It really hit me the next evening.
After a fitful sleep of hugging myself and attempting and failing to keep my teeth from chattering, I got up on Monday morning feeling like hell. Even with the money O’Dea had given me, I was hungry. The goal was to make that money last as long as possible, so I ate cheaply and sometimes sporadically. That meant I was used to the gnawing hunger pangs and the constant ache in my stomach when I woke up. But that morning it was the queasiness of a lack of sleep mixed with the damp chill in my bones that really killed.
Despite the low temperatures during the night, the sun was shining as I wearily packed up my tent. Birds twittered in the trees, a sound I usually loved waking up to but today made me irritated with envy. Those damn birds seemed so happy while I couldn’t be any more miserable if I tried.
Knowing I needed to get some heat in me, I headed for the swim center and grabbed a hot shower. Feeling marginally better, it wasn’t until I was getting dressed and I saw the tampons in my backpack that I faltered.
My pulse picked up a little as I tried to work out the date.
What the . . .
Hurrying to dress, I got myself together and stopped at reception on my way out to collect my guitar. “Thanks. Can I ask what date it is today?”
“It’s the 24th.”
Shit.
My period was over a month late. How had I not noticed this?
Feeling my skin prickle with worry, I tried not to let it show. “Do you have a scale that I could use?”
“If you go back into the dressing room, you’ll see scales in the corner right at the far end of the room, at the last row of lockers.”
Nodding my thanks, I hurried back into the dressing room, my pulse racing. Glad it was quiet this early in the morning, I shucked out of all my stuff, kicked off my shoes, and got up on the scale.
Despite an average height of five foot six, I’ve always looked petite because I have such small shoulders, a slender waist, and average boobs. If it weren’t for my fuller hips and ass, I would’ve felt like a little girl.
I was losing my hips and ass. They weren’t completely gone but it was getting to that point.
The weight on the scales was not as bad as I’d been anticipating. I wasn’t a doctor but I didn’t reckon I was dangerously underweight. But I’d stopped getting my period.
If it wasn’t my weight—and I wasn’t sure it wasn’t—then was it malnutrition? Was it anemia? Was it all the walking? Hell, I didn’t know.
All I knew was that if I didn’t have my period, there was something wrong.
Out of what felt like nowhere, a sob burst up from my chest before I could stop it and I grabbed my stuff, fleeing to the sanctuary of a changing cubicle where I slapped my hand across my mouth to muffle the sound.
Suddenly I could see Mandy and Ham, both waif-like, unkempt, and so obviously not taking care of themselves. I thought I was above them. That sleeping rough wasn’t affecting my ability to care for myself.
But it was, wasn’t it.
What the hell was I doing to myself?
I had to stop this.
But how?
I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t . . .
There had to be a way to survive this life better than this. And wasn’t this what I wanted? To only have to worry about basic survival?
I laughed bitterly at the thought. O’Dea was right. My head was shoved so far up my ass, I hadn’t even realized it wasn’t on my shoulders anymore. It turned out this life was pretty fucking scary in reality when your health started to suffer.
Shit.
It took a while, but I finally managed to get myself together, trying not to look at how frail my wrist looked, the bone protruding more than I remembered, as I fumbled to get my gear together. As I slid my hands into the pocket of my raincoat to make sure the change I had in there hadn’t fallen out, my fingers rasped against a piece of card. Frowning, I pulled it out.
Killian O’Dea
A&R Executive
Skyscraper Records
100 Stobcross Road
Glasgow
07878568562
The business card seemed to glare at me like O’Dea had a habit of doing.
“They don’t have a choice. You do.”
“I don’t.”
“I just offered you one.”
I blew out a shaky breath and for some reason, instead of crumpling the business card, I opened my jacket, unzipped the inside pocket, and slid the card in where it would be safe.
I didn’t allow myself to analyze why.
JUST AS I’D BEEN WARNED, the weather surprised me that day. How it could’ve been so bitter during the night only to grow into a beautiful, warm, late-September day, I didn’t know. I could only hope the heat would seep into the ground, keeping it warm for me tonight.
I refused to let my concern about my physical health affect today’s performance on Buchanan Street. Since it was a weekday, I was the only one busking. The unseasonable weather meant those who didn’t work were milling around and those who were working wanted to be out in the sunshine during their lunch hour. Wanting to feed their need for sunshine and summer, I did a quirky, upbeat rendition of The Ramones “Rockaway Beach.” It proved to be a crowd pleaser and the coins in my guitar case began to multiply. I followed it up with “Summertime” by Ella Fitzgerald, and subsequently every summer-themed song I could think of.
I made more cash than I would have on a normal Saturday.
However, as I played song after song, I became aware of two young men who didn’t move on. They stood in the ever-changing small crowd gathered around me, and something about them made my spider senses tingle. There was something off about them, as if they weren’t really there to listen to me sing. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I’d been warned by Ham to watch my back after I busked if I’d had a good day. Anybody could see how much money I was pocketing by looking in my guitar case.
Taking a break after singing “Cruel Summer,” the first thing I did was remove all the notes and pound coins from my case. The bottom of the guitar case popped off, so I put the money underneath it and clipped the base back into place so the money was hidden from sight. Then I hovered near it, guitar hanging over my shoulder on its strap, while I took a much-needed swig of water.
I felt them approach before I saw their feet appear on the ground at the edge of the brim of my fedora. Tensing, I lifted my head and glanced between the two young guys. They both wore tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts, baseball caps pulled low over their faces.
The hair on my neck rose in warning.
“That a Taylor?” The tallest of the two lifted his chin toward my guitar.
The question threw me. “You know your guitars?”
“My dad is intae his guitars. Yours is nice.”
My tension grew tenfold. My guitar was expensive. “Thanks.” I turned away, inviting them to leave.
“That a Dreadnought?”
It was a Presentation. But I didn’t want him to know that so I lied. “You really know your guitars.”
“My dad’s always wanted a Cocobolo. He can only afford a Harley Benton. But he says one day he’ll get a Cocobolo. He cannae play as well as you, though.”
“Dinnae say that tae him,” his friend snorted.
They chuckled between them and I considered the idea that I was being overly suspicious. “A Cocobolo.” I looked up at them. “That’s a nice guitar.”
“Aye.” He nodded, his stare intense on my Taylor. His friend suddenly nudged him again and he shrugged. “Anyway, we better go. Just wanted tae say how good we think ye are.”
“Well, I appreciate it, thanks.”
They gave me a small wave and strolled away. As they disappeared into the crowds, I waited for the tension to melt away with their departure, but something about the encounter unsettled me. The assessing manner of the young man who’d done most of the talking was disquieting.