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We turned away and started walking towards the entrance, and he pulled me closer to
him, as he headed us in the direction of the auditorium. “Fuck that’s enough of that.
When do we get drinks? Food? Anything.”

“Nice move with the tattoo there,” I said, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, my naked chest broadcast into homes everywhere. Bloody hell, did I show a nipple?
Who knows. Don’t try this at home kids.” Tristan laughed. “The whole thing is so ridiculous,
but I know what they thrive on. That should keep them talking, for a few minutes,
anyway.” We passed through the doors, watched by some of the largest security guards
I’d ever seen. No one was getting in there.

I looked around, at the guests and the industry people, at the celebs, and at the
whole spectacle. It was fascinating, but strange, gilded, as though what was underneath
was cold and grey and unfinished and needed embellishment. We found a bar, and even
though we’d said we wouldn’t, we both asked for a glass of champagne, then moved on
to collect our swag bags, filled with whatever nonsense that needed promoting. I peeked
inside. A book on successful juice dieting and some foldable ballet flats, in case
during the limo ride back to the hotel, you started regretting all the choices you’d
made earlier in the night, from drugs to overly high heels. There were some other
odds and ends, but I didn’t really care. Tristan had pulled me over to an out of the
way bit of wall, and was stabbing at the numbers on his cell phone, while I held his
glass. I looked at him quizzically—and he mouthed “Trevor,” before holding the phone
to his ear. He moved his head up and down, to some internal beat, before smiling and
tucking the phone between his neck and his ear. “Trevor. Mate.” He listened for a
bit. “Yeah, my tattoo. Skin sells, or so I’ve been told. Yeah.” He laughed. “Look,
you need to find us so we can sit down. Yes, of course you’re sitting with us. Suppose
I win, you bastard? Looks a bit wrong me gesturing out to the bleachers when I say
my thank yous.” He listened again. “Ah she’s here? Of course she is. Where’s Paul?
Here too. Naturally. Looking for their photo op. Well. Not in the mood. We’re near
the swag and the bar. Where else? Get here.” And he neatly dropped the phone into
his hand from under his ear, and stabbed at it again, before injecting it into the
front pocket of his trousers, the fabric so thin and smooth you could practically
see the apps on the screen. He downed his champagne, and placed the empty glass on
a passing waiter’s tray. “He better get here soon. I suddenly feel a bit like walking
out of this whole thing.”

“Tristan. It’s ok. I mean it’s ridiculous. But. A few hours from now it will be done.
You’ll get through it. We’ll get through it. And by the way,” I added, swallowing
another mouthful of champagne, “before I get caught up in this sugar icing world—thank
you—thanks for saying writer before journalist back there.”

“Well.” Tristan grinned. “Well, you are. And they are not. And a distinction should
be made. Although I think my parade of flesh may trump anything else I said.”

“That’s why you did it.” I didn’t mind. It just needed to be said.

“Yes. But no. Sex sells. And while their mouths are hanging open, they aren’t asking
me inane questions. Much better that way. Besides I love that hungry look.” He winked
at me, and I blushed. But he kissed my forehead, and had that strange look around
his eyes again when he said it. I wondered what he was thinking. I’d finally learned
mystery was to wonder, not know, or even ask, and we stood there, side by side, watching
the glittery crowd and looking out for Trevor.

Tristan saw him first, another tall head in the crowd, and murmured “thank god” under
his breath. I finally saw him, on his own, in an elegant dark three piece suit, and
looking more like a gangster than a record boss. He passed through the crowd, as though
they were invisible, neither looking to the left or right, and sliding in between
the barely dressed and the overly dressed with complete indifference, his face a mask.
When he caught sight of Tristan, he permitted himself a rather self-satisfied smirk,
but the big hug they exchanged when they were in arm’s reach of each other was tight
and real. Then he bent down and kissed me on the lips, while squeezing Tristan’s hand.
I was almost too startled to laugh.

“At last,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that since the first interview.”

He studied me for a moment, before putting his arms around both of us. “I know. Tart.”
And Tristan giggled, and we went off, the three of us, to find our pretty good seats
at this delusional homeroom fair, where the kids got to show the world what they’d
been up to and maybe take home a certificate. I put my arm around Trevor, and found
Tristan’s hand and held that, and when I looked around, it was pretty obvious we were
making the impression Trevor had hoped for. I laughed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad
after all.

* * *

We finally found our seats, the big paper signs stuck to the back whisked away by
the ushers. Tristan was saying hello to some people, and Trevor and I sat down, leaving
a space on the aisle. There were only seats for the three of us. I suddenly wondered
if I had taken AC’s place. “No AC?” I murmured to Trevor.

He leaned to whisper in my ear. “Too much like a reunion then, we all thought. Then
Paul would definitely be wanting in. AC didn’t want to steal Tristan’s thunder.”

“Probably better to have me as a plus-one in front of the cameras.”

Trevor gave me a sharp look. “That’s not it. Don’t disappoint me, Lily.”

I looked back at him, embarrassed. It had been a petty thing to say. “Sorry. Really.
Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

Trevor put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s better. Besides, he’ll be at the after-party.
Plenty of opportunity for photographers to make a year’s salary.” He smirked. I laughed.
You couldn’t take any of it seriously. It was like trying to build with water. Tristan
came up beside us, and slid in to his seat. “What are you two plotting?”

Trevor gazed at him. “Your demise, naturally. Now act like a rock star, and for god’s
sake don’t make any faces when some mainstream pop group wins for best alternative
band. Those pictures have a half-life longer than californium.”

Tristan started laughing. People looked around. “Pinch me, both of you. No, not now.
At the time. This is why Botox is so handy. I need my Joker smile ready at all times
out here.”

We settled in. The stage hands were running around frantically. Nothing artificial
there, I thought. The intro music was stopping and starting. The cameras were in place,
beginning their swiveling observation of the crowd and the marks on the stage where
the spotlights would be. Then finally, the lights went down, the red lights on the
cameras were bright, and the cheesy over-dramatic voice of the announcer echoed out
in the auditorium. “Welcome to the 22nd MUT Music Awards. And now your host…”

I stopped listening. Trevor was nudging me. He whispered in my ear, “Where do they
find these people?” And a bit louder, “Being at the awards ceremony is a sure sign
that you no longer scare anyone, or are even relevant.” He glanced over at Tristan.
“Present company excluded, of course.” Tristan laughed. “But really? Who thought it
would be a good idea to choose him? You can just imagine the conversation. ‘He was
cutting edge twenty years ago, but if we have him then we can avoid all those other
frightening people who might not say what we tell them. This one thinks it might be
a comeback. Funny.’”

Tristan leaned over me. “Hush, Trevor. Next you’ll be telling me there’s no Santa
Claus…wait.” They both sniggered. The host was waxing lyrical about the great musical
guests we had coming up. Then we went to a commercial, and everyone visibly sagged.
The host went to the side of the stage for a powder touch-up.

Trevor made a small noise. “And it’s only the beginning. Not even the possible thrill
of a streaker, now rendered totally unnecessary by the fact that everyone is already
naked. Maybe the auto-tune will break. One can hope.”

The announcer came back on, and it all burst into life again. The first of the musical
guests flounced on to the stage, wearing a body suit and feathers, accompanied by
10 dancers. It was all very slick, choreographed. The dancers did splits and spun
on their backsides as the singer promised she would deliver real love, not fake. Tristan
smiled, conscious that the camera was headed our way. “You can pinch me constantly,”
he whispered, trying not to move his mouth. We applauded.

“This is just fantastic,” Trevor said, clapping enthusiastically. “Three hours of
manufactured excitement.” He looked over to Tristan. “What evil deed did you do to
get nominated to this?” We all smiled broadly as the cameras swept the audience.

A couple of nominations followed. The same person won for both. They did their best
to look surprised, and grateful. “At least he is talented,” said Trevor. “Risk-taker,
no, but he has mentioned his influences. It’s something, isn’t it? If you’re going
to steal, at least get them a few record sales with it.”

Tristan nodded. “He’s a superstar. Not as polished in private, but he knows how and
when to shut up. And that’s not a bad thing.”

“He mentions a lot of people. I hope you have your list. They live for these moments,
quite rightly.”

Tristan smiled, then we went to a commercial. His expression changed immediately.
“Trevor. You know that won’t happen. It’s great to be nominated. It opened some doors—and
wallets. But I’m here to lend it all credibility. Not to actually win.” He lowered
his voice. “Besides, you would have heard by now.”

Trevor shook his head. “True, true, and true, I’m afraid. But your smile is dazzling.”

Tristan laughed. “When in Rome. It was recommended I have a little paint and polish.
My teeth hurt.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “Dear god.”

It went on like this for another hour, a blasting musical interlude with dancers followed
by nominations. The usual people were winning as usual. Then it suddenly was our turn.
The announcer began his intro, reading off the autocue, adding pauses to make it seem
more spontaneous, a trick that he had clearly been taught how to do. But he was good
at it. Or maybe it was just that I suddenly felt nervous. I wanted Tristan to win.
Despite everything wrong with the whole exercise. I just wanted him to win. The presenters
came out, an attractive actress from a show about angels, and a guitarist who had
won a couple of years ago with his band. The names were read out, one at a time. Tristan
watched what each person did, if they waved, if they stood up. I could almost hear
him mentally calculating. What would make him stand out? What would be noticed? How
far was too much? Finally his name was called out. The announcer intoned. “And Tristan
Hunter for
Some of Us Remember the Future
.” And Tristan half-stood, bowing slightly, waving to the announcer, then turning
to the crowd, and making sure to wave to the audience. A small section in the balcony
burst into screams and cheers. He really smiled then, and blew a kiss with both hands
in their direction. Then he sat down.

Trevor leaned over, pinched him, and grabbed his hand. “Good luck, mate,” he said.
We all sat up a little straighter, and watched them open the elaborately printed envelope.
The actress read it, and looked a little confused, then looked out at the audience.
For a moment, I thought maybe Tristan had won. Coming from behind. Then she beamed.
“And the award goes to N37!” We applauded. Tristan had a smile on his face. Once the
applause died down, the presenters accepted the award on their behalf, and a short
video of the band, who were on tour, came up. They waved their awards around, and
thanked everyone. More applause, and we cut to a commercial.

Tristan turned to Trevor. “At least I like their music. It could have been so much
worse. But tell me you didn’t know.”

Trevor shrugged. “Whenever they have to do that video link, and the awards get sent
out, there’s always a leak. But rumors are rumors. I hadn’t heard anything definitive
from anyone I trust.” He smiled a tight smile. “Besides, who doesn’t love excitement
and a party.” I laughed. He looked at his watch. “45 minutes more of this bollocks,
and we can head to the after-party and mingle with the cream of the planet.” He lowered
his voice. “Seriously mate, if these things were real, you would be winning it all.
Fuck knows you deserve it. Best fucking thing out there.” He looked around and smiled.
“You have your name out there now, again. And people know you aren’t just a memory.
Play the game a little longer, then go back to what matters. Leave the nonsense to
the people who are still playing their adolescent games.”

Tristan looked around. “At least I’ve got a little core group of fans out there.”

Trevor nodded. “Bigger than that, mate. Fuck, I know. Brilliant idea. Hang on.” And
he pulled out his phone, and began typing a message. I glanced over. Twitter. I tried
not to stare, and held Tristan’s hand.

He grinned at me. “Still love the loser?”

I looked back at him. “So it does matter to you.”

“I’m only human, Lily. Believe it or not.”

I squeezed his hand. “Oh, I believe it. And yes.” I gave him a quick kiss, suddenly
careless of all the cameras and industry people. “Fuck them.”

Tristan smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s ok. I’ll be all right in
a minute.” He leaned over to Trevor. “What are you up to?”

“Brilliant idea. This is why you control your own Twitter instead of leaving it to
some self-proclaimed community manager. Just dropped a hint on one of the sub accounts
that tries to pretend it’s on the inside, that a certain someone may be doing some
publicity shots outside the auditorium briefly after the ceremony.”

Tristan looked curious. “How did you do that?”

Trevor had his evil expression on. “Made it seem like a DM went astray. Asking for
extra lighting to meet us at the side door.”