Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

Marcie suddenly looked up. Her blue-green eyes were ringed in dark eyeliner, her lashes heavy with mascara. I was caught in her laser stare, my mouth hanging open like a haddock in a fishmonger’s window.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know you’re there, young lady.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Shit, say something, Zoë. ‘I love . . . your boots,’ I said. ‘Suzi D’Arcy, right?’

  She glanced down at her feet as if to check. ‘Yes. Not many people know Suzi.’

  ‘I walk past her shop all the time. Her stuff is beautiful.’

  ‘She made them in this shade especially for me.’

  ‘They’re exquisite.’

  I felt light-headed. I was having an actual conversation with Marcie fricking Tyler. She wasn’t just telling me to sling my hook.

  I thought about paying her another compliment, but then I’d sound like a crazed fan. I’d mean every word of it, but she didn’t need to know the depths of my awe.

  I gave myself a little shake, trying to get back into professional editor mode. ‘I’m Zoë Frixos, by the way, from Re:Sound. I’m friends with Patrick Armstrong. I was hoping to talk to you.’

  She seemed to shrink back on the stool. ‘An interview?’

  ‘I know you don’t like to give them, but you’ve got so much to say, and so much is written about you that you have no control over.’ Oh God, she was going to ask me what I was talking about, and I’d have to admit I had a Google alert on her name and knew about every bonkers rumour that had ever circulated about her. Smooth, Zoë.

  ‘Where did you say you were from?’

  ‘Re:Sound.’

  She made a face. ‘Don’t you usually prefer to interview man-babies who can only play three chords, yet think they’re Jack White?’

  She had a point. The magazine had tended towards whiny guitar-based bands who requested they be interviewed in lap-dancing clubs. It was the first thing I’d put a stop to when I’d taken over two years ago. ‘I’m the first female editor and I want to take the magazine in a different direction. Go back to basics, talk to real musicians and cover real issues.’

  Well, she wasn’t laughing in my face, which was a win. Was she mulling over my offer?

  ‘How did you know I would be here?’

  Damn, it had started off so well. How to reply without getting Dawn into trouble? ‘My office is just round the corner.’ This was true, at least. ‘Sometimes I pop in here.’ Completely untrue.

  ‘Do you play?’

  ‘Piano?’

  ‘No, chess.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, piano. What else?’

  Oh crap, I was getting sass from Marcie Tyler. ‘Yes, but not very well. I’m a music journalist cliché – can’t play well enough to be in a band, so I write about them.’

  I was hoping the self-deprecating shtick would raise a smile, but she didn’t react.

  ‘Play me something.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Play something. I want to hear how this piano sounds.’

  She’d obviously skipped over the fact that I’d just explained I was a terrible pianist. But this was a command, not a request, and besides, I wasn’t sure I could ever refuse Marcie Tyler anything. Panic welled up in my throat, but I forced myself to take a breath. This wasn’t going out on the main stage at Glastonbury, this was a couple of minutes of tinkling on a piano. I could do this.

  What could I still remember to play? Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now’? Carole King’s ‘You’ve Got a Friend’? I’d played them constantly when I was younger, so hopefully the muscle memory would still be in my fingers.

  Marcie stood up and nodded for me to take her place. I sat on the stool, trying not to get distracted by the fact that it was still warm because my idol’s posterior had just vacated it. She stayed behind me, where I couldn’t see her. She was wearing a Chanel perfume; one my mum sometimes wore, except on her it always smelt musty and old-fashioned – on Marcie it smelt fresh and vibrant.

  Sod it, I’d play one of Marcie’s songs. Something only connoisseurs knew – ‘I Don’t Believe in Love’, from one of her early albums. I’d driven my family mad practising it when I was a kid.

  I readied my fingers on the keyboard, then began. The keys felt solid under my fingers, resistant and yielding in perfect proportion.

  I hit a couple of bum notes, but I got through it passably – even the tricky coda.

  When I finished, I heard Marcie clapping. Except when I looked round, I realised the applause wasn’t coming from her. Standing next to her, a smug smile on his face, was Nick Jones. When had that fucker snuck in?

  ‘A woman of many talents,’ he said to Marcie, as if I were an old friend he was introducing.

  I faked a game smile. There was no point saying anything untoward to Nick, not if he and Marcie had a thing going.

  ‘You just happened to be here at the same time as Marcie? That’s quite a coincidence.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ I said, channelling my attention back to Marcie. ‘You were saying we could sit down and chat?’

  Marcie looked at Nick and I knew what was coming. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Maybe another time.’

  A man was striding over from the front door; I recognised him as the driver of the 4×4. He walked her out of the shop and I was left to face off with Nick.

  ‘That was not cool, Zoë.’

  ‘I saw a chance and took it. Any journalist would have.’

  ‘You were harassing a client of mine – and not for the first time. Do you want me to get the police involved?’

  For fuck’s sake. He was kidding, right? ‘I wasn’t harassing Marcie, I was just—’

  ‘Sneaking behind my back.’ His eyes glinted with anger.

  ‘You’re the one sneaking behind backs and inveigling yourself with my publisher.’

  ‘It was a pleasant change talking to someone who understands the relationship between the press and an artist.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘As if Marcie would randomly give a journalist an interview, especially one who butchers her back catalogue.’

  Ouch, that stung. ‘She asked me to—’ I closed my eyes for a second, determined not to let him get to me. ‘I happened to be here and we struck up a conversation.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed it, because it’s the last one you’ll ever have with her.’

  6

  Express Yourself

  It had been an hour since I’d left the piano shop and I still wasn’t feeling any better. I’d gone back to the office to kill time before going out. Rob, our art editor, had left some layouts on my desk, but I was too worked up to give them any attention. Instead, I was torturing myself on the internet, scrolling through job adverts on LinkedIn. Maybe it was time to smarten up my CV. There was a junior reporter’s job going at Shoe and Leather News . . .

  I closed my browser in disgust. Jesus, what was I doing thinking about jumping ship? If Re:Sound went under, what would happen to Lucy and Gav and everyone else who worked here? How would they pay the rent every month?

  Failure was not an option. Not if I wanted to sleep at night. Too many people – friends – were relying on me.

  There had to be another way to get the Marcie interview, and save the magazine.

  I just hadn’t thought of it yet.

  *

  My plans for that evening weren’t exactly setting me ablaze with anticipation. I was having drinks with Alice, my brother’s fiancée.

  It’s not that she was boring, it was just that I didn’t have much in common with her. She didn’t eat fast food, she drank rooibos instead of normal tea, and her Facebook page was full of inspirational quotes against backdrops of sunsets.

  But she meant well. In a fit of either devotion or madness, Alice had agreed to a traditional Greek wedding. She didn’t have any Greek friends, and so she’d asked me to be her proti koumera – which roughly translates as ‘first best lady’. And because I was officially only a ‘best lady’, she could still have a maid of honour and bridesmaids. This placated he
r English friends, a couple of whom were put out at not getting the lead gig.

  She’d planned a bonding evening so we could all meet. It was a pre-hen night, and although L-plates and plastic penises weren’t Alice’s style, I couldn’t rule out her friends bringing them. I was allergic to the female brand of shrieky fun that involved talking about sex and pretending to be Manhattanites à la Sex and the City, rather than denizens of Southall and Penge. They were having dinner at Pizza Express beforehand, but I’d arranged to join them afterwards as I knew something would come up to keep me in the office late.

  If I was honest, the other reason I wasn’t looking forward to it was because I hated being reminded that people my age were happily pairing off. Pete was three years older than me, so it didn’t matter he was getting married. But Alice was two years younger than me – barely out of her twenties. What was she doing waltzing up the aisle? I loved my brother, but had she seen the state of his toenails? Or heard his chainsaw snore? Was she really happy to tie herself to him for ever?

  It took all my willpower not to weasel out of going, and at 9.05 p.m. I was outside The Anchor just off Great Portland Street. It was one of those old-fashioned pubs, stuck in a time warp where hipsters and houmous didn’t exist. Gold lettering on the windows announced a saloon bar and taproom, for God’s sake. But Alice had probably chosen it because it was quiet and we could actually talk to each other. She was practical like that.

  As soon as I was inside, however, I realised my mistake. Blaring out was the Proclaimers’ ‘500 Miles’. But not the original – something much worse: a sea of smiley faces strumming ukuleles.

  Hipsters had taken over here, too.

  We couldn’t stay here. Alice must not have realised when she arranged this get-together. I pulled out my phone. If they were still in Pizza Express, I’d tell them to meet me somewhere else – somewhere quieter.

  ‘Zoë!’ came a cry from my right. Alice was beaming at me from the bar, a glass of wine in each hand. She wobbled over and hugged me, careful not to spill the drinks. ‘Yay! I’m so glad you’re here.’

  Alice was a Pilates instructor and the fittest person I knew. Her lack of body fat meant she could get pissed on a glass of prosecco, and judging by her pinkness she’d passed that milestone ages ago.

  ‘Are we staying? Don’t you want to go somewhere a bit more . . .’ I swept my arm across the vista. ‘. . . Ukulele-free?’

  ‘Annette organised this,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

  She led me to a table towards the back, where it was quieter, and slung her arm around a girl with long blonde hair. She couldn’t have looked more different to Alice, who had a dark pixie cut.

  ‘Zoë, this is my best friend, Annette.’

  ‘The Double-As,’ chirruped Annette. ‘We came up with that when we were ten, when all it referred to was batteries. Now it sounds like a bra size.’ She laughed. ‘Nothing double-A about these puppies.’ She paused to indicate her ample bosom. ‘But it makes a good story.’

  I nodded politely. The speeches would be deathly dull if that counted as a good story in Annette’s book.

  Alice turned to a younger woman sitting beside her. ‘And this is Helen, my baby sister.’

  Baby was right – Helen looked like she was born this century.

  ‘Zoë is my sister-to-be,’ said Alice proudly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve all finally met. You’re the most important people in the world to me.’

  Alice wore her heart on her sleeve, but displays of affection made me uncomfortable.

  ‘I think I’ll go and get that drink now,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Zoë. You just got here,’ said Alice. ‘Helen will go – white wine, right?’ Before I had time to answer, she turned to Annette. ‘Same again?’

  Annette nodded and Helen jumped up. ‘I’ll get us a bottle,’ she said.

  ‘Is she old enough to get served?’ I asked, but no one seemed to hear.

  Annette scooted closer to me. ‘Alice has told us so much about you,’ she said. ‘You’ve got the coolest job ever – and I bet you know loads of cool people. Do you know One Direction?’

  I met Alice’s eye and she mouthed ‘Sorry’. Then she gave her friend a gentle nudge. ‘I’d hardly call One Direction cool.’

  ‘But you love them,’ protested Annette.

  Alice squirmed. ‘I listen to them in the gym sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘Most of the time I’m stuck in the office or at boring meetings.’ I was only half lying. My job always looked more glamorous from the outside.

  ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word boring until you’ve worked in an accountant’s office,’ said Alice. ‘I’m so grateful I got out.’

  Annette thumped the table with her fist, making me jump. ‘Tonight’s not about work,’ she decreed, ‘it’s about fun!’ She ducked under the table and started rummaging through a holdall.

  Oh God, she was going to produce a tacky bridal veil, or worse, co-ordinating pink T-shirts with ‘hilarious’ slogans.

  She reappeared, however, brandishing a ukulele. ‘Ta da!’

  She held it out to me like it was Excalibur. ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’

  ‘Play it, silly,’ she replied. ‘It’s just like a guitar.’

  I looked at it uncertainly. ‘It’s only got four strings.’

  ‘Even easier,’ said Annette, with the wisdom of the truly non-musical.

  Before I could argue, a bloke appeared at our table. He was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘Ukes Not Nukes’. He handed us a sheaf of sheet music before moving off to the next table.

  I flicked through the pages. The music was in tab form, which meant it showed you exactly where to put your fingers on the frets. No musical knowledge required.

  *

  A quarter of an hour later, with a full glass of wine in me, I was poised with the ukulele and all four of us were watching the screen in the corner to read the ticker-taping lyrics. The song that popped my uke cherry was ‘Over the Rainbow’, and against all odds it was surprisingly pretty. A hundred strangers in a room channelling their inner Judy Garland – while looking like George Formby.

  I have to admit, it was fun. Annette, Alice and Helen were unexpectedly good singers, and once I got the hang of it, I made a pretty mean ukulele player.

  By the time the break came I was breathless. The fingers on my left hand throbbed from pressing down on the strings, but I didn’t care. I was guarding the table while the Double-As went to the bar and Helen went to the loo. I took my phone out to check on my messages and emails.

  My breath caught – I had three texts from Simon.

  Had so much fun earlier. We need to do this again. Soon!!

  I grinned. Those double exclamation marks were so Simon – all bouncing energy.

  God, I’m sooooo bored in this meeting. Am losing will to live . . .

  This second text was sent an hour after the first. But five minutes later he’d sent a third:

  The only thing stopping me jumping out of the window is the possibility that you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night. My fate rests in your hands . . .

  A frisson ran through me. Was he was asking me out? Or was this just dinner with a mate? My thumb hovered over the keypad. What to respond? After a couple of moments I started typing:

  That’ll teach you to not pack your parachute. Oh well, I suppose I’ve got no choice but to say yes.

  I hit send before I could change my mind. But when my phone didn’t ping back after five minutes, I regretted my reply. I started to mentally word another message, but then Helen came back to the table and sat down opposite me, smiling shyly.

  I pointed to the phone in my hand. ‘Sorry about this – I’m expecting a message about work.’ I felt a bit bad lying, but I wasn’t sure how much conversation I could muster with a girl who hadn’t lived through the Y2K computer panic.

  The Double-As came back from the bar – with another bottle o
f wine – and started refilling all our glasses.

  ‘Are you okay, Zoë?’ Alice was looking at me with concern. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

  ‘It’s a work thing,’ said Helen. But a quirk in her lips made me suspect that she hadn’t bought my story.

  Just then my phone pinged and I hastily swiped the screen.

  YESSS!!! Meet me at the hotel restaurant at 8pm tomorrow. PS Should I admit now that I’m on the ground floor? S xx

  I grinned and realised too late that Annette was leaning over my shoulder, reading my message.

  ‘Oooh! Zoë’s got a date!’

  I stuffed my phone into my pocket, but my happy face must have been a dead giveaway.

  ‘It’s no one you know,’ I said breezily.

  ‘Well, of course not,’ said Annette. ‘We’ve just met you! But the way you said that makes me think it’s someone Alice knows. Who’s the mysterious “S” who’s texting Zoë so late at night, Alice?’

  Oh God, when had Annette become so perceptive? A minute ago she was singing the rude version of Depeche Mode’s ‘I Just Can’t Get Enough’.

  I hoped Alice would nip this conversation in the bud, but she just sat there, perfectly upright with her Pilates-strength core muscles, sipping her wine.

  ‘It’s just an old friend who’s visiting London,’ I said.

  ‘A kissy-kissy friend?’ said Annette.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? He signed off with three kisses.’

  ‘No he didn’t.’

  It was just two, wasn’t it? I wanted to pull out my phone and check, but then I’d give the game away.

  ‘Ah! So it is a “he”!’

  Three wine-flushed faces looked at me expectantly. Sod it, why shouldn’t I confide in them? It’s not like they’d ever meet Simon.

  ‘He was my best friend when I was a kid. But now that he’s back I think there might be a spark between us.’

  ‘That’s so nice, Zoë,’ said Alice.

  Helen clapped and Annette grinned. ‘You go, girl!’

  With incredibly bad timing, Mr Ukes-Not-Nukes rocked up at our table.