Sam finds inspiration for new stuff by walking the streets of whichever city he’s in, watching the people around him, letting his mind drift. On a park bench in a garden square eating his lunchtime sandwich, with pigeons pecking hopefully at his feet, he is jolted back in time to that bench in Atlantic City, Cat reading the inscription to him. It was the first thing they shared, their passion for words on benches. He puts his sandwich down, his appetite gone.
For the rest of that afternoon, he hunts down benches, looking for lines to give him ideas for lyrics. Lost now but loved for ever. Beloved granny and grandad. The dancer is gone, but the dance lives on. Some are mundane, some funny, some beautiful. And he reminds himself that whatever the words say, they are always a testament to love. The love he and Cat shared was just a spark really, the bright beginning of something that never had a chance to grow. But it will live inside him for ever, as first loves do. And he’ll always be grateful to her for giving him those feelings, and for helping him have the strength to change his life.
The mechanical noise of the doorbell shrieks through the flat. It’s late morning and the remains of breakfast are spread over the kitchen table. George answers, and Marcus stalks into the sitting room, running his hands through his hair. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a packet of Player’s, taps one out and lights it. Sam and George wait as he blows out a long stream of smoke.
‘Island called,’ he says at last. ‘They want to meet you.’
‘Fuck,’ George says. ‘Fuckety fuck!’ He grabs Sam’s hand and squeezes, his other on Sam’s shoulder like a big warm paw. ‘This is it, mate. This is it!’
‘Yep.’ Marcus takes another deep drag. ‘I wanted to tell you in person. Call the others. We’ve got a meeting tomorrow afternoon at their offices. Time to get your shit together.’
Sam embraces George. George embraces Sam, nearly breaking his ribs.
Island have offered the Lambs a deal. They’ll be cutting their first album in a London studio, working with the material that the record company have already heard. But the men in suits want a love song to be the first single. Something heart-wrenching. Can they write one in time?
‘Of course,’ Marcus assures them smoothly. ‘No problem. Sam will come up with something.’
‘Can’t we use one of my other songs?’ Sam says afterwards. ‘There’s a few that are written in a minor key – what about “Cindy”?’
‘A sad ballad won’t cut it,’ Marcus snaps. ‘They’re asking for a love song.’
Sam shakes his head. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘Haven’t you ever been in love?’ Marcus asks him impatiently.
The band are gathered in the local pub to celebrate the deal, Sam and Marcus alone in a corner. Before Sam can reply, Marcus is talking again, tapping his foot nervously. ‘For fuck’s sake, you can’t be a writer if you’ve never had your heart broken.’
Sam looks away, digging his fingernails into his palms. ‘I don’t know … I don’t know if I can do this.’
‘You haven’t got a choice,’ Marcus says, his face hard. ‘This is the golden opportunity. You need to come up with a single. A cracking love song.’
Sam thinks of those songs he wrote in Atlantic City years ago, his songs for Cat. He scribbled them down and then shoved them into envelopes, put them under his clothes in a drawer, out of sight. He wonders if he could bear to listen to them again, play their chords, work on them with the band. Has enough time passed to make that possible?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cat, February 1986
Leo’s away for the weekend at a conference in Switzerland. ‘Not that I needed to go for the weather, did I?’ he laughed on the phone last night. Snow has been falling for days, turning the garden into a tiered white wedding cake. When the sun comes out, everything glistens and sparkles. He’d rung to say goodnight to Grace, but we ended up talking for over an hour. As soon as I put the phone down, I missed him.
When the post comes on Saturday morning, I hurry to pick it up. I sent some of my short stories off to a literary agent weeks ago. There’s a large brown envelope addressed to me. I open it with a thumping heart, disappointment sliding through me like ice water as I pull out my returned manuscript. There’s a short rejection note: they advise me not to submit handwritten work, but there’s no feedback about the content. They must have hated it.
There’s no time to let myself get depressed. Grace has been given the starring role in her ballet school’s end-of-term show. She came home, cheeks glowing, handing me a sketch of an outfit that I’m supposed to somehow magic up from my non-existent sewing kit. Grace is beyond thrilled. I can’t let her down. There’s a sewing machine in the cupboard under the stairs that must have belonged to Elizabeth, and I set about teaching myself how to use it.
‘Come here, bug,’ I tell Grace. ‘Let’s try this on you for size.’
Obediently she strips down to her knickers and vest and stands still to let the half-made dress fall over her outstretched arms and head. I kneel beside her, pins at the ready, and sigh in frustration. I’ve got the waist measurements totally wrong. It billows around her. Grace sticks out her belly and laughs.
‘Holy moly! We could fit three of you into this,’ I say, beginning to gather it tighter. ‘Or turn it into a sail for a boat.’ I fix the pleats into place with dozens of pins.
‘Nancy’s mum is paying someone else to make her costume.’
‘Is Nancy’s mum as hopeless as me at sewing, then?’
Grace shrugs. ‘She’s just really busy.’
‘What does she do?’
‘Something to do with books, I think. She’s always rushing to meetings.’ Grace thinks for a moment. ‘They do have a lot of books at their house. Even more than us.’
Grace and Nancy have become best friends. They met at Miss Miller’s dance class. I love how Grace relishes talking about her new friend, slipping her name into conversations whenever she can.
When I’ve finished, she steps out of the bristling fabric. ‘Careful of the pins,’ I remind her.
She sits at one side of the table in the sitting room doing her math homework, while I sit at the other attempting to take the waist in. The thread snarls under the little silver foot and breaks every five minutes. ‘Ouch.’ I suck my punctured finger. Grace twirls her pencil, adding up numbers. The machine rattles and hums. Outside the window, snow falls.
When she tries the dress on again, Grace runs out of the room to look at herself in the full-length mirror in Leo’s bedroom. I hold my breath, listening to her feet on the stairs, wondering if she’ll notice the imperfections: the wonky hem and crooked seams. But when she comes back, she flings open the door – ‘Ta da!’ – and twirls around the room, dropping into a low curtsey before me. ‘Princess Grace thanks you for your work,’ she says, her face shining.
‘If you’re a princess, what am I?’
‘A humble peasant woman, of course.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, this humble peasant woman needs you to get your royal bottom into bed before your dad gets home, so,’ I make a grab for her, ‘scoot!’
She dodges me, and runs giggling for the door.
‘You’ve got five minutes to get into your PJs!’ I yell after her.
She’s settled against her pillows, and I curl up next to her. ‘Will you tell me a story?’ she asks. Although she’s old enough to read to herself, we’ve continued our habit of made-up bedtime tales. She has her thumb in her mouth and a faraway look in her eyes as I invent the next adventure of the little girl we’ve called Sally and her china horse.
As I finish, Leo steps into the room, bringing the chill of the outside with him. He’s got a dusting of snow on his coat, and his cheeks are flushed. He kisses Grace, who murmurs sleepily and closes her eyes.
‘I was listening outside the door,’ he says quietly. ‘You’ve got a talent. Why don’t you write them down?’
‘I’ve got notebooks filled with them.’ I smile. ‘Are you hung
ry?’
‘I ate on the plane. But I’ve brought presents.’ He takes my hand, and I realise how natural it feels to join our fingers. He leads me downstairs. There are packages on the hall table. ‘Grace can open hers tomorrow,’ he says. ‘But this one’s for you.’ He gestures towards the largest parcel, unable to contain his enthusiasm.
‘It’s too big for chocolate,’ I say, touching the brown paper, drawing out the moment by teasing him. ‘A large cuckoo clock?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense!’
I untie the string, unwrapping the paper. Inside is a small portable typewriter in a leather case. I gasp, genuinely surprised.
‘I think it’s time you got professional,’ he’s saying. ‘Send off some of your stories to magazines or publishers. They’re good enough.’
‘I don’t think they are,’ I say. ‘I just got a rejection note from an agent.’
‘Nothing worthwhile is ever easy,’ he says. ‘You can’t give up at the first hurdle.’
‘I think they were put off by it being handwritten …’
‘Exactly. Now you can change that.’
I take the machine out of the case and run my fingers over the neat rows of keys. ‘I want to use it right now,’ I tell him. ‘Hope it’s easier than a sewing machine!’
‘You’ve no idea how lovely it is to come home and find you telling Grace a story.’ He’s standing right beside me, so close his breath warms my cheek. ‘You’ve brought joy back into this house, Cat.’
I turn, wrapping my arms around his neck. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘For the typewriter.’ I pause. ‘For everything.’
I can feel his heart thudding through his ribcage. But he clears his throat and steps away from my embrace. ‘I’ve got a good bottle of Chablis in the fridge,’ he says. ‘Let’s toast your new venture in the literary world.’
As we sit in the kitchen and clink glasses, my gaze catches Elizabeth’s brilliant smile. ‘I think Grace is growing to look a lot like her mom,’ I say.
‘Thank God it’s only Elizabeth’s looks she’s inherited.’ A hardness has entered his voice.
I put my drink down. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I keep these photographs out for Grace.’ He gestures at the gleaming frames. ‘If it was up to me, I wouldn’t have a single picture of her anywhere.’
I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue.
He takes his glasses off, squeezing the bridge of his nose. ‘Our relationship was a failure. But I don’t want Grace to know that; she deserves to think the best of her mother.’ He swallows a gulp of wine. ‘Elizabeth was trying to be an actress when we met. She’d failed in America, so she thought she’d try London instead. She didn’t actually have any talent, just the looks. But I was dazzled by her.’ He gives a short, humourless laugh. ‘She was vivacious when she wanted something. Someone.’ He puts his glasses back on. ‘She fell for this house, the romance of me being a surgeon. Because of the house, she thought I was wealthier than I am. I inherited this place, otherwise it would be completely beyond my means.’ He’s staring at the table. ‘I suppose marrying me was a way out of a failed career. I don’t think she could face going back to the States.’ He pauses. ‘I disappointed her. Her life here disappointed her. It wasn’t glamorous enough. She started drinking.’ He looks up at me. ‘She was selfish and spoilt. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. I’m pretty certain she was seeing someone else. There were … signs. But at the time, I stuck my head in the sand. What if she’d wanted custody of Grace, taken her back to the States?’
My head is full of his words – this new information clam-ouring for attention, spilling over the bounds of my ability to process it, contain it – but now I understand the reason for his expression when he thinks he’s unobserved: this is the pain he carries all the time.
‘When she fell down the stairs.’ The hardness is back in his voice. ‘She’d been drinking.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘God. I’m sorry.’
‘I should have told you. But it was shameful. The whole situation. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it with anyone.’ He touches my hand. Those long, clever fingers of his, the coolness of them against my skin. Without thinking, I take them and kiss them, one by one.
‘Cat,’ he whispers.
We stand up and he slips his hands around my waist. Then we’re leaning against each other, the thump of our hearts synchronising. This man is dear to me – his voice, his smell, the way he moves; he makes me feel safe. We find each other’s lips, and this time he doesn’t pull away. The kiss is sweet and gentle. His fingers move up my spine, making me shiver. He squeezes me tight to his chest. We are kissing in earnest now, our breath coming fast.
We both break away at the same time, faces flushed. My own thoughts are mirrored in his questioning gaze. ‘If we take this step …’ his voice trembles, ‘it’s huge.’
I consider what’s at stake: it’s the first time I’ve felt part of a proper family, known real security. But is it enough to stop us, when I want him too? When I’m hungry for intimacy, for affection? I falter, watching confusion play over his features, doubt pulling at his mouth.
‘Let’s give it a bit more time,’ he’s saying. ‘Let’s think about it. We … we need to be sensible.’
His words make me smile, because you can’t be sensible about love. It either is or it isn’t; there’s no reasoning with it. But it’s just like Leo to be cautious, to use his mind to try and control something that’s uncontrollable.
My pulse slows, and I take his hand in mine and squeeze. ‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s be sensible. For now.’
He exhales loudly, shaking his head. ‘You have no idea the control I’m using at this moment. I should get a medal.’
We smile at each other and step away, keeping eye contact, until only our fingertips hold on. Then we let go.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sam, June 1986
Sunset casts a flattering glow over the first guests, making them shimmer as they accept flutes of champagne from waiters dressed in togas. A jazz band is playing, the singer giving throaty renditions of Ella classics. The party’s being held on a roof terrace. There are plastic flamingos and gold palm trees, reminding Sam of Atlantic City. He leans against a wall, at the edge of the action. He can smell the fumes from the gritty street far below.
A redhead with skin like double cream is in the middle of the dance floor. Nobody else is dancing except her; she moves slowly, undulating her hips, twisting her arms. With her colouring and curves, she should have been painted by one of the Impressionists, he thinks, Degas or Matisse.
‘Oh, I love Matisse,’ she says, when he tells her. ‘I get sick of all those art snobs saying it’s not proper art if it’s pretty.’
She looks up at him under dark lashes when he asks her name. ‘Daisy. Daisy Armstrong.’ She smiles, ‘I know exactly who you are, Sam Sage. I love your new single, “Ocean Blue”. Really gets me, you know, right here.’ She presses her chest. ‘I’m a total romantic.’
She is so knowingly coquettish that Sam finds it entrancing. Her glances and pouts are performed with the grace of a dancer, her timing skilful as a chess player, and he appreciates the fact that she doesn’t take herself too seriously.
She doesn’t capitulate to his advances at once. It takes a conversation on the merits of different Impressionists and two cocktails before she agrees to leave and have dinner with him.
They go to a Japanese restaurant. Kneeling at the low table, she says, ‘I didn’t want to burst your bubble before, but Matisse is technically thought of as a Fauvist rather than an Impressionist. I thought you should know. For future reference.’
‘Oh, what’s the difference?’ he asks.
‘Mainly colour. Matisse used a brighter, bolder palette.’
He groans, ‘So my chat-up line did nothing but expose my lack of knowledge?’
‘It was sweet.’ She leans forward conspiratorially, ‘Actually, I was all you
rs before you said a word.’
He swallows hard. ‘You mean there was nothing I could have said to put you off?’
She tilts her head to one side. ‘Maybe if you’d compared me to a Renoir.’
‘What’s wrong with a Renoir?’
‘Cellulite.’ She winks. ‘Lots of cellulite. The man was crazy for it.’
He laughs. ‘What do you do, Daisy Armstrong, when you’re not giving art history lessons?’
‘I sing,’ she tells him, waving her chopsticks. ‘And model. But really I want to be a star. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a little girl.’
‘I think you’re made to be a star,’ he says, looking at her huge green eyes, the tumbling curls spilling over her naked shoulders.
‘But nobody’s giving me my big break,’ she sighs. ‘This business is tough.’
‘I played the pub circuit for a couple of years before the Lambs,’ he says. ‘It felt as though I was banging my head against a brick wall.’ He puts a piece of sushi in his mouth, the horse-radish making his eyes smart. ‘I’d like to hear you sing.’
‘Really?’ She unfolds herself from the low seat. She’s kicked off her heels, and her long split dress trails on the floor. She grins down at him and his heart lurches. ‘How about now?’
He waits in breathless anticipation. She opens her mouth and belts out a Whitney Houston song. She warbles and riffs, not quite hitting those tricky high notes, her voice swallowed by vibrato. The other diners turn and stare in amazement.
When she finishes, most of them clap, including Sam.
Daisy bows and flicks her hair, then sinks back onto her knees and leans across the table. She’s practically purring. ‘Well?’
Sam nods, ‘Um. Amazing. Really … breathtaking.’
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