A/N: make sure to keep checking the dates because this doesn't always run chronologically
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Tuesday 7th February 1995, 9:47am
Somewhere in America
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I picked up the scrabble tiles in a shocked silence. I know it was my fault, but I never expected him to react like that. I felt a deep sense of hurt in my chest, and no longer had the effort to push it down. I couldn't quite comprehend why he had acted like that, lashed out. Annoyed that I wouldn't sleep with him? That didn't make much sense, I just said we shouldn't be friends.
It was a walk of shame to the hotel's breakfast bar. I couldn't even get a cup of tea. Normally, I would have complained about this loudly, but I didn't feel like speaking. I grabbed some toast, smothering it in butter and plonking myself down across from Dane and George.
"How's your throat doing?" George asked. I just shrugged in response. I saw him pick up on it and frown, but he didn't say anything. A few moments later, Damon walked in. He was freshly dressed in a long sleeve check shirt, jeans and Adidas superstars. He wasn't wearing socks. I took this all in about him, yet he never once looked in my direction. I hated it. He wasn't angry, he wasn't upset. Just entirely indifferent, as if we had never met.
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Thursday 16th May 1991, 10:57pm
Horsham,
West Sussex,
England
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He was entirely stuck. Nothing came to his head, not a single idea. He ran his fingers through his spiked up blond hair and sighed, leaning back on his chair and leaving the pencil and paper where they lay on his desk. He decided not to torture himself any longer. The best way to get over this kind of mental block was to watch meaningless shit on telly, at least that was his way. Simple, he would open a beer, plonk on the sofa and watch whatever was on, then use some part of that to make this character.
The remote control was a bit broken, or at least missing an on button. This was usually solved by using something pointy to poke in the hole and press the thing down, but nothing like that lay around today. Instead, he had to stand up and do it from the TV itself. It clicked on with a bit of a splutter. He noticed a familiar face on screen. It had been a couple of years, and she looked different. Her hair wasn't bleached, instead it was a more natural (h/c). She was wearing a bra type thing and loose large jeans. He might not have recognised her if it hadn't been for her voice, accented, rough, but only by the media's standards. In fact, it wasn't even her voice, it was more the air of confidence that she radiated. Individuality that was so hard to come by these days.
She was being sarcastic to the interviewer, even though this must have been her band's biggest interview yet. She was acting childish, fidgeting on her chair, completely disregarding the stupid, sexist questions she was being asked. He laughed out loud when the interviewer asked her what it was like being a girl in a band, and she simply replied "I don't know, what's it like being a twit on telly?" He could tell she was avoiding swearing to the best of her ability, although she kept on slipping.
By the time it was over, he knew what he was going to draw. He rushed back to his desk, sketched her body, then her face, stretching her face to a wide mouthed grin, exaggerating the hair. Long legs, scruffily dressed with a definitive style. He signed his name on the pencil sketch with a slight satisfied smile. Jamie Hewlett had found an inspiration.
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Sunday 12th February 1995, 11:33pm
Still in America
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