For as long as I can remember I've been me.

Let me guess. You were expecting 'different' right there? Well, as far as I can see, the declaration of teenage individuality and the subsequent disinterest in others opinions are an open invitation for a psychosis. I've never declared myself different. All that I ever labelled myself as was myself.

Even if being myself brings nothing but trouble.

Have you ever taken A-Levels? No? I'll expand on that then. Take not even two years, the most stressful two as things are, hormones doing a non-stop road race through your nervous system, and throw in qualifications which are allegedly more difficult to attain than a BA degree, and for good measure chuck in the pressure to succeed. Then you get an idea of half the stress.

I tell you, we're raising a generation of neurotics here. The best. It's not enough to do your best. You have to be the best. Want a place at a university that doesn't hand out degrees like they're going out of fashion? Then be the best. Want a good career? Be the best. Want to look like a success story at your school reunion? Of course, be the best. Want to have a life at all? You guessed yet? Yep, be the best.

Having a degree at all used to make you intelligent. Now these small city universities hand the damn things out like Happy Meal toys. Which brings me to another point. Apparently, we can't just care about passing these damned exams. We allegedly have to give a shit about the wider world. To be honest, being a vegetarian was because I gave a shit about me. You know how much crap they put into those burgers? I'll put it this way, if it wasn't for the meat fat, a vegetarian could relax and chow down on one of them. The point is, that me dropping the veggie thing (even if I still wouldn't touch a 'beef' burger with a barge pole) would be the equivalent of coming out of the closet. Which as it is, to a lot of my friends, I am half in. Make of that what you will.

I don't want to be a sell out. But I resent the implication that me eating a natural food source could be considered 'evil'. What is evil anyway? I won't go into that. Too much to think about. Not only is college turning British youth into neurotics, we're becoming philosophers into the bargain.

Like I said, I'm me. I go off on a tangent sometimes. Deal with it.

Me. Myself. I.

Wasn't too much of a fan of that song. Bit whiney.

The above comment was not intended to be ironic. It just came out that way. Like my sarcasm. Again, deal with it.

There I am, off again. Well, me. How can I explain this? Let's just say, I have ten times more stress on my head than any other 19 year old that I know. Want a reason? Open a magazine from summer 2004. Splashed all over. My face. The faces of two of my best friends. Three blokes I barely knew. All together. Co-ordinated publicity drive, was what he called it. Our agent.

I never went looking for this. Never asked for it. I'm still not even sure if I want it. But I've got it, and rejecting it now would label me the loser that I try so hard to run from. It all started out so stupidly. I didn't trust it back then. See, when I was 17, and what I would term innocent, I was infinitely more cynical than I am now, even with my experiences. Maybe seeing every angle of the human condition in such a short period has instilled more faith in it than I ever posessed previously. Or maybe I just got it together and grew up.

I've seen so much in two years. Hope. Failure. Fame. Abuse. Love. Death. People ask me how I dealt with it all. I do what he told me. Our agent, Patrick.

'Suck it up. You're an artist.'

I sometimes wonder what would have happened. If I hadn't gone shopping that Saturday, where would I be now? In university? If I hadn't decided to go out that night, would I have bothered to go sale rail ravaging? My ridiculously overactive imagination wonders if, had I never got my job, would I have had enough money to go shopping? If I hadn't decided to revise the night before my GCSE in Biology, would I have had the grades to be a shop girl twice a week?

Whatever the consequences of the opposite would have been, I decided to drag myself out of bed that Saturday morning, get dressed, buy some cigarettes and get on a bus into town. To meet Ally. In case you were wondering, that's a man. Well, as manly as he gets. He's about as straight as John Inman in a PVC catsuit. Always reliable for a coffee, a bitch and a spare ciggie. And that's what we were doing, drinking coffee on that ridiculously warm May morning, walking down a cobbled street, and drawing all the possible nicotine out of a pair of cheap cigarettes. He grabbed me around the shoulder, and, in his inimitable style, asked to know what was going on with me.

"What's up with the manless wonder then? Still convincing your mother you're well aware you'll never get a man with your hair?" If it had been anybody else, I would have slapped him. In fact, if Ally was a random man walking down a street, I'd probably be chasing him for all he was worth. A year older than me, having taken a year out of college through illness (although I had deduced that the issue of him believing that a broken nail was a reason to take a week off had more to do with him staying back a year than any genuine ailment) and groomed and dressed to perfection. At least 6 foot tall, with an ideal physique and looks, he caught looks from so many women. Except his love life seemed to be in a more terminal state than mine. Probably to do with his promiscuity, rather than any underlying lack of self confidence.

I smiled and took another deep draw. "As fabulous as ever darling." I pouted ingratiatingly. Something in him inspired an extravagance of character that I never showed to anybody else. "And for your information, my mother has left the hair issue and moved onto my nails. And my dress sense." He grabbed my hand and examined my cuticles in minute detail.

"I can see her reason..." This time I decided that his comments warranted at least some violence, and slapped him around the head. "Watch the hair! Cost me a bloody fortune!" I ran a hand through it, ruffled it, and broke into a run up the street, throwing my empty paper cup into a bin and pushing over some innocent shoppers. Looking over my shoulder, I could see Ally following me, and I kept running, even faster. My chest began to ache, and claiming a premature heart attack and diminished lung capacity, owing to the high tar brands of tobacco I was so fond of, ducked down passage between some shops and collapsed laughing. Ally wandered up, trying vainly to fix his ruined hairdo in a window.

"Not going to return the favour?" A petulant look crossed his face.

"Rose, I refuse to sink to your level." I laughed even more, and stretched out a hand. He dragged me to my feet. "Are we going to go get something done about your nail beds?"

"Hmm, fine, but first we have to meet Ava at the bus station." His nose turned up at the mention of the seventies abomination on our city centre. "Not dressed for abject poverty Ally?"

"No, I dress for any occasion darling, I'm more bothered about the fact I just spent four quid on twenty menthols and I'm probably going to have to use them all as a ransom against prepubescent charves."

As it was, there was no need for any of that. We met Ava, who had brought Cassie, and got out of there pretty unscathed, although there was a fairly frightening moment with some faux-Burberry clad teenage layabouts and an incomprehensible request for a lighter. We edged away, and did a runner.

Ava and Cassie. Better start with Ava. She’s the same age as me, second year of college at the time. One of those little people who are really pretty yet always hate themselves. She has the most incredible voice. She’s so tiny, but she can’t half belt out a song.

Cassie. Cassandra. Yeah, her parents read far too much Greek mythology. She still refuses to be called by her full first name. Which contradicts her major anger when she saw Troy. I’m pretty sure she was a closet fan of the mythological stuff myself. In fact, when we were shopping it was only a few days since we’d seen that movie, and she was still seething from one of the denser comments made by my sister about how if it was in a Brad Pitt movie, it was true, ergo there really wasn’t a Cassandra. Not a good idea.

Personally, I can’t see the similarity between Cassie and her namesake. Well, she reads her horoscope. And nobody believes most of the incoherent bullshit she tends to spout. But otherwise…

And so it was that a couple of hours later, carrier bags falling off our arms, we were heading towards Ally’s house. Having argued the rule of three straight girls against one gay guy, and promptly lost to a very hormonal Ally, we had decided that perhaps it might be a good idea to go to the gay area of town. For all I seemed to argue with him over it, I was quite happy to spend my night out there. Sure, significantly less of a chance of pulling, but you can look and not touch, right? Besides, anything that would keep Ally a bit happier.

We were walking back up the street that I had previously thrown over some unwitting pedestrians on after my criminal offence on Ally’s hair (he had sulked for an hour until I dragged him into the women’s toilets in a coffee shop and fixed it in the mirror) when we were accosted by a man in an expensive looking suit. He didn’t look very old, in his twenties probably, and to be fair he was a bit of a looker. Ally practically pissed himself with excitement when he started talking… in an Irish accent.

“Hello ladies.” Ally pouted. “I’m a representative of Phoenix Incorporated, we’re an agency that represents mostly vocal talent.”

“No offence mate, but what has that got to do with us?” It’ll be a cold day in hell before Cassie learns to keep her bloody mouth shut. Thankfully, he just laughed.

“Well, we’re running auditions for sixteen to twenty year olds for a new project we’re working on. You girls are the kind of people we’re looking for.”

“Kind of people? Do you mind if I ask exactly what you’re implying?” Ava was having one of her rare moments of über confidence. No doubt fuelled by a pub lunch that came with a free pint, and Ally’s donation of his to her in favour of a diet Bacardi Breezer.

He laughed again, and I’ll be damned if Ally didn’t cross his legs. Pervert.

“Well, the concept is that we want a group of girls to work with some guys around your age, basically just to see what we can come up with, to try and make some real music for young adults that isn’t too depressing.”

Ava got perceptive, but no quieter. “So, you just want us to try and write music.”

“No, we want you to make music. That is, if you’re capable and talented enough. Just that you fit the kind of age range that we want, you don’t seem to shy, and you’re pretty camera friendly.” This just encouraged Cassie to start tossing her head and flirting. Ava was lost again.

“Eh?”

“In a band love, we’re forming a band.”

“Ahh… Can I go to the pub now?” I sighed. Fortunately it didn’t seem to scare this man off.

“That sounds like a good idea. We can talk this over, I’ll give you my card and we can figure out some dates for a photo and studio test with the guys. I’ve been looking all day, and you’re the first lot I’ve really paid any attention to. To be fair I could hear you” he gestured at Ally “screeching half way up the street, so I didn’t have much of an option.” Ally’s cheeks went bright red, despite my common assertions that he had no shame.

A while later, we were settled into a pub, and Ally had got his way again; it was a gay bar at the bottom of town. I threw down my bags and fell onto the sofa with an audible sigh of relief. “Malibu… lemonade… Ally… go get.” He took the hint and went to the bar for some drinks. The man in the suit started talking again.

“I’ll be right back. Just going to the bar.” He walked off, out of earshot.

“How do we know to trust him?” Cassie and Ava stared at me. “Well, you’re both thinking the same.”

Cassie had been remarkably quiet. “Yeah, I mean, we don’t even know the guy’s name.”

Ava was never really the voice of reason. “But think about it. Think about what he’s offering us. If we can do this… maybe we should.”

“If we’re even good enough for it, Ava. Cassie, what do you think? I mean, we need to at least decide to trust him or not, like I said, we don’t know a thing about him.”

“Apart from he's hot, and he's Irish.” Cassie was constantly led by her hormones.

“Yeah, we know that. But are we going to trust him? I don’t know.” They were simultaneous in their responses.

“Yes.”

They both came back with enough drinks to refresh a small army, and we re-started the negotiations, as it were. “Here’s my card.” He handed out embossed business cards to each of us, even Ally, a touch that seemed to impress him. P. Sherritt. His mobile number was there, as well as two landlines, one that was obviously local, and another that I guessed was a London number. “All you need to do is to come up to the office address on there tomorrow, about one, and we’ll get the lads up to see you about this, get a few mike tests and so on done. Give me a ring on the mobile if you can’t make it. I’m afraid I’ll have to be off.” He got up, insisting on kissing all three of us on the cheek (except for Ally, who was singularly unamused with his manly handshake) and walked out.

I tried to break the stunned silence. “Well, that was interesting.”

--

The next morning, with a thick head and a taste in my throat reminiscent of cheap Czechoslovakian cigarettes, the events of that afternoon seemed like an unreal, even Dali-esque, to push the part of surrealism, memory. A summary examination of the artex above me assured me that I was indeed in my own bed, as I slowly eased myself up and what I prayed was towards a bathroom cabinet that I dearly hoped contained a large amount of alka seltzer.

After staring at the hideous foaming concoction for at least twenty minutes I summoned up the courage to drink it, chasing it down my throat with some strong black coffee retrieved after what felt like an expedition to climb Everest getting down the stairs. My brain seemed to shake in its place as the cordless phone emitted its shrill tone.

'Ally, do you have any idea what time it is?'

I could practically taste the sarcasm down the phone. 'Twelve. Noon. Slept in again?'

I picked up a scrap of paper from the mantlepiece, scrawled on in a half dried orange felt tip. Taken Gran out for a ride and some dinner. Back about 7. 'I guess. Do you never get hangovers?'

'Never have time to have one dear.' I made the verbal equivalent of a pat on the back, and hung up to ring Cassie. She agreed with me that yes, there definitely had been a Patrick yesterday, yes I should ring him, and no, I shouldn't drink goldschlager mixed with a bottle of wine ever again.

Apparently I had stayed for a few drinks last night. Not only evidenced by the rapidly decaying food and the increasing voracity of the ache in my temples, but also the presence of about three text messages on my mobile from someone called ‘Chris’. I was pretty sure I didn’t know a Chris. Or at least before last night I hadn’t known someone called Chris.

My phone vibrated into action, and I pressed it to my ear. Before Ava could say anything, I pressed the burning issue with her.

‘Ava, did I manage to pick up a man in a gay bar?’ She giggled.

‘Nope. Although according to Ally, he was picked up by a rather muscled one.’

‘Eiw. I don’t even want to know. I haven’t eaten yet.’ I made a mental note to thank Ally later for sparing my delicate stomach that same detail he had obviously pressed on Ava.

‘Neither had I, at 8am when he called to inform me.’

‘Ouch.’

‘You made a decision yet?’

‘Whether to call this Chris? I don’t know, I mean I don’t even know if it’s a he, given where we…’ She cut me off.

‘I meant on hot Irish guy.’

‘Oh God, yeah.’ The memories came flooding back. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll give him a ring. Can’t hurt to try and all that?’

I peeled a business card from the bottom of my handbag, streaked with some noxious looking green liquid that smelt of aniseed, but which I told myself was not absinthe, for my delicate stomach's sake. Dialling the number, I was seized with a sudden sense of apprehension, fear even. Suddenly, I hung up, and decided that his mobile was a better idea. I punched the digits in, and collapsed on the sofa, looking daggers at the half eaten pizza on the kitchen bench. God knows how I ended up with that much takeaway.

'Sherrit.'

That bloody accent again, if I'd been standing up my legs would have gone. Or maybe that was the suspicious garlic sauce. 'Umm, hello, you... you gave me your card yesterday? My name's Rose?'

'Ahh, yeah, thought it was you. Just wanted you to sweat a bit.' Oh God, he could make me sweat any time. Is what Ally would have said, and obviously was not what a nice young lady like me was thinking at that point. Honest. 'Been waiting for you to call all morning.' Now there was the stumbling block. It was like the hot gyno effect. You know you normally wouldn't mind them poking around down there, but the circumstances are so wrong. Normally I wouldn't have minded a gorgeous Irish bloke telling me he'd been waiting for me to call all morning, but there was something not right about it.

'Well, thanks.' He laughed, that annoyingly sexy laugh. The 'I smoke twenty a day and drink the gross national Dutch lager product every weekend, hence the husky voice' laugh.

'So what time can you and your friends come in?' Erm, how about any time he'd have us there? No, even I wasn't that unprofessional back then.

'Is one-thirty good for you?'

'Yeah, that sounds good. You need directions?'

I lifted a hand to run it through my greasy hair and massage my swollen head. 'Might be an idea. I'm not at my sharpest today...'

Two texts, and an incredibly refreshing shower later, I was ready to drag myself into town. I met Cassie and Ava at the train station, and walked down to the offices, which I had presumed would be shoved in some sub-viaduct build-up. How wrong I was.

The building was massive. The offices were over the city's biggest bar, in a huge mirrored glass construction, with a courtyard out front, and those incredibly built coloured concrete obelisks and perfectly level water features with shooting jets. Despite the amount of times I had been in the bar (it's a lot easier to lose your underage self in a bar with 1000 people and two bouncers than any smaller establishment) I had never noticed the huge doors to the side of the main window with 'Phoenix Inc.' stencilled onto every available surface. We wandered in, fully expecting the place to be empty on a weekend. Little did we know. We were stopped by a receptionist with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

'Who are you?'

'Umm...'

'You're umm? Because I don't think you're in anyone's schedule today.'

I smirked. 'I'm Rose. Kant. And don't even bother making a joke out of that, I'd covered them all by the time I hit my SATs.'

The grin on her face dropped. 'Lift up to the top Miss Kant, right at the end of the corridor.' By some miracle, Cassie had kept her trap shut during all of this. It wasn't going to last.

'So, just out of interest, how come you have so tragic a life you're in here on a Sunday?'

The frightening receptionist rose to the bait. 'Because I have a job to do. They don't leave one of the top execs in the company in here alone.'

Cassie smiled. 'Oh, well I suppose it gives you time to think about what could have happened.' There was no witty retort, she had hit the failed singer nail on the head. Not that she cared. She knew what she needed to know. From that moment on, she would trust him.

The corridors seemed to go on for miles. First to the lift, then on the top floor to his office. Office is a bit of a joke of a term, mind you. Sizeable apartment would be more appropriate. Mind you, I thought he was exaggerating when he welcomed us in, apologising for the cramped conditions. Later I'd find out that compared to his London office, this was the equivalent of a small recycling skip. I couldn't stop staring at the view over the river. Not only that, but the leather sofas (which despite my ideological leanings I was quite happy to sink into) and, even better, the men sitting on them. All bloody gorgeous. Three of them. I could tell by the look in Cassie's eyes she was praying that they were part of the service here, but it was pretty obvious to those of us who had bothered to pay attention to what Patrick was saying (as opposed to his chiselled cheekbones and incredible arse) that these were the rest of this alleged 'band'.

'Rose, Ava, Cassie, these reprobates are Dan, Sam and Alex.' I let myself stare at this Alex kid for a lot longer than would let me appear like anything but a recent ward of the mental health branch of the NHS. He was stunning. Simply put, to say the least. Floppy dark hair cut across his face, big eyes, the trace of a five o'clock shadow that told me he'd been using his disposable Bic a few days too long. Either that or his girlfriend had been using it to shave her legs. Oh God, what if he had a girlfriend? I tried to calm myself down, reminding my muddled brain that actual or imagined marital status had never stopped me before. It was only then that I realised that I hadn't been able to tear away my gaze the entire time. When I finally blinked back into reality, he was laughing.

'These were the smartest you could find? Well Paddy, you are from Limerick, maybe they're smart to you...?' He got shot a vicious warning look, and raised his hands in mock submission.

Dan looked from behind plastic rimmed sunglasses. 'Well, first things first, can you lot sing?'

Patrick gave him a look that would castrate most men on sight. But if I thought it was in defence of us, I was sadly mistaken. 'You really think I'd pick up people without checking they can sing?'

Sam spoke without even looking away from his coffee and cigarette. 'We all know what you're led by, and it ain't your ears.' I could see Patrick was having one of those deep breath and count to ten moments, before he turned to speak to Ava.

'You want to go first?'

She gulped. 'What?'

'Singing. We've got to show these boys you're good enough.'

'I mean, what can I sing?'

'What you comfortable with?' He smiled, and I could as good as see the names of just about every sexual position legal in the EU cross her mind, but she let it be, and started to belt out the overture from Madame Butterfly. You see, the main reason for Ava's ability to crack out a tune was years of classical singing lessons. Despite the fact she was now studying for her A-Levels (admittedly Theatre Studies, Music and Theology) rather than any vocational qualification in the arts, she had been accepted to a top-class conservatoire in London and was well on her way to the stage whatever road we might take.

I could have sworn the windows shook in their frames. Everyone around was grinning, well satisfied. Cassie was for the block next, and decided to opt for an interesting take on En Vogue, Free Your Mind. Interesting, because firstly she forgot every third word of the second verse, secondly because she added some decidedly Beyoncé-esque trilling in the third chorus. Then it was my turn.

'Erm, you got a guitar?' I was promptly passed one by Sam, still clutching his espresso and menthol. I stared longingly at said menthol, and he gave me a sympathetic smile, quickly giving me a draw off before I got on with the deadly business of my public humiliation.

I scanned my mind for every song I could play on the guitar, and to my horror realised that there was only one that my panicked brain could remember and that I could play with any competence. Blur had vanished, even Oasis gone. There was a Reef song somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I could play given half an hour to figure it out. But I couldn't remember the words to any Reef song, apart from screeching 'Lay your haaaaaands on me' in the general direction of a karaoke mike. I could perfectly remember Aerosmith, Don't Wanna Miss a Thing. But there was no way I could sustain that high a note. So I returned to the one song I had off pat.

Avril Lavigne.

---

Avril bloody Lavigne. I may as well have ditched my hope of any street cred in front of this Alex. I didn't seem to care about the fact that this was a perverse job interview and that I was about to lose out.

So I tightened up the worn gold capo, and started to play Why. It didn't seem to be going as badly as I had expected by the time I hit the first chorus, given nobody was either laughing or threatening my imminent expulsion from the building. Maybe they didn't recognise it. It was a pretty obscure album track to be fair. By the end, they were giving me that same smile they'd given the other two. I was fully convinced I had got away with it all until Alex clapped me on the back and leant over to whisper in my ear.

'Well, at least it wasn't Skater Boi.'