Bring Me Home

“So call him?” Her shoulders hunched. “Get him up on Facebook?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not? You’re not making sense, like, at all here.”

“Because…” I stopped myself, then wondered why. Would it matter if she knew? I’d never told anyone about Hugo before. People in my hometown knew, obviously, though it wasn’t a big deal anymore. People moved on, forgot about him, unless a reporter or TV crew came to town. Then, suddenly, floods of people wanted to share how proud they were and magically managed to recall fond memories of the local lad they always knew would succeed. Such a crock of shite; nobody had given him the time of day when he lived there.

I supposed I liked keeping him a secret. He still felt mine that way. Also, I feared it could’ve been interpreted as bragging.

“Because he’s Hugo Hayes.” And Hugo Hayes didn’t do Facebook, or any social media. There were official accounts, all blue-ticked, and the statuses were updated regularly but Hugo didn’t write them. I could tell. “What do you suggest I do? Send him a letter postmarked Hugo Hayes, Megastar, USA somewhere and hope it finds him?”

“What are you…” Chrissie’s eyes narrowed so tight I couldn’t see them anymore. She shifted positions, tucking one leg under her bum. Then, she leaned closer, forearms folded on top of her thighs. “Hugo Hayes? Like, the singer? That dude who won Next Up, like, ten years ago?” Disbelief made laughter rumble in her chest. She took another gulp of wine.

“Eight years ago,” was all I said, the emotions of that day still as fresh in my heart. The journey that changed the course of both of our lives had begun with a flyaway joke, a passing comment that he should audition for the next series…a comment made by me. The comment got repeated several times over the following weeks, each time with more seriousness, until we’d decided there was actually nothing funny about it. Hugo was talented. He was a brilliant lyricist already at his tender age of seventeen, a flawless, soulful vocalist, and…he was beautiful. He had it in the fucking bag, I’d told him, and I’d proved him right a year later when his name was announced on live TV, audience screaming, pyrotechnics firing from the stage, as the winner of Next Up. He’d bagged himself a million-dollar record deal and an entire planet of adoring fans in what felt like the blink of an eye.

“Fuck off.”

My eyes blinked open at the sound of Chrissie’s voice. I hadn’t noticed them close again.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Uhhh…” Okay. I shrugged, unsure what I could do about that, or whether I could be arsed trying. I didn’t need her to believe me.

“Prove it! You must have photos or something if you were so close.” She said the latter in such a mocking tone it almost made me want to slap her.

“Fine.” I will, I thought…just like I’d proved to Lance James that I wasn’t too fat to do a handstand when we were eight years old. Apparently, alcohol brought out the immature and petulant part of our personalities. I stood up, stumbled but recovered well, and headed for the stairs. I had to wait a moment for the stairs to stop rocking gently from side-to-side before attempting to climb them, but then I went to my bedroom, got down on my belly, and went hunting in the boxes under my bed.

I found the box I needed pretty quickly, which I had my mum to thank for. These boxes crammed with old treasures and memories had been gathering dust in her loft until she died. They were only transferred here a couple of weeks ago when I finalised the sale of her house.

Back in the living room, I dropped the shoddy shoebox on the coffee table with a thump. “Start checking yourself. I need some water.” My mouth had started to taste like carpet, something that didn’t usually happen until the morning after.

Ugh.

“Holy fucking God,” I overheard while making my way back through to the living room, cool glass of water in hand. Ambling over to the armchair instead of the settee, I noted the open shoebox, along with photos and scraps of paper littering the table. “This is him! Like, you can actually tell it’s really him!”

Bringing the glass down from my lips, I made an expression that could only be described as a lip-shrug.

“And these…” She picked up a random piece of paper. “Are these lyrics? These could be worth money I’d bet.”

“Ugh.” My nose scrunched in distaste. “Jesus, Chrissie. I’m not here to make money off him.”

“He left you, didn’t he? I would.” Her tone was playful, but I didn’t get the sense she was joking. “Oh my God you look so cute here,” she said, handing me a photo.

“Wow. I should’ve been arrested for that fringe.” I stared at fourteen-year-old me stood outside an HMV music store. Hugo had taken that photo. I remembered posing for him, sticking my arse out to the side and pouting like the skinny girls did, while keeping an arm across my midriff to hide the bulge. “I thought I looked cool as fuck in those jeans…” The jeans that I could tell now, as an adult, were two sizes too big and the colour of vomit. I’d bought the larger size because I thought they concealed my belly rolls better. Looking back now, I wondered what belly rolls the girl in the picture even saw. I looked fine. Great, even. I felt sad for that girl in the photo, for what I’d put her through. She was more than pretty enough to stand, carefree, with her arms above her head, but I’d made her self-conscious. Insecure.