Making Music

by Ling, Maria

  "Bye, Stuart," she said, in her new adult voice, with a calm adult face to match. Two years on from that day, she could deal with anything Stuart Markham could throw at her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jen sat up and stretched her arms and back luxuriantly. She had been sitting for too long in one position, and her body was beginning to voice its protest. Sitting on the floor, too, a bad habit from childhood that she had never quite managed to shake off. It did not fit with her brand new adult image. She got up, and began to collect the chaos of magazines that littered the new carpet in her living room.

  While she gathered them together and placed them slightly more neatly on the dining table that stood to one side of the rectangular room, near the kitchen door, she smiled to herself. She was copying Karen. Soon she would have her very own permanent heap. There was a difference, though -- Karen was a compulsive magazine-buyer. Jen's newly acquired collection was severely restricted to one subject only: Stuart Markham.

  It had started as an impulse, on her way home from Karen's flat. She had walked past a newsagent's, and seen a copy of the very magazine that had so unsettled her, the one with Stuart on the cover. Without thinking, she had walked in and picked it up, and then had rifled through the racks for other journals that might contain something about him. They were not difficult to find.

  She had even popped into HMV and bought his albums: all three of them. The latest, she found, came with a free poster as well, and she had accepted it reluctantly, ignoring the sales assistant's knowing look. She was no teenage girl wild with adulation. She was her own woman now. Even Stuart striking his most attractive pose, eyes to camera, lips twisting in the sardonic smile that had become his trademark, arms crossed over his chest with the well-developed muscles showing clearly under the tanned skin, legs slightly apart so that there was no question of him being anything but a full-blooded male, could not discompose her. The fact that blood was rushing to her cheeks was due to the shop's central heating being turned up too high…nothing more.

  On reaching home, she had dropped her black leather handbag carelessly on the floor of the miniature hallway, and proceeded to cover the living-room floor with her researches. Five hours later, she felt she knew everything there was to know about Stuart Markham, the man and his music. Everything that had been made public, at least.

  She had even found her own name, thrown out carelessly in the context of a full-length profile in one of the classier magazines. Jennifer Hayton, the singer-guitarist, well known on the pub circuit and with two critically acclaimed records to her name, had -- she read -- once been involved with the thirty-year-old heart-throb, before he began his meteoric rise to fame.

  Hers was not, however, the only name to be linked with his. Far from it. After scrutinising every single reference to his romances, Jen could not escape the feeling that if he had gone through women at the rate suggested by the writers of these articles, he would have had precious little time left for making records -- or doing live performances. He would barely have had time to eat and sleep.

  The doorbell rang. Shaking off the effects of her afternoon's obsessive reading, Jen walked out into the hallway and opened the door.

  Stuart was standing on the other side.

  "Oh…hello," Jen said -- rather inadequately, she felt.

  "Hello," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in that well-known half smile. Then, after a moment's silence, he added: "May I come in?"

  "Yes -- yes, of course," she said hesitantly, suddenly realising that if he set foot in the living room he would get completely the wrong idea. "Um -- do you mind taking your shoes off? I've just had a new carpet put down."

  He looked at her for a while.

  "Sure," he said, and began to unlace the battered black boots he was wearing. Could it really be the same boots as two years ago -- and five years ago, for that matter? No…impossible.

  "The living room is just through here," Jen said nervously, edging towards the door.

  Stuart glanced at her.

  "I'll find my way," he said drily.

  She did not waste time arguing, but dashed through the door into the living room. Surreptitiously she gave the door a push as she walked through it, and it swung gently to behind her. Now she had two or three seconds to get rid of the evidence.

  She threw herself into action without a moment's hesitation. The paperwork on the dining table was swept up and rammed hard into the gap under the sofa. A tell-tale corner was viciously jammed back onto itself. The CD player had stopped, mercifully, so all she needed to do was push the off button and whisk the case out of sight behind a sofa cushion. Then she promptly sat down, and got her best adult smile on just as Stuart walked in through the door.

  "Well," she said with rather overdone pleasantness, "what can I do for you?"

  Stuart stopped just inside the room, and looked her over, a slow unhurried look, taking in every detail -- and perhaps comparing it against his memory of two years ago.

  "Are you all right?" he asked at last, frowning slightly.

  "Yes." Jen turned down the pleasantness a fraction. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

  "You seem -- " he cocked his head to one side, and began to smile -- "a bit nervous."

  Jen opened her mouth for a breathless denial, and then it occurred to her that the truth might be her best option.

  "Well, I am," she said, sitting up straight and turning frank eyes on him. "Or surprised, rather. I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."

  "No." He was still watching her -- assessing her, almost -- and she felt herself beginning to blush under his gaze.

  "I've come to apologise," he said abruptly, walking a little further into the room. "For being a bit childish and offensive this morning. What I mean is -- we shouldn't let what happened… back then… cause any problems for this record. It's not fair on anyone. So I just wanted to say I'm sorry about that."

  Jen closed her mouth, which had begun to drop open. She could not recall Stuart ever apologising to anyone, for anything.

  "That's…that's all right," she said weakly. "I suppose I was being a bit childish and offensive as well. The truth is, I wasn't expecting to see you, and -- well -- it gave me a bit of a start." ‘A bit of a shock' would have been more accurate, but she managed to make the substitution just in time.

  "So that's two starts I've given you in one day," he said. He reached out a long-fingered hand, pulled one of the chairs from under the dining table and straddled it, facing her, his arms resting over the back of the chair.

  "Yes," she admitted. He was doing it on purpose, she thought, to unsettle her. She could see the wearing away of the fabric at his crotch, where he -- where his -- she blushed at the thought, and fixed her eyes resolutely on his face.

  "Hmm." His eyes rested steadily on her midriff. "You can tuck yourself in, if you like," he said.

  "I can -- "

  Jen looked down at her waistline, and her cheeks flushed scarlet. Somehow, in her mad dash to conceal the incriminating evidence of her private researches, her sleeveless cotton top had escaped from the containment of her sweeping dark blue calf-length skirt, and begun to unbutton itself. What had been a perfectly proper, though fetching, article of clothing had suddenly turned into an overtly revealing one.

  "Thank you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I hadn't noticed."

  "No." He smiled at her complacently. "Not that I mind, of course -- the view was very pretty -- but I didn't think it was quite your style, somehow."

  "It isn't."

  He nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

  "When you opened the door you looked neat enough. So what happened between me taking my boots off and coming in here, to disarrange your clothes?" He scanned the room critically. "Whatever you're hiding, it can't be a man -- or a woman. There isn't enough room. So…" His eyes fixed on the shelf behind her, and then came back to meet hers, and now he was grinning openly, with the big unabashed smile she remembered from too long ago.

&n
bsp; "I'm flattered," he said.

  She twisted against the deep cushions of the sofa in order to follow his gaze. There was nothing on the shelf except the CD player, and her limited collection of CDs, and…

  Damn! she thought, kicking herself mentally. Damn, damn, damn!

  In her hurry, she had remembered the off switch and the empty case, but she had completely forgotten to remove the other two albums, which lay openly in view next to one of the speakers.

  "Only the first two?" He got up from the chair, and walked slowly over to the sofa, leaning over her casually. A trace of spicy masculine scent hovered in the air between them, overlaid with a faint hint of aftershave. One hand reached past her, pushed the button that opened the CD slot, and carefully lifted out the gleaming silver disc.

  "Was this what you were looking for, by any chance?" he asked teasingly, turning the disc over in his fingers so that the label was towards her. Guitar-player's fingers, she thought irrelevantly: strong and sure.

  The memory flooded into her body of how those fingers had once stroked her skin, slowly and confidently, guiding her towards a warm wave of passion. She had felt so at ease with him, so comfortable, so secure; she had not tried to conceal her emotions, the way she had to now; she had not tried to conceal her body's response to his caressing fingers, the way she had to now…

  "Was it?" he murmured, and she looked up at him almost fearfully, and saw his brilliant azure eyes fixed on her with an unmistakable expression. For a moment she felt that they were back in time. The air between them was electric with desire. She had an urge to reach out, to stroke the soft warm skin of his throat, to trace the tendons stretching from his jaw to his shoulders…and downwards, running her fingers over the strong well-muscled body she remembered so well…and downwards again, caressing him into a state of arousal that would take them both to the melting moment of consummation.

  She swallowed hard, and tore her eyes away from his.

  "No," she said with an effort, her voice husky and dry. Reaching behind her back, she felt for the CD case she had pushed so frantically behind the sofa cushion. "No, I was…hiding this." She blushed as she made the confession, but at least it would divert his mind away from the more embarrassing part of her predicament.

  "Were you, now?" He took it from her, his fingers gently brushing hers. The case flashed briefly as he turned it over, and read the label. "As I said…I'm flattered."

  "It's good," she said, struggling to keep her voice calm and neutral. "A good album. I liked…" she cleared her throat; her voice was deserting her, "I liked the title track."

  "Did you?" His mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smile. "Personally I'm sick to death of it."

  That made sense, she conceded silently. He must have heard it a thousand times by now.

  "Anyway, I'm still flattered." He put the case on the shelf, joining its fellow traitors, and sat down on the sofa next to her. "You've been following my -- " he grimaced, as if the words tasted bad -- "my so-called rise to stardom?" His eyes became challenging. "Or did you rush out this morning to buy them, and make up for lost time?"

  "Of course not," she said calmly, willing her cheeks to cool down. Think ice-packs, she admonished herself. Ice cubes, ice cream, ice, ice, ice! "I have better things to do with my time. And in any case, I like your music." She arched her eyebrows at him, patronisingly. "I think you are developing well."

  "Phew!" The smile vanished, and the eyes became flinty again, as hostile as when he had first seen her that morning. "You really are out to insult me, aren't you?"

  "Not at all." She kept her voice calm and level. "It was meant as a compliment."

  "Was it? Well then, do me a favour and try insulting me next time."

  As if I could, Jen thought, and bit down on the anger that was beginning to stir inside her, pushing aside her other confused emotions. Insult you!

  He looked away from her, towards the tall window that dominated the far side of the room, framed by heavy old-gold brocade curtains. Jen hoped he would not notice that one was slightly shorter than the other. She had picked up the fabric cheaply at an end-of-line sale, and used her limited sewing skills to turn it into drapes. She noticed the discrepancy herself every time she looked at the wretched things, but had not yet made the time to do anything about it.

  Stuart did not seem to notice, although he stared fixedly at them for some time. Then he drew a deep rasping breath, as if he too was struggling to contain his anger. Jen stole a sideways glance at him. Perhaps he was. She had been horrible to him, and although she had only been trying to cover her own confusion, he could not know that.

  He might well be angry. After all, he had come here to apologise for this morning, and that -- she thought penitently -- merited something better than her cheeky remarks. Especially since he had been absolutely right about the CDs.

  "Have you eaten?" she asked. "Only, I was going to make myself some dinner." Her mind ran frantically through the meagre contents of her kitchen cupboards. "I could probably manage a mushroom risotto, or pasta if you'd like that."

  Now he was looking at her warily, and she was not sure she liked that any better than his stony silence.

  "It's a sort of peace offering," she said hastily. "You said yourself that we shouldn't let what happened…before…create any problems between us now. And -- and I really didn't mean that the way it came out, about your music. I think you're very good." He was still looking at her without emotion. She would have to lay it on a bit thicker in order to convince him. "What I mean is, you've always been very good -- and -- and you're getting better." It hurt her pride to say so, but it was true. If he chose to interpret it as appeasement, then let him!

  "Thank you," he said slowly and sarcastically. "For the admission -- and for the invitation. But no, thank you. I have other plans for this evening."

  Jen flushed at his tone, and at the abruptness of his refusal. The offer had been made in good faith. She should have known he would turn it into some kind of pathetic plea. This time the anger within her would not be contained.

  "I'm sure you do," she said maliciously, and all the old bitterness welled up inside her as she spoke. "You always had good backup arrangements, I remember that."

  He stood up, his face a blank mask of indifference.

  "Goodbye, Jen," he said coldly, and walked out of the room. She knew she ought to follow him, to maintain even the semblance of courtesy, but she could not bring herself to do it. She heard the quick snapping sounds as he laced up his boots, and then the click of the front door opening, and the slam of it falling shut behind him.

  Damn him! she thought, as hot tears welled up in her eyes and began to run down her glowing cheeks. Damn him!

  In a sudden fit of desperate fury, she reached out for the CDs behind her and hurled them against the nearest wall. They shattered against it, and shards of plastic fell onto the soft new carpet, clattering against the silver discs.

  Jen pulled the sofa cushion towards her, and buried her face in it, and cried.

  "The man is an idiot," Karen said crisply. "I've always thought so. Now I wish I'd told him so."

  Jen clutched the telephone receiver as if it were a lifeline.

  "And I will," Karen went on, her voice carrying the promise of swift and fearsome retribution for Mr Stuart Markham, heart-throb or not. "You just wait. I'll lay into him like there's no tomorrow. Fancy him daring to go around upsetting my best friend. He'll be lucky to be able to crawl away by the time I'm done with him."

  Jen managed a shaky smile. Karen's astringent wrath was having the intended effect of cheering her up.

  "Better still, we'll both lay into him together. I'll hold him, and you kick him. We should be able to take him down a peg or two between us."

  "Oh, Karen." Jen wiped her nose with a fresh handkerchief, the last clean one she possessed. "I hate him. He's such a -- " she broke off, searching desolately for just one decent corner to dab her red-rimmed aching eyes with.

  "Toad," K
aren supplied curtly. "He's a toad, that's what he is."

  Despite herself, and despite the dreadful slashing pain inside her, Jen began to giggle into the handkerchief.

  "A nasty, ugly, warty toad. Are you all right there, Jen? You sound as if you're choking."

  "I'm fine -- or at least I'm getting better." Jen crumpled up the square of soggy white cotton and tossed it defiantly onto the small mountain she had created on the floor beside her. "And you're right. He is a toad."

  "Good girl. And what kind of toad is he?"

  "A nasty, ugly, warty toad." Childish as it was, Jen found she genuinely felt better for saying it.

  "Well done."

  "Slimy, creepy, poisonous -- "

  "Steady on there," Karen cautioned her. "You'll break something any minute."

  "I already have done." Three newly bought CDs, complete with cases. It had done her good to hear them smash, though. And she had picked each disc up separately and broken it into pieces with her bare hands.

  "Good for you. Anything precious?"

  "No," Jen said bleakly. "Just some rubbish I picked up somewhere."

  "Lucky you had some to hand."

  "Yes." Jen rubbed her eyes with the back of her thumb. "It was, really. Otherwise I would have had to break something I valued."

  "Don't do that," Karen said peacefully. "He's not worth it. He's a toad."

  Jen drew a long shuddering breath.

  "Thanks, Karen. I'm sorry to bother you with all this."

  "Don't be. What else are friends for? Now are you sure you'll be all right this evening? Do you want me to come over?"

  "No. I'll be fine. But thanks, Karen -- thanks ever so much. You're a star."

  "And you're an angel. Take care."

  "You too. Bye."

  Jen put the phone down, and sat for a while hugging her knees, staring at the pile of handkerchiefs beside her and at the broken pieces of plastic around her.