Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  ‘Baxter!’ She beamed, her eyes fixed on Simon.

  Simon smiled right back, obviously delighted that she’d recognised him.

  ‘Jess. How great to see you!’

  I couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were glassy from drink – she’d evidently started the after-show party early.

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then blinked up at the rest of us.

  ‘Jess, these are my friends,’ said Simon and introduced us all.

  Pete had grown pale and was standing unnaturally stiffly. He’d been quite taken by Jessica Honey back in the day, but he needed to rein in the starstruck act. She wasn’t Beyoncé, for God’s sake.

  ‘Pete, sweetie,’ said Alice, once Jess had shaken everyone’s hands. ‘Could you get them to add some ice to my wine? I should have asked for a spritzer. I hate drinking on Sunday nights.’

  As Pete took Alice’s drink back to the bar, she said to me in a low voice: ‘Pete was going to say something embarrassing – I thought it best to intervene.’

  She followed him to the bar, leaving me with Jess and Simon.

  ‘You remember Zoë, don’t you, Jess?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You’re the rock journo. I love Re:Sound. I should send you my new demo.’ Without waiting for me to respond, she downed half her beer in one go. ‘Right, I need to get moving. Not long till my set starts.’

  ‘Okay, catch you later,’ said Simon.

  She took a couple of steps backwards then changed her mind.

  ‘Come and keep me company, Baxter. You were always great at calming my pre-gig nerves.’

  Simon looked at me, as if to ask permission.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I told him. I wasn’t thrilled with this turn of events, but what else was I supposed to do?

  Simon nodded, then followed Jess towards the stage door.

  Great.

  Alice and Pete had gone and now Simon. I was left by myself, feeling like a lemon in my yellow top.

  Fun evening this was turning out to be. Why was I even here?

  Professional curiosity was why. Jess had been a hell of a singer and I wanted to know if she still had it. And however much she’d intimidated me with her natural confidence when we were nineteen, I had to admit she’d had a spark that should have sustained a much longer career. And of course, she’d spent time with Marcie, even jamming with her during a couple of gigs. I knew because I had the bootleg CD.

  The club had swelled with people and the music had gone up in volume, too, which meant we were getting close to showtime.

  I usually like to stand in the centre, about halfway to the front – it’s where the acoustics are best, but tonight I didn’t care. Instead, I burrowed my way to one side, till I was flush against the wall. Everything sounded muted and dulled, almost as if the gig was happening in another room.

  How different tonight was to the last gig I’d been to with Simon. We’d been fifteen and had snuck into the Electric Ballroom, giggling like the school kids we were, sharing a bottle of blue Mad Dog. I still had the ticket stub – The Angry Crickets, with special guests Silver Finger. I don’t remember what they were like because halfway through the first song Simon had rushed to the loo to throw up – the fortified wine had not agreed with him. Or maybe it was the four cans of White Lightning we’d bought from the offie beforehand.

  Maybe a drop of cider would help this evening go a bit quicker. My wine glass was empty and I was about to go to the bar when I stopped still.

  There was a man in profile leaning on the bar who looked a lot like Nick Jones.

  Shit.

  He turned his head in my direction and I slunk back into the shadows. He was the last person I wanted intruding on my Sunday night.

  The music industry was a small world, but what would he be doing at a Jessica Honey gig? Could it be related to Marcie Tyler? I glanced back, but he’d disappeared. Or maybe I’d just imagined him.

  A moment later, the lights went down, and figures stole onto the stage. A slow drumbeat began, accompanied by a thumping bass that I could feel from my soles to my sinuses. The club was only half full, but I could feel the tide of people being pulled forward, closer to the empty mic stand at the front of the stage.

  I’d been to hundreds of gigs, and no matter who was playing, the few seconds just before show time were charged with an anticipation that always made me hold my breath.

  A brilliant flash of light announced Jessica’s arrival and she bounded onto the stage, a ball of energy against a white backdrop that announced her name in jagged lettering last popular with eighties metal bands.

  Lead and rhythm guitars joined the bass and drums, and then Jessica stepped forward and lifted up the mic. I’d forgotten how powerful her voice was. Even here, in the corner where it should have sounded muffled, the clarity of her voice gave me goosebumps. Without realising, I had taken several steps forward, as if pulled by a magnet.

  And there in the front row was Simon, one fist pounding the air, beaming at her like a proud father.

  No, his wasn’t the face of a proud father, it was something entirely different. He was smitten. The disappointment was like a shove in the chest.

  I was being silly. Jessica was performing, it wasn’t the real her on stage, it was a persona, one she’d honed from hundreds of sold-out gigs.

  She barely acknowledged the audience, singing with her head tilted back and her eyes half-closed, as if she was performing to an empty room. Her body swayed to the music, but I could tell she was nervous. Her hands gave her away. Her pale fingers were coiled tightly around the microphone, as if she were hanging on for dear life.

  It took a lot of guts to put yourself out there. Lead singers needed swagger, but it was almost always bravado. They were often the most insecure person in the band. The spotlight hid as much as it revealed.

  She sang four songs, and then to my surprise, she was bowing goodbye. She couldn’t have finished already, she hadn’t sung any of her hits. I hadn’t recognised any songs. Were they all new numbers?

  She waved to the crowd as she headed off stage, but her smile faded before she’d disappeared behind the curtain. She looked sick with nerves. I felt a twinge of sympathy, but then she motioned for Simon to follow her backstage and the two of them were swallowed by the darkness.

  Well, that was annoying. Should I go after them, or wait? The lure of alcohol won, so I got myself a drink, then schlepped up to the balcony where I’d have the best view of the stage door and found a table with an uninterrupted view of downstairs.

  The wine had been pretty undrinkable so I’d switched to a bottled beer.

  I took a sip and winced. The beer was horribly sour. It was a brand I’d never heard of, written in a Cyrillic script dotted with strange accents. I absently scored my thumb around the soggy label, trying to remove it in one satisfying piece and had nearly managed it when a voice cut in.

  ‘Zoë?’

  I turned.

  Nick Jones. Dammit. It had been him. What was he doing here – apart from standing awkwardly under the low ceiling? And wearing a suit, for God’s sake.

  ‘Well, this is quite a coincidence,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m a music journalist. We’re at a gig.’

  He looked incredulous. ‘You’re here in a professional capacity? To see Jessica Honey?’

  He had me there. ‘She’s a friend.’ No need to get specific. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I live nearby and pop in now and then – occasionally there are some diamonds in the rough.’

  It sounded like a blatant lie, but why else would he be here? It wasn’t for the extensive wine list.

  AC/DC’s ‘Back in Black’ was playing over the PA loud enough to prevent awkward silences, but we managed one anyway. No doubt he was still upset over Marcie. Well, sod him, I was here to enjoy myself. Except I was having a shit time – but he didn’t have to know that. The last thing I wanted was to talk about work.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ he sai
d eventually.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I meant it along the lines of “What can I get you?” but now I’m intrigued.’ He picked up the bottle. ‘Mongolian beer? No wonder you look so depressed.’

  That broke the ice. ‘It tastes truly awful.’

  He pointed at the empty seat next to me. ‘May I?’

  ‘Really?’ I hadn’t meant to sound rude. I tried again. ‘What I mean is, I’m not going over the whole piano shop thing again. I did what any journalist would have done – a source told me she’d be there and I followed it up. You’re not blameless either. You went over my head and cut a deal with my publisher. That’s not on.’

  He sat down on the empty chair. ‘Marcie’s quite a nervous character. All sorts of nut-jobs follow her around. She doesn’t like being ambushed.’

  ‘We were having a perfectly cordial conversation.’

  ‘Trust me, you’ll get more out of her when she’s expecting you.’

  I was taken aback. ‘Does that mean I’m off your shit-list?’

  ‘I was made aware of some new facts regarding your altercation with Jonny Delaney that night. He’d sworn to me that he hadn’t provoked you. I was wrong to believe him, and I’m sorry about that.’

  Was my tinnitus playing up or was that an apology? ‘I appreciate that, thanks. Possibly I went too far, but I was feeling a bit emotional about Patrick leaving.’

  ‘You two are close.’

  Ridiculously, that brought a lump to my throat so I just nodded.

  ‘You and I need to make a fresh start.’ He pulled out a silver case from his breast pocket and handed me a expensively thick card. His details were embossed. No mere ink for Pinnacle’s finest.

  I gave him my own card, which was decidedly floppy and slightly worn, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘So, how about that drink?’ he said.

  He wanted to stay? He’d cleared his conscience; why wasn’t he off on his merry way?

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘You want to buy me a drink?’

  He held his hands up. ‘You’re acting like I’m the first man to offer you a drink. Hell, I doubt I’m the first man tonight.’ He cast a glance at my outfit. ‘Yellow suits you.’

  Was the fucker flirting with me or taking the piss?

  He smiled. ‘You might not like me, but I’m hoping to change your mind. Alcohol helps my case.’

  ‘I’ll only be impressed if my senses are blunted by booze?’

  ‘No, the alcohol’s for me. I don’t usually drink much, but I needed a whisky before I could come over.’

  ‘A music publicist who doesn’t drink? Careful, or they’ll lock you in a lab and study you.’

  ‘Well then, you’ll have to keep it quiet.’

  Was he flirting again, or was I imagining it?

  The beer was rank; a fresh drink would help while away the time it took Simon to return. But just as I was about to say yes, the man himself appeared, looking slightly out of breath.

  ‘Oh, Frixie, thank God. I thought you’d left without me.’ He was grinning, but when he noticed Nick his smile faded. ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said.

  Nick stood. ‘Let’s get that drink another time.’

  He sloped off, and I was left feeling distinctly puzzled. He wanted to talk about work, right?

  Simon collapsed into the chair that Nick had just vacated. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting. I haven’t spoken to Jess for years and was hoping to have a catch-up. But she’s not on best form tonight. Between you and me, she was kind of a wreck. Her stage fright was so bad, she had to cut her set short.’

  ‘She’s played Wembley and she worries about playing a dive like this?’

  ‘She was just telling me how much her confidence has been knocked since she did that reality show. The press is merciless about her musical ambitions. I really feel for her, you know.’ He smiled shyly. ‘Maybe Re:Sound could do something to rebalance that?’

  I felt for Jess myself. It was hard to be taken seriously as a female musician if you were even remotely attractive, dared to wear a swimming costume on holiday or dated anyone famous.

  However, I wasn’t sure I could just stick her in the magazine as a favour to Simon. I couldn’t say that outright though so searched for something suitably non-committal to say. ‘I hope she’s okay.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Shall we finish our drinks and then go?’

  He’d also ordered the Mongolian beer, but had evidently enjoyed it more than I had – only a couple of inches were left.

  ‘I might leave mine,’ I said.

  He tipped back his head, drained his bottle then smacked it onto the table. It wobbled a couple of times, before righting itself.

  ‘Was that guy hitting on you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were sitting together for ages. I saw you from downstairs. Who was he?’

  Was that a smidgeon of jealousy?

  ‘It was no one,’ I said, smiling broadly. ‘Just someone from work.’

  10

  You Can’t Hurry Love

  I slept badly that night. My head was full of Jessica, Simon and, bizarrely, Nick. I had hated seeing Simon fawning over Jessica, but my encounter with Nick had produced one unexpected benefit: Simon had been seriously irked by his presence. He kept asking faux-innocent questions about him on the tube ride home, which I’d nonchalantly brushed off. He apologised for not inviting me back to his hotel bar, citing an early start the next morning, and instead suggested we meet for dinner.

  My goodwill towards Nick lasted only as long as it took me to turn on my phone the next day. At 8.37 a.m., as I was trying to squeeze out a bit of toothpaste from an almost empty tube, he was leaving me a voicemail about how we needed to talk about Hands Down. God, couldn’t the man let me have breakfast before pestering me about that stupid band? I don’t know what he’d been playing at last night – but in the cold light of day, I could safely say he hadn’t been flirting.

  I got to the office an hour or so later and went over the layouts Rob had left for me on Friday. He’d joined the magazine at the same time as me, starting as an assistant in the Art Department. Now he was art editor and the department was just him. He was a gentle giant who never swore or raised his voice. He quietly got on with sorting out the look of the magazine by himself, issue after issue, never complaining. I found him by the kitchen, but before I could tell him how happy I was with his new layouts, he sailed past me, his tall frame even more hunched than usual.

  ‘It’s a war zone in there,’ he muttered, nodding towards Gavin and Lucy behind him. He sloped back towards his desk, while I went to investigate what the gruesome twosome were getting so worked up about.

  They appeared to be having an animated conversation about getting stuck in a lift. Lucy was illustrating the drama by waving a teaspoon in the air and feigning a bout of mild hysteria, while Gavin was nodding and nervously running his hand over his shaved head. I didn’t blame him. Lifts are scary enough without worrying about getting stuck in one.

  ‘We’ve got a great idea to pitch to you, Zoë,’ said Lucy, brandishing the teaspoon in my direction.

  ‘It was my idea,’ interjected Gavin.

  ‘Was not!’ said Lucy, shaking her head, which made her pink plait sway from shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, in my best United Nations negotiator voice, ‘Conference room in five minutes.’

  ‘Conference room’ was Lucy and Gavin angling their chairs towards my desk. The actual conference room was used as a stationery cupboard slash unofficial sick-bay, pressed into service when someone’s hangover required them to lie down with a ream of A4 for a pillow – personally, I preferred to use a folded-up jacket.

  This conference was going remarkably well. The idea they were pitching was a new feature called ‘Stuck In A Lift With . . .’

  Gavin was explaining how it would work. ‘We ask confessional questions, like what’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told, or who’s
your secret crush.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lucy. ‘And the lift is hurtling to the ground so you’re moments from death and these are the last things you’ll ever say – it’ll be fun!’

  I wasn’t sure ‘death-by-lift’ and ‘fun’ belonged in the same sentence, but I still liked the idea.

  Gavin held up a finger as if he was about to announce world peace. ‘Or maybe it could be a plane that’s about to crash.’

  Lucy nodded enthusiastically and they both looked at me expectantly.

  ‘It’d be easier and cheaper to photograph in a lift,’ I said, and I even felt a bit miffed at my sudden metamorphosis into a killjoy.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, Zo,’ said Gavin. ‘And anyway, “Stuck In A Lift” is catchier.’

  ‘Short and snappy,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s why my original idea was so good.’

  ‘Your idea?’ said Gavin.

  ‘Let’s just say you both came up with it,’ I said hastily, not wanting to get dragged into it again. ‘Let’s move on to who we’d like to feature.’

  I opened my notepad and poised my pencil before it dawned on me: ‘Jonny Delaney’s crappy boy band!’

  Gavin’s jaw dropped, and Lucy dipped her head and stared at me over imaginary glasses. Anyone would think I’d suggested cutting their baby in half.

  ‘Hear me out,’ I pleaded. ‘I need a back-up plan in case we get held over a barrel to put Hands Down in the magazine – this way it’ll be tongue-in-cheek.’

  ‘I ’spose that makes sense,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lucy.

  I felt a bit bad for deflating everyone’s enthusiasm, but they weren’t the ones fighting a publisher and a pushy PR man. Nor did they need to count sheep to sleep soundly, whereas the woolly fuckers kept me up all night bleating scary sales figures.

  When I got home that evening, Simon was waiting outside my flat.

  Seeing him made my heart thump. He always looked so comfortable in his skin. He was sitting on a low wall in his faded jeans and white shirt, stroking Snowy under her chin. She looked ready to dissolve into a puddle of pleasure. Watching his hands move made me feel the same way. He had a way of holding himself that was so effortlessly sexy.