by P. R. Black
‘No one’s tricking you,’ Adrienne said, with the fixed grin of a fairground carousel horse. ‘Connor here jumped in without asking.’
The photographer was one of Adrienne’s officemates at the student paper offices. He had unusually light, carefully groomed hair, close to a pudding-bowl style from the early 1980s. The fringe must have been difficult to see through. He gave them a thumbs-up, then turned away to survey the results on his phone.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you something?’ Adrienne asked, softly.
‘Maybe a white wine spritzer.’
‘A what?’
‘A white wine spritzer.’
‘Yeah.’ Adrienne giggled. ‘I heard you – I just don’t know what the hell it is.’
‘You know what, maybe just a white wine. A small one.’
To Georgia’s surprise, Adrienne merely raised a hand, gaining the attention of a woman dressed all in black at the side of the bar with her hands folded. She came over and took an order, then disappeared to the bar. Georgia saw that it was filling up – not much space at the bar, at any rate, although the seats lining the edges were sparsely populated.
‘It looks like we’ll have a massive boost from tonight – enough to do some more advertising,’ Adrienne said. ‘You sticking around for the after-show? They’re having it up here.’
‘I suppose I will. Are Riley and Scott coming?’
‘I bloody hope so. I told the paper that they would be – I’m in trouble if I don’t get some words.’
‘I’d like to speak to them.’
‘Oh – they’ll want to speak to you. I guarantee that. Riley said he couldn’t wait to say hello. He texted me.’
‘Did he now?’
A tall man in a cloth cap and a long grey jacket that was surely too warm for this time of year approached. A digital recorder was already in his hands as she said: ‘Hi – I hope you don’t mind me interrupting. I’m Ben Lotherton from the Daily Mail.’
Adrienne stepped aside, but only slightly; Georgia noticed that she had a digital recorder in her hand, too.
Georgia smiled. There was a group of them, before long. Then some more photos. She posed, smiled – not too broadly – and had the presence of mind to make sure the glass of wine was put down well out of shot, and didn’t take a sip of it while she spoke to the journalists. She remembered the media training provided by the police officers; she even remembered some of the lines she’d used. ‘Anything can help us at all,’ she said. ‘It’s been a devastating time for the whole family and personally very hard for me, of course it has. But I want to thank Stephanie’s friends for rallying round, and in particular Riley Brightman and the Megiddos for setting up this concert. I want people to keep searching. We’ll find the answer, one day. We’ll find out what happened to Stephanie.’
Soon they drifted away to the far corner of the bar. A couple of hundred words was all they needed, the police officer had said. You didn’t have to give your life story. All they wanted was something to hang quotation marks onto, to justify the hassle and expense of covering the story, of spending the time at a press conference, or indeed at a tribute concert.
Charity concert, Georgia corrected herself. It’s not a tribute. Not yet.
She allowed herself a sip of white wine.
‘Bet you’ve been looking forward to that,’ Adrienne said, as she clinked her bottle with Georgia’s glass.
‘Just a sip or two. To tell you a secret, I never drink.’
‘Oh… given up?’
‘No! Nothing evangelical. I never drank so much when I was younger, and pretty much nothing at all the past few years. I wasn’t even too bothered about it socially, after a while. I’ll take a glass at Christmas. It’s not that I don’t like it – I just don’t like the lack of control.’
‘I must admit, I like a beer now and again.’
‘Well, you’re a student, love.’
‘People don’t like getting out of their heads so much,’ Adrienne said. ‘Most boys I know would rather be in the gym. People want to look good, not get wasted. Myself, I blame the selfie generation.’ Adrienne fidgeted with her hair as she said this, oblivious.
‘Not drinking so much – I get you,’ Georgia said. Spying the three girls from the queue making their way to the front of the crowd below, she added: ‘You could have fooled me.’
‘What does this mean to you, Georgia?’ Adrienne asked. ‘Sum it up, if you can.’
‘You’re still rolling the tape, aren’t you?’ Georgia’s shoulders relaxed. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind giving you some quotes. This means the world to me. I hope it’ll help jog people’s memories, though – this isn’t about me. This is about finding my daughter. I notice you took a lot of pictures of me. I don’t mind that. But make sure Stephanie is front and centre. You’re selling your story to the Telegraph, or wherever it was that head-hunted you – is that right?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ Adrienne said, drawing back a little. ‘Not that it matters, I suppose.’
Georgia raised her hand. ‘It’s fine, Adrienne. At the end of the day you’re helping me. So I’ll help you help me.’
‘I’m happy to help.’ Adrienne grinned. ‘Your husband said the same thing.’
‘What? You spoke to Rod?’
‘Yes.’ Adrienne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t he here with you?’
‘No, he’s not – not so far as I know.’ Georgia hoped Adrienne couldn’t see her blushing. ‘When was this?’
‘I called him earlier on today. He’s been in touch throughout the campaign. Been really helpful. He gave us a cracking interview. Said how hard you’d been working, how much you’d been throwing yourself into your practice. Coping mechanism, he called it.’
‘I see. That’s interesting. Hopefully he didn’t talk about me too much, and focused on Stephanie.’
‘I’m just surprised he isn’t here with you.’
Georgia smiled. Clearly it didn’t fool anyone, but she said: ‘Oh, he’s busy, himself. He’s got his business to look after. Too busy to come over tonight. Anyway… I brought something that I thought you might use. I meant to hand it over when we last spoke. But, you know…’
Adrienne’s eyes lit up as Georgia dug into her jacket and produced a photo. It was a printout of the original, a reasonable copy. It showed Stephanie while she’d been studying for her A levels. She’d taken time out from – supposedly – making notes on Romeo and Juliet to have a cup of coffee out in the garden, her elbows on the rickety fence post, looking at the farmer’s fields across the road. The light had been gorgeous, and Stephanie had been distracted and distant, but this lack of expression had heightened her beauty – an alien beauty, taking more after Rod’s side than Georgia’s. Not knowing herself observed, she had a more natural look than her silly faces or the mock-ironic pout she had affected at the time for social media. There was the long jawline, the big cheekbones, the clear brow and the pale, pale skin, and the Elf Warrior ears, as her school friends had christened them – this latter feature being the only justification for the pixie haircut that Georgia loathed.
How much more beautiful she’d be with longer hair, Georgia had thought. Still did think, in fact. If only she’d grow it out.
‘You can have this. I found it recently, on an old phone. I forgot I’d changed phones not long before Stephanie disappeared. This is one of the best photos of her. I caught her unawares.’
Adrienne took the photo. She bit her lip. Tears brimmed. ‘Gorgeous girl. Big skinny malinky Stephanie. God, Georgia. Thank you for this. Thank you.’
‘I’ll get a digital copy to you. I just had this one printed out recently… I really like it. You can see why.’
‘No, we can scan this, don’t worry yourself.’ The photo disappeared inside Adrienne’s bag. ‘Anyway… Looks like it’s showtime here.’
14
The thing about Cornfed is that the more appointments you make, the more you miss of everything else. And you don’t mind one little b
it. In the mornings is best, in the afternoons is OK too, and in the evenings it’s a necessity. I want to trace my fingers down Cornfed’s face, and leave a slight impression, as you would on fine sand. I want to know Cornfed in every dimension.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
‘Thanks so much for that, thank you.’ Riley Brightman had on a tight-fitting black T-shirt and grey jeans – different to his usual fey, sometimes androgynous style. He had even done without the eyeshadow for a change. Everything was centred on his T-shirt, and the message stencilled in stark white capitals across his chest. ‘FIND STEPHANIE’, it read, followed by the helpline number. A fine effort, Georgia thought, even though his black rhinestone-studded guitar strap obscured it most of the time.
The cheers went on and on, after the opening number, a raucous affair stripped back to just two acoustic guitars and the performers’ harmonies. Georgia didn’t know the song, but was impressed by how well their voices worked, away from the sturm und drang of bass and drums and distorted strings; there was something of the Everly Brothers to them, although the two front men seemed as chalk and cheese as ever. If anything, having Scott Trickett wearing the same outfit as Riley Brightman accentuated their differences – Scott was ill at ease in a T-shirt, the curving script stencilled on the front highlighting a monumental egg of a belly that might have gotten him a seat on a packed bus had he been a woman. Trickett was sweating heavily under the lights even before the first number began, and he gulped down a bottle of beer set up on a table beside the mic stands as it finished.
‘I’m going to bang on about this,’ Brightman said, palming away his own entirely imaginary sweat, ‘but we’re here for a reason, and it’s up on screen behind me. This is Stephanie, my beautiful friend. She went missing just over two years ago, in this town, right here in Ferngate. Someone out there must know a little something about her – anyone, anywhere, if you even think you know about what might have happened to Stephanie, please give this number a call, or send a text, or drop an email. Any information you could have could help us find her. Please…’ His voice hitched; the crowd roared all the same. Brightman ran a hand through his hair, then clutched the mic stand. ‘OK. This one is called “Sunrise With Dawn”.’
‘Bit rude, this one,’ Adrienne whispered in Georgia’s ear. ‘Not too appropriate, I guess.’
‘Wait till you hear about this guy I used to listen to called Prince,’ Georgia muttered. She took a sip of the wine, and leaned on the balcony rail, watching the show.
Brightman was the star, of course – she knew that already. But then something strange happened, amid the thrashing of the acoustic guitars, augmented by the beautifully constructed chorus lines and middle eights; Georgia forgot about things. She was genuinely enjoying the show, the good-looking boy working his way through his poses, one minute the rock god, the next an awkward foal, all stringy muscles, fringe and shyness. He knew just when to sink back, and when to spring forward. It was as much physical theatre, even restricted to the acoustic guitars and a few lighting effects – but they were good songwriters, and they could play.
Georgia had gone through a phase in her freshman year of wanting to form a band, and had tried to learn how to play with a battered acoustic and a songbook-for-dunces out of the library. She had no aptitude for music, but she did have one for stubborn slogging and dogged study and practice, and from that phase she knew enough to recognise that what they were doing wasn’t easy, with Scott Trickett taking on most of the heavy lifting. The stout man wasn’t quite a guitar hero or hair metal fret wanker, but his skill was clear. What was especially odd was that he said very little, staring into space, or merely applauding away from the mic whenever Brightman spoke.
They played for about forty minutes – just about all of their songs. A new tune Brightman said was called ‘She Said’, or ‘She Says’, Georgia couldn’t be sure which – met with a rapturous response. ‘This is the first time anyone’s ever heard it…’ Brightman looked to the big man to his left, and when no response was forthcoming, he said: ‘Outside of our own festering minds, anyway.’
They ended with ‘Tears Never Dry’, pausing during the second chorus to hear the audience singing every word. A sea of camera phone lights dappled the crowd below. ‘My God,’ Georgia muttered, ‘is everyone recording this gig, or watching it?’
Adrienne, who was still stationed by her side, said something like: ‘Cheer up, Grandma.’
The applause was thunderous. After a short encore, which took in a two-guitar rendition of ‘She Moves Through The Fair’, Brightman raised a hand and looked right into the gallery. Georgia straightened up.
‘This is for Stephanie, OK?’ he said. Then he sang Robbie Williams’ ‘She’s The One’, solo.
Georgia did not know what to do, or what to say. She felt frozen to the spot, mortified for a spell, then a little bit angry.
Then Adrienne’s hands were over her shoulder, and then something broke in her. More than one person came over to hug her; one might have been the journalist with the cloth cap. She wanted to flee, but held her ground, and joined the applause, tears streaming down her face.
‘All right?’ Adrienne asked.
‘Coping,’ was all Georgia said. Instinctively she reached for the glass of wine – it had barely been touched the whole night – but something in the dry bite and the sourness afterwards suddenly disgusted her, and she laid it down on an empty table.
Brightman and Trickett took their bows before the crowd, with the stout guitar player hurling picks from his stand out into the audience, before they both disappeared backstage.
Various pictures of Stephanie’s face scrolled past on the video screen at the back of the stage, with the contact details beneath.
‘How long will it take them to come upstairs?’ Georgia asked Adrienne, as the audience filed out of the hall below.
‘Hard to say… Don’t think it’ll be too long. Don’t reckon Riley would keep you waiting, anyway. Oh! Hey!’
Adrienne flailed somewhere over Georgia’s shoulder. This alarmed her, as if a bird had fluttered at her ears, and she cringed a little.
She cringed a bit more when she saw who Adrienne was signalling.
Martin Duke and his girlfriend, Colette, were stood at a pillar nearby, each sipping a beer. They both looked surprised, then a little hesitant. Colette whispered something in Martin’s ear, and they came over. Colette was wearing long black culottes that didn’t suit her at all, and her lipstick was certainly eye-catching – thick and burgundy. She’d painted her nails black, and her hands were laden with silver jewellery, Celtic symbols, it seemed. Martin Duke was looking better than Georgia had seen him before, but looked a bit of a sight, truth be told. He wore a tatty off-white band T-shirt – Aerosmith, it looked like, most likely worn ironically – underneath a brown corded jacket that looked like it had been stolen off a lecturer’s peg, having hung there for maybe fifteen years. His trousers also appeared to be flared, with sequins and roses stitched into the sides of the thighs. Had he been as slim as he was a couple of years ago, he’d have gotten away with this look, but if anything, it underlined that he had lost his looks a little, his definition softened.
Adrienne practically smothered both of them – it bordered on assault. No fresh air kisses for her; both were smooched on the cheeks, more than once. ‘You guys! It’s lovely to see you! Sit down, have a drink.’
‘We’re fine,’ Martin said, cutting her off with a hand and addressing Georgia. ‘We just wanted to come along and show our support.’
‘It’s appreciated, Martin. Did you enjoy the show?’
Colette answered for him. ‘They’re all right, I guess. Not really my cup of tea. Did you see Prat Spaniel, the guys who were on before it? They’re more my type of thing.’
‘Interesting sound,’ Georgia said. Yeah. While you’re at it, tell them you thought they had a good beat, Grandma.
‘You know what?’ Martin said, leaning closer, a mischievous set to his l
ips as he spoke. ‘I reckon they’ve got a hell of a good beat.’
Georgia mock-applauded. ‘I asked for that! Yeah, to be fair, I was just being polite. It sounded like my dishwasher on a long cycle.’
‘Oh – you can tell the singer that, if you like,’ Colette said. ‘He’s right beside you.’
The blond singer who’d been struggling with the Rickenbacker on stage was staring right at Georgia, maybe five yards away. Georgia had no idea he’d been there. She drew in a deep breath as he raised a bottle of beer at her in salute.
‘Hey, hi,’ Georgia said. ‘Very interesting sound your band has.’
‘Thanks. I thought we had a great beat, too,’ he said, and laughed uproariously with everyone else.
‘I think I’ll go home, and hide under the covers,’ Georgia said. ‘It’s not been my night.’
‘Ah, don’t be silly,’ the blond boy said, not unkindly. He stuck out a hand, and Georgia shook it. ‘I’m Howie Abbot, by the way. Pleased to meet you, though these are terrible circumstances.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Close-up, he had the look of a bit of a jackanapes – tall and wiry, with fine blond hair seeming stolen from a two-year-old. On stage he had come across as a bit of a bumbler, a little preppy, out of place on stage with drums and flashing lights behind him. He seemed more confident in person.
Georgia was aware of a change in the atmosphere over her shoulder – like a sudden change in air pressure. People on the periphery of her vision sighed and shifted.
Riley Brightman came forward. He’d changed out of the white-on-black T-shirt; now it was black-on-white.
‘Well now,’ he said rubbing his hands together, after a firm clap. ‘It looks like the band’s all back together.’
‘Good show,’ Martin Duke said. ‘You pulled it off.’
In the unearthly atmosphere the pair’s proximity generated, it was impossible to know if there was any irony intended in the remark, even down to the level of double entendre. Unconsciously, Georgia had taken up a more defensive stance.
‘Well, you’d know all about that,’ Riley replied, finally. ‘Want a drink? Someone get this guy a drink. Best poet in the university, this time last year.’