Iain Iain slowly walked onto the stage. Oh no, not again! he mumbled to himself. He didn’t want to be there, he didn’t want to be there one bit. In fact, he never wanted to become a rockstar. He wanted to be an accountant, or a similar boring office job. A job that didn’t require him to be on a stage, in front of an audience. But Iain had been blessed, he could sing. And craft beautiful songs to boot. Two rare treats packed into one being who didn’t want any of them. He reluctantly walked to the front of the stage, strapped on his guitar and watched the people in front of him. Thousands of smiling faces, shouting his name, waiting for him to strike that first chord and open his mouth. I don’t want to do this, he wanted to say in the mic, but instead he said the words the audience wanted to hear. “Good evening, London! It’s great to be here!” he shouted at the roaring mass. He was lying, and he knew he was lying, but the crowd believed his every word. The drummer clapped his drumsticks together, starting the countdown to the first song. His hands moved lightly across the strings of his guitar, searching for the right position of his fingers. He counted down from five in his head and he knew at exactly what point in time the band would start to play in unison. The crowd let out a satisfied shout and he lost himself in the music. “Thank you…” he mumbled absently into the mic when the song was finished, but he didn’t feel grateful at all. He took a glance at the setlist that was taped to the ground and automatically his hands shifted position on the neck of his guitar. Automatic pilot was engaged for the remainder of the gig, blurting out the words to the songs, playing the chords and riffs on his Stratocaster. When the show was over he greeted the people who were allowed, or somehow managed, to be backstage. Hordes of fans wanted him to sign their posters, ticket stubs or cd sleeves. Ah, just bugger off already! he mumbled inaudible for the fan who wanted stuff signed for the guy’s sister, his sister’s boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s sisters. A girl, pretty in an ordinary fashion, was next in queue. “Hey,” she said in a soft and sweet voice, “I’m Catherine.” What the heck do I care who you are, he thought. “You want me to sign something?” he absently said to her. “No thanks,” she replied, “just wanted to say hi.” “So… hi!” the girl said, smiling. The fact that she didn’t want to have anything signed took him by surprise. All the girls wanted him to sign something, he’d just signed the breasts of a 50 year old woman, who was tattoo’d all around. But this girl just wanted to say hi? That had never happened before. Iain needed a couple of moments before he could recover from his surprised state. At the time he did, he noticed the girl had already turned her back and was slowly walking away. “Hey, hang on!” he cried. The girl turned around, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and looked at him, all doe-eyed. “Yes…?” “Leaving already?” he asked, anxiously. “Yeah, got to get up early in the morning”, she replied in a soft voice. “Pity,” he said disappointed, “maybe I’ll see you at the next gig.” It didn’t dawn on Iain that he’d just played the last gig of the tour, in a few hours he would head back home to Dublin. “Mmm, perhaps,” she hummed and waved goodbye. Catherine gave him a last look with her large and mild brown eyes. On the bus back to Dublin Iain couldn’t sleep a wink. Instead he stayed up all the time, plucking away on his Spanish guitar. His band members gave him a weird look. He hadn’t played his Spanish guitar since the day he’d broken up with Emma. She’d given him the guitar as a gift for their fifth anniversary together, a day he unfortunately forgot all about. Emma had been disappointed in him before, she was one of the few people who knew about his problems about his status as a rock star. But the fact that he’d forgotten their anniversary was something she couldn’t at all blame on his problems. She’d tried her best to forgive him and almost succeeded, but when he’d forgotten her birthday just a month later, she didn’t try bothering anymore. And he hadn’t even tried to stop her from packing her bags and leaving. He dragged the guitar with him on tour, but his bandmates hadn’t ever seen him actually play it. But on the way back to Dublin he couldn’t put it aside, humming sounds and melodies as he went along. When they arrived he didn’t get out of the bus. “I need to get back to London!” he cried at the driver.
