Page 4 of Escape to the Country

Chapter 2

Tommy King smiled and waved to the adoring crowd in the packed O2 arena as he left the stage after his final song.

They continued to cheer and stamp their feet, demanding a second ovation. High on adrenaline, he looked at his manager expectantly, hoping to go back out on stage. But Sam shook his head at him. Time was up. The show was over.

As they walked down the corridor to his dressing room at the rear of the arena, the noise from the crowd reverberated around the walls. ‘Tommy, Tommy,’ he could hear them chanting over and over again.

But as he moved further away from the stage, Tommy King the musical sensation faded away in his mind and he reverted back to being plain old Tom Kingsley.

Not that Tom Kingsley could ever be described as plain. Both he and Tommy shared the same good looks, with dark brown eyes and a wide jaw. Short dark blonde hair that was always messed up no matter how many times he tried to style it.

But it was only on the outside that they were similar.

Having an alter ego was a ploy used by quite a few popular singers. Beyoncé channelled Sasha Fierce to get a sexier, sassier vibe when she performed. David Bowie had created Ziggy Stardust. Even Paul Hewson had decided that the name Bono sounded more rock god than his real name.

For Tom it was like having a superhero secret identity. Tommy King belonged to the fans, the press and the world but Tom Kingsley was protected. This way, he still could retain some privacy. He could still hang onto his sanity. But only just, it felt like these days.

They reached his dressing room and Tom sank down onto the sofa, exhausted. Normally he was flying high after a great gig, but after six long months on the road, he felt only a sense of relief that it was all over. He needed to relax, but that seemed harder and harder at the minute.

‘Well, that was a great end to a brilliant tour,’ said Sam Harris, his manager as he sat down next to him. ‘Did you see the VIP rows in the front? Everyone I can think of is here tonight.’

Tom yawned as he nodded in agreement. Each venue across Europe had been packed and the shows themselves had received rave reviews, admired for the strength of his song writing as well as his singing.

‘London’s always such a great crowd to finish a tour,’ carried on Sam, smiling. ‘So, how’s the next album going?’

Tom shot his manager a look. ‘Give us a chance,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t been home for months.’

Not that the thought of going back to his brand new apartment filled him with joy. It was a very expensive penthouse in North London which he had bought a year previously but it didn’t feel like home. It was just a place with walls where he had locked himself away before the tour, hoping for a peace that had never come.

‘Primrose Hill is lovely,’ said Sam, nodding his head in approval. ‘You should get to know the neighbourhood.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Since the fans found out where I live, it’s impossible to go out anywhere without getting hassled,’ he said, rubbing his forehead and wondering when he could finally sleep.

‘Are they still shoving Maltesers through your letter box?’ asked Sam, with a chuckle.

But Tom didn’t laugh. ‘I only mentioned them that one time.’

It had been one interview amongst so many that he had given. He couldn’t even recall which magazine it was for. This particular interview had been a quick-fire question and answer. All he had said was that Maltesers were his favourite chocolate fix of choice. From then onwards, he had been sent thousands upon thousands of the damn things. Some days he had been barely able to open his front door due to the sheer number of sweet packets piled up inside. He had tried eating them at first, but now it was highly likely that he would never be able to face a packet of Maltesers ever again.

‘Well, at least now that the tour’s over you can finish your next album,’ said Sam.

Finish it? He hadn’t even started writing his next album. Tom inwardly grimaced and stayed silent. The truth was that, for the first time ever, he had a total block. The new words and music just wouldn’t come. Three hit albums of songs that had almost written themselves. But now, there was only white noise where the words should have been.

The pressure from his record company and his fans was overwhelming. But if he didn’t carry on making music, what else did he have in his life these days?

As he stayed quiet, he could feel his friend studying him.

‘You’re just tired,’ said Sam eventually.

Tom didn’t know what he was these days. Everything felt strange and unfamiliar.

The dressing room was suddenly invaded by members of his backing band who had decided that they must have an end of tour party, despite Tom trying to tell them otherwise. But they wouldn’t take no for an answer and instead of finally going home, Tom found himself going with the large, noisy group to a nearby bar where they quickly took over the place.

Sam had one beer with them and then told Tom that he had a taxi booked to take him home.

‘This late?’ said Tom, glancing at his watch. It was nearly midnight and Sam lived far out in the countryside, away from the bright lights of London.

Sam grinned. ‘I need to see my girl.’