‘Nobody’s answering the door,’ he said and Vanessa thanked her lucky stars that Dolly hadn’t answered. Heaven only knew what would have become of the young man if she had.
‘Who are you?’
‘Morton.’
‘Morton?’
‘Morton Singer.’
She wasn’t sure if that was a name or a job description. It was hard to tell. ‘And you know Tilly?’
He slowly took off his glasses and gave her a long slow smile. ‘You could say that.’
‘Oh,’ Vanessa said, wishing she hadn’t asked.
‘I’m a producer,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ Vanessa said, mightily relieved.
Morton Singer put his glasses back on and then motioned towards the house. ‘Shall we find Tilly?’
His confident manner almost had her marching straight to the house in search of her daughter, but she checked herself in time. ‘Is she expecting you?’
‘Probably not. She’s been ignoring all my texts and emails.’
‘Then it’s likely she doesn’t want to see you,’ Vanessa said.
Morton Singer scraped a toe into the gravel path and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his expensive-looking jacket.
‘It could be in her best interests to see me,’ he said, staring down at the gravel.
Vanessa examined him. She wasn’t at all sure about what she saw before her and certainly wasn’t going to take his word on things.
‘How did you get here?’
‘I drove down this morning. From Knightsbridge,’ he added, as if that might make all the difference in the world to his reception.
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Beside a really big hedge.’
So he’d parked in the lane, which probably meant that Dolly had clocked him.
‘Follow me,’ she said, leading the way back to the house but not inviting him in. ‘Wait here.’ She went inside, closing the front door on him.
She stood in the hallway a moment, seeing if she could hear the sound of the piano being played. Sure enough, Tilda was at the keyboard in the drawing room.
‘Darling?’ Vanessa said as she entered. ‘Do you know somebody called Morton Singer?’
Tilda stopped playing and looked up, her expression one of shock. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because he’s here.’
She stood up. ‘Where?’
‘In the porch. He says he wants to see you. He said it’s in your best interests to see him.’
‘Oh, did he?’
‘That’s what he said. So, you do know him?’
‘We met a few times. He’s a producer.’
‘Yes – he said. Look, I can get rid of him if you don’t want to see him.’
Tilda shook her head. ‘It’s okay, Mum. I’ll see him.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Vanessa watched as her daughter’s hands flew to her hair, tidying up what didn’t really need to be tidied. ‘I’ll be in here if you need me, okay?’
Laurence had just come off the phone as he opened the window in the room he was using as his office in the north-east corner of the house. It was a glorious morning and, although he’d set up a couple of meetings with clients, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d wasted his time being inside. He gazed across the front lawn and out into the fields and wondered if he could slope off for the day. He could take his mobile with him and then he could kid himself that he was working instead of just walking.
As he debated the ethics of this with himself, he noticed a strange young man walking up and down the path at the front of the house. He was wearing ripped jeans, dark glasses and had the sort of hair that managed to look untidy and affected at the same time. Laurence watched him for a moment, wondering who he was – he couldn’t even begin to imagine. But it didn’t take long before he found out who the man was visiting.
‘What are you doing here, Morton?’ Tilda said. Laurence couldn’t see her, but he recognised her voice instantly.
‘Nice to see you too,’ the young man said.
There was a pause.
‘You never answered my messages,’ Morton complained. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘I’ve not been anywhere.’
‘You’re telling me. You vanished off the face of the earth. What the hell happened?’
‘What do you mean, what happened? You know the business. You know what it’s like.’
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty brutal out there.’
‘And it’s not much of a compliment if you’ve only just noticed I’ve not been around for a while.’
‘I noticed as soon as you were gone.’
‘Liar!’
‘I did!’ he protested. ‘It was after the Manchester gig, wasn’t it? You got pulled—’
‘Don’t say it. Don’t come here and say that sort of thing.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Listen,’ Morton said at last, ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been down sooner. I’ve been busy – that’s all – but you’ve been very much on my mind.’
‘Oh, really? Well, I’m retired from that business now.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Why would I joke?’
‘Because somebody with your talent doesn’t just shut themselves away like this. You’ve got to get back out there.’
‘God, you sound like Laurence.’
Laurence flinched at the mention of his name and then grinned. So, Tilda had been listening to him, then.
‘Who’s Laurence?’
‘Nobody.’
Laurence frowned, but tried not to take it personally.
‘Look, I want to work with you, Tilly,’ Morton said.
‘Please don’t call me that.’
‘What should I call you?’
‘History?’
‘Ha ha. Listen, I’ve got my own studio now,’ he went on, ‘and I’ve got a great team and I’m ready to do something new and exciting and the first person I thought of was you.’
‘Then you’d better think of a second person.’
‘Tilly!’
‘Don’t call—’
‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘Is it Matilda?’
‘Just Tilda.’
‘Can I have a cup of coffee, Tilda?’
‘I suppose,’ she said.
Laurence watched as they disappeared. They were coming into the house and he couldn’t hear them anymore, so he left his office and walked out onto the landing just as Tilda and Morton were crossing the entrance hall.
‘Everyone still talks about you,’ Morton was saying. ‘You haven’t been forgotten, you know.’
‘I really don’t care,’ she said.
‘Yeah, you sound like you don’t care.’
Laurence was just about to lean over the railing as much as he dared when his father suddenly appeared on the landing.
‘What are you doing?’ his dad asked him.
‘Shush! I’m trying to listen.’
‘To what?’
‘To Tilda and some guy called Morton.’
‘And should you be doing that?’
‘I am doing that.’
His father sidled up to him and peered over the stair railing.
‘Dad! They’ll see you.’
‘They’re not looking up,’ he said. ‘What is that guy wearing?’
‘Haven’t you seen ripped jeans before?’
‘Not ripped like that. It’s obscene!’
Laurence couldn’t help smiling. ‘He’s some friend of Tilda’s from the music industry. It sounds like he wants to work with her again.’
‘And does she want to work with him?’
‘I don’t think so. She sounded mad that he was here.’
‘You going to wade in?’
‘No!’ Laurence said in outrage.
‘Then what’s the point of listening in if you’re not going to do something?’
Laurence pondered this. ‘I want to know what she’s going to do.’
&nb
sp; There was a pause. ‘Because you care about her?’ his father asked at last.
Laurence flashed a look at him. ‘Sure. I care about her.’
Marcus nodded and Laurence realised that it was the first personal question his dad had asked him in a long time.
‘She’s a nice girl,’ his father added.
‘I know, and she’s got this fierce talent, but she’s too afraid to use it again.’
‘Fear can often stop us from reaching our full potential,’ his father said. Laurence looked at him again. His face was solemn and Laurence wondered if he was going to elaborate, but he became distracted when Skinny the cat made her way onto the landing.
‘Hey, she’s not looking so skinny now,’ Laurence observed.
‘I’m taking good care of her.’
‘So I see.’
‘We’ll have to rename her.’
‘I kind of like Skinny,’ Laurence said.
‘I was thinking of Silky. Her coat’s really improved since I started feeding her properly.’
‘I prefer Skinny. It’s got character.’
His father smiled. Actually smiled. It took a moment for Laurence to take this in but, before he could do or say anything, his father had bent to pick the cat up and was on his way. A missed opportunity, he thought. He might have been able to have an actual conversation with his dad, but Marcus was heading back to his room now and the moment was lost.
Laurence returned to his office but he couldn’t settle down to any work. He kept wondering what was happening downstairs with Tilda and, when he heard a car start up in the lane and realised that Tilda’s visitor must have left, he just couldn’t help himself.
Leaving his office, he walked back out onto the landing before heading downstairs.
‘Tilda?’ he called.
‘Yes?’ She appeared in the doorway of the living room.
‘Who was that?’ Laurence asked as he came into the room.
She frowned at him. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I heard him talking about your music.’
‘Were you earwigging?’ Her forehead wrinkled in displeasure.
‘Er, kind of. Sorry.’
‘God! I can’t get any privacy in this place!’
‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’
‘Yes you could – you could have gone to another part of the house. It’s big enough.’
‘I’m sorry. I guess I was listening because I was worried about you.’
She stared at him as if trying to work him out. ‘Why would you be worried about me?’
He shrugged and suddenly realised that he didn’t know what to say. Be honest, he told himself. It’s the only thing that works.
‘Because I care about you.’
‘You don’t even know me,’ she said, sounding alarmed as she turned and walked towards the window.
Undeterred, Laurence followed, watching as Tilda started picking up old magazines and leaflets and stuffing them into a magazine rack by the coffee table.
‘It’s funny,’ he said, ‘because I feel that I do know you.’
‘Oh, really? Well, that’s creepy.’
He grimaced. Perhaps he’d been a little too honest, he thought. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I really didn’t mean to sound creepy.’
Tilda stopped torturing the magazine rack and looked up at him. Her usually pale face was flushed.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘You’re a good man and I’m just in a foul mood.’ She grimaced down at the carpet and then looked back up. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise.’
‘I’m mad at Morton – not you.’
‘Why are you mad at him?’
‘Because he’s trying to drag me back into the music business.’
‘And that’s such a bad thing?’
Her mouth parted slightly. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Laurence nodded. ‘And you told him that?’
‘I think I made it abundantly clear how I feel about it.’
‘Then you can relax. He’s definitely gone. I saw his car speeding back towards Elhurst.’
‘But Morton’s the kind of person who doesn’t take no for an answer. He’s bound to be back sooner or later.’
‘Then tell him again.’
‘I thought you wanted me to go back into the industry too?’ she said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘I said I didn’t think you should turn your back on your talent.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do you need the music industry in order to write and produce your own music? I thought you just needed a YouTube channel these days.’
‘I wouldn’t ever go back,’ she said. ‘Not after what happened in Manchester.’
‘What happened there?’
She looked down at her nails and took a deep breath. ‘I only play for myself these days.’
Laurence nodded. She wasn’t going to fill in the gap about Manchester then.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’d better get back to work.’
She looked up. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For listening. You’re a good listener.’
‘I thought you hated me for earwigging?’ he said with a teasing grin.
‘Yeah, well, maybe you can do slightly less of it in the future.’
‘You got it,’ he said, giving her a little nod before leaving the room.
As soon as Laurence was back in his office, he just couldn’t help himself. He had to know what had happened in Manchester and so he Googled.
Tilly. Summer Song. Manchester.
The first thing that came up was a link to her performing on stage. It was a sweet, lively performance with Tilda leaping around the stage in a yellow dress, her blonde hair flying around her face and the crowd cheering. What was so bad about that? He scrolled through the comments and there was the usual stuff – the compliments, the coarseness, and the stuff written by totally insane people who shouldn’t be left alone with a keyboard and Internet connection. He shook his head, hoping she hadn’t read all this because it was enough to make the strongest person bury their heads.
But there was one comment that halted him.
Check out this link! Tilly really knows how to sing.
Laurence followed the link to another video. It seemed to follow on from Tilly’s performance of ‘Summer Song’. She was talking to the crowd and he turned the volume up to listen to her.
‘Thank you so much! It’s been a real pleasure to perform “Summer Song” for you here today, but there’s another song I’d like to sing for you now. Would you like to hear it?’
The crowd cheered and Laurence watched as the musicians behind her shrugged shoulders and exchanged baffled looks. One of the guitarists walked towards Tilly and whispered something in her ear but she simply shook her head and waved a hand at him. This, Laurence thought, definitely wasn’t part of the routine.
‘The song is called “Forgive Me”,’ Tilly told the crowd.
And then she began to sing without any musical accompaniment. Her voice was pure and beautiful and the song was moving and melancholy – nothing like the pop piece she had just performed. At first, the crowd kept cheering, but then it went quiet. Were they listening to her, rapt by the beauty of the song and her voice? Laurence could feel himself going tense as he waited to find out what happened.
And then the booing started. It was just vague background noise at first, barely audible, but then it grew with the speed and malevolence that only a crowd can manufacture. But Tilly kept on singing, her angelic voice rising above the appalling noise below her – and then the video ended.
‘What?’ Laurence cried at the screen. What had happened next? He needed to know.
Then he saw a link to another video. This one looked as if it had been taken on a mobile phone and was a bit shaky, but it followed on pretty much from where the othe
r had ended. Tilly was still singing and the crowd was still booing. The guitarist who had approached her before now laid a hand on her shoulder. Some people emerged from backstage and Laurence watched as one of them took the microphone from Tilly. She tried to grab it back but another man came between them and then took hold of Tilly’s arm and led her off the stage. The video ended.
Laurence sat back in his chair and let out a huge sigh.
‘My God,’ he said. What had she been thinking? But maybe just having that live audience in front of her had persuaded her to take a chance. It was a brave and foolish thing to have done and Laurence admired her tremendously, but he could see how it might have put her off ever performing again. That crowd had been swelling with love and adoration one minute and then boiling over with hatred the next. And why? Because a young woman had dared to shake off her manacles and sing a song that came from her heart. They hadn’t wanted that. That’s not what they’d come for and they hadn’t given her a chance, and neither had the team backstage. Laurence could only imagine what it must have felt like to have been up on that stage, giving the very essence of your being only to be humiliated and then dragged off.
He shook his head. Now he was beginning to understand the extent of the problem.
When Laurence had found her in the living room just after Morton Singer left, Tilda had quickly hidden something from him. Now, she removed it from underneath the book on the coffee table. It was a CD. Silver-bright and dangerous. She looked at it for a moment, as if it was a foreign object and she was trying to make out what she should do with it.
‘Just listen to it,’ Morton had said, handing it to her before he left. She had made no promises, but her curiosity was getting the better of her and so she slid it into the music centre in the corner of the room, making sure it was at a volume that could only be heard by her as she perched on a nearby chair.
She didn’t recognise the piece at first, but then it all came back to her. It must have been from the recording he’d done of her in the hotel just before the Manchester gig. They’d been fooling around and he’d been recording her on his phone. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time but, from those brief lines of hers, he’d made a song.
She listened to it twice through. It wasn’t ‘Summer Song’, that was for sure. This was a much purer sound – a simple song full of emotion. This was the real Tilda. And she couldn’t stop the tears from falling because as much as she protested that she didn’t want to be a part of the music industry anymore, and as much as she said that she wasn’t going to write and perform any more songs, she knew in her heart that it was what she wanted to do more than anything in the world.
Love in an English Garden Page 16
