* To all my loyal first-adopters, who supported me when my novel Chasing the Heartland came out almost a year ago, thank you!
* To all who are here out of curiosity following my teaser, thank you for taking a leap of faith!
* To all who are sitting in a Q somewhere, on a bus or a train on the way to a concert and who decided ‘why the hell not’, thank you! I’ll be thinking of you, so to speak. (photo credit: Tiiu Shelley)

The Ties That Bind (Croeso I Cymru) - Paulina Vanderbilt

Rosie looked around her kitchen. The pots and pans from last week’s dinners were stacked up and sticky. She sighed at the crusty mushy-pea green, dried-out-dahl orange, tomato-ketchup red, and bramble-pie purple that stained the plates strewn across the worktop and stove. The sink was littered with empty cans – baked beans, lentils, tomatoes – the contents an indication of the days ahead, and the days past. The glow of the setting sun coloured the small two-by-three space a romantic golden pink. She sighed, turned on the tap. She heard the whoosh of the water heater. It was quiet in the house. It had been quiet for too long now.

She looked out. High Street started clogging up with bank-holiday revelers. Girls in pieces of shimmering lycra not quite covering their bum cheeks, swaggering like a disorientated daisy chain from bar to bar, from shot to shot. A slender girl on stilettos wheeling around a mobile karaoke machine until finding a central spot near the McDonald’s, not too close to the four-on-the-floor bassline blasting out of the bar next to it. Student boys in white sneakers and jeans hanging off plastic seats like soggy washing, letting their eyes drool over the exposed flesh that gaggled by, shouting lurid invitations, raising their beers, sucking their vapes.

She heard a ping come from the living room. She did not rush to get it. She rummaged through the dirty water, more grey than soapy now. She lifted all the cutlery out onto the dry tea towel. Another ping. She pulled the plug, wiped away the grimy rim left on the insides of the sink. She glanced at the fridge, where she had pinned a print-out of the confirmation email for the biggest gig in town this year; well, maybe aside from Taylor who was due in a few weeks’ time. This would be her 50th show, twenty-one years after that epic first night with her mother in Philadelphia. The first also without her mum, who left her stranded and alone after a brief but brutal sickbed. The same cancer that had taken her grandmother, had claimed her mother too.

At first her mother had been delighted with the unexpected weight loss. Menopause had heaped on an unwelcome fifteen kilos without any warning and seemingly overnight, so Wendy had not complained. But all had changed when Wendy had discovered the hard lump in her right breast. It went downhill quickly, but she had refused to let Rosie worry. When the pain had been so severe that Wendy had effectively been bedridden, Rosie had held Billy, kissed her, and told her she’d be back when it was all over.

Only when it was, her relationship was too. Rosie returned to a freezing house, immaculately hoovered and straightened out. Billy had left a note on the polished dining table stating that the months alone had given her time to reflect and that she no longer felt the spark, and without it, that their relationship had nothing more to offer. Rosie winced at the memory. Before she had set off for Aberdeen, Billy and her had just started the application processes for adoption. The paperwork was staggering, often insulting, and yes it had caused friction, but that would all have been ironed out once they were approved as potential parents. Billy had been Rosie’s soul mate. After they had met in 2003, they had spent ten years writing emails and letters growing close as best friends. When Billy had come over to the UK for an assistant-research post at Exeter university, they had taken the first tentative steps towards a relationship as lovers. It had been natural and logical. Nothing momentous, just something right. And now it was not.

Rosie cursed herself. Dwelling on the has-beens, could-haves and feeling-sorry-for-myselfs were counterproductive, her therapist had said. One-and-a-half year of a monstrous musical drought had been harder to fight than the empty side of the bed, or the darkness upon coming home from her soulless telemarketing job. Two months ago, she had moved to this flat in Cardiff as she had used her last savings on paying over-the-odds for the previous place. The town was seething and alive every single weekend, and she felt lonelier than ever.

It was Leah who had suggested it first. Two minutes after Rosie had posted a short message on Insta about the new flat in Cardiff over a soundbite of Swallowed Up, she had been on the phone.

‘WTF, the whale song?’ And immediately after she exclaimed, ‘Cardiff?! You are moving to Cardiff? Hold yer horses, I am booking a flight. Now!’

Two days later she had landed in Cardiff. Leah was stunning, as always, when Rosie opened the front door. It was as if time had stood still. The same exuberance and uncoordinated honesty oozed from her whole being. She sported a bob - henna red highlights softening the jet black - which framed her face and highlighted her hazel eyes. She burst through the door, shrugged off her long leather jacket, before Rosie could even say her name. She rummaged in the empty cupboards, found a crumpled bag of Tetley’s behind the instant coffee, and within minutes she was sitting at the dining table, sipping steaming, bitter-strong tea, still without the milk. It was the first time in over ten years they had seen each other. Sure, they had followed and liked each other’s posts on social media, but somehow the distance between Glasgow and Exeter, lame excuses of work and time, had prevented them from making the effort after Billy had moved in with Rosie. It had been hard for Leah to accept that it was Billy and not her that Rosie chose. But here she was. Radiant, candid, and alive.

Picking up where they had left off had been easy. Single life had done Leah good. She was full of adventures, talking non-stop about the difference the innovative treatment she had been trialling seemed to be making. Rosie had smiled for the first time in months.

‘You do know, right, who’s coming to Cardiff? Right?’

Rosie nodded as she was tossing pomegranate seeds in the baby lettuce.

‘At the Principality Stadium! Girlfriend, you practically live in it! You’ve got a ticket, right?’

Rosie looked up. Her dad had been the first to phone her in November, trying to cheer her up. Of course she knew who was coming. But she hadn’t been able to motivate herself to buy the ticket. She said nothing.

‘Rosie, wake up girl! Springsteen is coming to your new hometown and you are going to let it pass you by? Serious?’ Leah had grasped her wrists gently across the table. The touch was too much. Rosie cracked, unable to stop the tears.

‘I know. I know. But how can I go on my own? It won’t be the same! I feel so numb inside. I just can’t face putting up a brave face and jumping up and down as if I were still twenty-five, let alone sixteen. Things have changed. I have changed.’ She wiped the dripping snot onto her sleeve. Her whole body had started shivering. She was so cold.

Leah moved across the table and lifted Rosie into her arms. ‘Hey, hey, breathe buddy!’ Rosie smelled the once-familiar tea tree hair conditioner. She snug into the soft hollow of Leah’s shoulder. She allowed herself to be carried to the sofa. Leah threw open the curtains, yanked open the window. A freezing gust swept through the living room. Outside the rain was shattering on the street cobbles.

‘Which one is your hot water bottle in?’ Leah started opening random removal boxes without waiting for the answer. She struck lucky at the fourth. ‘You stay right here. We are going to fix this.’ And so it was that Leah had plonked herself behind the computer whilst Rosie slept. Somehow, she had magicked a ticket, via a friend of a friend of a friend.

The gig was tomorrow, and Rosie had seen the people queuing up at the stadium. Leah had been on the phone daily once she found out how the whole queuing system with numbers and roll calls worked, ordering Rosie to go over and get her name on the list but she had not bothered. She didn’t feel like a show at all. She probably wouldn’t go anyway. There would be plenty clips on YouTube to watch after, so she could lie to Leah about it.

Another ping. Rosie put away the last few pots and dragged herself to the living room. She switched on the TV, sat down, and picked up her phone.

Outside! Now. I am freezing. Get your bony ass down the stairs, through the door and right into my arms!

Leah! Rosie stared at the screen. What was she doing here? Another ping.

Now! Put on some shoes and your denim jacket.

Rosie did as she was told. She creaked down the stairs and opened the door to a beaming Leah wearing a red bandana, white top, and skinny jeans. She waved a piece of paper and shouted, ‘Let’s go down to the Taff Rosie!’ Leah grabbed her by the arm, slammed the door shut behind her and set off. Rosie decided that she would endure Leah for the moment. They rounded the corner and walked onto the wide esplanade of the stadium. What was Leah’s plan here? Leah marched them to a stern looking woman in a long puffer jacket, wielding a clipboard.

‘Hi, Is this the queue?’ Leah demanded. The woman nodded. ‘We would like to join please. This is Rosie, I am Leah.’ And she took Rosie’s hand and held it out next to her own. The woman took out a sharpie and wrote number 477 and 478 on their hands. ‘Thanks, this will do brilliantly!’

The next day was miserable. A drizzle threatened to turn into heavy rain and the temperature had dropped to a cool 15 degrees. Leah was making a piece and jam in the kitchen, shouting out over the Springsteen playlist, ‘So are we staying or coming back in between roll calls?’

Rosie couldn’t help but smile at Leah’s enthusiasm. ‘Let’s come back, do some make-up, hang-out. I mean, it’s gonna pour it down. They might close the roof tonight, but let’s try and stay as dry as we can.’

Leah stuck her head round the kitchen door. ‘Ah but you are so cute when you’re wet!’

‘Are you coming on to me?’

‘Maybe …’ Leah sank deep into the sofa barely rescuing to the sliding pieces of toast. ‘Let’s have this fine piece and head over there. It’s almost half nine.’

When they arrived at gate one, the queue had swelled to a colourful bobbing mass. There was a real buzz as people thronged the merch stand and told each other tall stories. The place rang with exclamations of surprise and laughter. They took their place in the line. After the roll call Leah suggested Pettigrew’s in Bute Park for three simple reasons: close by, cute and good coffee.

‘Why is it taking you so long to move on Rosie?’ Leah looked over the rim of her cup of oat hot chocolate heaped with mini marshmallows. ‘You are beautiful, kind, funny. You have a real talent.’

Rosie shrugged, ignoring the part about being beautiful, kind and funny. ‘I haven’t been inspired to write anything these past two-and-a-half years, so I question your assessment of my talent, Dr. professor Leah.’

‘Ha! That is because you are waiting for inspiration. You are moping around in your own self-pity. I knew it when I heard that dreadful tune under your Insta post.’

Rosie raised an eyebrow.

‘The whale song!’

Rosie laughed. ‘Fair enough, that was a little too much, I guess.’

Leah leaned over the table. ‘Rosie, you are forgetting the rules of the game.’ She paused briefly. ‘You gotta live it everyday!’ She stroked Rosie’s wrist where those words had been tattooed over the scars from twenty-one years ago. They had gone to the shop together after Rosie had returned from the States. And Leah had set out the rules then, as Rosie had braved the tattoo needle. One: life won’t come to you, you gotta grasp it by its scruffy neck. Two: inspiration doesn’t come to you, you gotta grasp it by its scruffy neck. Three: when you are in trouble, you reach out. Not to the razor blade but to a friend who will grasp the trouble by its scruffy neck. She added, ‘You already failed on rule number three, but I am here now. Rules number one and two, we are working on today! And tomorrow, and the day after, and after. I will stay until I got it through your stubborn thick skull that it is time to move on and start living again.’

They stayed in Pettigrew’s until the next roll call, playing cards and coming up with possible story lines for songs that would sort out the world. Words and guitar riffs were Rosie’s super power in this messed-up world, Leah kept saying, so she should harness those powers for good and inspire in the best way she could.

‘What you are saying, reminds about this young teacher mum met on the bus in 2003, Fay. She knew her talents, and was happy to use them until change was effected. I wonder if she’s still in that local Pittsburgh school using her talent, or if she has risen to the ranks of educational ‘suits’ to throw the stone that causes the ripples from a higher place.’

‘Hey, your man Bruce might be a conman, all an act …’

Rosie looked at Leah in surprise.

‘Yes, I have read your long exposés about the current ticketing prices, the selling of rights he fought so hard for to retain in the 70s. You never left me Rosie. I never left you.’

‘Talking about moving on,’ Rosie replied weakly.

‘Thing is, whatever Bruce is deciding on the business side, he is still wielding his super power. He is still playing the stadiums, the fields, and in doing that is letting his words inspire the old biddies and bloated buddies…’

Rosie snorted.

‘But he is also speaking to the next generation. He is still singing the songs of hope, the songs of hardship, the songs of loyal friendships. The same words now reach an entirely different audience. An audience that lives in an increasingly complex world. An audience that has in it a few of the future law and life makers.’

‘So who needs my super powers, if Springsteen’s got it covered?’ Rosie held out her hand for the pink wristband, as Leah scrambled with both phones to bring up the mobile tickets, laughing at the fact that Rosie’s passcode was unchanged from when they had last met at university seventeen years ago.

‘So predictable, Rosie my dear. Really, you should have taken a leaf out of your mother’s book of tricks. She would turn around in her grave if she knew how easy you are to second-guess! Disappointing. Tut tut … But you are forgiven.’ She kissed Rosie on the cheek. ‘Rosie, I know for you and all of these 70,000 people here Bruce’s words still largely hold true. But they were words that were written a life-time ago. The same ideas in young words, that is what we need. Let the kids now aspire to be you, not an old grandfather, no matter how cute and endearing he might be. Use your super power Rosie. But you gotta work at it. Every single day.’

Around four o’clock the queue started to move. Rosie gripped Leah’s hand. Leah looked sideways.

‘Until the end, Rosie. I meant it then and I mean it now. But you’ve gotta commit to the light.’

‘Let’s go to the centre catwalk. We should make third row and have an excellent view.’

‘Did you hear me?’

Rosie nodded. ‘Maybe I simply needed a spark. Maybe that spark is loud and obnoxious, wearing clothes wholly unsuitable to their profession because it couldn’t care less about what anyone else thinks.’

Leah squeezed her hand. ‘I have been fine without you Rosie. My life has been a whirlwind of amazing discoveries, beautiful moments of stillness, and fulfilment at work. I will be fine without you when I go back up north. But I’d love to share more of our futures with you again.’

Rosie stepped up firmly to slightly left of the centre catwalk. Precisely as she had predicted, three rows back. They sat down. ‘Tempus fugit, Leah. You are right, we do good to remember our loved ones. And celebrate our days on this mortal coil to the best of our capacities. I know it deep down, but since mum… And then Billy. Well, I have found it too hard to act upon.’

Leah wrapped her arms around Rosie. Do you realise that twenty-one years ago your mum took you to your first ever Springsteen concert? Twenty-one years! He opened with From Small Things then . And look at us now. A doctor of medicine ...’

‘And a failed musician with a useless art degree, working a telemarketing job she hates to make end meet.’

‘No, a world changer about the blossom again. Maybe we ain’t that young anymore, Rosie, but goddamnit. The door’s still open. Always was.’

Rosie looked into Leah’s eyes. She saw no scorn. ‘What’s with all this Springsteen referencing, anyway? You done a crash course on the past 60 years of his work?’

‘Nah, I just looked up your Spotify Springsteen-starter-kit playlist. Figured the essentials would be there. I pick things up easily.’ She winked. ‘And that last one… ah well, what was it your mum used to say?’

‘The most important song ever written. If all else fails, there is always Thunder Road.’

‘Well start living it again then.’

Rosie took out her purse. She opened it and unfolded a piece of A4 that had been taped back together on the creases multiple times. ‘The original note from twenty-one years ago. I always carry it with me.’

Leah kissed the piece of paper, and folded it up again. She handed it back to Rosie. ‘Keep it safe and close to your heart Rosie. Now put it back in your purse. Remember those who shoulda been here. But let’s celebrate those who are still with us today.’

Rosie did as she was told and looked at her watch. ‘Just over another two hours. I wonder what he’ll open with.’

At 19.03 hours precisely, first the band, and then Bruce Springsteen walked onto the stage. Grey shirt, a tie and waistcoat. And a big grin. The crowd roared. This was Wales, this was Cardiff. This was pent-up hope and expectation. This was a new beginning. Leah whooped. It suddenly dawned on Rosie that this was Leah’s first ever Springsteen show. All those years ago, back in the spare bedroom, when Rosie had been scrambling around for any clues her mother might have left, Leah had asked, So what’s with this Springsteen? He is not far too safe for a girl like you? And here she was, ready to experience how phenomenal ‘safe’ could be. Rosie turned to Leah, grabbed her hand, and raised it in a joined fist.

The horns blared, the crowd roared, and Springsteen called out. ‘One, two, three, four …’

N.B. I wrote this extra chapter because after last year’s tour and then the USA tour cancellation due to Springsteen’s illness, I thought I had seen my last ever Springsteen gig in Hamburg - ‘coz, yeah, don’t get me started on Philadelphia … But the Boss is back. And as I strolled along the Taff last week in anticipation of the European tour opener in Cardiff, I got to wondering about Rosie and Wendy. Would they have been here, twenty-one years later? Wendy would be 53, Rosie 36…

So I sat down to write. As a thank you and a wee gift to you, my early adopters. And as a teaser to you who came for a wee look. I hope you enjoyed it!

I do have one favour to ask you: if you read my book and enjoyed it, please please leave a review on Goodreads. Nothing fancy, just a few stars and maybe one sentence will do. But it will help tremendously in this world of algorithms. If you haven’t read my book, you can buy it as a paperback or e-book at any amazon outlet in the world. Oh, and leaving a review there is mega!