Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  ‘How much did Alice tell you?’

  ‘She hasn’t told me anything – she didn’t need to. You’ve always carried a torch for Simon, though I could never for the life of me see why.’

  I frowned, not quite ready to hear anyone bad-mouth Simon. ‘What’s wrong with Simon?’

  ‘He’s a bit boring, isn’t he? I mean, he tucks his shirts into his jeans, for God’s sake.’

  I smiled. ‘Who died and made you the fashion police?’

  ‘He’s flighty.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Flighty – he doesn’t stick at anything. Take that time he saw my Panini sticker album for the ’94 World Cup. The next day he’d bought his own and I was looking forward to having someone new to do swaps with. I was desperate for a Zinedine Zidane and all I kept getting were Thierry Henrys. England was a state that year – apart from Michael Owen – honestly, it almost made me give up on football.’

  ‘I think we’re getting a bit sidetracked, Pete.’

  ‘All I’m trying to say is, a week later he’d forgotten all about the album. That’s what he’s like – always jumping from one thing to another. He doesn’t ever commit to anything – or anyone.’

  The old need to defend Simon was too strong to resist. ‘That’s a bit harsh, Pete. He got married – that shows commitment.’

  Pete shook his head. ‘I’ve had bouts of athlete’s foot that have lasted longer than Simon’s marriage.’

  ‘Simon’s had a tough life.’

  ‘Oh yeah, all those years working down a coal-mine. I forgot.’ Pete rolled his eyes. ‘Look, I get it his parents divorced when he was a kid, it must have been hard. But I could always tell you liked him more than he liked you. And then when he was salivating over Jessica in front of you, I wanted to deck him. I still will, if you want me to.’

  I wiped my eyes roughly before Pete noticed how emotional I’d become.

  He was right, I’d never held Simon to account for how he’d treated me.

  But right now, I had more pressing issues, namely saving my brother’s wedding.

  ‘Enough about me, Pete. Get your laptop, because we’ve got playlists to make. But I warn you – there’s only so much Genesis I’ll allow at this wedding.’

  After a while, we’d compiled an hour-long Greek dancing playlist and a general five-hour playlist that I promised to fine-tune at home.

  As I was about to close the computer, one of Pete’s playlists caught my eye. It was full of great songs, i.e., not his usual taste. They were mostly slowish, mellow tracks, and among them was my favourite Marcie song ‘It’s Too Late for Love’. Even just seeing the name of a Marcie song made me think of Nick, and I was overcome with sadness again. Would I ever be able to listen to her again?

  ‘What’s this?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s one of your playlists. I followed it on Spotify ages ago. Thought I’d use it to impress Alice when we were dating, cos you always said I had shite taste in music.’

  The playlist was cryptically labelled ‘LSFS’.

  ‘Did I give it that name?’

  Pete smiled again. ‘Nah. Once I’d listened to it, I renamed it.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Love Songs for Sceptics.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s nothing joyful or uplifting in these songs, they’re all a bit, well, jaded. Look: “I Hate Myself for Loving You”, “Everybody Hurts”, “Love is a Battlefield”. Would it kill you to listen to a bit of Boney M?’

  I frowned. ‘You think I’m a sceptic?’

  ‘Not in a Scully way, just when it comes to love.’

  ‘You psychoanalysed me from a flippin’ playlist?’

  ‘No, I psychoanalysed you from being your flippin’ brother.’

  Was he right? Deep down, did I not believe in love?

  I’d made jokes with Simon about love being for suckers, but if Pete thought it too, then perhaps I needed to address this. Maybe he had a point – I’d mucked up my chances with Nick in a way that bordered on sabotage.

  ‘I guess it’s a form of self-protection.’

  ‘A healthy dose of scepticism is a good thing, if you ask me. I’d rather have a sister who was cautious about romance than one who fell for every muppet who turned up with a bunch of petrol-station flowers. You’d sooner kick a boy’s arse than let him break your heart. And thank fuck for that. It cuts down on the number of arses I need to kick on your behalf.’

  *

  A little later, I was heading home. But as the bus wheezed back to Shepherd’s Bush, I was starting to feel less and less satisfied with my playlist idea. Maybe we’d have to resort to that for a bit of Greek music, but surely I could find a band to fill in for the main gig? I knew enough of them. I had just over eighteen hours. Someone out there owed me a favour or two.

  I must have rung twenty managers, promoters and musicians. Then I roped Mike, Gav and Lucy into it, and they promised to make a list and share phone duties. Altogether, we must have spoken to over fifty people.

  When I was in professional mode, I got shit done. It wasn’t lost on me that there was a personal issue I was too chicken to address. But after I’d done all my ringing round, I felt wide awake and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock – not so late that I couldn’t ring Simon. I wasn’t sure what I would say exactly but there was an itch in me to speak to him and I knew that I wouldn’t sleep till I had.

  I suddenly worried that maybe it was too late to call, so I sent a text instead.

  Can you talk?

  To my relief he texted straight back.

  Need some company? I can be over in 10.

  For once, I didn’t spend the next few minutes worrying about the tidiness of my flat, or how I looked. I spent the time trying to work out what I needed to say.

  It was now or never.

  ‘Nice flowers,’ said Simon, as I led him into the living room exactly seven minutes later. He must have left his place as soon as he sent that text. Seven minutes had been precious little time to figure out what needed to be said – I was going to have to wing it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, admiring the bouquet of roses and lilies – a present from Alice for the Greek dancing lessons. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘I’m glad you texted. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  I held up my hand. ‘Would you mind if I said a few things first?’ I swallowed, and I could tell from Simon’s expression that he was nervous. It was reassuring, in some ways, because my heart was knocking weirdly in my chest. Like I was having a bout of stage fright.

  I twisted in my seat, my eyes focused on Simon, who was sitting upright on the sofa opposite. ‘When I came round that morning and told you we couldn’t be together, there was something I should have said. Something you tried to admit, but I wasn’t ready to hear.’

  He nodded, and I went on. ‘The whole time you were telling me you felt something for me, you were hedging your bets and telling Jessica the same too. And when we kissed that night, we said we’d take things slowly. We never talked about it again, we never agreed to pretend it never happened. You decided that by yourself. And that hurt, Simon. It still hurts.’

  His eyes were shining. I hated making him feel shitty, but if I didn’t vent these emotions they would fester. And I wasn’t prepared to hold onto this feeling, as if it were dirty or something I should be ashamed of.

  I took a shaky breath before I continued: ‘You and I aren’t right for each other, I get that now. But that doesn’t mean that I can laugh off how you treated me. I’d like to think our friendship meant more to you than that.’

  Tears were running down his face. ‘I never meant to hurt you, Frixie. Your friendship has always meant the world to me. For half my childhood, you were my only friend. You were a safe haven in the storm of my parents’ fucked-up marriage. Having you around made those years bearable. I can’t imagine what a mess I’d be now if we hadn’t moved into 27 Priory Lane.’


  He smiled and I smiled too, because I couldn’t imagine what life would have been like if he hadn’t grown up next door either.

  ‘I behaved terribly,’ he said, sadly. ‘I know that now. I was so freaked out after Louise left me, it’s like I reverted to being a teenager again. Not thinking of anyone else. You’ve always been there for me, so I stupidly assumed . . .’

  It was hard to listen to what he was about to say, so I said it myself: ‘You assumed that I’d always be here?’

  He nodded glumly. ‘I’m so ashamed of myself.’

  ‘When it comes to you, I was a glutton for punishment. It was hard seeing you with Jess, worse even than seeing you get married and having to put on a brave face and congratulate you.’

  ‘I wish I’d known.’

  ‘I should have said something. But I wasn’t brave enough.’

  His eyes widened in surprise. ‘Zoë Frixos, you’re the bravest person I know.’

  We both started bawling after that. But they were happy tears. I was a bit worried we’d wake up Mrs Hargreaves downstairs, but thankfully there was no angry knock at the door.

  33

  I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten

  The day of the wedding dawned with torrential rain. I rang Pete to make sure he’d slept okay. Actually, that wasn’t true. I rang to make sure he hadn’t overslept or been the victim of a late-night visit from best man Alex that had ended with Pete stranded in a lay-by on the M1 with his eyebrows shaved off.

  He sounded very chipper. ‘I just spoke to Mum,’ he told me. ‘She said that back in the village they always said it was good luck to have rain on your wedding day.’

  This was bollocks, but it was sweet that Pete had believed it. If that were really the case, English summer weddings would be the most blessed on the planet.

  *

  I showered, had a slice of toast and cup of tea, then went to get ready. I opened my Selfridges bags to retrieve my new make-up and a wave of Nick’s cologne hit me, along with an overwhelming sadness.

  I let myself cry for a good couple of minutes.

  God, I really was taking Gavin’s ‘feel your feelings’ thing to heart.

  Either way, I figured it was best to get any tears out of the way early. Waterproof mascara never lived up to its name.

  I was ready half an hour before my parents’ taxi came to pick me up. I sat rigidly on my kitchen chair, conscious not to get too many creases in my long satin dress. Time on my hands was a bad thing. Alice’s suggestion to ring Nick kept echoing in my mind. My fingers itched for my phone, but every time I picked it up and tried to make the call, I chickened out. What would I say?

  Oh, hi, Nick. If ever you get bored with Marcie Tyler keep me in mind – I’d love to be your consolation prize. Sorry I passed you over for another man. My bad.

  I replayed this fake conversation in my head ten times, before another conversation – this time a real one – from last night muscled it out. Simon had said I was the bravest person he knew. It was time to live up to that and talk to Nick.

  I took several deep breaths, hoping courage would fill me.

  Okay, not really much courage in the air of my kitchen. Maybe I needed to open a window.

  I stopped myself. I was being daft. What was preventing me?

  I wasn’t very good doing things ad hoc – maybe I should write out what I wanted to say.

  I rummaged through the kitchen drawers to find what I needed, then I sat at the table, pen poised over an A4 pad, waiting for the right words to come.

  Any second now.

  Just be patient.

  Oh for God’s sake. I was a journalist, I was supposed to be good with words.

  Maybe it was the pen that was throwing me. I hadn’t written anything by hand for years. Maybe sitting at a keyboard would help.

  I checked the clock. Crap, did I really only have fifteen minutes? I was running out of time to have a last-minute wee, check my make-up, and recheck I had everything packed in my ridiculously small handbag.

  There was no time to write anything. I would have to improvise.

  I picked up my phone, scrolled to Nick’s number and hit ‘dial’.

  My heart knocked against my ribs. The phone was ringing. Except it was that international ringing tone. He was abroad already.

  It didn’t matter.

  It rang a couple more times, then stopped.

  ‘Hello?’ I croaked.

  No one answered. It had gone to answerphone. But it was one of those pre-recorded messages by the woman who does the speaking clock. Not Nick’s usual one, in his own voice. Was this still his number? Had he changed it?

  Okay, she was asking me to leave a message.

  I drew a deep breath. Here goes . . .

  ‘Hi, Nick, it’s me. Zoë . . . Frixos. (Oh no, it was weird already.) I’m ringing to wish you luck in your new job. (No I’m bloody not!) Sorry, scratch that, I’m ringing to say I’m sorry. (Shit, now I’ve repeated myself.) I’ve been an idiot. I’m like the base Indian in Othello who threw away the pearl. (What. The. Actual. FUCK?? Shakespeare???? And RACIST!!!!) Okay. I’m rambling. (Accurate.) My brother’s getting married in an hour. (Not relevant!) And I wanted to tell you that I haven’t forgotten what you said to me that night. You said you’d never met anyone like me, and well, I’ve never met anyone like you, either. I’m sorry I behaved so badly. You didn’t deserve it. Thank you for taking me to karaoke. You were right, it was fun. And I was scared. So thank you for making me face that fear. I’ll think of you whenever I hear Def Leppard. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met and I’m going to miss you. A lot.’

  Shit, the lady was talking again. His message box was full.

  The phone beeped, then I rang off.

  It was done. It wasn’t pretty, but at least I’d said my piece.

  A car horn honked outside. The taxi was here. No time to wee, or check my bag or make-up. But somehow, it didn’t matter.

  I picked up my bag, wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and ran out of the house.

  *

  Thankfully, the rain had stopped. My parents chatted excitedly as we drove.

  ‘You look lovely,’ said Mum, and Dad nodded.

  ‘Alice won’t be too happy,’ he said, winking.

  ‘You both look great, too,’ I said. They’d outdone themselves – Mum in an emerald-green shift dress that brought out the chestnut highlights in her hair and Dad in a navy suit complete with waistcoat.

  ‘You need to undo the bottom button,’ I told him as I shifted uncomfortably in the middle seat.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ said Mum, horrified. ‘So people think he’s too fat for his suit?’

  Dad looked equally puzzled, although his concern was for the reputation of his tailor, who was also a second cousin. ‘Chris made this to measure. He’d be very upset if people thought he hadn’t done his measuring right.’

  They both had a point, so I didn’t bother explaining it was a tradition. I mean, it’s not like the wedding would be written up in Hello! and everyone’s appearances pored over by bored people in dentists’ waiting rooms.

  The Greek church – or rather, to give it its official name, the Cathedral of St Nicholas – was only a ten-minute drive from my house, so before long we were pulling up outside.

  People were already milling on the pavement, avoiding the puddles and errant drops of rain from hanging branches.

  I stepped out of the taxi and into the noisy embrace of my extended family.

  ‘You’ll be next, Zoë – God willing,’ said every single relative over thirty.

  I nodded and smiled.

  It was going to be a long day.

  *

  Alice looked radiant, Pete cried four times and enough rice was thrown at the church door to send hundreds of pigeons swarming to our feet. They were shooed away by the churchwardens, who pointed wordlessly to the signs prohibiting the throwing of perishables.

  Then we were back in the assembled cars and c
oaches to be whisked to the hotel in Russell Square.

  I’d managed to not check my phone for two whole hours, but I glanced at it now. I had a message from Mike telling me that Rebel Alliance would be providing that evening’s music.

  I grinned. Pete and Alice loved that band.

  I didn’t have any other messages, but that was okay. It was their day, not mine.

  *

  It was eight o’clock and I was helping the band set up. They’d brought their own kit, but were using the hotel’s microphones. There was a bit of a wobble when a lead didn’t quite reach a socket, but an extension cord was produced by the hotel manager after lead singer Sienna offered him tickets for their next London show.

  Sean, the drummer, was being an incorrigible flirt – telling my mum that she had to be my sister because there was no way she was a day over forty. She was chuffed, but I’m not sure I was.

  Lucy, Gav and Mike arrived after dinner. Pete had insisted they come once he knew the lengths they’d gone to to find a band for him. My dad hassled the waiters for three extra meals, and like magic, another three poulets à la provençale appeared.

  I was sitting by the side of the stage when the band struck up.

  ‘How are you doin’?’ yelled Sienna, like she was addressing a stadium of paying fans. ‘You ready to rock this fucking place?’

  Oops. My parents hated swearing. But when I looked over at their smiling faces, they were obediently nodding their heads like everyone else.

  The band played a couple of their own songs, then switched to a Rolling Stones medley that even had the oldies on the dance floor. They ended with ‘Wild Horses’, which had everyone pairing off to slow-dance, including my parents. Pete was in the middle, swaying to the music with Alice. When he caught me looking at Mum and Dad, he mouthed ‘Wow!’

  As the chorus began, Lucy slumped into the seat next to me.

  ‘You okay, Luce?’

  She let out a long breath. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thanks for your help in finding a band.’

  ‘It was fun. People were surprisingly helpful. I must have left messages for twenty-five people and they all got back to me within half an hour. Everyone except Nick Jones.’