Mirrored (Follow Your Bliss series Book 4)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

Alex didn’t swallow the words daring to be spoken. “She might not be.”

  Brighton cried harder.

  “I know,” he said softly. He understood that she couldn’t bear losing another parent, not so soon. He knew what it was like not to have a mother and how it was a loss unique unto itself. His father was great, especially when he was a teen and even more so when he got serious about music. However, he’d missed out on someone kissing his boo-boos, hanging his report card on the fridge, and telling him stories that didn’t involve boozy nights and women. He knew well enough that the mother-daughter bond was special, Brighton and Claire’s especially.

  Her sniffling quieted. “You do know, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Well, I didn’t lose my dad, but my mother; she may not be alive anymore. I guess she partied pretty hard. For me, she may as well be dead. I’ll never know.” It sounded ugly, but it was the brutal truth.

  “But what if you could?”

  “What? Find her? Ugh, erm, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Brighton gazed up at him, her eyes glistening in the moonlight streaming through the high windows. “Maybe it would help, if you knew. Perhaps she’s looking for you.”

  “I’m not hard to find, we know that.”

  She snorted. “I guess you’re right. But answers or maybe closure…”

  “Eh, I don’t know. It seems like a can of worms.”

  “You mean something that might make you wriggle uncomfortably?” Brighton wiped the fragments of sadness from her eyes. She replaced it with truth and courage. “It would probably hurt a bit. Or a lot. Dealing with the past sucks. Being here, in London, isn’t easy either. But if I didn’t come, I’d be really missing you, and I’d have that same sticky, icky curiosity about my dad’s life here. Also my mom forced me. She won’t have the results for another week, and she insisted that if I didn’t get on a plane, she’d leave for Tahiti just so she wouldn’t catch my nervousness.”

  “I see. I’ll think about it.” Alex noted how perfectly they mirrored each other. He challenged her negative thinking. She did the same for him, without backing down, no matter how impossible it felt to defy the other; and even more boldly, face their respective fears, mortared together with uncertainty, distrust, and anger. They were also equally brave and stubborn, wicked and strong, and honest and caring; he loved everything about her.

  “I know you won’t,” she said.

  “You’re right. I have better things on my mind. A new song I’m working on, remembering to stop at a little shop in Spitalfields for my favorite tea…you.”

  She nuzzled closer. He smelled citrus in her soft hair.

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “You’re strong.”

  “Not always.”

  “I’m here. Always.”

  They slept in, and the next day didn’t make it out of the flat until after they’d made love and got hungry for lunch. Wanting to dodge the paparazzi that day, they set off in a rusty Mercedes. It was Alex’s first car, a hand-me-down from his father that he’d never gotten around to restoring. Chaz entrusted his son to take an interest in working on the automobile. He hadn’t. There were cigarette stains along the window frame from Graham. The gas gauge was wonky. Lyrics he’d jotted down on the dashboard hadn’t been washed away by time or footprints, which also featured prominently in a size ten and the exact imprint of Finn’s favorite boots.

  “It has character,” Brighton said.

  “It’s no CC. When we head out to the sea coast, we’ll take a different car.”

  “I like it. But I don’t know if I’ll get used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “The right side.”

  “No, the left,” she corrected.

  The both laughed as Alex parallel parked on the end of a tree-lined street.

  “Quaint,” she commented.

  “Not for long.” He pulled a hat on his head and put on sunglasses. “I’m about to show you the seventies-rock-and-roll side of London, or what’s left of it.”

  Alex led Brighton down the sidewalk, when they turned the corner, a sign prominently read, Abbey Road.

  “Oh, no way.” She launched toward the white lined crosswalk, synonymous with the Beatles’ album. “So cool.”

  Alex laughed. “I forgot about this. I guess we’re backing up, starting with 1969.”

  After he took a snapshot of Brighton crossing, they carried on down the road to a little club called, The West.

  “This is where Bang Bang played their first gig. And that,” he turned and pointed up to the third floor of a building across the street, “Is where your dad and my dad met. They were at a party, drinking hearty…You know the rest of the song.”

  Brighton sang a few bars of the Bang Bang hit telling the story of how the band came to be.

  “My dad tried to buy it after,” Alex cleared his throat, “El passed away, but the owner wasn’t interested.” It wasn’t only Brighton who’d tried to preserve the memory of her father.

  She turned back and peered through the flyer-checkered window of the club. “It’s amazing it’s still a club after all these years.”

  “It mostly caters to regulars and karaoke nights, but we played there when we were first starting out. I signed my name on the wall, right next to my dad’s.”

  Alex spotted Brighton’s reflection in the glass, she didn’t look overly sad, but as if what she’d missed, growing up as daddy's girl, had pierced her heart all over again.

  Alex took her hand.

  “Onward?” he asked.

  They went back to the car and motored ten minutes to Camden. The buildings were colorful building blocks stacked together, the crowds on the sidewalks overflowed into the street, bustling with shoppers, vendors, and a parade of fascinating looking people.

  “It’s like New York on Halloween or Venice Beach without the beach,” Brighton commented.

  Alex laughed, carefully steering the car. “Now the trick will be to blend in. Where’s my pirate costume when I need it?” A man dressed like a cowboy walked by. Alex turned down a narrow lane. “Oh look. How lucky.” He wedged the car into a parking spot.

  Brighton started to get out.

  “Wait,” he said, leaning close and gazing at her lips. He smooched her softly, before she returned the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. They made out passionately, their breath catching, the interior of the car steaming.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ready?” Alex asked. “In which we venture into the greatest circus on earth,” he said, getting out of the car after they’d made out.

  Instead of exiting toward the street, Alex led Brighton deeper down the lane, littered with refuse, an abandoned mattress, and an overflowing dumpster.

  “Our dad’s met at a posh party in that flat we just came from, but this is where they’d lived. Well, your dad’s flat was down here. I guess he shared it with five mates, three dogs, a cat, and a rat, or maybe it was a snake. I can’t remember.” Alex paused in front of a graffitied door. “Number nine.”

  Brighton squished up her nose. “It stinks.”

  “I gather it wasn’t much different back then. The stuff of inspiration, music-making, art, yanno?”

  “Where was your dad’s place?”

  “This way.”

  They walked back toward the car. Alex pointed to a door, similar to the other, with the number seventeen. “He and Neil lived here.”

  “They were neighbors?”

  “The entire band, the original members, lived on the same street, er…alley, and they didn’t even know it. As you can imagine, El moved out of the crowded flat and into this one.”

  “So where does Shad fit into this?”

  “The bass player comes in later, after they went through four others,” Alex explained.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There was David and Ollie, Leonard, and one other. His name was whiner, or wiener, or whatever. He only lasted a few weeks. I’ll have to as
k my dad.”

  “So really, the whole thing started right here?”

  “Pretty much. Come on, it gets better.”

  They went onto the busy street, passing clothing and shoe stores, tattoo and piercing shops, and clubs. Men and women in teetering platform boots and rainbow hair stuffed flyers for gigs, later that night, in their hands. Alex kept his head down as he guided Brighton through the chaos. They landed at a little café called Social. Alex went in and ordered them both teas before taking a table in the back.

  “And this is where you began,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “This used to be a rock club.” He pointed toward the sound buffering panels on the ceiling. “I assume you know the story.”

  Brighton shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back. “My mom only ever told me stories of her and El after I was born, and that she left him because he was partying too hard. But then she gave him a second chance.”

  “One sultry summer night, there were some bands playing, El was pissed drunk and angry. Someone told him to calm down or something, and as he stormed away, he saw the most beautiful woman standing there, all alone. She was radiant like sunshine lighting up the night. He yelled, ‘Eff you,’ hating himself more then—”

  “Wait a minute, that’s how we met.”

  “Correction, we met when we were still being pushed around in our prams,” Alex said, referring to summers during their childhoods, when El was still alive, spent on the English coast.

  “Ha ha, that’s how we met, for the second time. How did it really go?”

  “Much the same actually, minus the angry, drunkard part. Apparently, El was quite the gentleman. He bought Claire a drink, asked for her number—she gave him a fake, the emergency line for troubled youth.” Alex laughed.

  “But if he didn’t have her number how did—?”

  Alex held up a finger. “Ah, good question. They met here again, the next week. He bought her a drink…same thing, gave him the wrong number. I think the second go was for a nunnery. But the third time, your dad was smart. He didn’t let her leave, he walked her out, and they kept walking until the sun came up, and they found themselves on Primrose Hill. Your dad said he was going to buy her a house there one day. But she said she’d rather be by the sea. And they were together ever-after. I guess they had breakfast somewhere. Then he brought her back to her dorm. He snuck in. She skipped classes. It’s a wonder you weren’t born fifteen years earlier.”

  “Ew.”

  “But it’s romantic, isn’t it.”

  Brighton nodded. “I wonder what else I don’t know.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you a bit more.”

  They continued through Camden, Alex showing her the sound studio where Bang Bang recorded their demo, and several clubs they’d played. One was converted into a laundry mat. Another, a billiards hall and the third, a candy shop. Alex brought her into a guitar store El frequented. They were about to riff on a vintage Les Paul, but Alex was recognized. The kind store manager led them out the back. They continued to record stores, where old Bang Bang albums were available on vinyl, cassette, and CD.

  As they wove through the streets, Alex had the creepy feeling he was being watched. Then, when he and Brighton stole a kiss, he was sure he heard the snapping of camera shutters. When he tore himself away to look, there was just a girl with pink dreads, a guy smoking a pipe, and Japanese tourists.

  Neon lights flickered on, heralding evening as the cinder colored sky darkened. Alex glanced behind his shoulder with the eerie feeling that someone followed or watched them, and it wasn't the magnetic push of adoring fans, but the icy feeling of the snooping, invasive paparazzi.

  “Where to now?” Brighton asked.

  He ducked down a side street and then zigzagged through a few others as the traffic thinned, the streets grew sleepy, and boarded windows interspersed with dusty storefronts.

  “Why the scenic route?” Brighton asked when they’d crossed the same street again.

  “I don’t want to be paranoid, but for the last little while, I’ve been feeling like we’re being followed.”

  “Do you mean the guy with the mole on his cheek? The one in the blue sweatshirt? Or the lady in the corset with the maid’s skirt?”

  “You noticed?”

  “I figured they were following you. Fans, paparazzi, or something.”

  “Or something.”

  “They’re probably trying to get a scoop or scandalous photos.”

  “Then let’s give them something good,” Alex said, sweeping Brighton into his arms and kissing her.

  He pulled her down the street and into a small hardware store. He put an array of spray paint on the counter and smiled at the clerk. “Do you sell flashlights?”

  The elderly man grumbled disapprovingly, but added two to the pile.

  “Feeling vandelous,” he said as they exited.

  “Is that a word?”

  “If not, it became one when I named track two off our second album that.”

  “When am I going to get to hear it?”

  “Being my girlfriend has its privileges,” he said enticingly. “But there’s one more thing before it’s free for your ears.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll find out when we get to my dad’s.”

  After grabbing a six-pack, Alex stopped in front of a large brick building, slipped down a narrow passage, and ripped a piece of plywood off an entryway. He lent Brighton a hand getting up. Their footsteps echoed and water dripped.

  “What is this place?” she asked, staying close to him.

  “This is an old armory. And the place where Bang Bang recorded their second album. The story goes, in another great coincidence concerning our respective fathers; your great-grandfather labored here, when it was still an armory. Then your grandfather worked here during World War Two. It was a supply house of some sort.” The building creaked; the floor was mushy beneath his feet as they crept deeper inside.

  “Then, your dad, as an odd job—before Bang Bang— helped board it up when it was condemned. He’d always thought it was fascinating, aesthetically, acoustically…and my dad agreed. In fact, he’d come here and did these spooky recordings at night. He was just messing around, but he envisioned it becoming a club or something. When they realized they had the space in common, they came down here, scouted it out, and decided if they were going to be in a band, they were going to call it Bang Bang. Get it? And if they were going to be Bang Bang, they were going to be successful. And if they were going to be successful, they were going to buy this building, record here, restore it to its former glory…”

  “So what happened?” she asked, looking around at the dank, abandoned space.

  “As far as restoring it to its former glory? They had the funds and all, but it’s a historic space and there were hurdles and hoops to jump through to obtain it for private purposes. The bureaucracy thought it better to let it molder. Doesn’t make sense to me. I guess eventually they gave up.” Alex kicked an empty beer can and took out a cold one from the other paper bag he carried.

  “But, I figured we could leave our mark,” he said, shaking up a can of spray paint.

  Brighton’s flashlight beamed, illuminating cobwebbed structures, crumbling brick, and shadows.

  Alex drew an enormous heart, and sprayed B+A in the middle.

  Brighton giggled. “What about the police?”

  “Since when did you give a shite?” he asked, tossing her a beer.

  She shrugged. “I’m in your country.”

  “If I recall, you’re also a citizen. But if they threaten to deport you, I’ll return the favor and look after you.”

  “In that case…” Brighton grabbed a can of spray paint.

  They doodled and tagged, penned song lyrics and poetry, until the birds started chirping.

  Chapter Eight

  They woke up the following afternoon to loud knocking on the door. Alex shuffled down the hall in
his boxers as his phone vibrated.

  “It’s Graham,” he heard a voice shout from the other side of the door. “Hurry up; they’re going to eat me alive.”

  Alex cracked open the door, allowing Graham in as he nudged photographers away.

  “Oi, they’re like hyenas or vultures or scavengers. You’d think you hid the Holy Grail or kismet behind this door. Go spread the word about the needy, the hungry, and the poor. Rally up some real news,” he shouted as he slammed the door behind him.

  “Sorry. You should have called.”

  “I did. Nine times. What did you get up to last night?” Graham gazed at Alex’s paint-stained hands.

  He wiggled his fingers. “A little vandalism. Why?”

  “It’s all over the papers. Expect a fine.”

  “Why do you care? It was worth it.”

  Graham shook his head and laughed. “We can take the alcohol away from you, but not the trouble, huh?”

  “You get what you pay for.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Neither do I. I’m exhausted. Tea?”

  Graham nodded. “So damage control?”

  “Oh please, it’s not as if we haven’t done worse. The food fight in the super market? Drag racing rental cars that turned into bumper cars? Pissing in the champagne at that high society fete. The Stones said something like it’s only rock and roll if you like it. And every now and then, I like to cause a little mayhem. It isn’t as if we hurt anyone.”

  “Brighton did it too? Anyone else in your merry band of pranksters?”

  She appeared, in the kitchen, showered and dressed, paint visible under her nails. She shook her head.

  Graham made his greetings and then turned back to Alex. “Finn isn’t happy.”

  “Not lately.”

  “I mean about this.”

  “Does he want a formal apology?”

  “The historic society does.”

  “Fine.”

  “That too. You’ll have to pay up. But Finn. What are we going to do about him? Is it going to be cool tonight, we have that dinner and interview.”

  “Forgot about that.”

  “Are you still in this?” Graham asked, his cheeks flushing.