Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  ‘Frixie!’ Simon looked happy to see me. ‘How great that you stopped by. I was just thinking about you.’

  He ushered me into his kitchen. ‘I took your advice and bought some Yorkshire Tea. It’s amazing. Let me make you one. The kettle’s only just boiled.’

  I nodded and let him fuss around the kitchen. He was whistling to himself as he worked.

  What was I doing here? I was sleep-deprived and I wasn’t thinking rationally. How could I be sure this was what I wanted?

  But the answer came to me almost immediately. I’d known it last night as Marcie had sung her song. She’d been singing it to Benedict, but she could have written it for me and Simon.

  ‘Here you go.’ He sloshed the mug down on the table. ‘Not too strong, just as you like it.’

  My hands were shaking as I reached out to take the mug.

  ‘You okay, Frixie?’

  Maybe I needed longer to think about this. I could tell him I’d popped by because I was passing; I could drink my tea, and then be off on my merry way.

  But it was too late to back out now. His eyes were searching mine – he’d already realised something was different.

  Oh God. Was I about to mess everything up?

  I couldn’t imagine my life without him, but I needed to be honest with him. And he needed to know the truth.

  I reached out to grab his hand. ‘You’re the greatest, do you know that, Si?’

  ‘Well, actually, I think Muhammad Ali is the greatest.’ He grinned. ‘But I’ll take second-greatest.’

  A lump formed in my throat. ‘I’ve loved you since I was thirteen. You’ve been there for me all my life. When you arrived in London all those weeks ago and we shared an ice-cream sundae, I was the happiest I’d been in a long time. You do that to me. You’re fun and funny and can always make me laugh and I never want that to change.’

  His face stiffened. His lips were still curved in a smile, but the happiness had left his eyes. Those beautiful, marine-blue eyes looked scared.

  ‘What are you saying, Frixie?’

  ‘It’s not going to work between us. I’m sorry.’

  For long moments, he didn’t speak. ‘But you and me are the dream team, Frixie. Please don’t give up on us.’

  ‘You were all I wanted for so long, but I realise now that the image I had of you in my head wasn’t based on reality. It got fixed there when I was thirteen. I’m no better than the girls who are crying over Jonny Delaney leaving the band. I fell in love with an image I created, not a real person.’

  ‘You were always real to me, Zoë.’ His voice was soft, and I hated that he was using my name and not Frixie. It was like he was putting up a hard shell.

  ‘You told me once we were better off as friends. And as much as I hated hearing that, I realise now that you were right.’

  His soft expression suddenly hardened. ‘Is there someone else?’

  I closed my eyes. ‘I think I’m fated to be single for ever.’

  Simon smiled sadly. ‘I’m starting to think that you and Twisted Sister were right all along: love is for suckers.’

  ‘I’ll always be your friend, Si. If ever there’s a day I’m not, you can send Zak Scaramouche to hunt me down.’

  That raised a smile. He leant forward in his chair. ‘But how can you be sure? Maybe you just need time to adjust to this new aspect of our friendship. Call it V2.0.’

  ‘But real love – love that inspires you to write songs or stops you from sleeping or makes you risk everything – is either there or it’s not.’ I felt more sure of myself now. ‘You don’t have to adjust to it; you don’t grow into it. We’ve known each other long enough. If you’ll have me, I want to be your friend, your best friend. The sort of friend who’ll help you bury the bodies and not ask questions.’

  ‘Is there nothing I can say to convince you that you’re wrong?’

  I shook my head sadly. ‘One day you’ll see I’m right.’

  I got up because there was nothing left to say. My tea stayed undrunk on his kitchen table, and we didn’t hug or say anything as I stood on his doorstep. I gave his unyielding hand a tight squeeze and walked away.

  *

  I don’t know how I got through the day. The high of interviewing Marcie helped a bit, especially when I told Gav and Lucy about it.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Lucy. ‘You do realise that you’re the first person to hear a new Marcie song in ten years.’

  She was right, but it hadn’t sunk in at the time. I’d been too lost in the music to think about anything other than the pain in her voice and the pain that echoed in me.

  Rob had already designed the Marcie spread. It was four pages – twice as long as a regular feature. But the truth was I’d struggled to stop writing; I could have filled the whole magazine with Marcie.

  Mike had spoken to the board and they were drawing up fresh contracts and pay rises for everyone now that the new investment was guaranteed.

  Our normal print run was fifty thousand and I rang Mike to see if he thought it needed changing.

  ‘Shall we increase it?’ I asked. ‘Sixty thousand or maybe sixty-five to be safe?’

  Mike’s chuckle came down the line. ‘Zoë, they’re cutting down rainforest as we speak so we have enough paper. We’re estimating a print run of a hundred thousand.’

  This was amazing news. Apart from the bit about the rainforest, obviously. Mike was joking, wasn’t he? Our paper came from sustainable sources, but a hundred thousand? That was comparable to the heyday of the magazine in the seventies.

  Okay, so the print-runs would return to more rainforest-friendly sizes, and maybe Re:Sound wouldn’t survive another thirty years, but I’d given it the best possible chance.

  And when the day came for me to hang up my boots, at least they’d still be there for editor number fourteen.

  31

  Don’t Know What You’ve Got

  (Til It’s Gone)

  On the Friday night before the wedding, I met Alice in Selfridges to get a few last-minute things. She wanted to buy some underwear, and I’d gone up with her to the first floor thinking she needed a more supportive bra or a spare pair of tights. I couldn’t believe my eyes when she eschewed the usual brands and made a beeline for Agent Provocateur.

  ‘Alice, I’m shocked,’ I told her, only half joking. This stuff was next-level racy; everything seemed to come with matching blindfold.

  She smiled. ‘You only have one wedding night.’

  ‘Knock yourself out, but you’re on your own. I’m not going to stand here while you pick sex outfits for my brother. And have you seen the prices?’

  I left her among the sheer teddies and peephole bras and took the escalator back to the ground floor. I could do with another MAC lipstick; mine was running low and it was always nice to have a spare.

  Of course, I ended up buying loads of other stuff, including primer and setting spray, which I’d never worn in my life but the lady was so convincing, and wow, her eye-shadow was amazing.

  No, I’d never tried blue with gold highlighter, but go on then, ring those up too.

  Credit card still hot, I was wandering around the fragrances when I caught the scent of something divine. What was that smell? It made me feel happy and sad at the same time. It was so familiar, yet . . .

  Oh.

  Nick. It was Nick’s aftershave.

  Another blast of fragrance, this time stronger. I spun round. A woman behind a counter was spraying a scent onto a card for a customer.

  I edged closer to her. Three tall angular bottles were lined up on the glass counter. The one she’d just put down was on the right. The name ‘Serge’ was printed on the amber glass in discreet black lettering. It wasn’t a brand I knew.

  ‘Would you like to try one? They’re unisex.’ She picked up the middle bottle. ‘This is our newest fragrance.’

  I shook my head. ‘Could I try the one on the end? The one you just sprayed?’

  ‘Of course. On a card or on your wris
t?’

  ‘On a card,’ I said quickly. I couldn’t bear to have the smell of him on my skin. It would feel too intimate.

  She pumped the top and a fine mist blossomed onto the card. ‘It’s got a woody base with top notes of musk, leather and blackcurrant,’ she said.

  Blackcurrant? Nick didn’t smell like a damn throat lozenge. I took the card from her, brought it to my nose and closed my eyes.

  I couldn’t smell the individual notes. They all fused together to form one glorious sensation. I breathed again and my spirit soared. Silken and smoky. Velvety and visceral. It was Nick.

  But not quite.

  ‘Do you not like it?’

  I came back to earth with a bump.

  ‘I need to think about it,’ I said, hastily tossing the card into my shopping bag.

  I went to the coffee shop and ordered a chamomile tea – caffeine was the last thing I needed. I sat down at a corner table trying to compose myself.

  Jesus, I’d almost had an orgasm in the middle of a department store.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  I missed Nick. That much I was prepared to accept. We’d spent a lot of time together these past few weeks. It had been stressful at times, but satisfying trying to help Marcie.

  But it wasn’t only that I missed him. When I’d caught that first hit of his cologne by the MAC stand, for a second I’d felt a magical burst of joy. And that wasn’t because I missed him.

  It was something more.

  When I’d told Simon we couldn’t be together because something was lacking between us, I wasn’t talking about some mythical, undiscovered magic.

  I knew about it because I’d felt it with Nick.

  It had crept up on me slowly, though. My first inkling had been on the London Eye when he’d calmed me down without drawing attention to my distress. It had been such a selfless thing to do and I’d been too shocked to even thank him. But there had been a spark between us from the moment we met. I hadn’t acknowledged it because it had been so bloody inconvenient.

  But my subconscious had known.

  And I’d blown it. Now he was spending his last few nights in another woman’s bed before jetting back to South America, his sojourn in the UK and his fleeting feelings for me consigned to a bin labelled Big Mistakes.

  Alice dropped into the seat next to me in a heap of yellow Selfridges bags.

  I quickly blinked back the looming tears. ‘Blimey,’ I said, in a teasing tone, ‘those are big bags for a load of smalls.’

  She grinned. ‘I also bought a few other bits and pieces.’ She leant closer. ‘Looks like someone else went shopping, too.’

  She tried to peek into my bag, but I jostled it out of the way. I didn’t want her to smell the card with the cologne on it. I felt stupidly embarrassed that she would recognise it and then see how lame I was – getting my kicks from an overpriced chemical concoction.

  ‘What’s wrong, Zoë? Is something on your mind?’

  I shook my head. It was the night before her wedding, I wasn’t going to unburden myself on her. I wanted to be there for any last-minute nerves she might be having.

  ‘I’m a bit tired, but in a good way. Did I tell you I interviewed Marcie?’

  ‘That’s amazing!’

  I tried to mirror her smile. ‘It really is.’

  We didn’t speak for a few moments. I took a sip of my chamomile tea and wished it was a glass of wine.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Nope, there’s nothing.’

  ‘Please tell me. I need to take my mind off tomorrow. Give me something to think about other than tripping while I walk down the aisle or having a coughing fit during the ceremony. It happened to Annette’s sister. It was awful; the poor thing went purple.’

  How did Alice always know the right thing to say?

  ‘I told Simon I didn’t love him,’ I said eventually.

  Her eyes went wide. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’

  ‘Well, apart from feeling awful for doing it to him, I know it’s for the best.’

  She rubbed my arm. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re about to cry.’

  Oh God. She was right. My face was getting hot and suddenly I was blinking back tears.

  Alice gave me a hug, while I held my breath, trying to stop snivelling.

  Hold it together, Zoë. This is not the time.

  But it was no good. It was like a dam had burst and I was helpless to hold back the flood.

  She let me sob for a good five minutes. Then she gave me a tissue and a stern look. ‘Talk to me, Zoë.’

  ‘It’s Nick,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got feelings for him?’

  I nodded, and then another round of sobs overtook me and she waited patiently for them to pass and then listened to the whole sorry story.

  ‘Have you tried ringing him?’

  ‘No, but since he left he’s only left me one message – he’s hardly bursting to hear from me.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know how you feel. How can he? You’ve only just realised yourself.’

  I blew out a breath. ‘What would I say? “Hi Nick, sorry about laughing in your face that night and running off with another man. And in other news, I’m crazy about you”.’

  Alice smiled. ‘That’s exactly what you need to say. But word it slightly differently, of course.’

  ‘There’s no point. He’s left the country. He was never really keen on living in England.’

  ‘I bet he’d like England a whole lot more if he knew how you felt about him.’

  For a second, it seemed so simple. It was one phonecall . . .

  I pushed the thought out of my head before it took root. ‘He’s with someone else.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Really? So quickly?’

  ‘It was a badly kept secret in the industry that he was sort of seeing someone he worked with. Someone rather high-profile.’

  Alice’s eyes went wide. ‘Marcie?’

  I nodded.

  She’d left her phone on the table, and it suddenly buzzed angrily. ‘Sorry, Zoë, I need to check who this is.’ She frowned as she read the message, then put her phone down again. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to go. I’m staying at Annette’s and apparently I’m late for the evening of pampering she has lined up.’

  ‘Get going, then, woman. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

  She hopped off the stool and gave me another hug. ‘Ring him. Tell him how you feel. If you don’t do it now you’ll always wonder.’

  I stayed in the coffee shop after Alice left, trying but failing to not think about what she’d said.

  Should I tell Nick how I felt? It was just asking for humiliation, wasn’t it?

  Thankfully, Pete rang, so I didn’t have to think about it anymore.

  ‘Hey, bro,’ I answered, with forced cheerfulness. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Arma-fucking-geddon,’ was his grim reply.

  32

  I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues

  One extortionately expensive cab ride later and I was at Pete’s front door. Over the phone he’d explained in expletive-filled language that there had been a double booking with the band, which meant they had no music at the wedding tomorrow.

  Pete ushered me into the sitting room and offered me a steaming mug of tea so strong I could feel it stripping the enamel off my teeth.

  ‘There’s no need to tell Alice,’ he said. ‘It will only worry her.’

  I sat down while he detoured via the kitchen. He appeared a couple of minutes later, carrying a plate of pastichia. The almond macaroons were traditional at Greek weddings and I suspected I would be eating gut-bursting quantities tomorrow.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks.’

  He sat down on the sofa, next to an open Yellow Pages.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ I asked. ‘Did you steal it from a museum?’

  ‘I’m trying to save my wedding,’ he answered g
ruffly.

  ‘I’m not sure how many bands advertise in the phone book.’

  ‘I’m not looking for bands, I’m ringing every mobile disco within a fifty-mile radius. Not that I’ve got anywhere. They’re all booked up.’

  He was losing it and I needed to do something. ‘Pete, we don’t need a mobile disco. We can make playlists on a laptop and plug it into the hotel’s PA.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t think of that.’

  I patted his arm. ‘The other benefit of my idea is you won’t have to endure some mullet-haired DJ talking over the intros of your favourite tracks. Leave everything to me. You will have music tomorrow, I promise.’

  Pete looked at me weirdly. Did he have something in his contact lens? Or was he about to get soppy? Then he pronounced my name the Greek way – with the accent on the second syllable – and I knew the answer: ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Oh God, if Pete started blubbering he’d set me off again, too, especially after my outburst in Selfridges.

  Displays of affection between us were as rare as classy Christmas number ones. But just because we didn’t show it, it didn’t mean we didn’t care.

  ‘Ditto,’ I replied.

  Pete laughed. ‘How are we both missing that Greek gene that should make us excessively affectionate with our loved ones?’

  I pointed at my mug and the plate of biscuits. ‘We show affection with food and drink.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m really proud of you, Pete.’

  ‘Why? I didn’t make the pastichia. I got them from Green Lanes.’

  I thumped him. ‘Not about the pastichia. I’m proud that you met an amazing woman and that you had the sense to ask her to marry you. You’ve got this whole love thing sorted and I couldn’t be happier for you.’

  ‘You’ll find someone too, sis. Once you get your head out of your arse and realise Simon isn’t right for you.’

  I stifled a gasp. ‘What are you talking about?’ I had every intention of denying everything, but from the look on Pete’s face – a cross between exasperation and pity – I wasn’t going to brazen this one out. We might never have spoken about it, but he obviously knew all about my feelings for Simon.