One by one, gazes were lowered, until there was only Pete who could meet Joe’s eyes. ‘Can you explain your view of the circumstances?’.
Just thinking about it made a chill slither unpleasantly down Joe’s spine. ‘It’s not being outvoted,’ he said, carefully. ‘That happens. It was the way it happened.
‘We’d agreed on my version of “Running on Empty”,’ he went on, ‘and then suddenly Billy was going around the band lobbying to change to his version. OK, it’s not much fun to be on the wrong end of it, but that can happen too. But that song was important to me, and Billy’s version ridiculed what I’d been trying to recognise. I couldn’t believe you were all willing to put out a song laughing at hunger. The kids – our target market! – call us “The Hungries”. Giving them the message that hunger’s a joke would just be wrong. Not to mention the way my feelings were shat upon – by you all,’ he added, for the avoidance of doubt. ‘Which is why when Billy said one of us had to leave the band, I volunteered.’
Billy shot in: ‘I completely take that back. I was out of order.’
The others shifted on their sofas and murmured uncomfortably about insensitivity and hasty reactions.
Joe studied the way Billy, literally on the edge of his seat, had clasped his hands, thumbs beating time against one another. Billy was where the key to everything lay, Joe decided. Now was the time to follow the game plan he’d devised on the drive down. ‘How about you and me chat one on one, Billy?’
Everyone switched their gazes to Billy, whose twitching thumbs paused. ‘OK by me,’ he declared, though his Adam’s apple jumped noticeably.
‘Let’s find you a quiet corner.’ Pete jumped up to lead Joe and Billy back through the house, leaving Nathan, Raf and Liam behind. The voice of Pete’s American wife, Luanne, drifted from upstairs, bubbling over with enthusiasm for something. Pete showed the way to a sunny sitting room with an encouraging, ‘Take your time, guys,’ and shut them in.
Joe glanced at the door and wondered whether Pete was listening behind it. They moved right up the other end of the room to where they could look through a window at a long lawn, autumn’s leaves dancing on winter’s wind.
Joe wasted no time. ‘From what you said on the phone last week, wanting to go with your lyrics instead of mine was motivated by a need for money.’
Billy flicked his hair back. ‘You could look at it like that.’
Heart sinking and irritation rising, Joe frowned. ‘What does that mean? The only way to sort things out is by being straight with one another.’
Billy grinned wryly. ‘Have to point out that you generally keep your cards close to your chest, JJ.’
‘OK,’ Joe agreed, because the truth was hard to argue with. ‘I promise to be transparent. Go.’
Billy’s shoulders dropped. He stared glumly outside at the bare trees shaking twiggy fingers at the sky. ‘Yeah, I need the money. Like, now.’
Joe picked his words. ‘It’s bad manners to delve into other people’s money matters, but I’m going to say something. The Hungry Years isn’t stratospheric, though we’re getting there. None of the rest of us lives in such a huge gaff in Primrose Hill or buys new prestige cars every year. And that’s without funding any habits you might have – you party friggin’ hard, Billy.’
Billy hunched a defensive shoulder. ‘I like a certain lifestyle, yeah.’
‘Sorry to be blunt,’ said Joe, without being sorry at all. ‘But if you need money so much that you’re prepared to stamp on me, or any of the boys, to get it, it’s an issue. You and me, we out-earn the others because we write the songs, but I’d rather go solo or find a new band than accept you finding underhand ways to get a still more favourable split.’
A sudden gust outside hurled something at the window. Joe stared at Billy and Billy gazed out at the garden. Finally, he shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll abide by that.’
Joe’s heart lifted at this glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. ‘I have a suggestion, but it has to be made in front of the others.’
They trailed back to Pete’s office like kids let out after detention. The others fell silent as they arrived, apart from Raf munching noisily on a biscuit.
As Joe resumed his seat he took the lead before Pete or Billy could. ‘I have a suggestion.’ All eyes swivelled to him and he took silence as a signal to carry on. ‘I want to keep my version of “Running on Empty” for myself. I might put it out solo at some time and I don’t want the band to use it. Neither do I want Billy’s version to be released by The Hungry Years, because it pokes fun at hunger.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Billy broke in angrily.
Raf raised a peremptory hand. ‘Hear him out.’
‘In return,’ Joe continued, ‘I’ll sign over to Billy all rights to another song that we wrote together to recompense him financially. I think the record company’s amenable to “Worthy” making the album, aren’t they? So instead of us jointly owning writing royalties for two songs, we’d entirely own one song each. Billy doesn’t lose and I get what I want. On that basis, I’d be happy for the album to go out in March as planned.’
Slowly, Billy sat back, anger replaced by an almost comical expression of relief and disbelief. ‘I’d be up for that.’
‘I imagine you would,’ Raf said, sending Billy a hard look. ‘A lot of people would expect you to have been the one to make concessions here, Billy. Like let him keep his version of “Running on Empty” as it means so much to him and you acted like a prick over it, and just substitute “Worthy” with the usual split.’
The relief faded from Billy’s face. ‘But he offered—’
‘You’re being distracted by numbers,’ Liam broke in impatiently. ‘The most important question remains to be answered. Are you staying with the band, JJ?’
Once again, it was all eyes on Joe. And whether he stayed was the vital detail he’d omitted from his game plan. His heart felt as if it were galloping around inside his chest as the silence stretched.
‘Let’s stick to talking after Christmas,’ he said in the end, because still the only thing he could decide was not to decide.
Chapter Twenty-One
On Tuesday, to avoid being interrupted in the delicate task of creating the programme to be sold at each A Very Kerry Christmas performance, Georgine had gained permission from Oggie to work at home until lunchtime.
Handily, this allowed her to wait in for the locksmith to change her front and back door locks, just in case Aidan turned up again. She couldn’t completely put it past him to stew until he’d convinced himself he needn’t be put off by Blair’s presence because he could just take up his old place in Georgine’s room.
The locksmith was ready to go by ten, leaving her a collection of shiny new keys. ‘Let me show you,’ he said, one of the keys in his hand. ‘You need a key to open it from the outside whether the deadlock’s on or not, but not to open it from the inside if the deadlock’s not on.’
She thanked him and paid the bill with her credit card, mentally squeezing Christmas shopping into an even smaller financial package than already planned. The rest of the morning she spent hunched over her laptop, creating programme covers and six pages. She’d sold advertising to local dancewear outfitters and a music shop, and they’d sent over text, photos and a logo, and left her to display it. It seemed a task fraught with opportunities to make mistakes.
Once happy, she began on the laborious task of cast listing. Major roles, minor roles, members of Band One, Band Two, Troupe One and Troupe Two. She moved on to the tech crew.
Another couple of hours and she was on the brink of converting her document into a pdf and circulating it amongst tutors/directors, Joe and Oggie for feedback and proofing when her doorbell rang.
When she reached the hallway, she stopped dead.
Two familiar-looking dark silhouettes showed at the glass in the door.
Her heart began to thump, her palms to sweat. More debt collectors? Well, if it was, she’d dealt with them once and she’d
deal with them again. Squaring her shoulders she took up one of the shiny new keys, marched to the door, unlocked it and wrenched it open.
Sure enough, on the front path stood two men in black trousers and stab jackets. Two different men, one with a goatee and the other with glasses. ‘Aidan Rustington has not lived here for months,’ she began stiffly.
‘Blair France?’ asked the one with a goatee.
Blair? All at once a lot less sure of her ground, Georgine gripped the doorframe. ‘No. I’m her sister.’
‘But she does live here, yes?’ asked the man with glasses.
Both the men wore body cameras, Georgine realised belatedly. One was clutching a thin sheaf of papers.
She licked her lips. ‘What do you want?’
Goatee man spoke again. ‘We’re high court enforcement agents. Do you have ID, madam? It would help us considerably to be able to confirm your identity.’
Her thoughts whirled but she could see no option but to do as asked. ‘All right.’ Slowly, heart racing so hard she felt giddy, Georgine closed the door and crept on rubbery legs to where her bag rested on a chair. When she returned to the front door with her driving licence, neither man appeared to have moved.
The man with glasses took the licence, photographed it with his phone, noted something on his clipboard and gave it back with a word of thanks. ‘Are you able to contact your sister? We need to talk to her. We have a high court writ here.’
Georgine began to shake. The man’s voice seemed to come from very far away as he repeated his request for her to contact Blair.
Fifteen years ago men like these had turned up at The Gatehouse and taken away the family’s cars, which, it turned out, had all belonged to Randall France Construction. At nearly twenty she’d been an adult in their eyes, although a particularly easy one to ride roughshod over. She could still remember the congratulatory looks they’d exchanged as she’d fallen back and they’d walked into the house to gather up keys and documents. The process had changed a bit, and the script, but the bailiffs on her doorstep still had the power to terrify her.
‘This is my house,’ she whispered as she fumbled her phone out of her pocket and dropped it.
Glasses man picked the phone up and handed it back. Impassive. Just doing his job.
Blair answered on the second ring. ‘I’m at work,’ she murmured. She wasn’t supposed to take calls during office hours.
Georgine had to swallow before she spoke. ‘Blair, there are high court enforcement agents at the door. They’re looking for you. They have a writ.’
Silence. Then Blair hissed, ‘Shit.’
The man with the goatee held out his hand. ‘Mind if I talk to her?’
Blindly, Georgine let him take the phone, shaking so much she almost dropped it again. ‘Miss Blair France?’ he said into the phone. ‘I’m at your address and I have a high court writ in the sum of £4,741.55. I and my colleague are here to collect payment today.’
Whatever Blair might have answered, the man repeated the same information implacably, adding that if they couldn’t secure payment they’d look to remove assets to settle the debt.
Georgine whispered to the other man, ‘But this is my house.’
In an even voice he returned, ‘But she lives here.’
Almost before she knew it her phone was placed back in her sweating hand with Blair alternately apologising and pleading, ‘Don’t let them take any of my stuff. Give me a chance to sort this out. I think I can get the money. Hang on, Georgine. I’m on my way.’
At the same time the men informed her of their right to enter the house and begin to assess assets. Then they politely but firmly moved past her and she once again fell back to let them, unable to summon enough breath even to burst into tears.
‘We’d rather get paid and leave,’ the one with glasses told her smoothly. ‘But I’m not sure that that’s what’s going to happen here today.’
‘Most of the stuff’s mine,’ Georgine protested shakily, following the men into the lounge diner.
‘Yours? OK, that’s fine. Anything that does not belong to Blair France will be left alone,’ Mr Goatee said in the same polite but inexorable tone.
The bailiffs moved further into the house, not unkind, but unstoppable. ‘Does anything in this room belong to Blair France? How about this one? Which is her bedroom?’ one asked while, in counterpoint, the other droned, ‘This is going to happen. I know it’s not pleasant but we’re here to secure payment of a debt or seize property to satisfy that debt.’
Georgine could no more imagine them backing down than putting on pink tutus and doing ballet.
As if in a dream, she led the way up to her sister’s bedroom, forcing words past numb lips. ‘The furniture’s mine – bed, dressing table and wardrobe. All the moveable stuff’s Blair’s.’
Both men hesitated in the doorway as if the mountain of bags and boxes was the first thing they’d seen to daunt them. Then, ‘Thank you, madam.’ They waded in and cast around for a place to start. The TV set Blair had managed to perch on the dressing table attracted their attention and they began making notes and photographing it.
Georgine felt like Judas as she stood by while bailiffs crawled over Blair’s possessions like termites, discovering a white wooden box of jewellery and checking for hallmarks before taking photos. At the same time, she was filled with black rage with Blair for, like Aidan, leaving Georgine to cope with the consequences of her financial disaster. Heart racing, fingers tingling, skin prickling, she wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or tears trickling down her cheeks.
‘I know it’s stressful,’ said the man with the goatee. ‘You’re doing the right thing by keeping calm.’
Georgine gazed at him. Calm? Her ears were buzzing. Her lungs had seized. Definitely not calm.
Then her phone rang in her hand. Joe Blackthorn blinked on the screen. Trembling, she accepted the call.
‘Hi, Georgine,’ Joe’s voice said. ‘Just wanted you to know that the resident tech at the Raised Curtain has invited me to go through the equipment in the box this afternoon.’ He paused. ‘OK?’
Georgine opened her mouth to answer but it was a harsh, wrenching sob that emerged. Shocked, she slapped her hand over her mouth. Even the steely bailiffs turned to look at her.
‘Georgine? Georgine!’ Joe’s voice echoed in her ear as the sobs refused to be corralled by her hand and burst out, punctuated by throat-scouring gasps. ‘HAH! Urrrrrurgh.’ Her vision narrowed. She tottered until her back encountered wall, and she slid down to sag against the skirting board as if hurled there by a giant hand.
Joe was shouting in her ear. ‘Where are you?’ Then the bailiff with glasses was beside her, taking the phone from her unresisting hand and speaking to Joe, giving an explanation Georgine didn’t take in.
Then he slid the phone back into her hand. ‘Your friend’s coming to be with you, madam, OK? He’ll be a few minutes. I’m going to get you a glass of water. Would you be better downstairs?’
Georgine shook her head wildly, suddenly rediscovering her ability to make words when she saw his carefully neutral expression, as if this was all so much in a day’s work for him. ‘Just fuck off!’ she shrieked up at him. ‘Get out of my house!’
He ignored the abuse with aplomb. ‘As soon as we can, madam, we will.’
While his colleague with the goatee went methodically through Blair’s jewellery, he trod downstairs, reappearing with a glass of water. Georgine wanted nothing more than to fling it in his face, but she forced herself to take it, though she was shaking so violently that the glass chattered against her teeth.
When the doorbell shrilled again she almost blacked out in panic, but one of the bailiffs went down to open the door and then Joe came pounding upstairs, falling to his knees beside her and pulling her into his arms.
‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘You’re going to be OK, Georgine.’
Georgine laid her face against the heat of his neck and cried big sho
cked sobs until she heard the front door open and close and Blair’s voice, hostile but composed. ‘Really? You couldn’t wait half an hour for me, you had to start this distressing process? Oh, shut up with your sanctimonious bullshit. Yes, I can pay it. Yes, right now. The money’s in my current account and I can transfer it by Internet banking. There was no need to cause my sister anxiety. I told you I’d get the money and I have. Give me the numbers I need.’
The bailiffs didn’t react any differently to Blair’s scolding than they had to Georgine’s panic. They continued in smooth, controlled voices, polite but implacable to the last.
‘Here’s your receipt, Miss France. Thank you. We’ll leave now. We appreciate your co-operation.’
Their feet clumped on the carpeted stairs, the front door opened and shut. And then there was silence.
‘Look at the state of my room,’ Blair grumbled, although with a distinct air of bravado, as if aware she didn’t exactly hold the moral high ground. When met with only silence, she eased herself down onto the floor and stroked Georgine’s hair. ‘I’m so sorry. Those morons!’
Georgine had somehow found herself on Joe’s lap on the floor, curled up like a frightened mouse. ‘How did they get this address?’ Her voice seemed to scratch her throat.
Blair gave a bitter laugh. ‘I was trying to do the right thing, believe it or not. There was this county court judgement against me and I was making payments so I thought if I just moved address without telling the court, I might be in trouble. So I gave them my new address.’
‘Why did they come if you were making payments?’ Georgine kept her eyes closed, her cheek against Joe’s coat. He must be boiling, she thought distantly, scrunched uncomfortably on the floor in his outdoor things with a soggy woman on top of him.
Blair hesitated. ‘I had to pay you rent. Not that I’m saying it’s your fault,’ she tacked on hastily.
Georgine recoiled, despite Blair’s denial of blame. ‘But you owed over four thousand pounds. You gave me £250.’ When Blair didn’t seem to have an immediate reply, she pressed on. ‘You must have missed a deadline.’
A Christmas Gift Page 18
