The band I’m in is back on tour, eight dates across two weeks. On the third night, just before we go on stage in Newbury, we receive a text informing us that our new album has entered the UK Americana charts at number 33. I do not say what I am thinking, which is: this changes everything.
I wake up late the next morning to the sound of my wife issuing instructions.
“Please walk the dog before you go,” she says. “All the way round.”
“I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” I say. “On account of me being in the charts.”
“And make the bed,” she says. “I’m off.”
By the time I get to Salisbury for the next soundcheck, I am bone weary. I haven’t got to bed before 2am for three nights running, and I still have so far to go: Newcastle, Perth, Glasgow, Carlisle.
After the gig the band separates – we have a three-day break before we head north. The lead singer and I are staying nearby with friends; our wives await us there. I load my car and set off into the night.
My phone’s satnav takes me five miles into the countryside and promptly goes black as the battery expires. I plug the phone into the charger and pull over to wait, but then grow impatient and start driving in what I think is the most likely direction to yield results. Within minutes I am hideously lost. The phone stays black. I keep driving. By the time I realise that the charger’s cord is wrapped once round the gear stick – I pulled it out of the cigarette lighter as soon as I shifted into second – I’ve driven many miles out of my way.
When I finally arrive, I find everyone drinking and eating cheese. No one asks why a 17-minute journey has taken me an hour, and I’m in no mood to volunteer a tale that makes me sound stupid. I eat some cheese and I drink. A voice in the back of my head is telling me to go to sleep, but I don’t listen. Live a little, I think. You might not be in the charts next week.
I am among the last to retire, brushing my teeth with one drooping eyelid. Not wishing to disturb anyone, I creep down the corridor in the dark, feeling the walls as I go. I remove my shoes and trousers silently and sit down on the edge of the bed, exhaling with relief. Staring into the blackness, I reach behind me and find my wife’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. The hand clasps mine reassuringly.
A minute later I find myself being led down the hall. A door is opened. A light snaps on, and my wife sits up in bed.
“I think he got a bit lost,” says the lead singer’s wife, pushing me into the room.
“What time is it?” my wife says.
“Since when are we in this room?” I say.
“I’ll say goodnight,” says the lead singer’s wife.
“What have you done?” my wife says. I crawl over her and into bed.
“I may have held her hand,” I say.
“Where was he?” she says.
“He was there,” I say. “We were all there.”
“Show me how you held her hand,” my wife says.
“I’m in the charts,” I say, squeezing her hand. “This is the sort of thing that happens.”
“You idiot,” my wife says.
“You know what?” I say. “I doubt they’ll even mention it tomorrow.”
The next morning I am woken by the sound of people laughing, as my wife tells the story in the kitchen.
