"GIA!!!" I hear Marc's voice travelling up the stairwell.

"YEAH?"

"TAYLOR'S ON THE PHONE," my brother replies. Taylor! I jump up of my bed and start stampeding down the stairs. Marc hands me the portable phone,

"It's your boyfriend," He teases. I wish. Sort of.

"Shut up, Marco," I retort, knowing hearing me call him by his Italian name will piss him off majorly, and run up the stairs to my room,

"Taylor?"

"Ciao, bella,"

"I'm so glad you rung,"

"Good," he states. I immediately know there's something wrong, there's a tone in his voice.

"What's up?" I ask, concerned. Taylor rarely becomes depressed.

"Nothing,"

"Don't give me that crap,"

"Seriously,"

"Okay, then why do you sound so incredibly down?" I ask. There's a small silence.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah. So, can you tell me?" I ask, hesitantly. I know how difficult it is for Taylor to express what he's feeling in just plain sentences. He just never seems able to state it without extensive probing.

"I don't know, I'm sort of, just depressed,"

"What brought it on?"

"Nothing, really,"

"Taylor,"

"Gia,"

"Come on, just spit it out. You know you'll feel better, you know it,"

"Eh,"

"All right, do you mind me being nosy and asking you about it?"

"No,"

"So that's what I'll do,"

"Okay,"

"Is it a specific incident that's brought it on?"

"Sort of, yeah. It's a string of incidents..." he pauses and I have the feeling he's going to continue so I wait, "Gia, no one takes us seriously. We've worked our asses off for this album and we're going to venues and performing and compared to the albertane tour it's nothing. Half the time we've got these crappy, dingy theatres to perform in. I dunno, I just feel..."

"Down?" I fill in,

"Incredibly down," he says. I'm trying desperately to bite back the tears because I hear the hurt in his voice and I want more than anything to hug him and try to take the fear of failure from him. I don't want my best friend to have to experience this shit. But I know I can't do anything about it because it's been like this from the beginning. Since the promo for Middle of Nowhere he has to put up with pressures that someone else couldn't imagine. Even I, who have comforted him through some of the criticism that's plagued them from the beginning can't begin to comprehend what it's like being ripped to shreds and having to deal with it.

"Can I do anything to make you feel better?" There's a waver in my voice,

"I didn't mean to make you upset!" his voice comes through the line sounding alarmed

"Taylor, I just wish you didn't have to feel this,"

"Me too,"

"Talk more about it to me,"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Are the venues that bad?" I ask. He sighs,

"They're not bad. I mean, we sit there in the interviews and say how it's great because they're more intimate, you can interact with the audience and they have so much history but... they just don't compare to the grandeur of the arenas we've played before. Thirty thousand just doesn't compare to three thousand, y'know?"

"I know," Silence. "But having three thousand turn up at all is brilliant,"

"Mmmm," the doubt clouds his voice.

"Taylor, don't you realise? You're not one hit wonders. You have put out a second album which you wrote on your own done pretty much what you want and which downright rocks. Admit it, This Time Around is brilliant. And the critics are raving about it. It's just the general public who can't seem to have their misconceptions changed. And who cares what they think, if they're jumping on the Backstreet bandwagon then they're obviously not the kinda people who actually have an opinion of what good music sounds like," I say, extremely angry by now. He laughs, "What?" I ask, thrown off by his laughter,

"I love the way you say it with such passion, you've made me feel so much better," he says and I can hear a smile creeping into his voice. "I mean it though, ask any decent musician out there.There are hundreds of performers out there. Britney Spears? She's a performer not a musician. So seriously ask any musician; not a performer, but a musician and they'll say your album by far deserves more recognition than it's getting,"

"You mean it?"

"Look, I listen to it on my discman when I lie in bed. And you know , each time I listen to it I find something that I haven't heard before in any other listen. An album which does that is beyond amazing,"

"Really?" he says thoughtfully, "What did you pick up the last time you listened to it?"

"You do a barely audible 'yeah' at the beginning of 'Sure about it' before you start singing,"

"Just so you know, I'm grinning here," he tells me.

"Good. Do you believe me?"

"Yeah. I'm damn proud of the album, and most of the critics like it but as much as you don't want to admit it the opinion of the plebeians matters," he states, drawling the word "plebeians"

"I know. Acceptance is very important to any human being. It's human nature,"

"It's human nature," he sings the words to the Madonna song,

"Taylor, you're revealing your geeky side,"

"I thought you already knew that I was of my inner geekiness,"

"Point taken," I murmur, he laughs. "So, Have I made you feel better?" I ask, hopefully.

"Definitely,"

"Excellent. And you know, I mean every word of it," I state emphatically. He pauses,

"Thank you,"

"For what?" I ask,

"Just for being there and having this awesome ability to make me feel better,"

"You're welcome," I state simply and he starts laughing. I hear a muffled yell in the background, "Zac's strangling Isaac again?"

"Close enough, Isaac's strangling Zac,"

"Ahhh,"

"Gia, my mom's telling me I gotta get off the phone,"

"Okay,"

"I'll ring you soon, okay?"

"Sure,"

"All right, speak you later,"

"Bye Taylor. Oh Taylor?" I quickly say, hoping he hasn't hung up. But he has. Forget the "plebeians".