Chapter One
Jenny, Oh Jenny, I’m still here, still waiting, still
aching
No one else has ever compared
Oh, Jenny I’m here, still waiting, still aching
Still breaking my heart over youuuuuuuuu
The final lines of Manic Machines’ latest number one hit
swept through Wembley. As the last, tortured syllable drew to an end, a stitch
tugged at my heart and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. For a bittersweet
second all was silent as the massive crowd held their collective breaths,
hypnotized by the raw emotion, the heartfelt lyrics and the haunting melody.
Then the place erupted. Screams, cheers and wails of
adoration blasted the air in a sonic boom. The lead singer, Robbie Harding,
hung his head over his microphone and shoved a hand around the nape of his
neck, massaging it as though it ached. I strained to see him as hands and arms
shot up in front of me—fingers outstretched, lighters aloft in an eerie salute
to Jenny.
Jenny.
Jenny who had, he’d just told his fans in very eloquent,
very emotive words, broken his heart into a million little pieces, none of which
he knew how to put back together.
Four years ago Jenny did that to him. Four long years. But
he doesn’t mention that in his lyrics. He sings as though it was only yesterday
they screamed at one another and he accused her of cheating and lying. He sings
as though it was only yesterday they slammed doors, broke promises and
shattered dreams.
So how do I know it was four years ago?
Because he’s singing about me.
I’m Jenny. Jenny Calahan, and four years ago I broke Robbie
Harding’s heart. He broke mine too. But he’s the one singing about it in front
of thousands while I watch from the sidelines, still aching, still breaking.
Can I turn on the TV or lift a magazine without seeing his
impossibly handsome face? No. Not a chance. He used to be just across the street
at number 81 and I could avoid him when I visited my parents, but now he’s
everywhere. Manic Machines just keeps getting bigger and bigger. They’ve become
huge in the USA, too, which of course has meant a string of glamorous Hollywood
stars hanging on his arm over the last six months. Not that I care of course.
Who he dates is none of my business.
Not anymore.
“That’s a wrap for tonight, folks!” Robbie shouted, his eyes
once more lifted to the crowd and the spotlights illuminating his tall frame
and tousled dark hair. “Thanks for being such an amazing audience.” He grinned
broadly and waved both hands as he stepped to the left. “We love you, London.
Good night!”
But the crowd was having none of it. Feet began to stamp.
Hands clapped. Soon the floor shook as though a thousand elephants were
hurtling across it. My ears rang with the noise. I could barely hear my own
thoughts.
Robbie left the stage. So did Ian and Dean, his two
guitarists. But the drummer, Tim, stayed behind banging away. A slow, rhythmic
beat that sounded like a languid heartbeat. Duh, duh. Duh, duh. Duh, duh.
The crowd knew what that meant. “More, more, more,” they
chanted. “More, more, more.”
I strained to see the stage. Black except for one
lemon-colored light shining down on Tim. His arms pounded, his head bobbed. The
beat vibrated right to the center of my core and for a second calmed my jittery
nerves.
Suddenly high-pitched cheers sparked from the front row.
Excited shouts that flowed toward me in waves. I saw the two guitarists step onto
the stage and pick up their instruments. A low bass joined the beat of the
drum.
The crowd turned frenzied. They’d gotten their way, another
song was coming.
“Robbie, Robbie, Robbie,” they bellowed in time with their
claps.
There he was. Back on the stage in a perfect white circle of
light. He had a bottle of what looked like beer in his hand. Probably Beck’s.
That was his favorite. Or at least it used to be.
I was jostled by a girl to my right as she shoved her camera
in the air and snapped away. She didn’t apologize even though
Jenny, Oh Jenny, I’m still here, still waiting, still
aching
No one else has ever compared
Oh, Jenny I’m here, still waiting, still aching
Still breaking my heart over youuuuuuuuu
The final lines of Manic Machines’ latest number one hit
swept through Wembley. As the last, tortured syllable drew to an end, a stitch
tugged at my heart and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. For a bittersweet
second all was silent as the massive crowd held their collective breaths,
hypnotized by the raw emotion, the heartfelt lyrics and the haunting melody.
Then the place erupted. Screams, cheers and wails of
adoration blasted the air in a sonic boom. The lead singer, Robbie Harding,
hung his head over his microphone and shoved a hand around the nape of his
neck, massaging it as though it ached. I strained to see him as hands and arms
shot up in front of me—fingers outstretched, lighters aloft in an eerie salute
to Jenny.
Jenny.
Jenny who had, he’d just told his fans in very eloquent,
very emotive words, broken his heart into a million little pieces, none of which
he knew how to put back together.
Four years ago Jenny did that to him. Four long years. But
he doesn’t mention that in his lyrics. He sings as though it was only yesterday
they screamed at one another and he accused her of cheating and lying. He sings
as though it was only yesterday they slammed doors, broke promises and
shattered dreams.
So how do I know it was four years ago?
Because he’s singing about me.
I’m Jenny. Jenny Calahan, and four years ago I broke Robbie
Harding’s heart. He broke mine too. But he’s the one singing about it in front
of thousands while I watch from the sidelines, still aching, still breaking.
Can I turn on the TV or lift a magazine without seeing his
impossibly handsome face? No. Not a chance. He used to be just across the street
at number 81 and I could avoid him when I visited my parents, but now he’s
everywhere. Manic Machines just keeps getting bigger and bigger. They’ve become
huge in the USA, too, which of course has meant a string of glamorous Hollywood
stars hanging on his arm over the last six months. Not that I care of course.
Who he dates is none of my business.
Not anymore.
“That’s a wrap for tonight, folks!” Robbie shouted, his eyes
once more lifted to the crowd and the spotlights illuminating his tall frame
and tousled dark hair. “Thanks for being such an amazing audience.” He grinned
broadly and waved both hands as he stepped to the left. “We love you, London.
Good night!”
But the crowd was having none of it. Feet began to stamp.
Hands clapped. Soon the floor shook as though a thousand elephants were
hurtling across it. My ears rang with the noise. I could barely hear my own
thoughts.
Robbie left the stage. So did Ian and Dean, his two
guitarists. But the drummer, Tim, stayed behind banging away. A slow, rhythmic
beat that sounded like a languid heartbeat. Duh, duh. Duh, duh. Duh, duh.
The crowd knew what that meant. “More, more, more,” they
chanted. “More, more, more.”
I strained to see the stage. Black except for one
lemon-colored light shining down on Tim. His arms pounded, his head bobbed. The
beat vibrated right to the center of my core and for a second calmed my jittery
nerves.
Suddenly high-pitched cheers sparked from the front row.
Excited shouts that flowed toward me in waves. I saw the two guitarists step onto
the stage and pick up their instruments. A low bass joined the beat of the
drum.
The crowd turned frenzied. They’d gotten their way, another
song was coming.
“Robbie, Robbie, Robbie,” they bellowed in time with their
claps.
There he was. Back on the stage in a perfect white circle of
light. He had a bottle of what looked like beer in his hand. Probably Beck’s.
That was his favorite. Or at least it used to be.
I was jostled by a girl to my right as she shoved her camera
in the air and snapped away. She didn’t apologize even though
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