Tangerine

Chapter 1

Soundtrack: The Guess Who - Star Baby (1974)

Dedication: Megan — You're probably the biggest Tangerine fan of them all. You made us Tangerine t-shirts. You've stuck with me and this story since the beginning and I love how you're just as obsessed with the story as I definitely am. I get a kick out of chatting with you about the story and I'm always on the edge of my seat for your feedback whenever I update :) So, thank you, Megan, for being a hardcore Loulet/Scarry shipper and for being one of the biggest fans of Tangerine ever, as well as a great friend and a lovely person. All the happiness to you. x — Jen

·

Two weeks ago, I would have cringed at the mention of One Direction. Now I've been offered a chance to open for them on tour and I'm halfway through writing a ballad ‒ a ballad! ‒ about one fifth of the boyband.

What the fuck has happened?

Six jugs of beer into the night and I've already been recognised twice. I figured I would have been swept under the rug, since I arrived with the main focus of the pub. However, one girl suggested that I looked familiar and another actually knew who I was and wanted a photo. I mean, that's it... but it's something.

Aside from the distraction of onlookers, it's been a rather... interesting night. This is the third time I've met the boys of One Direction and the second time we've shared drinks together ‒ the first time was during a casual meeting with our management teams and we each only had a pint or two ‒ so I have yet to see the lot of them as their true drunk selves.

Something which is coming out for sure tonight.

·

"Unleash your inner flower child, Scarlet," Pete chuckled, flicking the edge of his guitar pick between his teeth. "Dig up some Lennon-McCartney gold."

"I'm not used to doing what I'm told!" I rhymed, singing in the tune we'd been working on.

It was a cloudy November afternoon when it all began. I was working at my manager's flat in central London with Pete, my live bassist. We were assigned to write a ballad and it simply wasn't working out. We had all of our notebooks spread out in front of us, not to mention the thickest rhyming dictionary we could find, while our manager was away at a meeting. After a solid two hours on the same squishy leather couch, no inspiration whatsoever, we were still strumming circles around the ballad that just didn't want to be written.

"Forget whatever Mitch said," Pete randomly strummed his acoustic guitar a few times, ridding our heads so we could move onto something new. "Just feel it. You're gonna come up with something good sooner or later."

I shrugged, completely drained of any creativity and feeling it.

"Maybe you've just got something against ballads," Pete suggested, almost like a punch line.

"I haven't got anything against ballads, you dick," I laughed. I could have hit him with something light within my reach, like a couch pillow or notebook, but I don't remember. "I'm just used to writing more upbeat, driven songs, you know? It's all about the rock and roll, baby! I'm just not soft or vulnerable. I don't-"

"What?" Pete grinned, egging me on.

"I don't have anyone to sing about, anyway. There, I said it," I shrugged off the matter, like it didn't mean much. In a way, I wasn't entirely sure if it did.

For the past few years, I'd been a professional singer-songwriter. It's a rather curious fact to admit, because all I've ever wanted was to support myself with music, and now it's all I ever do. However, despite being a professional who ‒ even at the time ‒ was used to doing this sort of thing every day, nothing could change the mind-numbing curse of writer's block.