by Fiona Gibson
‘That sounds good,’ Felix says as Sadie winces. ‘No, it really does. Now Lou, what about you?’
‘Um …’ She pauses, running her tongue over her teeth, thinking of the things she used to treat herself to before she stalked the supermarket sticker girl. ‘Pomegranate, almonds and, um … strawberries.’
‘Great.’ He nods his approval.
‘Aren’t you going to write this down?’ Hannah asks.
Felix rolls his eyes and chuckles. ‘I can remember nine ingredients, you know. Sadie … your order please?’
‘Er …’ She tries to think, but the only flavours that pop into her mind are milk – not the kind you slosh into your tea but formula milk with its weird, faintly sweet smell, and breastmilk, siphoned off by that pump for hours and hours … ‘Peach,’ she says quickly, ‘and caramel and, God, that sounds sickly, doesn’t it …’
‘Just say whatever comes into your head,’ Felix urges her.
‘Okay. Blackcurrants, but not like Ribena blackcurrant …’
‘It’s okay,’ Felix chortles, hopping off his stool, ‘that’s one thing we don’t do here.’ And he’s gone, leaving the girls to marvel at his bespoke cocktail concept, and to speculate whether his concoctions will be as delicious as promised. They’ve forgotten about that man Felix saw standing outside, and Sadie hasn’t noticed that the dark-haired man in glasses, who’d glanced at her in the previous bar, has now walked into Felix’s.
And when the drinks arrive, the girls are in awe. Sadie’s is indigo, Lou’s concoction is a delicate pink and Hannah’s is citrusy lemon. As the warmth of the drink spreads down her throat, she pictures herself on her wedding day, having done the registry office part and moved on to the bar-cum-restaurant with friends and family. And in that moment, she can see that everything will be all right. ‘This is amazing, Felix, she murmurs. ‘I’d really like to serve this at my wedding.’
‘Be my guest,’ he says.
‘Would you … come and make it for us?’ she asks hesitantly.
Felix smiles broadly. ‘I’d love to, Hannah. It would be my absolute pleasure.’
‘Really?’ she exclaims.
‘Yes, of course!’
Hannah laughs, taking another sip. ‘I need to text Ryan and tell him right now.’
‘It’s hard to get a signal in here, I’m afraid,’ Felix tells her.
‘Okay. Won’t be a minute.’ She jumps off her stool and steps outside, sensing the worries of the past few weeks floating away as she pulls out her phone. Yet now, it seems far too convoluted to explain about Felix, bespoke cocktails and having just discovered their perfect wedding cocktail. As a smile spreads across her face, she simply texts LOVE U DARLING XXXX before skipping back inside.
THIRTY-SIX
The bleep of an incoming text jolts Ryan awake from a brief doze on the sofa. Hannah again. He reads her text, and is about to respond with LOVE YOU TOO when the landline trills to life.
‘Dad? It’s me. Where’s my story?’
‘Oh, Daisy!’ Ryan looks at the digital clock on the DVD player. 9.47 pm.
‘Did you email it yet? ’Cause Mum says it hasn’t come and she wants me to go to bed now and I really want to read it to her tonight …’
Ryan takes a deep breath. ‘Sorry, darling, but I’ve looked in every file and I can’t find it. I should’ve rung to tell you, sorry …’
‘But Dad!’ she exclaims.
‘I’m really sorry, Daisy, but I’ve done what I can, okay?’
‘Did you really look everywhere? Are you sure?’ Daisy’s voice wavers.
‘Yes,’ Ryan says firmly, ‘I did, darling, but tell you what – I’ll have another really careful search and then, if I find it, I’ll send it over first thing in the morning …’
‘But you’ve already looked and it’s my only copy!’
‘Oh, Daisy, don’t get upset. Mum’s right, you should head off to bed now …’
‘It took me hours and hours and HOURS!’ she wails.
Ryan’s brain aches as he tries to think of how to placate his daughter. ‘Daisy, I’m sure it’s … somewhere.’ No, that’s no good. She’s crying now, and all he wants to do is spirit himself over to Petra’s neat little flat in Crouch End and hold his daughter tightly in his arms.
‘I bet Hannah deleted it,’ Daisy weeps. There’s a distinct absence of soothing words in the background from Petra, he notices. She’s probably nodding in agreement: Yes, that silly girl probably did delete it. Is it any wonder you’re not getting good marks at school, poppet?
‘Hannah wouldn’t do that,’ Ryan insists.
‘Yeah, she would!’
‘Why on earth d’you think that? Listen, sweetheart, getting all worked up isn’t going to help. It’s just a story …’
‘Just a story?’ she chokes.
‘No! Not just a story. We’ll find it, and next time you write one you can tell me when it’s done and I’ll back it up on a memory stick.’
There’s some muted crying, then Petra’s voice filters down the phone, suggesting that Daisy really should go to bed now, seeing as she’s so upset over this mess-up. Call over, Ryan sinks back into the vast beige sofa, chosen by Petra so the entire family could spend quality time watching movies together. But Petra always wanted to watch box sets of Life on Earth, or that movie about the penguins trooping across the Arctic or Antarctic or wherever it was, which the children only watched to please her. It occurs to Ryan that so much of his life, and the children’s lives, have been shaped around trying to make Petra happy. She has that effect – an aura of brilliance, albeit as chilly as the terrain in that penguin film.
And yes, he should tell her about Josh’s cigarettes, he decides. The thought of uttering those words to her makes him feel heavy inside, as if he’d bought them, offered one to their son and forced him to smoke it. Yet they have to discuss it, face to face. Hannah feels so far away right now, and Ryan must to talk to someone, so he picks up the phone and dials Petra’s number. ‘Hi again,’ he says.
‘Ryan? Are you okay?’
‘Yeah … I’m just sorry, hearing Daisy so upset like that …’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Petra says evenly. ‘You know what she’s like, blowing things out of all proportion, like the time Hannah suggested she get her ears—’
‘But Hannah didn’t—’ Ryan stops himself. ‘Um, look, Petra, I hope this isn’t an imposition or anything, but I wondered if … would it be okay to come over?’
‘What, tomorrow?’ she asks lightly.
‘Well … I was thinking more … tonight.’
A small pause. Ryan pictures her face: eyes steady, lips pursed. ‘Um … okay … are you sure everything’s all right? You sound a bit … stressed.’
His forehead creases as he grips the phone. Apart from dropping off or picking up the kids, he’s never been over to Petra’s. Before this grim Friday night, it’s never occurred to Ryan that being there, in her orderly flat with the cello propped up on its stand, could make him feel better. But now he’s pretty certain it would. ‘I’m fine, Petra,’ he says softly, ‘but I’d just like to talk to you about something.’
‘Sure. Are you going to drive?’
‘No, I’ve had a couple of drinks, better call a cab …’
‘Okay,’ she says, more gently than usual.
‘Great.’ Ryan senses some of the tension in his jaw and shoulders ebbing away. ‘I’ll be over as soon as I can.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
The band are good, everyone keeps saying so. While Spike is happy to lurk about at the back of the hall, he’s less keen on the constant questioning about his own musical achievements of late. ‘Done any gigs lately?’ asks Brian, a bass player with whom he’s played in the distant past.
Spike shakes his head. ‘Bit quiet lately, but there are a few things coming up …’
Brian nods and sips his beer. ‘So what else is happening?’
Spike turns to face the stage, watching the energetic singer clutching
the mic, sweat spraying in an arc from his shaggy hair. Perhaps Spike should furnish Brian with details of being dumped by his girlfriend-on-the-side and his recent adventures with Lou’s wax strips. The effects of the brandy and wine have worn off a little, and despondency is starting to seep through his veins. ‘Been pretty busy,’ he hears himself saying. ‘You know – applying for jobs, getting my shit together …’
‘What kind of jobs?’ Brian wants to know.
Spike glances at him. Something high up in the council’s education department, with a wife and three kids, Brian has the air of someone who’s been a fully-fledged grown-up from the age of twelve. A pale green T-shirt is stretched across his substantial belly, and his jeans look as if they might have been designed by George at Asda. ‘Just something to tide me over until things start moving again,’ Spike explains.
Brian nods sagely. ‘I’m sure you’ll pick something up.’
‘Yeah.’ The band finishes a song to enthusiastic applause, then crashes straight into another, for which Spike is hugely grateful. He checks his watch, wondering what Lou is doing now and sensing an acute pang of loneliness. The band are playing an encore now, and Spike realises with a start how young most of the people around him are, apart from Brian, who seems to be rooted to his side. ‘So I was wondering,’ his companion says as the applause finally dies down, ‘if Lou would make something for Dawn’s birthday? It’s her fortieth so I’m looking for something special and unique, you know?’
‘Um, yeah, I’m sure she would,’ Spike mutters.
‘I thought maybe she could incorporate Dawn’s birthstone. It’s amethyst. I wondered about something in silver, Lou works with silver, doesn’t she …’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Spike says distractedly. ‘She’s away in Glasgow this weekend, but I’ll mention it when she gets back.’
‘She’s in Glasgow?’ Brian asks with interest.
‘Yep, with a couple of friends on a hen weekend …’
Brian chuckles, and his eyebrows squirm like fat caterpillars. ‘Whoo. Wonder what they’re getting up to …’
‘I shudder to think …’ Spike forces a smirk, feeling conspicuous now as people drift towards the exit in rabbly groups.
‘So me and Tony and a few others are gonna try that new casino,’ Brian is telling him, scouting around the hall for his friends. ‘Fancy coming along?’
‘Er, I think I’ll give it a miss,’ Spike says, unwilling to admit that, with Lou away, he needs to keep a tight rein on funds.
‘Okay. Well, enjoy the rest of your night …’ Mercifully, Brian has spotted his mates and strides towards them. Allowing them a couple of minutes to leave, Spike totters unsteadily towards the foyer.
‘Hey, Spike, I’ve been looking for you!’ Charlie is in front of him now, pink and sweaty and clutching a plastic cup of lager. ‘So what did you think?’
‘Great,’ Spike enthuses, conscious of his tongue feeling unusually large and dough-like. ‘You did a good job with the sound, mate. Nice balance.’
Charlie grins. ‘Thanks. Listen, me and the band are going for a few drinks, thought we’d go to Bar Circa, that Spanish place … you can join us if you like.’
It’s tempting, especially as Charlie is notoriously generous with getting the drinks in. But so, too, is nipping over to Astrid’s to try and talk some sense into her. The surge of lustful longing is almost too much to bear, and he’s sure she didn’t mean to dump him. Maybe she’d started her period or something. ‘Thanks,’ he tells Charlie, ‘but I’ve got something on, this, er … party thing I’ve been invited to … maybe I’ll drop by later.’
‘Sure,’ Charlie says with a nod.
As he leaves the venue, setting his internal compass on a straight course to Astrid’s, Spike pulls out his phone. Hell, a missed call from Lou, and now it’s ringing again. He strides on before calling her back, trying to steady himself so he’ll sound normal and sober. ‘Hey, I’ve been trying to call you,’ Lou exclaims, sounding all happy and sparkly. There’s a colossal amount of chatter and laughter in the background.
‘Have you? Where are you now?’
‘Just stepped out of this bar for a minute …’
‘Right, well, sorry … I was at a gig, this band Charlie was doing the sound for …’
‘Oh, was it fun?’
‘Yeah, pretty good …’
‘So what are you up to now?’ Lou asks.
I’m standing in front of Astrid’s house, he thinks, feeling completely depressed. ‘Er, just heading home …’
‘Not going on anywhere else? I bet you are! Are you with Charlie now?’
‘Nah, I’m a bit tired to be honest …’ Tired, emotional and feeling like a complete jerk …
‘Oh,’ Lou says. ‘Well, we’ve had a great time so far, thanks for asking …’
‘I was just going to ask! You haven’t let me get a word in …’
‘Sure you were,’ she laughs. ‘Well, since you’re so interested, we had a few drinks at a place across the road from the hotel, and then we met up with Felix, the truffle man …’ There’s an outburst of rowdy laughter, but Spike no longer cares that everyone appears to be having a better time than he is, because a few feet away, in Astrid’s pale-cream living room, a man is casually browsing the CDs on her shelf.
‘… Bespoke cocktails!’ Lou continues. ‘Like, you can choose anything, any ingredient at all and Felix will blend them to make …’ He switches off, watching as the man turns – a tall, handsome, musclebound bastard – and speaks to someone out of sight. The man selects a CD from the shelf. Who the fuck are you? Spike wants to yell.
‘Spike? Are you listening?’
‘Er, yeah, sorry … um, where are you again?’
‘At Felix’s cocktail bar – well, just in the doorway actually, can’t get a signal inside … Oh, Felix is here now, he’s come out …’
‘Has he really?’ Spike growls.
‘Don’t be so grumpy. You’d really like him, Spike. He’s a scream …’ Spike inhales sharply, gaze fixed on that blond freak-boy who looks about twenty. ‘You’d have loads in common,’ Lou continues, ‘and guess what? He knows you!’
‘Uh?’
‘I mean, he remembers your song, don’t you, Felix? D’you want to talk to him?’
‘No!’ Spike barks. Speaking to a stranger is the last thing he wants to do right now.
‘Spike, my man!’
Spike winces at the loud, brash voice in his ear. ‘Er, hello,’ he says ambling away from Astrid’s house.
‘So, fancy this, huh? Amazing!’
‘Yeah, amazing.’
‘Been hearing all about you,’ Felix says. ‘I’ve often wondered, you know, what happens when someone has such a big hit, and then …’
‘Uh-huh,’ Spike mutters.
‘It must be strange for you …’
‘Yeah, kinda,’ Spike growls, turning into the street where Sound Shack is and deliberately looking away as he passes it.
‘Great song, though,’ Felix blathers on. ‘La-laaaaa …’ Oh no. He’s started to sing loudly over the background hubbub of the street. Worse still, someone else has joined in.
‘Okay!’ Spike snaps, but no one seems to hear – it sounds as if the whole damn town is joining in now. He finishes the call without saying goodbye, his jaw rigid with fury.
The door swings back with force as Spike storms, damp and dishevelled, into Bar Circa. It smells of cheap lager and wet jackets and at first, he can’t spot Charlie or any of the band members. The bar is packed with people yelling to be heard, and virtually all the girls are skimpily dressed in minuscule skirts and strappy little tops. Under normal circumstances, he might have paused to take in the view, but right now he’s far too agitated to appreciate shapely legs or death-valley cleavages. Now he’s started to warm up, Spike has become conscious of a faint odour coming from his moist leather jacket – fuggy and foodie, not unlike the whiff from Lou’s hair when she returns from Let’s Bounce. Spike pulls his jacket o
ff and slings it casually over his shoulder. Now worrying that that looks awkwardly posed – a male model stance from his mother’s Grattan catalogue – Spike stuffs it under his arm like a small, damp pet and squeezes his way to the brass-railed bar.
‘Hey, glad you made it.’ Charlie has landed beside him and slaps him on the back with unnecessary force.
‘Yeah, just thought I’d drop by,’ Spike mutters.
‘Good party?’
‘Huh?’
‘That party. Take it you didn’t stay long?’
‘Er, no, wasn’t really in the mood,’ he explains with a shrug.
‘Right. Anyway, come over and meet everyone …’ As he follows Charlie towards the cluster of band members, Spike decides he isn’t in the mood for this either. He feels hot, tired and vaguely nauseous from the cheap perfume fug, mixing in with whiffs of brandy that are wafting up into his throat.
‘Jamie on drums, Justin on bass, Simon on guitar, Rod on vocals, not forgetting Harry the roadie …’ Charlie is making a big show of introducing each person as if they’re on stage. Spike nods, trying to appear fully engaged, yet only half-listening. At least Charlie hasn’t mentioned ‘My Beauty’, so he might possibly be spared further humiliation tonight. Not that any of these guys are old enough to remember his sole hit. They’re probably still studying for their A-Levels, Spike thinks dryly as a bottle of Stella appears miraculously before him. ‘So where are you playing next?’ he asks the singer.
‘Glasgow,’ Rod explains. ‘We should probably crash soon, get a few hours’ kip at the hotel. We’re meant to be on the road by ten tomorrow.’
Spike checks his watch. It’s only midnight; what a bunch of lightweights, he thinks darkly. ‘When he says hotel,’ adds Harry-the-roadie, ‘he’s using the term loosely.’
‘Right,’ Spike chortles. ‘So where are you staying?’
‘Some hovel about ten minutes away,’ Rod explains. ‘Stinks of fried breakfast, wet dog, wet dog turd actually …’
Everyone laughs, and Spike has to stop himself from telling them that he used to tour too. ‘That’s funny,’ he offers. ‘My girlfriend’s in Glasgow right now.’