Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  She glazed over again. ‘Did Nicky send you?’

  I went blank. Nicky? Who was she talking about? ‘Do you mean Nick Jones?’

  She nodded. ‘He said he was sending someone.’

  Was she having a memory lapse? I thought keeping her from the wine would be my biggest problem. ‘Yes, that’s right. Nick set this up. My name’s Zoë and I’m hoping to interview you for Re:Sound.’

  ‘Zoë?’

  ‘From Re:Sound . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to talk to me like I’m an imbecile.’ She drank from her wine glass. ‘I might be fifty-eight, but I’m not an idiot.’ She smiled. ‘Well, fifty-three according to my Wikipedia page.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  She suddenly looked sad. ‘You knew Patrick.’

  I flinched and tried to hide it by picking up my glass.

  ‘Dear, dear, Patrick,’ she whispered. ‘It was so sudden.’

  I took several sips for Dutch courage because I had a question I’d always wanted to ask.

  ‘Why did you part ways?’

  ‘He was retiring.’

  ‘But you left years before that.’

  She shook her head. ‘Could we talk about something else?’

  Under other circumstances, I might have pushed her to dish on her ex-manager, but not when that manager was a dead friend of mine. It was a moot point, though; she clearly didn’t want to talk about him.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t look like she wanted to talk about anything else. She’d leant her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. Had she fallen asleep?

  I coughed politely.

  Nothing.

  Then I noticed one of her fingers was tapping a rhythm against her thigh. I tried to think of something polite to say to wake her up.

  The skirt of her dress was bunched up to her mid-calf; she had a little tattoo on her ankle that I’d never noticed before.

  ‘That’s an interesting tattoo. Have you had it long?’

  She opened one eye. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She heaved herself upright; mercifully I’d landed on a subject she wanted to talk about. Who’d have known ink floated Marcie’s boat? Funny, I knew so much about Marcie, but I didn’t know she had any tattoos.

  She pulled her skirt to one side to give me a better view. ‘It’s a little seahorse. Gorgeous, isn’t it?’

  It was dark green with red eyes, almost dragon-like. But there was something benign about it and slightly familiar.

  ‘When did you get it?’

  She waved her hand. ‘Oh, a long time ago.’

  ‘Does it have a special meaning for you?’

  She frowned. ‘Dammit, my glass is empty. Are you not drinking yours?’

  She leant forward and took my glass before I could stop her.

  I needed to know more about the tattoo. Every instinct I had was urging me to keep her talking about it. ‘Why a seahorse?’

  ‘I just like them. I had a necklace with the same design. But I lost it.’

  An image floated into my mind. Jessica had worn a necklace with a seahorse at the French restaurant when she’d thrown up. But surely that was just a coincidence.

  My heart thumped. ‘When did you lose it?’

  I mentally crossed my fingers that she’d keep talking.

  ‘About ten years ago. I was touring.’

  I was starting to have butterflies in my stomach. That was around the time Jessica was touring with her. There’s no way Jessica would have stolen it . . . was there?

  ‘It must have meant a lot to you.’

  She nodded and looked strangely vulnerable. ‘I haven’t written a single song since I lost it. Some things once lost are lost for ever.’ Tears were welling in her eyes. She hastily wiped them away. ‘I want you to leave now. I’m tired.’

  Her words were like a punch in the gut. ‘I thought you said I could stay for dinner. Now you’re kicking me out?’

  ‘It’s not my job to feed you, young lady.’

  Before I could protest, I heard the front door slam and the sound of urgent male voices. Had she hit some sort of invisible alarm? Was security about to boot me out?

  Marcie hadn’t seemed to notice the noise, only looking concerned when she heard excited dog barks.

  ‘What’s all the commotion about?’

  The sound of footsteps grew nearer, then through the doorway, in marched Nick, followed by Ronan and the skipping dogs.

  Nick didn’t seem to notice me. His eyes were focused on Marcie and the two empty wine glasses on the table in front of her. The dogs went straight towards her, noses to the carpet, intent on sniffing her bare feet.

  ‘Nicky,’ she cried, getting up. The dogs backed away, sensing that their mistress was unlikely to be steady on her feet. She gave an exaggerated wave that tipped her off balance and she toppled back onto the sofa. The leather whooshed as she landed. If they gave out Oscars for pretending to be drunk, she’d be a slam-dunk. Unfortunately, she wasn’t pretending.

  I got up to help her, but froze when Nick turned his gaze towards me. He was furious. The air around him was sizzling from his anger. And all of it was directed at me.

  ‘Now, hang on.’ I was not going to take the blame for this.

  He ignored me, and instead helped Marcie up to her feet by himself. Ronan joined in and the two of them steered Marcie out of the room, all the while acting like I wasn’t there. Only the dogs acknowledged me, sniffing at the hem of my jeans.

  I bent down to stroke Noodle. Nick had a bloody nerve getting pissed off at me. If anyone had a right to be angry it was me. The stairs above me creaked, and both dogs took that as a cue to investigate. As they trotted out, Nick came marching in again.

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that Marcie drinking might not be a good idea?’

  My blood pressure spiked. ‘Of course it did. What do you take me for?’

  ‘So why suggest it?’

  I let out a hollow laugh. ‘Christ, Nick. How little you know your own client. She was half-cut when I got here.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I don’t care what you believe.’

  ‘Ronan’s under strict instructions to make sure Marcie doesn’t drink.’

  ‘Then you should be talking to him, not me.’ I didn’t mention that Ronan had been too busy with the dogs to know what Marcie was up to.

  ‘I spoke to her an hour before you arrived. She seemed fine.’

  My anger swelled. ‘Then you weren’t paying attention. She was drunk before I got here. Don’t you dare try to pin this on me.’

  A look of doubt flickered across his face. He broke eye contact to adjust his cuffs. I waited for him to acknowledge his mistake, but as the seconds ticked by, he didn’t speak.

  I was just about ready to explode. ‘You’re the liar, Nick. Marcie never agreed to an interview, did she?’

  ‘I got you in the same room with her. If you didn’t win her over then that’s your problem.’

  My patience snapped. ‘So now it’s my fault? I lack the necessary charm? You’re supposed to be her publicist, you’re supposed to facilitate things, but it seems you lack the necessary skills.’

  He bristled. I’d obviously hit a sore spot. Maybe I was being unfair, but his words had hurt. I didn’t need my interview subjects to like me for me to be able to do my job properly, but it was always a nice bonus if they did. Right now, I’d have swapped everyone’s good opinion to have Marcie’s. That I hadn’t charmed her enough to give me an interview was a difficult pill to swallow.

  Nick hadn’t responded yet. He smoothed down his tie, then stroked the back of his neck. When he reached for his cuffs a second time, I’d had enough.

  ‘Thanks for the clarification,’ I said drily. ‘If you think that Jonny interview is still going to press, you’re dreaming.’

  ‘Well, I guess we’ve got nothing else to say to each other. You know where the door is.’

  *

  E
xactly one hour after I’d been granted entry, I found myself reeling on the pavement outside Marcie’s house, frustrated and lost.

  I dug out my phone and sent a text to Mike:

  We need to talk.

  Almost an hour later I was only just beginning to relax. The Crown was an old-fashioned boozer near Paddington where Mike got the train home. If you ordered anything other than a pint you got weird looks. I’d got a few tonight because I’d ordered wine – white or red were the choices – but out in the beer garden, most people were minding their own business. The ‘garden’ part was a bit optimistic: we were on a tiny patio and the only flash of green sprang from the moss growing in the cracks between the grey paving slabs.

  Mike was nursing a pint of bitter and reflecting on what I’d just told him. It had taken me the better part of forty-five minutes to recount my meeting with Marcie. I’d kept going back and adding details I’d forgotten and he’d questioned some of the more bizarre events.

  ‘Why did she keep calling you Bonnie?’

  ‘It’s how I got through the door; I had to say I was Bonnie and I was there to see Clyde.’

  ‘The name must mean something to her.’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. I assumed it was something that Nick came up with, but come to think of it, she had a framed poster of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway from the film Bonnie and Clyde. She must be a movie fan, because she had Gone with the Wind and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid posters, too.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Always good to have intel on the enemy,’ said Mike.

  He wasn’t joking; Mike’s military background gave him a unique perspective and I’d learnt to trust it over the years. ‘I haven’t got to the weirdest part, though.’

  Mike leant forward. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Before she kicked me out, and before Nick came marching in, she mentioned a lost necklace.’

  ‘It had some significance?’

  ‘Yes, it was the same as a tattoo she had, although she didn’t say much about it. I pushed her on it, and that’s when she decided she’d had enough.’

  ‘You hit a sore spot?’

  I nodded. ‘My spidey sense was tingling. The thing is, I’ve seen a necklace just like the one she mentioned.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Possibly, but the person I saw wearing it had spent time with Marcie around the time it went missing.’

  We both said nothing for a while; the rattle of bus engines filling the void.

  ‘Look, you’ve got an interesting story about a necklace and a tattoo,’ he said eventually. ‘Why not write up what you’ve got?’

  ‘She expressly told me that our meeting was off the record. She said she would decide whether she wanted me to interview her or not.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you made a good impression. Surely you’ll soon hear from Nick to arrange a proper interview.’

  I nodded. The problem was, I didn’t share Mike’s confidence.

  *

  It was almost eight o’clock when I left the pub. A lead weight was pressing against my stomach but I willed myself to stay optimistic. Maybe I could portray Marcie sympathetically. Would she still object to publishing her off-the-record remarks if it showed her in a good light?

  It gave me a glimmer of hope. But it was quickly extinguished. It might save my job for now, but if she sued us, I’d be in even bigger trouble.

  And anyway, who was I kidding? How could I write up Marcie as anything other than a drunk? My only chance was Nick – to get him to see that I wasn’t to blame for Marcie drinking. And to sort out a proper interview. Fast. He owed me as much, didn’t he?

  I took my phone out and dialled.

  He answered on the second ring. ‘Zoë? I was about to ring you. I wanted to apologise.’

  ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t expected him to cool down so quickly.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Heading back to the office,’ I replied.

  ‘At this time?’

  ‘It’s where I go when I’m stressed.’

  ‘Do you want to grab a bite to eat?’

  I hadn’t thought about food for hours, but I realised now that I was famished. ‘Okay.’

  ‘There’s a noodle place off Golden Square.’

  ‘I know the one,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  *

  I was there in under fifteen and seated by the steamed-up window, a pot of green tea in front of me on the crisp white tablecloth.

  My stomach growled as the scent of chicken noodle soup wafted past. There was only one other couple in the restaurant; most of Soho had moved on to pubs or gone home.

  The door swung open and Nick appeared on the threshold. He paused to scan the room, and when he saw me, came over.

  There were dark circles under his eyes that I hadn’t noticed earlier and his collar wasn’t sitting quite right over his tie.

  He sat down opposite me. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thanks.’ It was an automatic response; well was not how I felt.

  A waiter appeared with two single-page laminated menus, but I didn’t look at mine.

  ‘The noodle soup that went by smelt delicious – I’ll have that.’

  ‘Make that two,’ said Nick.

  ‘How’s Marcie?’ I said, after the waiter had left.

  ‘Sleeping.’

  ‘It’s not my fault she was drinking, Nick.’

  He exhaled. ‘I know.’

  Well, at least he was no longer being combative.

  I sipped my tea, comforted by its warmth.

  ‘I’m sorry about how things went today, I really am. But you’ve got to let me have another chance with Marcie.’

  ‘I’m the latest in a long line of publicists who can’t convince her to talk to the press. Marcie’s just not interested in being interviewed.’

  My fragile nerves jangled. ‘So, you’ve been playing me all this time? All those hoops I’ve jumped through and you knew they would count for nothing.’

  ‘They weren’t for nothing. You had an audience in her house, didn’t you? It’s a lot further than any journalist has got for a long time.’

  ‘I went for an interview, not to admire her soft furnishings.’

  ‘The more you can do to get Jessica on speaking terms with Marcie, the better your chances for a proper interview.’

  ‘Do you think I still believe this story you’ve been spinning?’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ he said.

  ‘Well, give me the whole truth, then. Why are you so cagey about what Marcie did that she needs to atone for?’

  Nick flattened his tie against his abdomen. It was a tic; but was it also a tell that he was about to lie?

  ‘After she found out that Jess and Benedict were sleeping together, Marcie dropped Jessica from the tour. Patrick tried to talk her out of it, so she sacked him, too.’

  The mention of Patrick’s name was like a flame to a raw wound. ‘You’d better not be lying.’

  He held my gaze. ‘I wouldn’t. Not about Patrick.’

  He flattened his tie again – maybe it was his tell that he was being honest.

  ‘Marcie got Jessica and her band blacklisted – with promoters, music publishers, record labels. She ruined Jessica’s music career – on purpose. And she’s had to live with that ever since.’

  I sat back, absorbing what he’d said. It sounded ridiculous, but it also made perfect sense.

  ‘Marcie must trust you a lot to tell you all this, Nick.’

  He frowned. ‘It’s not some big secret, Zoë. Her inner circle has always known. I’m surprised Patrick never told you.’

  Had he not told me because he knew I idolised her? And that she would be tarnished in my eyes? It was touching, but sometimes Pat forgot I wasn’t the starry-eyed fourteen-year-old he’d met all those years ago.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this from the start?’

  ‘It’s n
ot the sort of thing I wanted all over the music press.’

  ‘Why hasn’t Jessica come forward with any of this? It would be a hell of a launch pad story to restart her career.’

  ‘Probably because she did sleep with Benedict, but also because of that necklace.’

  We were back to the seahorse necklace again. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, this part I’m guessing, but I suspect Jessica did steal it from Marcie to get back at her. And given the circumstances, do you blame her?’

  I found myself agreeing with him. ‘So, how do we go forward?’

  ‘I’m persona non grata with Jessica now,’ said Nick. ‘But if you can persuade Jessica to talk to Marcie, she’d be your friend for life. Hell, she’d give you an interview a week if you wanted it.’

  ‘Is Marcie’s conscience plaguing her that much, Nick?’

  ‘Losing Patrick brought back all the memories of losing Benedict,’ said Nick. ‘And what she did to Jessica all those years ago.’

  The waiter returned with our soup, but I could tell that Nick had been about to say more. It didn’t help that the waiter came back three more times, bringing two different sauces and taking and refilling our teapot. I started eating while all this was going on, happy to find the soup tasted as good as it smelt.

  ‘Patrick died before Marcie could make amends with him. His death has affected her more deeply than you can imagine.’

  Did Nick’s voice crack, or had I imagined it? ‘Are you okay, Nick?’

  His chest rose and fell slowly. ‘Marcie’s in a dark place. We don’t leave her alone for any length of time and not only because she drinks.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  He swallowed. ‘We found her in the bath with a razor blade. The blood . . .’ His voice dropped. ‘I’d never seen anything like it.’

  I gasped. ‘Nick, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Marcie needs help, Zoë. And you’ve got a chance with Jess that none of the rest of us have. You’ll be saving a lot more than just your magazine.’

  23

  I Can’t Make You Love Me

  It was press week and I had a hundred things to deal with: proofs waiting for final corrections, facts needing last-minute checks, not to mention a missing album review that a freelancer had yet to file. It would come together in the end – it always did – but the next morning I kept thinking back to my conversation with Nick. Marcie had tried to kill herself? Is that why she’d been wearing long sleeves? It made my own stresses pale in comparison. I felt awful for her, and Pat, too, who’d wanted so much to reconcile with Marcie and now never could.