A few years ago, I answered an advertisement on a flat-sharing website and ended up living with a fledgling pop star — I’ll call him Sam. He was not long out of adolescence, and was gnawed at by his need for recognition. For years, he and his bandmates had been plastering the internet with tracks, hoping to attract attention, but without much luck.
When I moved in, I was dimly aware that my new flatmate sang, but I didn’t own a TV, so what little coverage they’d received had passed me by. I imagined them performing in dismal, carpeted pubs on the North Circular and getting the bus home.
Then, one Saturday afternoon not long after I moved in, I went to get my hair cut. While my head was being scrubbed, I opened the magazine I’d picked up on the way to the basin and there, on my lap, was Sam, styled like James Dean with shadow obscuring most of his face.
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