughing at all. He was beaming in my direction, convincing me more that the sudden confidence within me was indeed coming from him. He was giving me strength to take a chance on this, to bare my soul and risk it that he might just like my music.

‘You go for it, girl,’ said Tom. His full lips looked so inviting. I could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed hard in my direction. ‘That’s just what I love to see – some good old pride and determination. I’m all ears and ready when you are.’

I stood up straight, and instead of scarpering off like a scared mouse as my brother hoped I would, I put my hand on my hip, took a deep breath and decided to go ahead and call Matthew’s bluff.

‘No problem at all,’ I said to them both. ‘ You can get the drinks in, Matthew, while I go and get sorted. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right back with a country song that will break both your little hearts.’

Tom Farley winked at me again and nodded his head in approval.

It was official. I was prime time in love.

Twenty minutes later, now wearing my favourite retro flared pale blue jeans, a crisp, clean grey vest top and with my long, bleached curly hair hanging down round my shoulders, I strummed the last chord on my guitar.

The song I’d carefully chosen to sing for him was called ‘By Myself’ (a song I’d written about the very first break-up I’d experienced but he didn’t need to know that) and I’d picked it out from my humble collection knowing the deep rhythm and sultry lyrics would be just enough to get his attention.

As the final pluck of the guitar strings echoed around us in the little room, I waited for his reaction. I looked up slowly, half closed my eyes and, when I opened them, I realized my hands were shaking.

‘I can’t believe I remembered the words,’ I said, a string of apologies going through my head for making his ears bleed, but I was worrying in vain because when I looked in his direction, he didn’t look disappointed or bored at all. He was, in fact, wide-eyed in awe, shaking his head, looking at my face, then at my hands, then at my mouth, and back to my eyes.

‘Wow,’ he said eventually, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then he applauded slowly. ‘I mean wow ! I’m literally drooling here! That, young lady, was bloody awesome!’

We laughed in relief – at exactly the same time. And then we stopped laughing in disbelief – at exactly the same time. Matthew was not laughing.

‘Matthew Taylor, what the hell!’ said Tom. ‘Your little sister has absolute, magic in her words and melodies! Seriously!’

I smirked at Matthew, feeling his pain and discomfort at the tangible harmony and the intense meeting of minds that had beautifully backfired on him.

‘Well, I’m – I’m glad you think so,’ stuttered Matthew. ‘But you should try living with her. She’s—’

‘She’s incredible,’ Tom said, and I fleetingly felt sorry for Matthew who was so removed from this moment between us. ‘Matt, you told me she could sing but you didn’t tell me we’d the next Stevie Nicks on our hands! She even looks like her, too. And as for those lyrics! Did you write that, Charlie? Really?’

He called me Charlie again.

‘Yes, I wrote it. All of me, all by myself ,’ I said to him, quoting my very own lyrics. I sat up straight and put down my guitar then flicked back my hair. It’s wonderful how a quick wash, a lick of mascara, a spray of perfume and a change of clothing can help up your game, plus I was feeding off his hunger and energy. ‘Oh, and Stevie Nicks? I’ll take that. Thank you, Tom.’