My stomach tightened in excitement as I watched the group. I could practically feel their adrenaline as they ran. Everything happened so quickly. The parkway stretched for at least a couple of kilometres, so it gave great scope for the group to play around. Trev leapt from the narrow ridge and onto a nearby roof. Not one to be outdone, Callum followed, while James, Paul and Leanne continued their run along the viaduct.

The cameras tracked Callum and Trev as they crossed over several rooftops, then made their way back. Barry gave directions over his mouthpiece until they reached the end, and then it was time to start over.

I became accustomed to the fact that none of the Running on Air stunts were filmed in just one shot. Barry ordered them to be captured over and over again, from various positions and angles, until he was satisfied with the footage. I was exhausted just watching it and wondered how Trev and the others managed to keep their energy levels up. Then again, they were constantly filling up on protein bars and Lucozade. I was fairly sure they had a sponsorship for product placement. Plus, Leanne wasn’t lying when she said those boys ate like elephants, though I was sure they burned it all off easily enough.

Once Barry was satisfied, they shot interviews with each member of the group as they discussed the location, the dynamics of the stunt, and how they felt everything was going so far.

Later on, when Barry called cut for the last time that day, Trev came and flopped his arms around my shoulders. He was sweaty and breathless and looked completely exhausted.

“If I die, cremate my body and throw the ashes in the Thames.”

I laughed. “You’re not going to die.”

“I feel like I am,” he said, leaning into me more. “So you should be nicer to me.”

“Will you get off? I’ve got a gig later and I don’t want to stink of your body odour,” I complained, though there was absolutely nothing gross about a sweaty Trev. Maybe I should be concerned by the fact that I actually found him appealing like this, freak that I was.

His interest perked up. “Oh, you’ve a gig? Can I come?”

I didn’t answer right away. My initial reaction was to say yes, but then when I thought on it, I decided it was a bad idea. We were growing closer by the day, and though I wasn’t unhappy about that, I wasn’t so sure him being in the audience tonight would be good for me.

“I’d rather go alone,” I answered finally and Trev’s brows drew together. “I just don’t want Jimbo following along with his camera, you know?”

Trev’s chest deflated and frustration marked his features. “Right. Bloody Jimbo.”

We didn’t get a chance to discuss it more because Isaac came over, full of excitement about being on set. He waxed lyrical about getting coffees for the crew and being sent on various menial tasks. It was like a teenager getting to be a roadie for the summer with their favourite rock band, only in this case it was their favourite group of reality TV free runners. His cheer was so infectious he was like Prozac in human form. I seriously would’ve just hung out with him all day if I could, but unfortunately there was always something that needed to be done.

I stuck around the set for as long as needed, helped Neil with a few things, then headed to the apartment to grab my keyboard for the show.

The venue was a cute little burlesque club close to the Champs-Élysées. I was over the moon when they agreed to let me play, even though I suspected it was only because they needed a clean act to break up all the stripteases.

And yes, I was aware that if Trev knew the location of my show he would’ve gotten down on his hands and knees and begged me to let him come. I got a sick satisfaction out of secretly denying him. Perhaps I’d let it slip tomorrow and allow him to fester in the lost opportunity.

The décor in the club was lavish, all red velvet, black lace and gold accents. There were even gold stripper poles on either side of the stage. I actually blushed a little when I saw them, especially since one of the burlesque performers was practicing as I made my way backstage. It was definitely one of the most decadent places I’d played, and not wanting to stand out, I put extra effort into my appearance.

My black dress was knee-length and lacey. It showed an abundance of cleavage, more than I usually revealed, and unbidden, my mother’s disapproving voice flooded my mind.

Ese vestido te hace ver como una prostituta. Sube a tu habitación a cambiarte inmediatamente.

That dress makes you look like a prostitute. Go up to your room and change immediately.

I did my make-up extra sultry, with dark red lipstick, just to mentally spite her. She was still in my head when I walked onstage, and it was difficult to disregard my conflicting emotions. Sometimes I thought I did it to myself, at least subconsciously. Maybe I wanted to be upset when I performed, because it allowed me to convey emotion better.

The audience was made up of a mix of tourists and locals, so I hoped at least some of them could understand what I was singing. Although, sometimes you didn’t really need to know the language to feel the sentiment. After all, people around the world adored opera without having a word of Italian.

“This song is dedicated to my parents,” I said. The lights shone a little too brightly on the stage, rendering the audience a blurry haze. “It’s called ‘Even Now’.”

When I closed my eyes, I sang with all I had in me. I felt brave knowing there wasn’t a single person out there who knew me. I could show them all the ugliness inside and not have to fear rejection.

Even now, if you opened up your arms

I’d come running

Even now, if you told me you loved me

I’d say I loved you, too

Even now, with my heart broken and black

With my guts bloodied and bruised

I’d give everything I own in this world to have my family back

When my set ended, a peachy-boobed lady in a half corset and glittery nipple tassels followed me. It didn’t feel wrong that I’d just been singing song after song about my family and how they pushed me out. It just felt real. This was the world, every single beautiful and awful shade of it.

I knew for a fact my parents would go into cardiac arrest if they knew I was singing about them on a stage adorned with stripper poles. And with that satisfying thought, I went to gather my equipment.

I was leaving to grab a taxi back to the apartment when a short girl with a pixie haircut approached me. She had bright hazel eyes and a professional-looking photographer’s camera around her neck.