Save a Prayer

S
AVE
A PRAYER

Copyright © 2016 by Karen Booth

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Save a Prayer originally appeared in the ‘80s Mix Tape anthology published by Pink Kayak Press.

A
ngie

I'd spent ten months trying to ignore Graham Whiting and his band. The trouble was, they were bloody impossible to avoid.

So there I was in the Philadelphia airport, fresh off the plane from London, frozen in front of a newsstand. The magazine display loomed before me, each cover peppered with photographs of Graham and his band, Banks Forest. Habit would've kept me walking, but I had to look. Not looking was a matter of survival at home in England, where the pain of his cheating had once been omnipresent. Here, in a different country, it was easier to believe I'd finally shaken that particular black cloud. Nobody in Philadelphia knew who I was. Nobody knew that Graham Whiting and I had a past.

And so I did it. I stepped closer to the glossy mags as if it were no big deal, trying to ignore the way it felt as if I'd left my stomach back on the plane. There was Graham, handsome as ever, cheeky smile lighting up his entire face. His spiky brown hair was streaked with blond now. He wore a royal blue suit with a black T-shirt, the jacket sleeves bunched up to the elbows. Those mysterious golden chestnut eyes of his peered expertly into the camera.

An uncomfortable but familiar ache cropped up square in the middle of my chest. There'd been a time when Graham had looked at me—
only
me—like that. It had felt magical, like being on a guilt-free drug that didn't make you sick or crazy, just high. I refused to regret the experience, even if coming off of it had been one of the hardest things I'd ever done.

The rest of the band looked smashing as well, especially Christopher, with his ridiculously square chin, messy bed head and green eyes that had always been utterly mesmerizing even to me, a girl who thought of him as a brother and never as a love interest. It was no major surprise that Chris had quickly become the fan favorite, although Graham seemed close behind him. I could only imagine what their rivalry must be like now—the band had gone outer limits since I'd broken up with Graham. Even though he and Chris had been best friends for seven years, since they were fourteen, they'd always tried to outdo each other.

I had to laugh at how weird it all was to see them like this. Graham Whiting, Christopher Penman, Nigel Silsbury and Terence Hughes—I'd known them when they were a bunch of regular lads who smoked too much, hardly had jobs, and only knew one way to dream—big. I'd seen them play for eleven people at the Jolly Roger in Stourbridge. I'd sat crammed into the backseat of Nigel's parents' Vauxhall Nova between Graham and Chris as we drove to the band's first gig in London, struggling to breathe through a cloud of hairspray and nervousness as thick as English fog. Terence booked the band back then and he'd told the guys that they were opening for the Police, but it turned out that Banks Forest was the first of four bands, was kicked out of backstage after their set, and never even got to see Sting close-up.

I'd been there in the middle of the night when they were recording their first demos during off-hours at a studio in Surrey. I was sitting right next to Graham the day he and Christopher wrote their first big hit,
What Do I Say?
There was no record label back then. There were no screaming girls. I was their biggest fan. And Graham could do no wrong.

Now these magazine photos of my ex-boyfriend and his bandmates were surely lining the bedroom walls of thousands of girls. Maybe millions.
It's the Fab Four All Over Again! Banks Forest Mania!
Which Member of Banks Forest is Perfect For You?
And the most telling of the current state of affairs…
Win a Dream Date with Graham Whiting!

Hard to believe that my new job as staff photographer for
Music Maker
magazine, a dream job if ever there was one, was to create more of this pulp, to capture pin-up worthy images of Graham over the next three days. To think my mother had been worried about motion sickness on the airplane. I was going to be sick all right—standing perfectly still, right there in the middle of the Philadelphia airport.

G
et it together, Angie.

Two girls rushed over to the newsstand and shrieked. They literally let out blood-curdling squeals.

"Oh my God." One plucked a magazine from the rack and examined it. "Graham is such a fox." She pressed the cover to her chest, probably imagining Graham's handsome mug nestled in her cleavage. For all I knew, his face had actually been there. She was cute. Graham had a weakness for cute girls.

"You can have Graham. Christopher is the fox. Just look at him."

I sucked in a deep breath through my nose and willed a smile onto my face. I was over Graham. I'd worked my way through it. And enduring thirty seconds of screeching girls at the newsstand was enough of a test for now.

I wound my way down to baggage claim, fetching my suitcase then out to the curb to wait for my ride to the city from an unknown volunteer for the Music Revolution Festival. Most parents would probably not be pleased by my new job, but mine were. Well, my mum was. I wasn't sure about my dad. An award-winning photo-journalist, he hadn't taken a picture in six months, nor had he spoken a word. Not since the stroke that left him paralyzed on one side of his body and unable to speak. Standing there, I couldn't escape the self-doubt—first time in America, on my own, wanting to show Graham that I was not only over him, I was okay with what had happened, hoping like hell I could live up to even a fraction of my dad's brilliance. Photographing Graham’s band left me at a serious disadvantage.

Just then a dodgy looking sky blue car wobbled past me at the curb, sputtering black fumes when it came to a stop. Dozens of band stickers blanketed the bumper—Joy Division, The Smiths, Blondie, and Tears for Fears were only the start. Out popped a girl with curly blonde hair, more blue eyeliner than I'd ever seen, and an arm loaded down with black rubber bracelets. "You must be Angie Dawson. I was told to look for a British redhead."

My vision narrowed on her. "That’s me.”

She held out her hand to shake mine. "Welcome to Philly. I'm Darla. But people call me Gigi. I'm supposed to drive you to the hotel and make sure you have everything you need while you're here."

"Brilliant. Thanks." I picked up my suitcase and followed her to the car. "The redhead I get, but what exactly makes me look British?"

Gigi shrugged, opening the car boot with her key. "I have no idea. People say stupid things, don't they? Luckily you were the only ginger out here."

"Ginger, huh? I take it you've been to England?"

"Yep. That's what you call redheads, right?"

I nodded as she closed the trunk. "Absolutely."

We climbed inside the car and after several attempts she got the engine running again. "First time in the States?"

"It is. I've been trying to get a magazine job as a photographer for over a year, and luckily, the guy at
Music Maker
got sacked after he was arrested for a fight in a pub. I just got hired."

Gigi pulled onto a motorway and put in a cassette that started out with
The Cutter
by Echo and the Bunnymen, one of my favorite songs. With the windows rolled down, the early afternoon heat swirled our hair every which way while the car rattled as if it was held together with chewing gum and a few odd screws. "I'm just a runner," she shouted over the music and road noise. "But I'm learning how to run sound and lights. I really want to go on the road with a band at some point. I'm such a huge music fan. I can't think of anything more exciting than that."

"Cool." I didn't offer more. Gigi would have to learn on her own how unexciting it could be to go on the road with a band, although touring with Banks Forest was likely a much higher-class affair now than it had been in the early days.

"Oh!" Gigi exclaimed. "I forgot. I have a message for you in my bag from the editor at
Music Maker
. They called for you at the production office this morning. It's right in that side pocket. You can go ahead and get it out."

I leaned down and slipped my hand into the outside compartment of Gigi's black LeSport Sac. My heart picked up as I unfolded the paper. For the first time since I'd landed, I was thrilled by the prospects ahead, rather than dreading what would happen if things didn't go right. I was finally a working photographer. I'd gotten a call at a major music festival production office from my employer.

For: Angie Dawson

From: Oliver Harvey, 7/11/85

Banks Forest and their road manager will meet you in hotel bar at 7 pm to discuss the band's schedule.

And there it was. I was officially on my way. Back into the sights of Graham Whiting.

G
raham

"I'm just ready to go home." I downed the last of my Stoli, the burn of the alcohol keeping me in that hazy place between wide-awake and half-asleep. A lot of the exhaustion of life on the road came from things like drinking in the middle of the day, but a buzz also made it all more bearable. "That's all I'm saying." I knocked my head back against the smooth leather seat of the jet the band had chartered to Philadelphia from Cincinnati, so much better than being stuck in a tour bus. I loved being on the road more than pretty much anything, but this tour had been about a month too long. I was starting to feel like an old man and at twenty-one, I was certain that was not the way I was supposed to be feeling.

"More like go home and immediately go after Angie." Christopher glanced out the window then turned and pointed a finger at me. He was always pointing that damn finger of his. "I know you, Graham, and I know she's all you've been thinking about. Well, between the other girls, that is."

If anyone could read me like a book, it was Chris. That's what happens when you're a songwriting team. It was like being an old married couple. We'd been finishing each other's sentences for years now. He wasn't wrong about me obsessing about Angie. A guy doesn't forget a girl like that—smart, gorgeous, sexy, and able to make me laugh. Each pretty face that had come my way since Angie and I had broken up only made me miss her more. No girl was ever going to make me feel like Angie did. Precisely the reason I was going to try to make a go of it with her the minute I got back to England. I was going to win her back. I had to for my own sanity.

"Just one more show and a video shoot. It's not much. You'll live." Terence ruffled a newspaper from across the aisle. The bloke was always reading.

"I'm with Graham," Nigel chimed in, playing a bit of solitaire—the mindless things we had to do on the road to pass the ridiculous amounts of downtime. "I'm ready for a break."

Chris took a deep breath through his nose. "We were going to be conspicuous in our absence if we didn't play the festival. We were stupid to turn it down the first time and we were bloody lucky that they ended up coming back and asking us again. We have a number one single right now. This festival is all MTV is talking about. That's a ton more hype for us. And don't forget they put us on the bill above Swash and Buckle. Now those wankers are opening for us."

Terence set down his paper. "That right there is worth every minute away from home. After the shit they gave us for two years."

Swash and Buckle. What a bunch of slick, phony prats, especially Ridley Archer, their lead singer. Swash had formed right about the same time as us, but they were from Islington, a district of London, and they'd treated us like small-town amateurs from the start. They'd had every success before us—signed to a record label first, top ten single before us, Top of the Pops appearance before us. The tide had thankfully turned over the last year. We were on the way up and from where we were sitting, Swash and Buckle and their pretentious brand of posturing were on the way down. I wasn't much for rubbing it in, but I might take a minute to gloat if I ran into Ridley. He'd threatened to get his hooks into Angie the entire time we'd been together. If I ever got wind of that, bloody hell…Ridley Archer would have his face smashed in.

Reggie, our road manager, came toddling up the aisle—sixteen stone of arrogant muscle topped off with a billowy head of curly brown hair. He could be both surly and jolly, and you never knew which one you were going to get, especially after he'd had a pint or two. He was exactly the guy you wanted on your side. He took the seat next to Chris, facing me, tapping a pen on the clipboard he carried with him the way a dog drags a bone everywhere.

"All right guys, we'll be landing in Philly in about twenty minutes. Limo will take us straight to the hotel.”

“Hold on a sec,” I said. “Before you start, where are we at with the support act for the shows in Southeast Asia? I want a real band. Not some electronic duo and a mime.” The opening band for the second half of the U.S. tour had been right dodgy and I wasn’t about to repeat that. The crowd wasn’t properly warmed up when we walked out on stage.

“The management team and I are working on it.” Reggie’s tone was nothing if not direct.

Working on it.
I crossed my arms over my chest and shut my mouth. Nagging Reggie rarely went well.

“Now, before Graham so rudely interrupted me, I was about to say that you have a radio interview in the morning, and I need you lads to decide now who's going because it's an early one. Eight a.m. They want at least two of you and either Graham or Christopher have to be one of the two."

"Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," Nigel quipped, lighting up a cigarette.

Knackered and in no way a morning person, I groaned at the idea of the early interview. "You go, Chris. If it's one of those call-in shows, the girls will just want to talk to you anyway."

Chris shook his head. "No way. Flattery will get you nowhere. I did the early stuff with Nigel in Cleveland and in Chicago. It's your turn."

Bollocks.

"Remember we have the
Music Maker
photographer following us for the next three days," Reggie said. "All day in Philly tomorrow for the radio interview, time backstage, and the show, then two days in New York shooting the video."

"I worry that we're just feeding the beast with a photographer following us all that time. I for one don't want to be known as just a pretty face. I'm starting to worry that people don’t care enough about the music." I shifted in my seat, frustrated with nearly everything.

Reggie cracked an unsubtle frown. "Precisely why we're working with
Music Maker
. A legitimate music publication. And this special Banks Forest issue will be massive. It's a good sign that they want to do it."

"Swash and Buckle have never had a collector's issue of
Music Maker
," Nigel said.

"That's the spirit." Reggie's demeanor brightened.

"I'm fine with it," Chris said. "I just hope they aren't going to stick us with some pompous music type. I don't want to spend three days with some guy we don't know who hates our music."

Reggie pursed his lips, seeming to calculate his thoughts. "Yeah, that's the thing.
Music Maker
canned the bloke who was originally supposed to do it." He looked me square in the eye with an expression that had the hair on my arms standing up. "It's Angie, Graham. She's the photographer."

“She’s what? She got a job as a photographer? With
Music Maker
?” I ran my hands through my hair. “I’m gobsmacked, but good for her.”
Wow.
It’d been Angie’s dream to land a gig like this, and I’d worried about that many times, about whether or not she could make it happen. Trying to launch a career in her chosen profession was nearly as difficult as getting one going in mine. And to think she’d landed a position like this at such a young age. Testament to her talent—that’s what that was.

Just as the reality of Angie’s new vocation sank in, everything I’d planned for my return to England morphed before my eyes. I wasn't supposed to see her for a week, and even then I wasn't sure she'd speak to me, let alone allow me to spend any time with her. And now I was going to get three days with her? Talk about luck—every complaint I'd had rummaging in my head had gone ass over tit. I couldn't wait to get to Philadelphia. Hell, if Angie were with us, I'd stay on the road forever.

Chris looked down his nose at me, arching his eyebrow. "This is an interesting turn of events."

"Oh no, man. This is more than that. This is fate." I sat up straighter in my seat, the blood running through my veins as if I'd just run ten kilometers. Was this the universe speaking to me? If so, this could very well be my only chance. That scared the piss out of me, but I didn’t have a choice. It was time to show Angie that as hard as I’d tried to get over her, I hadn’t managed at all. I was still hopelessly in love with the sweet, determined girl who’d wormed her way into my heart. Time to man up. Time to get my act together and sweep her off her feet.

"Careful there, Graham," Reggie said. "I'm sure you still care about Angie, but this is business and I need you to be professional about it."

"She's also one of my oldest, dearest friends, Reg. Of course it's business, but there's no way to avoid the personal stuff. It's going to work its way into the conversation."

Reggie blew out a breath. If anyone was looking forward to the coming break back at home, however short, it had to be Reggie. He'd had enough of us. "Just be a gentleman, okay? Now who's doing the radio interview?"

"I'll do it" I said, bracing for the fallout.

Chris snickered. "Taking one for the team, then, are you?"

Lovely Angie. I get to see her.
Goose bumps crept along my arms at the prospect of what the next few days held.
"I'm nothing if not a team player."