‘Indeed it is,’ said Michael, holding Annalise’s gaze. ‘Live is always better. And live is how I want to hear you, Annalise. So you’ll sing for me after the show?’

‘Of course, Michael,’ said Annalise, big, wide eyes all over him. It was sickening, and my hands found Michael’s shoulders again.

‘I’ll listen to your stuff right after your mother and I sing to 90,000 people tonight,’ said Michael, pushing my hands away again. Then he shouted out: ‘Right, Cat?’

‘Sure,’ said Cat. ‘Wait. What’s happening?’

‘Annalise is going to sing me some of her songs,’ said Michael, dropping the sexy rock-star baritone. ‘That’s all. Okay?’

‘Don’t get too friendly with my daughter, Michael Reyji Ray,’ said Cat. ‘She’s fifteen and you’re an old pervert. So don’t even think about it.’

‘I’m a happily married man.’

‘Like hell you are.’

Cat stumbled down from the stage then and attempted to link Annalise’s arm. Annalise shook her off but still followed her backstage.

I turned on Michael.

‘You’re a happily married man? So what am I?’

Michael slapped me cleanly around the face. There were staff all around. People setting up equipment. Doing sound checks. They must have noticed, but no one said a word.

‘I just asked you to move in with me,’ Michael snarled. ‘Count your blessings. I don’t need a hard time today, Lorna. I have a show to do.’

The message was clear. Don’t get above yourself. Cat Cannon is famous. She has value, so she can talk to me however she likes. You can’t.

Liberty

Hey. I’m Liberty. I’m your daughter.

Seeing Michael Reyji Ray up close, this famous musician with my face … it’s strange and scary and exciting all at once. Michael looks like me. I was prepared for that. But the energy around him – that, I wasn’t excepting. He’s sort of like a planet. He has a gravitational pull. I wonder if I have that energy.

You’ll like him when you meet him, Liberty. And then he’ll turn you against me …

For some reason, my legs don’t want to move.

Michael stands on a partially constructed stage, strutting back and forth over a boardwalk of platforms with little nests of silver struts piled around.

‘Great, guys,’ Michael says, his voice smooth and clear. ‘It’s coming along great.’ His silk dressing gown is wrapped tight around him, and Ray-Bans cover his eyes. Up close, his bleached-blond hair has salt and pepper roots.

‘How are you feeling?’ Diane asks me.

‘Um …’

‘A little bit daunted, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just remember he’s a normal man with a heart and skin and bones like the rest of them,’ says Diane. ‘I knew him when he was a schoolboy in short trousers. He’s not Jesus. The rest of the world would do well to remember that at times, I can tell you.’