January 1993
Jess weaved through the clusters of art enthusiasts, her boots clicking against the polished floor of the gallery. Around her, the stark white walls were adorned with still lifes of clunky, masculine objects. She knew she should be focusing on these paintings, analysing them for her article and coming up with a discerning critique, but her mind was scattered. It was impossible to focus on still lifes when Imogen Redfield, darling of the avant-garde art scene, was standing just twenty feet away.
Not that it mattered to Jess; she was here to write an article on Paul Henderson, the only third year art student who had been granted a fully-funded solo show by the university. Imogen Redfield might be Henderson’s chief rival, but she wasn’t Jess’s concern.
Except… There she stood, surrounded by admirers, casting her critical eye over the still lifes, eviscerating them with her barely-repressed scorn. Imogen looked every inch of the fashionable London artist: tall and spindly thin, with long red hair that had been flat-ironed straight, and dressed in a black kaftan cinched at the waist with a gold belt. In comparison, Jess felt distinctly unglamorous in her white-washed jeans and Smiths hoodie.
Really, there was no reason for Jess to feel intimidated by Imogen. They were in the same year at uni. They’d even taken some classes together and had spoken on a few occasions. But Imogen was everything Jess wasn’t: popular, effortlessly talented, and going places. Meanwhile, Jess couldn’t even get her creative writing professor to say a single nice thing about her novel. Lacklustre, he called her pieces. Technically good, but missing the essential ingredients of life.
Whatever that meant.
A waiter holding a tray of wine passed by, and Jess seized one of the glasses. Sipping it slowly, she tried to relax. Turning to the wall closest, she squinted up at the painting. It displayed a man’s razor and a bottle of shaving cream in a bowl shaped like a breast.
Lad art, Jess thought ruefully. It would be funny if it weren’t so cringe.
The mediocrity of the painting gave Jess a burst of confidence. She might not be the novelist she wanted to be, but at least she wasn’t this bad. And it’s not like all her writing was terrible; her journalism portfolio was more than adequate. She’d be able to get a journalism job after graduation, maybe even somewhere prestigious, a serious periodical like the London Review of Books…
Jess took another sip of wine and tried to banish this thought from her head. She would get a journalism job, no matter what. She was smart, ambitious, and determined. What did it matter if her novel left something to be desired? She didn’t need to write fiction to be a serious writer.
“It’s shit, isn’t it?” A voice came from her right, and Jess started and looked around. Standing next to her, staring up at the painting with a pained expression on her face, was none other than Imogen Redfield.
Jess’s heart began to race, but she smoothed her face to a neutral expression before responding, carefully, “Ghastly. I’d guess it was a parody, except I know Henderson isn’t that self-aware.”
Imogen snorted. She glanced at Jess, her green eyes sparkling from underneath gold-rimmed spectacles. “You’re funny,” she said, cocking her head to one side. “It’s Jess, right?”
Jess’s heart thumped louder. She remembers me. “Yes. We took Sullivan’s Introduction to Medieval Art together in second year.”
Imogen frowned slightly, then nodded, and Jess’s stomach dropped. Imogen didn’t remember her being in that class. Still, she knew Jess’s name, so that was something. “Of course,” Imogen said politely. “And you wrote that article in the Weekly about Tracey Emin, right? I loved your analysis of her takedown of the male gaze in contemporary installation art.”
“Oh… yeah, that was me.” Jess was surprised Imogen had read that article. Very few people read the Queen Mary Weekly. It was just a student publication, after all, and not a serious newspaper. And while Jess had been proud of her piece on Tracey Emin, her editor had slashed the article up, leaving it--in Jess’s opinion--toothless.
But before she could apologise for the article’s lighthanded touch, Imogen continued, “I was happy when I saw you here. Are you here to review the show?”
“Yes.”
Imogen smiled. “You’re going to take Henderson down a peg, I hope?”
“Absolutely,” Jess said at once. In reality, her editor had advised her to go easy on Henderson. His family are big donors. But now that she was speaking to Imogen, Jess couldn’t imagine not ripping Henderson apart in her review. “He doesn’t have a single original idea in his head,” she continued, and gestured at the wall behind her. “These aren’t just sexist, they’re boring, which is even worse.”
Imogen nodded fervently. She leaned toward Jess and said, conspiratorially, “Just wait until you see my piece for the end-of-year showcase. It’ll blow this garbage out of the water.”
Jess raised her glass. “I have no doubt.”
There was a burst of cold air as the gallery door opened, and both women turned to see a man in a black trench coat enter. He was looking around, a disgruntled look on his face, and Imogen’s expression darkened. She grabbed Jess’s hand. “Would you want to get out of here?”
“Sure.” Jess tried to sound casual, but her heart was hiccuping with excitement. Imogen Redfield wanted to go somewhere with her?! “Where?”
Imogen hesitated, thinking. Then she said, “My friend’s roommate is playing a show in Hackney Wick…”
“Sounds great.” Jess threw back her drink, shrugged on her coat, and followed Imogen along the edge of the gallery. The man in the trench coat was now talking to the admirers, his arms folded and her eyebrows knit together. Imogen pulled Jess’s hand sharply, until both women fell out the front door and out onto the cold, wet London pavement. Imogen let out a bark of laughter.
“That was a narrow escape!” She gasped, pulling Jess along as she headed for the main road.
“Who was that guy?” Jess asked, following in her wake.
“Just some guy I slept with. Men…” She shook her head. “They’re so clingy. They think just because I want to use them in my art that I love them.”
Jess made a noncommittal noise of sympathy and agreement. Her own experience with men was far too limited to be helpful. And so far, none of the men she’d slept with had shown any signs of clinginess--or any interest in seeing her again, for that matter. But Imogen wouldn’t understand that. Her liaisons with Queen Mary’s hottest, wealthiest, and most charismatic male students were well-known.
Hackney Wick was only a short bus ride from the gallery in Mile End, so Imogen and Jess hopped on a bus and arrived at the venue within half an hour. There was a long queue outside, but after a quick word from Imogen to the bouncer, they were admitted inside. Jess followed Imogen down the narrow stairs, through the heavy iron door covered in graffiti, and into the red-lit basement-turned-rock-venue where the scream of electric guitars and pounding drums filled her ears.
The venue was grimy and crowded, with low ceilings and sticky floors that made a velcro sound every time Jess lifted her shoes. To her right was the bar, around which had been strung Christmas lights. In front of her stood a low stage. A band was playing: men in baggy shirts and greasy hair, cans of beer at their feet. They were in the middle of a loud, raucous number, pumped full of bass, that made Jess’s body thrum with adrenaline. All around her, young men and women were dancing to the music, smoking, and drinking beer from plastic cups. Sweat streamed from them, filling the room with a hot humidity that made Jess’s head spin. Not that she minded. She had never felt so alive, so close to the pulse of her generation. For the last two and a half years, she’d been so focused on becoming a writer that she’d done nothing but go to class, study, and write for the Weekly. She’d made very few friends in uni, determined not to lose focus on her goals. But here, in this dirty, grungy rock venue in Hackney Wick, she wondered if what she’d been missing--what her novel had been missing--was real life. Here, far from her stuffy, academic writing classes, she was living life, not trying to create a neutered, lifeless facsimile of it.
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Imogen interrupted her thoughts by grabbing her hand again and pulling her deeper into the crowd. “Come on, let’s find my friend!” she shouted over her shoulder.
After struggling through the press of people, Jess and Imogen emerged into the back garden. Jess looked around. The “garden” was really just a concrete smoking area, but at least it was outside, and she took a deep, grateful gulp of cool air. It had stopped drizzling, and there was a warm, jovial feel in the garden. It was full of young punks with green hair and denim jackets, laughing as they flicked cigarette butts into the night. Jess lit a cigarette too, then looked around to see where Imogen had gone. As she did, her stomach nearly dropped out of her.
Imogen was standing several feet away, talking to a tall, golden-haired man in a leather jacket. He was handsome and aristocratic, his hair thick and lustrous, and brushed back from his face with rugged charm. His shoulders were broad, and he moved with an air of confidence, as if he was used to taking up space; as if he knew exactly who he was and his place in the world.
The man looked up, and his bright blue eyes snapped to Jess’s. She shifted but didn’t look away. Bringing the cigarette to her lips, she sucked in the acrid smoke, blowing it out in a slow stream, like a femme fatale in an old movie. The man did not so much as blink. His gaze was intense, heavy; as if it might leave a mark on her.
Sensing the direction of her companion’s gaze, Imogen turned and spotted Jess. She waved her over. Jess put out her cigarette and joined the two of them.
“Jess, this is my friend Sebastien,” Imogen said, gesturing at the man. “Sebastien, Jess. She studies journalism, and she’s writing an article about what a hack Henderson is.”
Sebastien held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jess.” His accent was posh--West London--and his handshake was strong and firm. Reaching into his pocket, Sebastien produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered Jess one, and she took it. After letting him light the cigarette, she blew out another stream of blue smoke, her eyes smarting. She wasn’t used to smoking this much, but she wasn’t going to say no to Sebastien Montague.
Of course, she knew who he was.
Anyone who wrote for the Weekly would know who Sebastien Montague was. The son of a Tory MP, Sebastien was an outspoken leftwing activist on campus, famous for his stinging rebukes of his father’s policies and his sensationalist protests. Of course he was friends with Imogen Redfield. Jess should have known.
“It’s preposterous that Henderson got a solo show,” Imogen was saying, twirling her own cigarette between her long, thin fingers. “There are so many visionaries at Queen Mary pushing the boundaries of contemporary art, and they choose Henderson?”
Sebastien tore his eyes away from Jess and looked at Imogen. “You do know who his father is, right?”
Imogen snorted. “Of course I do. But in a way, that’s why I feel sorry for him. I’d hate for people to think I only got a solo show because of who my father was.” She fixed her eyes on Jess. “Money can only get you so far. The true geniuses will always rise to the top, in the end. Make sure you put that in your article.”
Sebastian cocked his head to one side. “I don’t agree. There are plenty of talented people who never get the chance to ‘make it,’ because they’re stuck working dead-end jobs to make ends meet.”
“Then they’re not real artists,” Imogen said at once. “A real artist will make art even if they have to fit it into whatever spare time they can find outside of their shitty, minimum-wage job.”
“The UK doesn’t have a national minimum wage,” Sebastien pointed out. “Which is exactly my point. When you make fuck-all and need to feed your family, you’re going to choose taking a second job over making art.”
“What would you know about it?” Imogen asked. “You’re not an artist.”
“And I talk to people all the time who make £3/hour an hour and can’t afford food for their table, let alone an easel and paints.”
Sebastien had recently staged a sit-in at the reelection rally of a Labour MP who refused to come out in support of a national minimum wage. He and several friends had been thrown out, although they all came from posh families, and had avoided jail time.
“I covered your protest at Harris’s event,” Jess said, and Sebastien blinked in surprise. “You were very brave.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, because he closed it again. Jess wasn’t sure if she was imagining it or not, but his ears looked a little pink as he smiled in thanks.
“It was brave,” Imogen agreed, arms folded. “And obviously I get what you’re saying; I’m not a fucking fascist. But art doesn’t have to be easels and paints. It can be anything: it can be trash from the bin, or found objects on the street. And I think it’s a little condescending to act like only rich people can make art.”
“I think his point isn’t that only rich people make art,” Jess said. She felt nervous to voice her opinion in front of Imogen and Sebastien, but she also knew that if she didn’t, she’d regret it forever. “It’s just that some people can’t dedicate themselves to their art, or find critical and commercial success from it, because of their economic circumstances.”
“Precisely,” Sebastien crowed, grinning at Jess before turning back to Imogen, who looked ready to begrudgingly concede the point. “See? The pretty writer agrees with me.”
If Jess’s stomach had felt wobbly before, it was nothing to how it felt now. Her cheeks burned, and she stared straight ahead, afraid to look at Sebastien for fear that he’d read the mixture of pleasure and mortification on her face.
“Of course she agrees with you,” she heard Imogen mutter, but she was laughing. “You’re right, you’re right. All I know is that nothing would ever stop me from making art. Not a lack of money, or fame, or even everyone hating my work. And if for some reason I couldn’t make art, I’d die.”
Jess nodded in agreement, but she was thinking of the unfinished novel currently languishing on her ThinkPad. Her professor’s lack of faith in her writing had certainly shaken her confidence. Most days, she felt ready to give up on fiction. She doubted she had what Imogen did--that certainty that art was what she had to do; that belief in her ability to keep going, despite the setbacks.
Just then, the music inside stopped, and the crowd began to cheer. Sebastien checked his watch. “We should go in,” he said, stumping out his cigarette in a nearby plastic cup. “Union Jack is starting now.”
He wasn’t the only one eager to get inside. The green-haired punks were also beginning to stream back inside. As the crowd swept her along, Jess felt momentary panic that she would lose the others. Then strong hands grasped her arm, and she looked up to see Sebastien. He wasn’t smiling anymore. There was a hard, blazing look in his eyes as he looked down at her.
“Careful, it can get a little crazy when Union Jack plays,” he murmured, and goosebumps shivered up her spine.
“What’s Union Jack?” she asked stupidly.
“My roommate’s band. Just wait. You’ll love them.”
He led her inside, then towards the front of the stage--Imogen was nowhere to be seen--until she was pressed against it, Sebastien next to her. Their shoulders were touching, the proximity not just a concession to the crush of the crowd but a mutual choice. His hand rested lightly on her lower back, as if to protect her from the dangers of the thrashing, moshing crowd. She was hyper-aware of his touch. Her breathing was coming in short gasps, and a tingling sensation was radiating throughout her body. Jess had never felt this way before, and she didn’t know what it meant. All she knew was that she never wanted this feeling to end.
Then a spotlight lit up the darkened stage.
A lone man stood under the hot, bright light. His head was down, bent over a guitar, almost as if he was praying. Silence filled the venue. Another shiver went up Jess’s spine at the rapt attention the man commanded, at the way her own awareness had sharpened onto him. The audience seemed to be collectively holding its breath, waiting for whatever came next. Then the man raised his arm high and brought it down on the guitar strings. A wailing opening chord filled the venue. Jess felt the vibrations of it beneath her feet, like the stir of potential rising in a wave, ready to crest and break.
The guitarist looked up. He had a transcendent look on his face. He looked out over the audience, like a cult leader surveying his flock, and the crowd went wild. Behind him, the rest of his band materialised--a scrim must have gone up, the reasonable part of Jess’s brain said--and music filled the room.
“Is that your roommate?” Jess shouted to Sebastien over the din.
“Yes, that’s Alastair,” Sebastien shouted back. Then he leaned closer and murmured in her ear, “Do you see that? He's got it—the indefinable it. You can't teach that kind of presence.”
Jess nodded. Her eyes were still fixed on Alastair. When she looked at him, she saw not just a performer, but an artist on the cusp of something monumental, a force poised to shape the zeitgeist. As his voice soared over the crowd, Jess forgot about her article, her novel, her worries about finding a job, and even about Sebastien. She was lost in the sway of people and the soaring notes, transported beyond the present moment to the place where only great art can take you.
In Alastair's music, Jess heard echoes of her own dreams, harmonising with the pulse of a society on the brink of transformation. It was as if the chords wove themselves into a tapestry of hope and ambition, a shared vision made manifest in song.
“His lyrics... they're not just words; they're a call to arms,” Jess found herself saying.
“Exactly,” Sebastien said, his eyes aglow with fervour. “And people like you and me—”
“—are going to help amplify that call,” Jess finished for him. He nodded, grinning, and took her hand. She didn't pull away, feeling the complicity of their shared intent. In this moment, they were more than spectators at a concert; they were witnesses to the genesis of an era, one where anything was possible, and where the only limits were their dreams.