No, he’d tell her, holding her, kissing her, he wouldn’t. And at that point, it was the truth.

The first time she came to watch him do his thing was the first time they fought. He had been made up to see her in the crowd when the light caught her hair, even though she’d promised him she was coming. And everything had been lit. He’d hit each beat perfectly, the track hadn’t skipped and the DJ hadn’t blurred down the last notes, had let them soar out. And his flow had been beautiful. Each word clear, nothing fudged, each breath timed. The crowd had been right there with him, jumping, shouting for each new sample, even his little Easter egg kiss blown to Clio (although he was pretty sure none of them would have heard her before). He came off the stage feeling like he’d arrived, the prince, the boy, ready to claim his prize and hear her realization of his talent.

She was quiet, smiling with her mouth only while they stood at the bar, other guys bouncing up to punch him in the arm or grab him in a headlock, tell him he was on fucking fire, mate, on fire. There was something about her reaction that was bothering him, but there was too much else going on to work it through. Instinctively, something told him he didn’t want to push it right then. He waited till they’d left, till they were sharing a joint at the bus stop, a strange silence between them.

‘So. What did ya. You know. Whatcha think?’

She exhaled, turned away, folded her arms; signs he’d come to know all too well. A funny thing he’d notice about Clio over the years, eventually, was that despite the fact she was hyper-sensitive to criticism herself, she never pulled any punches about dishing it out, did she?

‘I just – it was good. It was really good. Obviously technically perfect. I just—’

‘What.’

‘I just think – ach, you’re a clever guy, Hamza. You could make something so much more interesting.’

It hit like a gut-punch.

‘I mean, what was that about, really? About going to the club, and the bouncer didn’t let you in but now he lets you in because of all the designer gear you’re wearing, and then you pop the champagne, then just list off all the drugs you’ve taken? Who cares? You’re not some big-shot rapper in the States. You’re a young Pakistani guy waiting tables in his uncle’s restaurant in Homerton. You should be making music about where you’re from. About the stuff that’s happening to you right now.’

Well, that was a fucking load of shit. After he’d put that bit of her stupid song in there for her too.