a man in his early twenties took off his T-shirt and asked her to sign his shoulder.
“It’s for a tattoo,” he said. “Really?” she asked, writing her name onto the man’s body.
“This is the highlight of my life,” he gushed. “My name is Francisco.”
Nora wondered how her writing on his skin with a Sharpie could be a highlight of his existence.
“You saved my life. ‘Beautiful Sky’ saved my life. That song. It’s so powerful.”
“Oh. Oh wow. ‘Beautiful Sky’? You know ‘Beautiful Sky’?”
The fan burst into hysterics. “You’re so funny! This is why you are my idol! I love you so much! Do I know ‘Beautiful Sky’? That’s brilliant!”
Nora didn’t know what to say. That little song she had written when she was nineteen years old at university in Bristol
had changed the life of a person in Brazil. It was overwhelming.
This, clearly, was the life she was destined for. She doubted that she would ever have to go back to the library.
She could cope with being adored. It was better than being in Bedford, sitting on the number 77 bus, humming sad tunes to the window.
She posed for selfies. One young woman looked close to tears. She had a large photo of Nora kissing Ryan Bailey.
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