But it turned out they hadn’t. And they never did. My assailant had dropped the paint can and legged it before anyone, even the security guard, had managed to catch him. He’d been wearing gloves, so there were no retrievable fingerprints, and no description other than a vague ‘six feet tall with broad shoulders’ – no idea of ethnicity or age or anything. The recording studio was in a residential area, so he could’ve disappeared into any front garden to hide, or into a waiting getaway car. It wasn’t a murder or even serious GBH, and the cops clearly weren’t going to deploy the resources to try and find him.

Everyone assumed it was an aggrieved fan protesting at our perceived sell-out. Although, even then, I thought differently. The attacker hadn’t shouted anything. Those sorts of protests weren’t usually solo; they were carried out by small groups not afraid to let their grievances be known. The point of protest was that there was a point.

As it turned out, I wasn’t wrong. The paint incident was just the start of a whole campaign of harassment that, on numerous occasions, made me wish I had never joined the band in the first place. Anonymous vitriolic letters, vandalism of the tour bus, violent threats to my safety – always mine, never the boys – until we had to have 24/7 security whenever we went anywhere; the cost of extra security at our gigs almost made it financially unviable for us to play in the UK.

The worst thing was the fear. The cold finger of dread on my spine, which had me constantly looking over my shoulder, unable ever to fully enjoy the buzz of playing stadiums and appearing on Top of the Pops, always thinking the masked assailant was out there, waiting to pounce, next time maybe with a knife or a gun.

I hated him for this. He ruined what ought to have been the most incredible time of my life.

The threats stopped as abruptly as they’d started – a year or so after the green-paint incident, but my fear and sense of foreboding never went away.

With good reason, as it turned out.

36

Present Day
Gemma

Gemma sat on the faded velvet sofa in Meredith’s front room, propped herself up with cushions and opened her laptop.

‘Can I have your wifi code, please, Meredith?’ she called. If she was honest, it was kind of nice to be neither at home nor in the strip-lit office, which was always redolent of poor aftershave choices and testosterone. This room smelled of lavender and summer.

‘Here you go,’ Meredith said, returning with a small sticker on which were printed the relevant details.

Gemma thanked her, typed them in, then Googled Merry Heather + Cohen. While she had already found Meredith in the system, she knew little about her career as a popstar, nor about her fellow band members.