“Heya!”
I smile at him while he is sulking at the table, his arms crossed on his chest, his whole position telling everybody to sod off. He raises his head slowly and looks at me, his eyes hazed with heavy thoughts and that characteristic annoyance with certain people.
“Hullo!” he exclaims, his voice clean and free of any emotion except for his modest joy. I am almost purring with pleasure. If any interviewer would ever hear such tone from infamous Thom Yorke, he would die of bliss.
I pull up a chair and sit next to him, while he rearranges the cards on the table so that our names are together. This is almost a ritual. Whenever we are not placed together, he simply changes the arrangement, sometimes even without anybody seeing. I am actually surprised he hasn’t done so before I showed up on this press conference.
“This is a fancy place,” I look around the well-lighted hall half-filled with people setting up the cameras, the equipment, finding their seats and gazing curiously in our direction. Colin and Ed are caught by a pair of journalists and occasionally they send us pleading “SOS” glances. Phil is not visible at all. I imagine he is keeping in the shadows until the whole thing starts. I gaze at the clock; we’ve got about 15 minutes. I think it is the first time we are actually ready before everybody else.
“Yes, I know. Look at the moldings. They look clumsy, but it’s quite hard to calculate their angle so they would connect with each other flawlessly at the corners. I mean, they look gorgeous, but I wouldn’t take such a risky slant if I were doing something in my house. And the ornament is actually in gold,” he lights a cigarette and puts it between his lips, still gazing at the ceiling.
I shake my head. For the past couple of months Thom’s hobby has been home improvement, as ridiculous as it sounds. So far he’s changed the tiles on his kitchen, reinstalled couple of windows, and painted a few things here and there. To protect our rock-n-roll status, I must say that in the course of these actions he’s busted his knee (a very mean blow from the corner of window’s frame), cut his eyebrow (a mistake during cutting the tiles), and obtained various scratches and bruises (too much vigor, Thom, too much vigor), but they don’t really count. So the score is 3:2.
“Whoa, that’s nice. Are the…I don’t know how you call them…statues – gold?” I point at small figures that were installed on the top of the columns that looked like they were holding the ceiling.
“Nah. I mean, they are covered with gold, but I think that the rest is not.”
“Pretentious liars,” I snort, crossing my arms on my chest, “It takes more to impress us!”
I pray that my false bravado is contagious.
“I’d still take one home,” Thom muses, “They would looks nice on my backyard. To replace those dreadful gnomes.”
“You are still afraid to come close to them?”
“The bloody things’ smiles are bloody wicked! And their eyes…Seriously, I could see the root of all evil in those midget fuckwits.”
“Lookie who’s talking,” I tease him, “Waaaaaalk into the jaaaaaws of heeeeell,” I hum as high as I can. The sound that comes out scares me.
“Just you wait ‘til the next concert, Jon. I’ll think of something deliciously evil to do to you,” he rubs his hands, glancing at me maniacally.
“What?” I laugh, scratching my brow, “You’ll pretend that I messed up the chord, or played Idioteque too slow, or made the sound too loud and act like a diva?”
“How do you know that?” he looks genuinely stunned.
“Because it happens every time you are a bit mad at me,” I smile at him warmly and enjoy the gorgeous confusion on his face I’ve induced. Somebody, switch the lights off; I want that man on my lap and kissing me.
“Okay then. I’ll change me tactic,” he turns away from with a sly grin.
“Hinting at me being your sex slave is quite old as well.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that!”
“Well, I was,” he turns to look at me and for a second our eyes are locked and the room slowly fades away.
You know that thing when you look at the fire and the air around it seems liquid? That’s how I feel when his eyes are on mine. Everything is just blurry and sketchy, except for his face – I can see every detail, and I love the composition of his untamed locks, clean-glass eyes and ripe lips. Excuse me for my clichés.
“Alright, it’s time, we are ready to start!” somebody is raising their arms and claps. I sight and look away for a second, seeing Colin and Ed approaching the table and taking their seats. Phil is already here and the room is now completely full. I feel flashes burning my skin and, well, it’s quite nerve wrecking. Everyone it talking at once; in this sea of actions and movement, I feel him putting his hand on my thigh and I randomly think that the table probably has the front board and his gesture is not visible to others. I wonder if he’s checked that before he got into his place, planning ahead.
The first question is for me, and I feel a little startled, since it’s usually the ginger-head next to me to be addressed first.
“Jonny,” I shoot my head up at the sound of my name and my eyes meet with a particular young gentleman in whom I might’ve been interested if Thom didn’t exist, “Mr. Yorke once said that he’d write a song using a computer rather than a guitar. What about you? Which instrument would you use?”
“Ondes marte…” I stumble and his hand finds mine and squeezes it lightly, and bloody hell, it doesn’t release the nervousness, but now I think that if he is supporting me, then there’s really nothing to be nervous about, “Ondes martenot, probably. Although…although I’d need to add some, um, percussion for the rhythm…or maybe not,” I trail off for a second, “Sorry. Ondes Martenot…is my final answer.”
I hear him chuckle lightly at my side and while the reporters are shuffling with their papers he picks up his hand and writes something on the little piece of paper before moving it so I could see it. “Jonny on ‘Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?’ How adorable.” I swallow my giggle and face the inevitable choice: to answer him I’d have to pick the pen, and to pick up the pen I’d have to release his hand. But before I know it, he grabs my other hand and I am grateful for his logic.
“Thom, how is life?” I gaze briefly at the red-haired bloke who is trying to play cool and make it seem like he’s an acquaintance of ours, but Thom seems to be in a pretty good mood so there’s only mild irony rather than sarcasm in his voice.
“Life’s good, mate,” he produces his fake toothy smile while I’m scribbling on the paper, “How are you? Wife? Kids? I heard your pet hamster recently had 7 babies! Congratulations. Save one for Jonny!”
I hear Colin and Ed laugh quietly can’t help but smile myself. I squeeze his warm palm as the feeling overwhelms me – I mean, there are times when I really, really can’t contain myself when he is around. He does some little thing that I find absolutely genuinely him and my head goes swimming with all the adoration I have for him.
“Colin, recently you’ve been into photography. How serious of a hobby it is and do you think it is going anywhere professional?” this is one is from young lady in studious glasses holding a nifty notepad. A young journalist.
“Well, you know, I am still more of a musician than a photographer,” a light chuckle rolled around the room as the lady blushed, “And to think of it, I like the works of others more. Especially the old stuff…”
I lose him at that because I’m too busy at concentrating on Thom’s expression while he’s reading my note. It simply says, “Would you be my ‘phone-a-friend’ if I didn’t know the answer?”
He smiles lightly and takes a pen from my hand. I watch his sloppy syllables appearing on the paper and he, noticing me, turns away like a mischievous schoolboy.
“Thom, any comments about the new album?”
I am too busy looking over his shoulder to glare at the journalist.
“Well,” Thom takes a moment to read his writing over before raising his head to answer the question, sliding the note to me simultaneously, “It still would be a while ‘til we release it. The job’s going well, but there are lots of different details…”
“And what do I get for helping you?” I smile slyly, biting my lip. “Well, I could buy you a drink….”
I forget that he is talking and put the paper in front of him. He stops for a second, looking at it, then continues with his ramblings. I sigh and curse the journalist who is really pushing for the discussion, as my fingers drum lightly on his palm. My eyes wander and I see Colin and Ed smiling and writing something on the paper as well. Phil is trying to make a paper crane, failing miserably. This conference is naff.
“This question is for Ed, Colin, and Phil,” I sigh with relief and look at my band mates raising their heads, “What do you think about Thom and Jonny performing together often?”
Thom and I actually listen to the answers, smiles hidden behind our somewhat scared eyes.
“I think it’s brilliant. I mean, they still carry the material across and people still call them ‘Radiohead’, but we get to slack off.”
“And then we get to mock them about all the mistakes they’ve made during the gig…”
“Phil here loves to fangirl Jonny…”
“Yes, and Colin is an evil heckler…he usually stands in the first row and he and Thom curse each other off during the whole concert while the crowd cheers,” Ed chuckled, “While I, of course, film the whole thing and post it on youtube later.”
“…And Cozzie…sorry, Colin, well Colin he always has his camera with him, so he takes pictures of Thom and then posts it on message boards disguised as a stalker fan…and we are also spread the rumors of Thom and Jonny’s romantic relationship…”
Colin and Ed were panting and laughing now, they heads nearly bumping. Thom and I shared a lingering look. Thom, laughing shortly, turned his head to the journalists once again, “Alright, who’s next?”
“How would you define the genre of your music?”
I am mad at him because he didn’t answer to my note so I squeeze his hand hard. He turns to look at me, confused, but he understands when he sees me glaring at him.
“Phil can take that,” Thom is already scribbling and Phil is lifting his head up with a “Wha?” written on his face. The journalist repeats the question and he blushes lightly before carrying on our usual answer to that.
We are able to exchange a few phrases before he finishes his half - memorized tirade.
“Oh so you want to get me drunk to take advantage of me?”
“That’s my mission in life, I believe.”
“Any villains of whom I should know of?”
“Erm…well…This room is full of blokes who’d steal you from me.”
I read it and smile, keeping my eyes on the table, on his wrist on the table to be exact. He is answering the question. Our fingers are still intertwined beneath the surface and I swing my hand lightly, to which he answers with a genuine smile and a sigh in the middle of his speech. My head turns to him involuntary and I instantly try to make it seem as if I was interested in the curtains on the window.
“Mr. Greenwood, you seem to be very interested in this room…I couldn’t help seeing you turning your head to look around throughout the conference,” an old gentleman tells me this as I snap my head to meet his gaze. Thom is laughing soundlessly, I can see his shoulders shaking.
“Erm…well…the design is very nice…those moldings,” I point with my finger at the ceiling and realize that Thom is turning to look at me, interested, that the whole room got quiet and the rest of the band is arching their neck to get a better look at my face, “…Those moldings…are extraordinary,” I mumble and trail off, drumming my fingers on the table nervously.
“I must agree,” Thom wakes up first and turns his head back to the journalists, “Ever tried to install those yourself?”
I sigh out, now that the whole attention is on him, and squeeze his hand tight.
“Thanks for today,” I kiss his shoulder when his eyes are already closed and the permanent satisfied smile is imprinted on his lips.
“What do you mean?”
“The molding stuff.”
“Ah…” he smiles even wider, “The pleasure is all mine. Next ask me about the advantage of hardwood floors over the laminate.”
“That’s unlikely to happen,” we both chuckle and I snuggle in close, taking his arm and putting it around my shoulders. He sighs and draws me closer.
When I’m already half-asleep, he whispers, “Thank you too” and I place a small kiss on his skin in recognition.
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