My mood hadn't improved by the time I reach Crouch End, in fact it has darkened so much that I feel like one of those cartoon characters that acquires their own personal little thundercloud which follows them around everywhere, raining bolts of lightning down onto the top of their head.

Already feeling rattled by unwanted thoughts of Brett possibly wanting to use me as a metaphorical club to bash Damon over the head with, Jane unwittingly added to my irritation when she informed me that there is in fact no underground station at Crouch End.
What there is, is an old abandoned train station which hasn't been used since the 50's.

Oh joy.

A quick telephone call to the Damon/Brett/Alex/Jarvis residence proved to be fruitless, as there was evidently no one home.

Deep joy.

"So just how do I get to Crouch End now?" I grumble, stomping around the flat childishly, my agitation increasing with every step.

Jane pulled a face and looked equally stumped, telling me unhelpfully that she has no idea what buses I'd need to catch. And more to the point - she wanted to know - did that mean Damon intended to meet me at the abandoned station? If so, why?
It doesn't make any bloody sense.

Another hurried phone call later, this time to a local taxi service, and I at least manage to secure my mode of transport.
A black cab arrived in record time, and with much "ooh-ing and ahh-ing" over having seen me dressed femininely for the second time that day, Jane followed me down the stairs to the front door.

"You look very pretty Sam, so girly....shame about the footwear but still, it's so nice seeing you wear something other than jeans for a change."

"I'm not wearing heels, my docs are comfy......and I don't just wear jeans, I wore a skirt the other night as well."

"It was still denim, which may as well be jeans as far as I'm concerned." She argues, then quite unexpectedly pulled me into a strained hug. "Now listen, if it ends up being a late one and you're invited to stay at his place.....it's entirely up to you."

"But what about dad?" I ask incredulously. returning the awkward embrace. "He'd totally freak out."

"You leave your father to me." She taps the side of her nose conspiratorially with a turquoise-nailed finger. "You just be safe and have fun. You're only young once."

"I know, I know."

As the cab pulls up outside of the old Crouch End station, I see Damon waiting for me patiently, grinning like a man who isn't completely in possession of all his wits.
He looks so bubbly. Bubbly to the point of being effervescent, rocking back on his heels at the side of the kerb.
I pay the driver a small fortune and clamber from the vehicle, swinging my legs out in as ladylike a way as possible, but I'm stiff after having spent the half hour journey trying to sit primly whilst being bounced around on the back seat.

Due to not knowing where I'd be going tonight, I made a conscious effort just in case the surprise turned out to be dinner somewhere fancy.
I keep secretly hoping that Damon will prove Brett wrong by taking me on a 'proper' date.
However my hopes of a nice, romantic evening are fading fast as I find myself at the disused train station.
Perhaps Damon is a firm believer in the supernatural and an avid ghost-hunter, I ponder. So skulking around old dilapidated buildings could be his idea of a fun time.

Well it certainly isn't mine.
Not when he'd led me to believe that this was a regular station with tracks, and trains and all that. Not when I had to book a cab at the last minute. Not when I'm wearing my most favourite outfit.

It consists of a black chiffon blouse that has a gorgeous floral print, the bright red flowers which bloom across the soft material give it an oriental-style look, and a slightly flared, black skirt - the hem of which hangs way above my knee, so I've coupled it with my usual black tights because my legs are blindingly white. Like honest to goodness milk-bottle white, so I look like I've been drinking the pale-ale.

Similarly to Brett, due to my porcelain skin tone I'm one of those people who often get asked if I'm ill and then forced to admit that no, it's just my face.
Thank God - albeit Rimmel, the God of Cosmetics - for foundation, blusher and tinted moisturiser.

My hair is still in the messy up 'do, held in place on top of my head with pins and clips, but I've swapped my mod boots for Doc Marten shoes - the pair without the trademark yellow stitching.

Damon bounces over like Tigger but I greet him sourly, like Eeyore the manic-depressive donkey.
He doesn't seem to notice though, as he plants a big kiss squarely on my lips.

"How ya doin' darlin'?" He beams at me, displaying his slightly crooked teeth which I find so undeniably cute.

Damn I wish he wasn't so gorgeous. Then I'd be able to be properly mad at him.
He's wearing a green and blue striped Fred Perry polo shirt, the colour of which accentuates his tanned arms. I had previously asked him if he'd been abroad recently, but his response was he'd merely caught the sun sitting in the beer garden at his local.

"I didn't realise this station was closed." I tell him, making a gigantic effort to keep my voice pleasant.
He hasn't as yet even commented on my outfit.

"Did you not?" He asks, placing an arm lazily around my shoulder and begins steering me along the pavement, and I let him move me around like a mannequin. "Oh yeah. I keep forgetting you're not from round here."

Zoom, goes my temper. Zoom and whoosh.

"Well it would be nice if maybe you could try and remember, for future reference." I say in the same even tone.

He nods and mumbles an apology, seemingly having finally registered that I'm actually quite pissed off.

We fall into step and he takes my hand in his as we make our way through the leafy, North London streets up to Crouch Hill.
It's quite a good stretch of the legs and I'm silently thankful for having not heeded Jane's fashion advice about wearing heels.
The walk is nice though, and I start to relax a bit more as Damon bemoans the trials and tribulations he's been encountering whilst working on his latest album with a new producer.

I listen and nod sympathetically when I think it's called for, but I don't understand half of what he's saying. Unfortunately I only listen to music, I'm completely ignorant as to what it entails to 'produce' a record in a studio.
I'm sure it's all very fascinating stuff, but my mind keeps wandering to the way his hand is clasping mine, and involuntarily find myself remembering the way Brett had held my hand the other day.
I really ought not to draw comparisons between the two, but I can't help noticing the lack of 'spark' between our skin-on-skin contact. When Brett held my hand it felt a bit like a static shock, but not as unpleasant.

I mull over this for a while, theorising that it's probably due to the strange, giddy anxiety Brett manages to evoke in me. Convincing myself that it's nothing more than just nerves, but then Damon's voice pulls my focus back and I realise I have zoned out, which then makes me feel bad.

We reach our destination, and any lingering traces of irritability rapidly begin to dwindle.

The Church was once an actual church (no surprise there, the clue is in the name) but is now a recording studio. The studio where Damon and the gang are now working on their new album...and it is absolutely glorious.
He's brought me here to show me "where the magic happens" and I gaze around the stunning interior in awe, my head on a swivel. Though admittedly he's more excited about showing me the sound booths and recording equipment, whereas I'm mesmerised by the grandeur of the room where religious services once took place.

Damon sees me marvelling at the towering ceiling, and remarks on how it provides brilliant acoustics. He then goes on to rave about the rare recording and mixing desks, and a vintage 72 channel EMI Neve console.
"Incredible piece of kit." He informs me, grinning from ear to ear.

I nod dumbly and try to look just as enamoured as he does, and I'm forced to admit that his excitable enthusiasm is adorable, but I'm still more enthralled with the huge church windows and original oak beams than any recording gear.

"Dave Stewart owns this place. You know Dave Stewart? From the Eurythmics?"

"Wow. Really? No I didn't know that. That's....that's....cool." I gibber somewhat distractedly, not wanting to burst his bubble by admitting that I only know a bit about the Eurythmics and that's only because the vocalist is Annie Lennox. The name Dave Stewart means nothing to me. He could've been the bloke who cleans the toilets here for all I knew.
"How old is this place? It looks Victorian."

Damon shrugs, evidently no clue or interest as to the period of the structure. "I dunno. Old."
He heads back towards the door, which I take as an indication that it's time we left.
It was only intended to be a 'quick sneak peek." after the bands' session, and the rest of the guys he informs me, have gone ahead for a few bevvies at a local pub.

And yes, we're going to join them.

Bloody hell, Brett.
I think to myself.
Why must you always be right?
I so desperately wanted Damon to prove him wrong, to not be this predictable.

But no such luck.

******************

The Kings Head, is a typically traditional English pub with booths and heavy wooden tables and chairs. The large, U-shaped room is packed with clusters of friends dressed casually in jumpers and jeans. A circle of suit-wearing office workers, having presumably stopped by for drinks en route home, hang around the long bar in the centre of the room.
The thick carpet is adorned with a migraine-inducing pattern and dotted with grubby, unidentifiable stains, which I hope is just beer. Several fruit machines and a jukebox provide background noise of much whirring and jingles jingling, followed by the occasional sound of money dropping. Merging with the Happy Mondays, and loud male talk, with the occasional blast of female laughter, the whole room is abuzz with much joviality, and our group in particular seem to be the loudest patrons.

Huddled around one table is the painfully shy Graham, who sits next to Dave the drummer, and across from Damon and myself.

At the table next to ours, is Alex and his girlfriend.
Yes, it would seem that in spite of having crushes on his housemates sister's, the sweet, slightly foppish Alex, already has a girlfriend.
Her name is Jem - which I wrongly presumed to be short for Jemma, when it's actually Jemima.
She works in advertising, and is an attractive, willowy, upper-class girl with black curly hair which frames her almond-shaped face.
I notice she has really good skin too, a healthy complexion with cherry-red cheeks, pink-tipped nose, and large bambi eyes.

They make a cute couple, I think with a smile, Alex in his v-neck cashmere sweater, and her in a soft flannel skirt-suit, which has fur trim at the collar and cuffs.

She's been very friendly, and it's nice not being the only girl in the group, but I can't help feeling slightly deflated, knowing that I'm not going to be able to get Alex alone to question him about Brett's ex. Not without looking a bit suss.

This seems like a terrible pity, as the copious amounts of alcohol Alex has consumed seemed to have loosened his tongue, and there's a distinct air of uneasiness gathering like a storm every time Damon disappears off to the bar or gents.

"You really ought to take it easy darling." Jem advises, eyeballing Alex with the look of a disapproving girlfriend who knows how this is going to end.

"Aw, come on love. Surely you don't begrudge me a few beers after the day I've had." Alex whines melodramatically, "I've had a gut-full of listening to the Kinks on repeat, and Damon arguing with Andy, and...and I swear if he mentions the bloody Eurythmics one more time I'll swing for him."

At this, Dave begins to chuckle but nods in apparent agreement. "Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello have recorded in that studio, but all Damon keeps going on about is the Eurythmics. Just because Dave Stewart owns the place."

Graham fidgets nervously with a beer mat, his body language bordering on super-twitchy.
It's evident that Dave is feeling the strain of recording the new album too, and shares in Alex' exasperation, whilst Graham on the other hand, his loyalties firmly lie with Damon.

"Andy's the new producer, right?" I ask rhetorically, recalling Damon mentioning him earlier during a rant of his own.
I'm hoping to temporarily distract the band members from their current discontent, but unfortunately I only seem to add to the growing animosity.

"Yeah, Andy Partridge. He's a good producer." Alex taps his index finger on the table rather forcefully, as if to emphasise his point. "But surprise bloody surprise, Damon doesn't like him. Just because he doesn't 'get' the sound we're supposedly going for."

"Well he doesn't!" Graham pipes up bravely, in an attempt to fight Damon's corner in his absence. His loyalty is both touching and admirable. As friends go, I can see Graham is a good one, and I only hope Damon appreciates his camaraderie.

"But there is no sound, that's the problem!" Alex cries, rather anguished now. "That media backlash after the last album was deserved. Damon can't decide on a musical identity for us, and this album will be a bloody disaster if he doesn't take Andy's advice. He's the professional, he knows what he's doing."

"What media backlash?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Basically the newspapers accused us of bandwagon-jumping." Dave explains, bristling at the memory. "And they outed Damon as a trend-hopper. You know, someone who changes their music and image just to fit in with whatever style is most popular at the time."

"Oh." I respond feebly, just as Damon returns from the toilets even more animated than usual, and the rest of the band fall deathly silent.

But in true Damon style, he doesn't seem to notice.

******************

As the night wears on and the drinks continue to flow, I finally relent and start downing Archers and lemonade. A very 'grown-up' beverage I think to myself drunkenly.
I haven't eaten, as I had wanted to leave room for the dinner I thought I might've been getting, but in actual fact didn't, so the peach schnapps is particularly potent on an empty stomach.

I had been feeling rather stiff and tense until the drink kicked in, and now I'm much more relaxed.
Another woman has joined the party, and this one is tiny, certainly no taller than 5' 2" and extraordinarily pretty.
All fresh faced, flaxen-haired wholesomeness, but with a killer body. Like one of those girls from a shower gel commercial.
Her name is Danielle, she's taking Media Studies at Uni and she works with Jem as part of an internship or something.
Call me rude but I don't care. I don't care about anything, as I feel my anxieties lifting from me.

I don't care about the way Damon has become very physically demonstrative, or that his motor skills are struggling to catch up with his thought process.
Nor do I care when he laughs vivaciously at something I say, tweaks my shoulders and refers to me as 'mate'.
Mate! Normally I think guys who call their dates 'mate' should be shot, but not tonight it would seem. Tonight, I don't care.

My waning attention is suddenly gained by Alex when he stands with a slight wobble, pushes back his chair and announces that he's going outside for a 'proper' smoke.
Damon has fought his way to the bar to get another round in, Jem is in deep conversation with Danielle, and Dave is demonstrating some sort of card trick to a perplexed-looking Graham.

This is too good an opportunity to miss, and I can't quite believe my luck as I subtly rise from my seat, and make my way towards the doors.

The blast of cold night air almost knocks me off my feet, and I take in deep lungfuls of it - well, it's not exactly fresh air, but it's as fresh as the exhaust fume atmosphere of London has to offer - and immediately locate Alex sitting at one of the wooden tables on the pavement outside the pub.

He tears a small piece of cardboard from a packet of Rizla cigarette papers, and even before he produces the small transparent bag containing a grass-like substance, I already know he isn't preparing a simple roll-up.

"I dunno what this is like but it was fucking expensive, and it smells amazing." He grins up at me widely.

I narrow my eyes, having seen enough of this particular drug being smoked by my friends back home to venture a safe guess as to what type of 'grass' it is.
"Looks like skunk to me. You'd better not overdo it, you're already pretty wasted."

Pinching it between the tips of his fingers, he piles it onto the Rizlas' with a devil-may-care shrug of his narrow shoulders.
"I know I'm hammered and this'll probably get me completely stoned, but Damon's dropped an E and he's so much easier to deal with when I'm totally wrecked."

I notice him falter suddenly, and he looks extremely embarrassed. "Shit, sorry Sam. I don't mean to keep bitching about Damon. He isn't a bad bloke really."

"That's okay." I say, joining him on the damp bench. "It's just a matter of artistic differences."
Freely I'll admit that every time I've read this phrase in an article regarding a band, it's been in reference to them splitting up and going their separate ways.
Isn't 'artistic differences' just a polite way of saying 'the band members now hate each other's guts'?

He lights up the spliff, takes a drag and contemplates this for a moment before answering. "Yeah I suppose you could say that. He's just become so obsessed with being better."

"You mean making a better album than the last?"

"Well that's how it might look, but he just wants Blur to be better than Suede. Simple as that really. He hates all the attention Brett's been getting in the press lately."

Alex offers the joint to me but I wave it away, reaching into my handbag instead for my pack of Silk Cut. Convinced that if I take a tote on that thing I'll either puke or fall into a permanent couldn't-care-less stupor.

God alcohol is a miracle worker.

I don't even care that my kind-of boyfriend has taken an ecstasy in the toilets. He who should never ever need such narcotics. He has more bounce than Zebedee.
But hey ho, it's none of my business really.
It all comes with the territory doesn't it?
These rockstar types survive solely on a diet of cigarettes, drugs and alcohol.
Much like students but with real musical talent thrown in.

I don't even care that Alex has just confirmed that Damon feels a sense of rivalry towards Brett and his band. I guess I've always been able to sense the simmering envy barely suppressed, bubbling below the surface.

What I do care about though, is whether or not this rivalry extends beyond the music. Is it personal? Is it related to the love triangle? For some reason I still care about this very much, and can no longer refrain from asking.

"Alex, does the rivalry thing have anything to do with Brett's ex?" I ask, attempting to sound as casual as possible whilst simultaneously over-enunciating the last two words so they don't distort into "Brett sex"

"Brett's ex?" He echoes, as if the thought has never dawned on him before. "You mean Damon's ex, Justine?"

I lean forwards, eager for him to continue without the need for prompting.
He rubs his chin and looks thoughtful and an agonising pause ensues.

"I suppose it could have, but it wouldn't make sense being as she left Brett for Damon.." He says at long last.

"She broke up with Brett for Damon? She didn't cheat on him?"

Alex pulls a face and takes a sharp intake of breath. "Ooh now, that's hard to say. I think there could've been a bit of an overlap, if not then she definitely chucked Brett to start seeing Damon. If anything Damon insists that Brett is bitter but I dunno.....All it's done is cause a load of trouble if you ask me, especially with all the moving in and out."

"Moving in and out?" I parrot.

"Yeah well Brett lived with Justine in her swanky pad in Kensington, her dad is loaded so he bought the place for her, anyway....when she broke it off with Brett he needed a place to stay so he moved in with us at Moorhouse road. Then Damon moved out, went living with Justine until it recently all went tits up, and he came back."

"Oh my God. What a mess." I blink rapidly, my mind racing to try and keep up but it's hampered by the booze.

"I'm surprised Damon told you about her." Alex splutters slightly as he inhales too deeply and the smoke from the joint catches at the back of his throat. "It's all still a bit raw you see. That's the impression we all got anyway."

"Damon didn't tell me, Brett did. Well, he didn't really go into any great detail but--"

"Hang on! When have you talked to Brett about it?" He interrupts, surveying me suspiciously through watery eyes.

Ah.
It would seem that Alex isn't quite that drunk or stoned after all.