Life & Times of Rob Pattinson (Prologue)
Here we go! This is the sort of Prologue to my fanfic, "The Life & Times of Rob Pattinson." I'm so excited! Let me know what you think!
“Testing…testing.”
A roomful of eyes jumped to the stage, where a robust man with long red ponytail and ripped jeans was tapping on a microphone. “Oy? Can you hear me out there?” Of course, his thick accent transformed this into, “Canya’ear may oot tharr?” and the crowd mumbled in confusion. On the balcony, a woman with a baby in one arm rolled her eyes and raised her free hand, circling her thumb and index finger in the “okay” sign. The man at the microphone smiled and gave her a slight nod, clearing his throat and attempting to speak as clearly as possible.
“All right-I’d like to welcome you all to Antrim. I am Roger Kern and, on behalf of my staff and the performers here tonight, I would like to thank you all very much for coming out. Because, as you know…” he trailed off and the house band did a cheesy little drum roll. Roger smiled his brilliant, toothy Irish smile. “Tonight…is Open-Mic Night!” The crowd erupted in applause and the owner laughed happily, clapping along with them. Ten months earlier, when Roger and his wife, Lucile, had first instated Open-Mic Night, it had belly-flopped. Few people filled the audience. Fewer still volunteered to play. It had been a disaster. Then, by what can only be described as “pure dumb luck,” a nearby club was closed down due to infestation issues, and the music scene had shifted six blocks over, to Antrim. Now, it was the go-to place for up-and-coming musicians.
A spotlight blinked on (courtesy of Lucile), and Roger turned his cheek to look offstage. “I am greatly honoured to introduce our first performer. She’s no stranger to the Antrim stage. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the lovely…Lindsay Colvin.” He once again joined in on the audience applause, moving offstage as a young woman stepped into the spotlight. She had pale blonde hair that fell in slight waves to her shoulder-blades, glimpses of red under-dye becoming visible as she turned her head to smile at the house band. “1,” she began counting them in, aqua blue eyes flashing with excitement, “2…1, 2, 3, 4.” The soft plucking of individual acoustic guitar strings sounded through the club as the audience fell silent, listening intently. Lindsay hummed her way into the first verse, eyes slipping closed before she could see the side door of the club slowly opening.
The man who entered wasn’t noticeable right off the bat. He was handsome, without a doubt, but not in such an outward, snobbish way that all focus moved from the entrancing music to his face. He seemed pleased with this, obviously averse to being the centre of attention. He stood tall-somewhere around six feet-and dressed in simple jeans and a white button-down shirt under a dark brown leather jacket. He rose on the balls of his feet to look over the heads of the crowd, scanning, obviously searching for someone in particular. He ran a hand through his hair-which was medium length and messy, and resembled the colour of sunset sand-and puffed out his cheeks, releasing a breath. As the crowd began to warp and twist, some fighting to get closer to the stage, some trying to escape the tightening group, the guy pressed back against the bar, but his blue-gray eyes never stopped wandering the room.
“Looking for someone in particular?” From the corner of his eye, he realized the question was directed at him. He turned to face fully the twenty-something young woman who was wiping down the counter, avoiding eye-contact in a semi-purposeful way. Her brown-and-red striped hair fell over her shoulders, shielding most of her face from him, but he knew she’d been speaking to him.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, “Yeah. Roger Kern?” His accent was thick and polite-English or something of the like, the bartender guessed-but laced with a fraction of fatigue.
“Ah.” The woman’s hand stilled on the counter and she looked toward the stage, her blue eyes flashing in a way that could have gotten her mistaken for a third Deschanel sister. She tilted her head in that direction, “He’s emceeing-waiting to do the next introduction. Do you need me to call him over?”
“Erm.” The guy glanced at Lindsay, who was now gripping the microphone stand and singing with all the power her slight form could muster. A combined shiver of awe went through the crowd. “Nah,” the guy finally decided, turning back to the bartender, “I’ll wait until he’s finished. Could I get a scotch neat, please…” he leaned forward to read her nametag, “Thalia.” She didn’t reply. Instead, she shrugged and fixed him his drink, sliding it over the counter to him. He took it and slipped away, settling into one of the plush leather booths pressed against the back wall of the club. As Lindsay finished her song and the crowd applauded, the guy raised his eyebrows, impressed, and tapped two fingers against the wrist that was too busy supporting his glass to clap.
Roger hopped back on stage, eyes wide with wonder. “Amazing,” he said into the microphone, shaking the young singer’s hand with great vigour, “I’ve heard this young lady perform four times before, but it’s still absolutely baffling. Thankyou, Lindsay.” She blushed and nodded, smiling at the still-clapping crowd as she made her way down the steps and over to the bar.
“You were great tonight,” Thalia said, sliding the woman’s traditional post-performance drink-hot tea with honey and lemon-over the counter. “As usual. Was that a new song?”
Lindsay took a sip of her tea, “It was a cover from an old Judy Garland movie. A Star Is Born; ever heard of it?” Thalia shook her head as Roger began speaking into the microphone again.
“Wasn’t that great? Now, here at Antrim, we make it a point to make all our musicians feel loved, regulars and newcomers alike. So I’d like everyone to give a very warm welcome for a first-timer here. Louise Carter, come on out!” A girl-eighteen at the oldest-stepped into the light, shifting nervously from foot to foot, her guitar clasped tightly against her chest. She perched on the barstool in the centre of the stage, getting her fingers into position on her strings and clearing her throat.
“Hi,” she said shyly, tucking a long strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. She plucked one chord and cleared her throat again. “I’m Louise and this is a song I learned recently. It’s called ‘Stranger,’ and it’s by Elisa.” She strummed out a few chords before starting in on the first line and all, as with Lindsay, all noise in the club stopped instantly, all ears tuned in to her voice alone. “Stranger, you look so different,” she hummed, her voice ringing with such sincerity that Thalia’s hands stopped wiping the counter once again. “Some other thoughts fill up your mind, and you just made it happen.” Lindsay made a thoughtful “hm” noise in her throat. The guy sitting in the back booth took another sip of his scotch and pressed one finger against his lips in thought, eyes hard and focused on the singer. As she rounded the middle and pressed on toward the end of the song, he smiled behind his fingers.
The rumbling applause filled the building as Louise struck the last note on her guitar and ducked her head, biting her lip as she smiled humbly. “Thankyou,” she mumbled into the microphone.
“No, no, thankyou,” Roger corrected as he hopped over to stand next to her. “That was outstanding for a first-timer. Did you all think so?” The crowd clapped in agreement and Louise’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink as she thanked the crowd once more. Roger patted her on the back kindly and pointed her in the direction of the bar, which she quickly made her way to.
Thalia nodded to her as she approached, “You did really well. Most of our regulars can’t even win the crowd over like that.” The singer smiled graciously and ordered a club soda, drinking it in polite sips, green eyes watching the stage carefully. Three more singers past, none of them terribly impressive, as well as a keyboardist who fumbled over his own fingers and a violinist who got nervous about thirty seconds in and accidently launched his bow into the audience, almost gouging out the eye of a middle-aged businessman. Finally, the night began winding down.
Roger smoothed a hand over his hair quickly and leaned into the microphone. “Our final performer tonight is another newcomer to Antrim. Put ‘em together for the instrumental stylings of Delaney Callaghan.” Scattered applause echoed around-understandably, as the other two instrumental acts of the night had been a bust.
Despite this less-than-warm welcome, a woman strode confidently onto the stage, a cello firmly in her grip. As she set up, the light glinted off of her reddish-coloured hair, throwing it into a startling contrast against her bright orange t-shirt and faded blue jeans. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and leaned into the microphone. “This is an excerpt from Tchaikovsky’s, ‘1812 Overture.’” She tapped her thick-soled boots against the stage three times, counting in her head, before sliding her bow gracefully over the instrument’s strings. A rich, beautiful sound filled the air and a consensus of wrong judgment floated above the heads of the audience members; it was beautiful. The way her bow sloped over the cello, eliciting slow and steady hums that reverberated off of the tiled walls and ceiling. Her eyelids fluttered over each note, connecting, loving the sound as if it were her own kin. At the back of the room, the guy finished off his scotch and crossed his arms, closing his eyes and soaking up the melody.
“Beautiful.” Roger’s voice was almost breathless as he took the stage again, Delaney having finished her piece. He shook her head and smiled brightly, “That was bloody beautiful-thankyou for performing for us.” She smiled at him and nodded when he gestured toward the bar-performers got free drinks until closing time-making a beeline for where the rest of the performers were circled around the bartender. She ordered an Irish coffee and Thalia served it, complimenting her on her piece, all while her eyes followed Roger to the back of the room.
The club owner crossed to the man at the back of the room, sliding into the booth across the table, smiling. The guy laughed at whatever the Irishman said and leaned a little closer, long, delicate fingers moving as he spoke.
“Are you checking that guy out?” Lindsay asked curiously. Louise and Delaney, both sitting close enough to hear this, turned to look at the man in question.
Thalia rolled her eyes, “Settle down, gabber gals-I’m just trying to figure out where I know that guy from.”
Louise’s forehead wrinkled and she traced the outline of her glass with her finger. “He does look familiar.” For some reason, these words were surprising; she’d been so quiet the whole night that no one expected her to offer up an opinion without being prompted.
“He looks hot,” Delaney corrected, leaning across the bar, desperate for a closer look. “However,” she thought for a moment, “Yeah! Yeah, he does look familiar. But I can’t tell where I’ve seen him before; jeez, could the lighting in here suck much more?”
Thalia blinked at her before, with a serious face, informing her, “You’re very loud.”
“I know.”
The two men in back rose then, walking toward the bar. The mystery guy paused at the bar, grinning a tight-lipped, tired grin, “You all did very well tonight.” Then he was gone, breezing through the side door before anyone had the chance to thank him.
As Roger crossed the bar to stand on Thalia’s side, jotting something down on the notepad he kept under the counter, Lindsay leaned forward. “Who was that guy?”
“Pardon?”
“The guy who just left,” Thalia amended.
“We can’t figure out how we all seem to recognize him,” Louise added.
“Why was he here and is he coming back?” Delaney demanded outrightly.
Roger chuckled and shook his head. “Women-I will never understand them.” Then, more clearly, he said, “He was booking a space for Concert Night next week. His name is Robert. Robert Pattinson.”