Isle of Wight | NEON LIT

The Isle of Wight Festival was organized pandemonium, and I'd been running the backstage for fifteen years. Artist riders, equipment failures, ego management—nothing surprised me anymore.

Then Marcus Cole's tour manager had a complete breakdown.

"He's gone. Just walked out." The assistant was near tears. "Marcus performs in three hours and there's no one to—"

"I'll handle it." I'd never managed a headliner before, but how different could it be from the hundred other crises I'd solved?

Very different, it turned out. Marcus Cole was a genuine rock star—international fame, multiple albums, the kind of presence that made rooms rearrange around him. He was also, against all expectation, reasonable.

"You're not my usual manager," he said, watching me reorganize his dressing room.

"Your usual manager is currently crying somewhere on the mainland. I'm Linda. I run backstage. You're my problem now."

"Do you always call headliners problems?"

"Do you always have staff meltdowns three hours before you perform?"

He laughed—surprised, genuine. "Fair point. What do you need from me?"

"Stay here. Stay calm. Trust me." I checked my clipboard. "I've got your technical requirements memorized. I've dealt with your lighting director. Your sound check is in forty-five minutes. Everything else is handled."

"You're very confident."

"I've been doing this job since before you were famous." I met his eyes. "I handled Bowie in '04. He was harder."

"David Bowie was harder than me?"

"David Bowie wanted things rearranged at midnight. You just want M&Ms sorted by color, which is eccentric but manageable." I smiled. "Now stay put. I'll be back in thirty."

The show was flawless—Marcus rode high on adrenaline and the particular magic of festival audiences. What came after was different.

"I don't know how to thank you." He'd found me in the coordination tent, still running on crisis energy. "That could have been a disaster."

"That's my job."

"Your job is backstage coordination. You stepped up to tour management with no warning." He moved closer. "That's not job description. That's extraordinary."

"I'm practical, not extraordinary."

"Can't someone be both?" His hand found my arm. "Linda. I mean it. You saved my show tonight."

"Then buy me a drink. When the festival's done."

"I'll buy you dinner. Proper dinner, not festival food."

Dinner became drinks, became walking the cliffs at Freshwater Bay, became ending up at my cottage because nothing else made sense. Marcus looked around at my life—the photos from fifteen years of festivals, the memorabilia from artists I'd worked with, the evidence of a career built on invisible excellence.

"This is incredible."

"This is what happens when you do a job no one notices." I poured wine. "You become invisible yourself."

"I notice you." He turned to face me. "I noticed you the moment you walked into my dressing room and took charge. You were—are—the most capable person I've met in years of touring."

"Capable isn't usually considered attractive."

"Capability is the most attractive thing there is." He took my wine glass, set it aside. "Linda. I know this is strange. We met nine hours ago. But I've spent years surrounded by people who want things from me, and you're the first person in I can't remember who just wanted to solve a problem."

"Your problem."

"Which you solved brilliantly." He kissed me, and I let him, tasting expensive whisky and something more primal—attraction, gratitude, the electricity of unexpected connection.

"The bedroom's through there," I said when we broke apart.

"Is that where you want this to go?"

"I want this to go wherever we're going." I pulled him toward the door. "Life's too short for hesitation."

He was surprisingly attentive for a rock star—reputation suggested selfishness, but Marcus was all attention, learning what I needed and delivering it with an intensity that matched his stage presence.

"You're gorgeous," he said, tracing curves that my sensible backstage wardrobe usually hid.

"I'm backstage crew."

"You're the woman who saved my show and then showed me what real capability looks like." He moved inside me with a rhythm that built and built. "That's gorgeous."

We came together while the festival continued somewhere distant, our private show drowning out the main stage. When I cried out his name, it was with the same energy I brought to solving crises—complete, committed, holding nothing back.

"I'm here another two days," he said afterward. "Tour resumes Wednesday."

"I know. I have your schedule."

"What happens after Wednesday?"

"You go back to being a rock star. I go back to being invisible."

"What if I don't want invisible?" He pulled me closer. "What if I want someone who tells me the truth, fixes what's broken, and doesn't care about my fame?"

"That's a lot to ask from a festival hookup."

"This doesn't feel like a hookup." He kissed my forehead. "Come on tour with me. Not as crew—as whatever this is. Figure it out as we go."

I went. Left the festival circuit for rock and roll chaos, trading backstage coordination for something more personal. The music industry raised eyebrows; I didn't care. I'd spent fifteen years being practical. It was time to be extraordinary.

He still performs. I still solve problems—his problems now, personal and professional tangled together. And every night, when the show ends, I'm the one waiting backstage, visible at last to the one person who matters.