Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  ‘It will be nice to meet your friend.’

  We agreed on a time to meet and I rang off.

  Seems I’d made my decision quite easily – I’d be keeping Nick’s identity a secret. I felt a smidgeon of guilt. Was I pimping out Jess to get to Marcie?

  No, I decided. I was trying to heal a rift between the two of them. My motives were pure.

  Sort of.

  At the office the next day, I forced myself to work on a feature I’d been putting off. It had started off as a light-hearted piece about classic T-shirts, featuring album covers that had seeped into mainstream culture: the Rolling Stones’ ‘tongue and lips’, The Clash’s Mick Jones smashing his guitar into the floor, the red and blue circles of The Who’s Quadrophenia. But somewhere along the way, Mike had insisted we needed to add links to where readers could buy the T-shirts, and now the whole thing had turned into a messy advertorial that made me want to pull my hair out. Then Mike had told me how much the advertisers had paid to be featured and I’d had to do my hair-pulling in private.

  It was a long and frustrating day and I wasn’t exactly jumping up and down with joy at this evening’s offerings – another Jess gig. I’d been so uncomfortable with what I’d worn at the last concert that this time I made sure to dress appropriately.

  I went home to shower and then changed into yoga-style linen trousers and a black vest. I blasted my hair dry, then applied mascara and eyeliner.

  I stopped to study myself in the hall mirror before I left.

  Maybe I’d overdone it with the MAC paint pot. I hadn’t worn eyeliner this thick for ages. Why had I felt the urge tonight? A memory of something Simon had said years ago surfaced. He’d said he liked the fifties look. I was tempted to scrub it all off – the last thing I wanted was to look like I was trying too hard. But dammit, that tick along my upper lids was perfect. And anyway, it was almost eight and I needed to get going.

  Simon had put my name on the guest list and suggested we meet backstage before the gig. I’d sent the same details to Nick, except I’d told him to come twenty minutes later.

  The gig was in Camden again. A poster outside listed the artists on tonight – Jess’s name wasn’t among them, but I guess she must have been a last-minute addition.

  Instead of going via the front, I detoured down the alley next to the club, to the stage door. The smell of urine reared up from the pavement. Was the hem of my trousers trailing in stale wee? Gross. I tiptoed as fast as I could to the threshold.

  A goateed man in a Motörhead T-shirt was guarding the entrance.

  He held up his hand. ‘Have you got a pass, love?’

  ‘I’m Zoë Frixos – I’m on the guest list.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Try Simon Baxter.’

  ‘Is that name supposed to mean something?’

  I frowned. This was odd, but not totally unexpected. Simon wasn’t the most organised of people. I was obviously going to have to go via the front.

  ‘She’s with me, Stan.’

  I turned round to see Nick. He was early. And how had he managed to get into Goatee Stan’s good graces so quickly?

  Stan held the door open and gestured for us to go through.

  ‘After you,’ said Nick.

  I swept through, feeling confused. We went down a concrete staircase, which opened into a dimly lit corridor, and claustrophobia gripped my gut. I quickened my step – the faster I found the dressing room, the better.

  ‘You don’t think it’s odd that the doorman didn’t know who Simon was?’ said Nick, who was close behind.

  I shrugged, not caring if he could see me or not. The corridor was getting narrower and my throat felt like it was closing.

  ‘There’s an obvious reason that you haven’t quite grasped yet,’ he continued, from the shadows. ‘Neither Simon nor Jess is coming tonight.’

  I spun round.

  Nick didn’t stop fast enough and my forehead hit his chin. For a second, I saw stars and then I was tumbling backwards.

  Before I could fall, his hands were around my shoulders, pulling me towards him.

  Woozy, I found my face flattened against his lapel.

  Embarrassing.

  I took a couple of steps back. ‘What did you say?’

  He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language – and not one of the seventeen he could speak. ‘Fine, skip the part where you thank me for saving you from cracking your head on the concrete floor.’

  Really? He was calling out my etiquette? ‘I wouldn’t have run into you if you hadn’t been pressed up against my arse.’

  ‘I wasn’t pressed up against your arse.’ He said the words slowly. A bit distastefully, actually. Like my arse wasn’t worthy of his time. ‘You stopped suddenly.’

  I wasn’t in the mood to argue, partly because he had a point, but also because Simon had apparently cancelled without telling me.

  ‘I’d know if the gig had been called off,’ I said.

  ‘Jess is on the other side of London.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘How would you know that? Have you got a tracker on her?’

  ‘I know a couple of people who are following her movements.’

  ‘What? Like stalkers, or private eyes?’

  He smiled. ‘No, of course not. Photographers. She’s a bit of a minor celebrity.’

  ‘Paparazzi? Really?’

  Nick tilted his head to one side, amused at my naïveté. ‘That’s the power of reality television. She’s got half a million Instagram followers, but not one of them realises she’s also a talented musician.’

  ‘The internet is full of idiots,’ I muttered, pulling out my phone. I scrolled to Simon’s name. But when I tried to dial, I had no signal. Probably just as well. We wouldn’t be able to hear each other. The muffled vibrations from a last-minute sound-check were bleeding through the walls and raucous male laughter was coming from a room nearby.

  ‘Come and hear it from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘Simon’s here?’

  ‘No, the club manager.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Nick turned down a corridor to his left and nodded at me to follow. Within a few steps, the passage gave out to an office where a man with a long grey beard was sitting behind a desk.

  ‘Tell her what you told me, Jim.’ How the hell was Nick on first-name terms with everyone? Had he been staking out the place since yesterday?

  Jim looked up and steepled his hands. The tip of his little finger was missing. I tried not to stare. ‘They rang half an hour ago and cancelled. Do you know them?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, you can tell them they’re not getting their deposit back. And I’m keeping the buns.’

  Buns? I thought I’d misheard him, then he pointed to a pink-ribboned basket of pastries doing its best to brighten a dusty grey filing cabinet.

  ‘Got it,’ said Nick. ‘No refund, and the baked goods are impounded.’

  He nudged me, trying to guide me out, but I held fast. I needed to know something.

  ‘Did they give a reason for cancelling?’

  ‘She’s unwell. Food poisoning or something.’

  Well, that explained why I hadn’t heard anything. I felt marginally less slighted.

  Jim waved us out and I followed Nick as he steered us into the next room.

  I blinked as he turned on the light and I realised we were in a small dressing room. A bare bulb struggled to banish the gloom, but it was better than nothing. And there wasn’t much to illuminate: a fire extinguisher on the wall and a dark stain on the carpet tiles.

  Nick held out his hand. ‘Pain au chocolat?’

  I hadn’t seen him take it. ‘No, thanks.’

  He finished it in three bites, then brushed the flakes from his hands.

  ‘Maybe you should go back and distract him so I can get another one.’

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I checked my phone again. Now, I had reception – and two texts from Simon. The first apologising and the n
ext suggesting we all meet up in a restaurant. Wait, wasn’t Jess supposed to have had food poisoning?

  I asked Simon in a text. The reply came back almost immediately.

  ‘What is it?’ said Nick.

  ‘Simon says Jess had stage fright.’

  ‘Not food poisoning?’

  ‘I guess that’s the excuse they gave to the club.’

  My phone buzzed again. This time, Simon had sent the name of the restaurant where they were.

  ‘Do you like French food?’ I asked Nick.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Simon’s suggesting we meet them at a place by Piccadilly. If you still want to meet Jess?’

  ‘A cosy meal, just the four of us? Won’t that be a bit date-ish?’

  He was right, and then it suddenly occurred to me that if Nick wanted to keep his connection to Marcie under wraps, then we needed to work out our cover stories.

  ‘What do we say when they ask who you are? A friend from work?’

  Nick seemed to think for moment. ‘Let’s tell them I work in your legal department.’

  ‘We don’t have one.’

  He frowned. ‘What do you do when you’ve got a legal issue?’

  ‘We use an outside firm.’

  ‘Okay, I can work for them.’

  ‘Why are you dead set on being a lawyer?’

  ‘I trained as one. If anyone asks anything, I’ll be able to fob them off.’

  ‘What’s wrong with just saying you’re a journalist? You know plenty about that.’

  ‘I was hoping to keep the lies to a minimum.’

  Really? He was suddenly developing a guilt complex? More likely he thought journalism was beneath him. Arrogant prick.

  ‘Okay, we’ll say you’re a lawyer. God forbid they think you’re a lowly hack.’

  *

  Nick’s guilt complex must have been contagious, because in the taxi on the way to Piccadilly I started worrying that I knew nothing about him and that it might be glaringly obvious we weren’t actually friends – or even colleagues.

  ‘So, what sort of stuff do you do in your free time?’

  Nick was in the process of straightening his cuffs – was he actually wearing cufflinks again? – and suddenly stopped.

  ‘You’re asking me if I have any hobbies?’

  ‘It needs to look like we know each other.’

  ‘I wasn’t being facetious. I was just making sure I understood you.’

  ‘Here’s a question I always ask when I’m interviewing: what’s something you like to do that I’d never guess? So none of that going for long walks, watching movies and reading.’

  ‘Zoë, have you been checking out my Tinder profile?’

  ‘Fine, don’t answer me.’

  ‘Okay, here’s something I don’t tell many people. I’ve got three hobbies that all begin with the letter K. Care to take a guess?’

  ‘What the hell starts with a K?’

  ‘Knitting.’

  ‘You knit?’

  ‘Is that weird?’

  I peered at him. Was he taking the piss?

  He smiled. ‘No, I don’t knit. But I was just proving the point that a lot of activities start with the letter K.’

  ‘Riiight.’

  ‘Kick-boxing, karting, karaoke, karate, kung fu, kayaking, kite-flying.’

  ‘Who flies kites for a hobby apart from kids and Mary Poppins?’

  ‘Okay, so you’ve ruled out knitting and flying kites. What about the others?’

  He opened his mouth, but I stopped him. ‘I bet it’s none of those.’ I thought for a second. ‘Kissograms, kleptomania and kerb-crawling.’

  ‘Wow. You don’t think much of me.’

  ‘You really wanted me to guess? I bet you’re a martial arts nut. Karate, kung fu and that other one you mentioned. Am I right?’

  ‘Kick-boxing, kayaking and karaoke.’

  ‘Karaoke?’

  ‘Karaoke.’

  ‘Singing to a backing tape? In public?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t say you’ve never done it.’

  ‘I’ve never done it.’

  ‘You’re missing out.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I do a very moving version of Aerosmith’s “Angel”.’

  Was he serious? ‘You’re an Aerosmith fan?’

  ‘Unfashionable, I know. But Permanent Vacation is a great album.’ He looked at me. ‘Let me guess. You only like their early stuff – the Columbia years.’

  ‘I get it, you think I’m a music snob – but actually, I agree with you. Permanent Vacation is a great album. The steel drums on the title track are a stroke of genius.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Well, who’d have thought we had something in common?’

  He seemed genuinely pleased, like we’d discovered we were connected by an old friend. It wasn’t such a big deal. Loads of people liked Aerosmith. But it was something I’d noticed over the years – music’s peculiar magic to forge bonds between the unlikeliest people.

  A few moments later, the taxi pulled up to the restaurant and Nick jumped out to pay the driver through the window. I tried to thrust a note at him, but Nick waved me away.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, once the taxi had gone. ‘But let me give you half the fare.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’ He gestured towards the restaurant. ‘Shall we?’

  13

  Elegantly Wasted

  It wasn’t a restaurant I’d been to before, or even heard of. It was an upmarket French brasserie called En Grande Tenue and the people going in and out looked moneyed and swanky.

  Guarding the entrance was a doorman, but we must have looked moneyed (Nick) and swanky (me) because he nodded us through.

  My heart sank when I saw we needed to go down into another basement. Did Jess choose these places on purpose? The reception area was dimly lit, the walls lined with red velvet, topped by a low ceiling. The inside of my mouth was as parched as sandpaper, but I tried to swallow the panic down.

  Then Nick’s hand brushed my elbow, guiding me towards a door, and we emerged into a broad corridor, flanked by a cloakroom. It was brighter here, but reeked of incense and almost shook from the thud of music, which seemed to just be a bass-line.

  The woman at the maitre d’s desk gave us a glossy smile. ‘Bonsoir madame, monsieur.’

  Nick fired off some rapid French.

  I blinked. My French GCSE felt like an age ago, but I remembered enough to be able to tell that Nick sounded properly French. I mean, I knew he spoke all these languages, but he sounded native, not just fluent.

  He spoke again, this time more slowly. ‘Nous avons une réservation au nom de . . .’ He turned to me expectantly.

  Sorry, was I supposed to join in? ‘Erm, Simon Bax-tair.’

  The hostess checked her list, then nodded and asked us to follow her. It was weird – Nick’s vowels had always suggested minor public school, but I was suddenly curious about his upbringing.

  ‘Where did you go to school?’ I asked, as we were led through an archway painted in gold leaf.

  Nick paused momentarily, nearly causing a waiter to go into the back of him. ‘I went to an international school near Nice.’ He sounded stiff, but then he seemed to relax. ‘Lessons were in French and English – some Italian and Spanish too. I can teach you all the cool swear words if you like.’

  The conversation stopped as we entered a huge dining room. Mapped around us were at least a hundred tables, all draped with white tablecloths that reached the marble floor. Piercing the din of voices was the chime of cutlery and the chink of glasses.

  Even from twenty metres away, I could see Simon and Jess sitting side by side, their heads bowed deep in conversation, oblivious to the world.

  Simon was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face lit up when he spotted me and my stomach did a little flip.

  ‘Frixie, you made it!’

  Jess was sitting next to him, still dressed in her stage gear. Another off
-the-shoulder top, this time in red. When she leant forward to shake our hands, a silver pendant necklace swung against her cleavage.

  I made the introductions. Neither Jess nor Simon asked any questions as to how I knew Nick or what he did for a living. They took my ‘This is Nick’ as a simple statement of fact and moved on to other things.

  ‘Are you okay, Jess?’ I asked, mainly because it was the polite thing to say.

  ‘I’m grand, petal,’ she said. She looked fine – no trace of nerves. Her eyes were a little unfocused, but that was probably down to a couple of drinks.

  ‘Could you not go through with the gig?’

  Out of Jess’s eye-line Simon frantically started to shake his head.

  It appeared that Jess’s stage fright was not something he should have shared with me.

  She scrunched up her face. ‘They’d sold a grand total of seventeen tickets. I’m not going to play an empty club.’

  I nodded sympathetically, hoping she hadn’t noticed my gaffe. Her tipsiness probably worked in my favour.

  ‘We’ve just ordered a bottle of wine,’ said Simon. He poured a glass for me, but Nick declined.

  ‘Nick must prefer the hard stuff,’ said Jess. ‘And I don’t blame him. Tequila would be excellent right now.’

  ‘I’ll stick to mineral water,’ he replied.

  Jess made a face. We weren’t off to the best start.

  ‘So, Zoë,’ she smiled toothily. ‘What have you been up to all these years?’

  Had she forgotten that we saw each other a few days ago?

  ‘I told you, Jess, she’s the editor of Re:Sound,’ said Simon – with a definite hint of pride. ‘The most influential woman in music.’

  Nick coughed. ‘Is that so?’

  Nick could fuck off. So what if Simon was happy about my career trajectory?

  Simon didn’t take kindly to Nick’s comment either. He looked at him rather sternly, and in something not unlike a schoolteacher’s tone said: ‘So, what do you do, Nick?’

  ‘Well, when I’m not moonlighting as a kissogram, I’m a lawyer.’

  Jess leant forward. ‘Kissogram? Is that a euphemism for male escort?’

  How drunk was Jess?

  Nick took it in his stride, though. ‘The kissogram’s a private joke between me and Zoë.’