Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  ‘What are you doing here, Si?’

  ‘Making a crappy bolognese.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘I had a spare twelve hours so took a flight from Edinburgh. Got to be back by six o’clock tomorrow.’

  I felt a rush of gratitude. ‘That’s so sweet, Si. Thank you.’

  His kindness, not to mention the tempting smell, made me feel guilty about momentarily resenting his presence.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get back in time for the funeral, Frixie.’

  ‘It’s okay. Zak helped.’

  He closed the distance between us and folded me into a hug. It was comforting to feel his arms around me, and unlike the night at Georgia’s, there was no heat between us. But it was exactly what I needed.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ he said, when we stepped apart.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why don’t you go run a bath? This needs at least half an hour.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Go, and when you come back this will all be ready.’

  I squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks, Si.’

  A bath would only send me to sleep, so I opted for a hot shower. I found some grapefruit body scrub and rubbed my limbs until they tingled. I towelled myself dry, taking the edge off my tiredness.

  The temperature had dropped, so I dug out some flannel pyjamas and wrapped myself in the terry-towel dressing gown I only ever wore when I was unwell.

  I joined Simon at the kitchen table. He’d set it with a steaming bowl of tagliatelle and chilled wine. The combination of the rich sauce and crisp Sancerre was exactly what I needed to feel part of the human race again.

  After we’d eaten, I surprised both of us when I refused a second glass of wine.

  ‘Mug of tea instead?’ he asked.

  I nodded and was about to get up, but he insisted I go and relax on the sofa while he made it.

  I put on a playlist of mellow nineties hits. The old-school tunes reminded me of being a kid again, a time without responsibilities, when the biggest worry I had was whether that red splotch on my chin was going to turn into a zit or not.

  All Saints’ ‘Never Ever’ was playing when Simon returned with two mugs of tea.

  ‘Great song,’ he said, sitting down next to me.

  ‘How’s your trip been so far?’ I said, aware that we’d only talked about me since he’d got here.

  He took a sip of tea and frowned. ‘Let’s not talk about work. I’m getting boring in my old age, because I was dragged to a heavy metal concert in Stockholm by a client and I actually heard myself announce: “This isn’t music!” just like your dad whenever we played “Smells Like Teen Spirit” ’.

  I smiled. ‘We played that a lot.’

  ‘And who knew metal was so big in Scandinavia?’

  ‘I did, actually.’

  He grinned. ‘You don’t count.’

  He left by 10.30. I’d offered him the sofa bed, but he’d insisted he leave.

  ‘I’ve got to be up in . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘Four and half hours. No need to wake you up too. Sleep tight, Frixie.’

  Over the next couple of days I wrote two obits for Patrick – one for a trade paper and one for Re:Sound.

  Then, on Tuesday morning, as I arrived at work, I received a text from Nick:

  Marcie can see you today at 6pm – can you make it?

  Holy cow.

  I typed back a feverish YES and stared at my computer screen, trying to decide what to do. I opened a document I’d created months ago with possible questions to ask Marcie. Was it finally going to happen?

  A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with another text from Nick. It was an address in St John’s Wood – her home, as far as I knew. This was getting more and more surreal.

  Then a third text:

  Will text you today’s password protocol later.

  When the rest of the team arrived, I stood up and called for their attention.

  ‘Guess who’s got a hot date with Marcie Tyler?’

  Gavin frowned. ‘One of the Love Island guys, according to the tabloids.’

  Lucy gave the back of his head a friendly thump. ‘Oh my God, Zoë. It’s you, isn’t it?’

  I nodded and the room erupted into whoops and cheers. It brought Mike running to join us, which saved me a trip to his office.

  ‘I’m going to sleep well tonight,’ he said, before slipping out again.

  *

  By 4.30, I’d checked and rechecked my dictaphone was fully charged and had enough available memory. I printed out my questions, then headed off.

  I got to St John’s Wood at 5.30. Every other house was being renovated; architects’ boards hung from wrought-iron gates while diggers shifted earth to carve out basements. Paul McCartney was rumoured to have a house around here. Did he and Marcie ever bump into each other at the corner shop that charged £3.60 for a small bottle of water? Of course, Marcie probably had assistants to nip out for her when she ran out of loo roll. But famous people are like everyone else. I once bumped into Jerry Hall buying Häagen-Dazs in a Richmond convenience store at midnight. A sweet tooth is a great leveller.

  I kept checking my phone, paranoid that Nick was going to cancel, or that he’d forget to send the password. However, at ten to six I got a single-line text from him:

  You’re Bonnie – ask for Clyde.

  I texted back a thank you, then turned my phone to silent.

  From what I could tell, Marcie’s house was surrounded by an eight-foot-high red-brick wall. It was innocuous enough, until you noticed the security cameras angled high above. It wasn’t the biggest house in the street, but then again, you couldn’t really see it from the street. A black wooden door in the wall was the only point of entry, and even then, it would only grant you access to the front garden.

  I pressed the button on the entryphone at exactly six. It made no noise; it simply flashed blue.

  Seconds passed and nothing happened. My finger hovered over the chrome box, poised to press again, but then I heard a crackly voice. ‘May I help you?’

  It was a male voice, which threw me. But had I really thought Marcie would answer her own bell?

  Time to test Nick’s trustworthiness. ‘It’s Bonnie.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  A faint barking came from the tinny box.

  I cleared my throat. ‘It’s Bonnie and I’m here to see Clyde.’

  Silence. Any second now, I was going be told the police had been called. Any second now . . .

  ‘Come in, Bonnie.’

  The door clicked open. I couldn’t believe it, and half expected it to slam shut again. I pushed against it tentatively and it swung open. The barking was growing louder. Great. They’d released the hounds and I was about to get mangled by a pack of angry dogs.

  I moved stiffly along the gravelled path, trying to remember what all those dog-whispering shows said about asserting dominance over dogs and avoiding getting mauled to death. Then a female voice issued a sharp ‘Down!’ and the noise stopped.

  The path led to a stuccoed building with Georgian arched windows and a glossy black door. On either side of me was striped grass and out of the corner of my eye I caught an ancient stone sundial.

  I climbed two steps and raised my hand to knock on the door, but before I could, it creaked open and a Staffordshire bull terrier stuck its face around it. Its mouth was the width of its head and its teeth shone with saliva. It growled at me and I froze.

  ‘Come back here now, Saffron.’

  The dog backed away, and in its place, a looming figure in a long-sleeved black dress and bare feet appeared.

  ‘Don’t mind Saffie, she’s harmless.’

  Marcie was taller than I remembered. Thinner, too. When she turned to let me though the door, her collarbones jutted out under her fair skin.

  We were in a cavernous hall with a herringbone wood floor that shone like a conker and was probably over a hundred years old. Every single one of my musical idols had probably crossed this floor. One was here i
n the flesh now, offering me a drink.

  ‘I’ve just opened a bottle of wine.’

  Wait a sec.

  She was just out of rehab; she shouldn’t have been drinking. Saying yes was enabling her, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was non-alcoholic . . .

  ‘What sort of wine?’ I blurted.

  She frowned in concentration. ‘Red, I think.’

  She’s joking, right?

  She motioned for me to follow her and I found myself in a corridor lined with gold discs. We were heading to the back of the house, towards an even bigger garden than the one out front. I peered discreetly through every doorway we passed.

  Was that her sea-foam green Telecaster propped up against a bookcase? The one she had slung low on her hips on the cover of Day By Day – the first album I ever bought? Bloody hell.

  I hurried to catch up with Marcie and found her in the kitchen. Saffie the Staffie was now curled up in a dog basket next to a double-sized Aga. Marcie was sitting at a black granite breakfast bar and she nodded for me to sit opposite her, where a glass of red wine was waiting for me.

  The bottle was almost empty. She clearly hadn’t just opened it.

  I slid onto a bar stool and knocked my knees against the table. The impact made my nerves tingle, and produced a loud whack, but Marcie didn’t react. My bag hung limply from my shoulder. I moved it to my lap, unzipped it and took out my recorder. ‘Is this okay?’

  Marcie smiled and I was struck by how beautiful she was. High cheekbones, perfect skin, unfussy, dark, glossy hair. ‘You won’t need it.’

  I didn’t like the sound of this. I’d done interviews before without my dictaphone, but it wasn’t ideal. It didn’t look like I had much choice, though. ‘No problem, I’ll just make notes.’

  ‘No notes, either.’

  My hand was in my bag, searching for a pen and notepad. I stopped.

  ‘No notes? You want me to rely on my memory?’

  ‘You’re not going to repeat anything we say.’

  What did she mean? ‘Nick said you’d agreed to an interview.’

  ‘I’ve done no such thing.’

  My heart sank. I was going to bloody kill him. ‘So, why did you agree to see me?’

  ‘This is a pre-interview interview. We’re simply going to chat and if I decide I like you, I will allow you to interview me.’

  Okay, maybe this wasn’t so bad. ‘So I can get you on the record afterwards?’

  She took a slug of wine. ‘Well, I’ll need some time to decide.’

  My neck muscles tensed. ‘How much time?’

  ‘A few days, a couple of weeks. We’ll see.’

  Shit. I didn’t have a couple of weeks. And Nick had expressly told me I would be interviewing her. He was going to have some serious explaining to do.

  ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  I nodded. Was that going to count for me or against me? ‘At the piano shop, I played a tune for you.’ This wasn’t the time to mention we’d seen each other at the cemetery, too.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she drained her glass, and then reached for the bottle. There was only enough left to fill half her glass. She turned the bottle upside down, tapped the bottom and eked out a few more drops.

  Oh boy.

  ‘I’ll go and get another bottle. Give me two seconds.’ And with that, she floated out of the room.

  I let out a long breath. I really needed a drink. And she really didn’t need a drink. I massaged my temples, trying to think straight. What the hell was I supposed to do? I grabbed my phone and was halfway through dialling Nick, when I heard footsteps. I hung up and swivelled round. But of course, it wasn’t Marcie. She’d been barefoot. This was a bloke I’d never seen before – most likely the person whom I’d spoken to on the intercom. He was wearing white cotton yoga pants and clogs.

  He nodded at me then set about opening a tin of dog food. ‘I’m Ronan, by the way,’ he said over his shoulder as the meaty smell of Pedigree Chum wafted towards me. ‘I’m the chef.’ He was dividing the dog food into two bowls. Saffie must have had a little doggy brother or sister. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

  Was he talking to the dogs or me?

  ‘I ate before I came,’ I deadpanned.

  Ronan slumped his shoulders. ‘Oh, shame.’ He turned back to his task.

  Something brushed by my leg, making me jump. A white poodle was looking up at me expectantly, but at the sound of cutlery tapping a bowl, mooched over to Ronan.

  ‘There you are, Noodle. I knew you’d appear when you smelt food.’ He turned to me. ‘He sleeps all day, this one.’

  Saffie was stretching in her basket, her nose twitching the air. ‘Come on then, beautiful,’ said Ronan. ‘Let’s have dinner outside. Marcie’s got a guest today.’ He headed out through a patio door and both dogs trotted after him.

  I checked my watch. Shit. It was gone half-past and I was officially only allowed an hour. Where was Marcie?

  For all I knew she’d fallen asleep somewhere. It was obvious that she was well and truly pissed. She wasn’t just nervous or a bit tipsy, she was hammered. However much I didn’t like it, I needed to pass her pre-interview interview and she needed to be sober to remember it. A shiny red Nespresso machine caught my eye. If I could make her a coffee or something, and help her sober up, I might be able to salvage things.

  I got up and made a show of stretching. I couldn’t see Ronan in the garden, which hopefully meant he couldn’t see me. Maybe if I just went through the door Marcie had left by, and called her, she’d remember I was still waiting for her.

  The doorway led to a living room. The carpet felt plush underfoot. It was thick-piled wool, not the crappy nylon stuff that covered my floors. In the centre of the room were two cream leather sofas facing each other and not the TV – the way they’re arranged in glossy magazines. And a chest below a sash window looked like it belonged in Hampton Court Palace – the wood was almost black with age. Everything was natural and traditional; no designer perspex chairs or ultra-modern cabinets.

  It was a grown-up’s room and however much of a bust this interview was turning out to be, it was still nice to know that Marcie had taste.

  And just as I was admiring how classy everything was, Marcie appeared in the doorway and belched. She’d added a tartan ski hat and Arsenal scarf to her ensemble and was cogent enough to notice me staring.

  ‘Got a bit cold in the cellar.’ She held up two dusty bottles of wine like trophies. ‘Go and get a corkscrew, Bonnie, love. There’s one in the kitchen somewhere.’

  ‘I was thinking maybe let’s leave the drinking for now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a prude. Wine’s barely alcohol.’ She thrust the bottles at me. ‘Get a move on. I’m thirsty and we haven’t got all day.’

  22

  Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

  I lumbered to the kitchen carrying the wine. The labels on the bottles were coming unstuck – much like I was.

  What was I supposed to do?

  Okay, my priority was to keep a clear head, but not look like I wasn’t drinking. My untouched glass was sitting on the counter; I emptied it into the sink, refilled it with water and drank it in one go, hoping it would dilute any alcohol I was going to have to consume.

  But what about Marcie? I didn’t want to encourage her to drink, but would she listen if I tried to stop her? She’d most likely kick me out.

  My best bet was to bring her one glass and try to distract her from drinking any more by keeping her talking. The only problem was I wasn’t sure how much sense I’d get out of her – she’d called me Bonnie, for God’s sake.

  I fixed the drinks and went back to the living room. Marcie had sunk into one of the sofas with her feet tucked underneath her. Her eyes were closed, but they opened when the wine glasses clinked against the coffee table as I set them down.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d got lost, Bonnie.’

  I sat down. ‘My name’s not Bonnie, it’s Zoë, and I’m here to talk
about an interview for Re:Sound.’

  She heaved herself upright. ‘I know perfectly well who you are.’ Her tone was sharp. ‘But there’s no hurry. We can have a drink first.’

  ‘I thought I only had till seven and it’s almost quarter to.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Your publicist.’

  ‘Well, it’s poppycock. I’ve got no other plans and Ronan won’t have dinner ready till at least eight. You have to stay – he’s making scaloppini.’

  She was asking me to stay for dinner? I guess that boded well.

  ‘I’d love to – thanks.’

  She humphed with satisfaction and reached for her glass.

  Not good.

  ‘Maybe we can save the wine for dinner,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m a bit of a lightweight.’

  She waved dismissively. ‘For heaven’s sake, child, what harm can a couple of glasses of wine do?’

  To the liver of an alcoholic? Plenty.

  I looked around, searching for a neutral conversation-starter. ‘You have a beautiful house.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I was hoping she’d elaborate.

  ‘Do you collect art or antiques? That chest in the corner looks Jacobean.’

  ‘That’s because it is.’

  ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘Years and years. It was a present from some count or other.’

  Hello, this was promising. ‘A count?’

  ‘Yes, I forget his name. Italian. Had alopecia.’

  His lack of hair seemed a side issue. ‘Was there a particular reason for the gift?’

  She reached for her wine. ‘I probably sang for him at a party or something. It was the eighties – we did that sort of thing.’

  ‘Where was this party?’

  She seemed to go into a daze. With any luck she was remembering a masked ball in a centuries-old castle in the Dolomites and an infatuated bald count in rapt attention.

  ‘A function room in a hotel in the Midlands.’

  Oh. I tried not to show my disappointment.