He looked abashed. ‘I was savouring the moment, yes. Maybe it’s stupid to get a buzz from being in a simple village pub, considering the places I’ve stayed in around the world. But it’s a pub in Middledip.’
‘I can see where you’re coming from,’ she admitted. She was intrigued about the ‘around the world’ comment and wished he’d say more about the mysterious band or bands he’d crewed for. She’d noticed how selective he was being with which of her comments he responded to, but she couldn’t oblige him to talk about his wealth and what he did with it. Fancy Rich Garrit having the kind of money Joe must have.
She suddenly remembered seeing him on the outside stairs on his first day. ‘Are you living in the apartment up in the eaves?’ And, when he admitted that he was, she added: ‘When I saw you on the stairs that day, you acted as if you were lost.’
He nodded. ‘Sorry. Oggie agrees that it would muddy the waters if staff and students see me as the landlord, and it doesn’t gel with my wish to be a part of things, so I try not to be caught going in and out. I’ve spent a few days here and there in the apartment during college holidays. It’s a good place to decompress and I generally get an invitation to Oggie’s for dinner. His wife and kids are as good and kind as he is.’
‘I’ve met them,’ Georgine said faintly, freshly rocked that her vanishing teenage friend had occasionally been pretty close to her in the recent past. She studied him. As an adult he was much cleaner cut than she would’ve expected, hair cropped so short it laid bare the planes of his face. Rich’s blond hair had masked his forehead and ears in a mass of untidy rat’s tails – not a style choice on his part, she knew, but veiling the trouble in his eyes. Or maybe the young Georgine had simply not seen it? Had she even been capable of appreciating what his home life had been like? She’d thought she’d known him but … maybe she’d spent too much time polishing her inner halo just for being friends with the underprivileged kid. It was an uncomfortable thought.
She wondered whether it was a woman responsible for the disappointment Joe had mentioned. If so, she must be picky. Joe Blackthorn was, by any standards, a handsome man, whether watching the world through dark expressive eyes and designer specs or flashing his killer smile. And, because he was wearing a T-shirt tonight she’d noticed the size and strength of his arms and shoulders and the grey-blue shadow of a tattoo peeping from beneath his left sleeve. Realising he was returning her regard, she flushed, glad he couldn’t read her mind.
He smiled. ‘It was an experience on my first day to be shown around my own property. And by you, of all people.’
She made a face. ‘I probably made a complete idiot of myself, gabbling away as if you knew nothing. And you hardly said a word.’
‘I was struck dumb by the surreal experience of meeting Georgine France, the all-grown-up version.’
She regarded him steadily. ‘I feel disadvantaged that you realised who I was but I didn’t recognise you – it seems so obvious now.’ It was in the tilt of his head, the way his eyes smiled before his mouth caught up. ‘I’m glad you came back.’ Then, as his eyebrows arched she added, ‘Because it’s nice to see you’re doing OK, after not knowing what had happened to you.’
A long moment. His gaze didn’t falter. ‘Did it bother you?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I asked Chrissy but she played dumb. Then she moved away too. Did you say today in the canteen that you’d lost track of her?’
His face fell into lines of sadness. ‘It’s one of my big regrets. Caught up in the euphoria of Shaun arriving to sort my life out, we barely said goodbye. She was only two years older and we used to try and protect each other from Garrit – lying our heads off or creating distractions when he was throwing his weight around. I worried about her when I went to live with Shaun but he didn’t see how he could help her, apart from trying to get the authorities involved, which I knew Chrissy was conditioned not to want. Shaun pointed out that I could see Mum if I wanted to, which would bring me news of Chrissy, but I hadn’t forgiven Mum for making me live with Garrit. Once I knew she’d carried me off to a shit life out of spite towards the Blackthorns rather than because she couldn’t bear to be parted from me, I blamed her for everything.
‘At first, I took at face value that it would be impossible to keep in touch with Chrissy if I wasn’t speaking to Mum. Then I got hold of one of Chrissy’s friends on MSN. Chrissy didn’t have access to a computer and I knew if I wrote to the house Garrit would open or destroy the letter, so I asked the friend if it was OK to send a letter to her to pass on. But she told me Chrissy had already gone.’ He slapped the table top as if still angry with himself. ‘I was out of options so I got on with my new life. I had these amazing things called holidays and friends who didn’t turn on me if I showed weakness. Nobody sent me out on hooky errands. I loved being Joe Blackthorn and not Rich Garrit.’
He paused, gazing around the comfortable pub with its twinkling Christmas tree as if he needed to reassure himself where he was now.
‘When I was older and I finally located Mum again I asked about Chrissy, but apparently the three of them moved to Peterborough when they got the dosh from Shaun – Garrit was probably nervous Shaun would find some way of getting it back so he did a moonlight flit. Later, Garrit and Chrissy disappeared while Mum was asleep, after a bottle or two of wine I expect. I assume Garrit decided the money would go further without Mum on board. Mum hasn’t told me too much about what happened to her after that and I’m not sure I want to know.’
The pub was emptying rapidly now and Janice came to clear their coffee cups, saying, ‘Hello, duck, how’s the family?’ to Georgine. When they’d had a quick catch up and Janice had moved on, Georgine glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly ten thirty, later than she’d planned to stay. She reached behind her for her coat. ‘I can tell Chrissy you’d like to get in touch, if you like. I speak to her on Facebook. She found my profile and friended me a couple of years ago.’ She didn’t tell him she’d searched for Rich Garrit on Facebook a few times too. Knowing what she now knew, it wasn’t surprising she’d drawn a blank.
‘What?’ Joe looked completely thunderstruck. ‘But I’ve combed social media for her!’ he protested. ‘Even a tracing agency came up blank.’
Georgine frowned. ‘Really? Maybe because she’s married to an American serviceman and lives on a base in Germany. Do they keep a low profile for security reasons, do you think? I think her husband—’ Then she halted. It wasn’t good etiquette to over-share personal details without permission, whoever you were. More guardedly she offered, ‘Why don’t I send her a private message? Give me your phone number and I’ll give it to her.’
He hesitated. ‘I need to get a new phone.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Georgine remembered being almost shocked when he’d alluded to this earlier. Even she had a functioning phone, albeit an elderly and crotchety one. ‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘I can tell her I’ve met you and you’d like to get in touch.’
‘That would be fantastic.’ His smile flashed. ‘Thank you, Georgine. Thank you. It would mean a lot to me to be able to talk to Chrissy again. Is she OK? Does she have an OK life?’
‘Seems to.’ Georgine slipped her arms into her coat. ‘I think it’s time I got home. I never got to the end of those transition boards.’
‘I’ll help you tomorrow,’ he replied absently, picking up his own coat. A shadow fell across his face. ‘But the next day, Friday the twenty-third, I have to go to London for a meeting, and I don’t know when I’ll get back.’
Georgine halted, noticing the way he was disposing of his own time, almost assuming the leadership role although ‘assistant’ was in his title, not hers. ‘So, tell me, Joe,’ she said, lowering her voice and moving closer to him. ‘Are you actually on the payroll at Acting Instrumental?’
He shrugged. ‘No. I suppose you could say I’m a volunteer.’
Zipping up her coat, she began to move towards the door. ‘Which explains why you turned up out of the blue, why
Oggie didn’t have a real role for you, why you didn’t have a DBS … all kinds of things.’
He reached past her to hold the door open so she could move ahead of him to step into the night, where fine sleet was swirling in the wind. ‘Structured employment’s new to me.’ He paused outside, yanking up his collar and pulling a black beanie hat out of his pocket. ‘I’d offer you a lift home, but I don’t have a car right now.’ He paused. ‘Shall I walk you home?’
Georgine shook her head. ‘Thanks, but it’s only a few minutes for me. See you tomorrow.’
He raised his hand in farewell and pulled on the hat.
‘Oh!’ Georgine halted before she’d taken two steps. ‘What about my sister, Blair? She’s living with me at the moment. Is she included in the information embargo?’
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘I think we can trust her with my murky secrets. Give her my regards, if she remembers me.’
‘Will do. Bye.’ Georgine put her hood up against the sleet and headed off alone for the footpath into the Bankside estate. Her head was spinning as if she’d had eight glasses of wine, not two. Almost everything she’d heard from Joe this evening had shocked or surprised her. Even his position in Acting Instrumental was unsettling. Her ‘assistant’ owned the whole place? Interesting state of affairs.
Blair arrived home a little after Georgine and they shared a cup of hot chocolate to warm them up before bed. ‘Do you remember Rich Garrit?’ Georgine asked, pulling her dressing gown snugly around her.
‘Your friend who did a disappearing act?’ Blair blew across the surface of her drink. She favoured a white fleece onesie with a pink satin tail and she looked young and sweet with her make-up removed and her dark curls tousled. ‘You went round like a raincloud for weeks after.’
Georgine flushed. ‘He’s reappeared now,’ she said, not attempting to justify her teenage moodiness. ‘You know I told you about my new assistant, Joe Blackthorn? Same person.’
Blair nearly choked on her hot drink. ‘Why isn’t he called Rich Garrit any more?’
‘It’s a really freaky story.’ She related the whole tale and Blair’s eyes got rounder and rounder as she listened.
‘That’s awful,’ Blair breathed. ‘He was always scruffy but I never suspected he had such a horrible home life. But how amazing that his uncle found him and put it all right. Good on him!’
‘Definitely,’ Georgine agreed, yawning but reluctant to end this cosy chat with her sister by heading up to bed. To recount everything Joe had told her was … what? Comforting? A way of processing?
‘Sooooooooo,’ Blair sing-songed mischievously, breaking into her thoughts, ‘do you still like him? Are you hanging out with him again at lunch break? Does he carry your bag? Is he hot?’
After a moment of trying to look reproving, Georgine giggled. ‘Hotter than you in that onesie. He’s very respectable and clean-cut these days, though some of his clothes are a bit edgy.’ She thought about the expensive-looking leather boots. She went on to tell Blair the astonishing fact of Acting Instrumental’s ownership until she finally had to give in to her fatigue and go yawning up to bed.
It was only as she flopped into bed that she realised …
Joe had told her a hell of a lot about his past.
But very little about his present.
Chapter Twelve
The summons of Joe’s other life had to be answered – at least temporarily – on Friday morning.
He sat in the back of the taxi that drove him into a London where giant Christmas decorations of silver and gold, red and green, trembled in the wind above every major street. Dropped off just before ten at his house in Clarence Way, trendy Camden, he paused on the pavement newly aware of the sound of the city. Traffic. A nearby siren. Shouting. The grumble of a train. All very different to a happy little village in Cambridgeshire.
If his sojourn in the country lasted he’d have to get his own car, he decided, as he unlocked the front door of his compact Victorian end terrace. Calling for a minicab was fine when you were based in London but not having a vehicle in Middledip was inhibiting. He’d have to turn his mind to what kind of thing Joe Blackthorn would drive. Something not too boring but not too flash.
He was still enjoying working at Acting Instrumental and his all-important DBS certificate had arrived yesterday, prompting Oggie to suggest he pick out music students to mentor, one-to-one or in small groups. It was remarkable how much he was looking forward to working with musicians who hadn’t spent half their lives in the biz under all kinds of pressure. He envisaged a jam-session approach, letting the students relax and innovate, helping them develop. He had his eye on that kid Tomasz, the one Georgine said didn’t always have the money for guitar strings. He played with passion. The passion was undisciplined sometimes but Joe could help him there.
If he was honest with himself, working closely with Georgine France was a big draw too. The teenage crush had reignited. He didn’t know what that said about him … but he was interested to see where it led. Georgine wasn’t, so far as he could see, attached, so why not? She seemed interested in him too, but whether that was actual attraction or just her satisfying her curiosity over what had happened to him, he couldn’t guess.
He’d shied away from telling her the whole truth.
Two personas seemed almost too much for her, let alone introducing a third by explaining why his days of being a drum tech or roadie had been few and were long over.
He pushed open the sturdy front door and stepped straight into the lounge, pausing to gather from the doormat the untidy heap of mail displaying pretty Christmas postage stamps. When the band had been on tour he’d frequently been away for much longer than the two and a half weeks he’d spent at Acting Instrumental, but now he felt disconnected from his life in London. Maybe it was because he’d been on so many emotional journeys lately.
Today he’d embark on another, one with a big fork in the road. He couldn’t delay that journey indefinitely. That wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the band.
After the apartment at Acting Instrumental, the house felt cramped. There were three rooms downstairs and three up: none were spacious. Yet for under twice the house’s worth he’d been able to buy the whole of his Middledip property: the house then known as Lie Low with its gardens and paddocks.
Yawning, he made automatically for the kitchen and its coffee supply, glancing out of the French doors into the tiny rear courtyard. This morning’s hoar frost hadn’t melted out there; it was almost entirely in shade in winter. The main outdoor space of the house, and one of the reasons he’d bought it, was a roof terrace behind a small parapet. In summer he loved to sit up there, part of the London skyline in a tiny way, surrounded by the noise from the nearby elevated train line. In winter it felt like Siberia and he left it to the pigeons.
Not bothering to switch on the filter machine, he made a cup of instant coffee and carried it and the mail into the lounge, deliberately avoiding entering the last room downstairs, the one that contained his drum kit and piano. He threw himself down on the cream corner sofa, kicking off his boots so he could swing his feet up. He had a couple of hours before he was due in Holborn to meet Jerome.
Joe liked the fact that Jerome Rumer still worked out of his legal firm’s modest Holborn address rather than the upmarket Rumer Thornton offices in Kensington, Mayfair and the City of London. Jerome was as unassuming and unpretentious as his office, but that didn’t stop him being highly effective.
Joe took his first gulp of almost-too-hot coffee as he flicked through the small stack of envelopes, opening a couple of credit card statements and putting them aside, sorting rapidly through the junk to filter out a few early Christmas cards.
Lastly, he turned to a long white envelope addressed in handwriting he recognised.
Billy’s.
He brushed it back and forth across his fingers. Should he shred it unopened? He dropped the envelope in his lap and drank his coffee, taking both phones out of his pocket to study them; tw
o iPhones, one coloured silver, one gold. They seemed symbolic of the two parts of his life at the moment.
His original phone he’d deliberately left switched off during his sojourn at Acting Instrumental. The second, bought in Bettsbrough after work just yesterday, was stubbornly silent. He’d texted its number to Georgine to pass to Chrissy, which Georgine had done, but his stepsister had neither called nor texted him. His intention to send his own Facebook friendship request had been frustrated by Georgine’s apologetic refusal to supply Chrissy’s current surname unless Chrissy sanctioned it. A few minutes with Google had shown him that there was an unexpected number of US bases and military installations in Germany, so he’d abandoned any attempt to get a lead on her himself.
Turning to his original phone, he weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. Maybe he should have kept it on in case his mum or Shaun wanted to contact him, but Shaun could reach him through Acting Instrumental. He was one of the few people who knew about Joe’s benevolent involvement with it and the only one apart from Oggie who knew he was hiding out there.
The situation with Debs, Joe’s mother, was different. She had his number, but she’d never yet called him, although she always seemed pleased when he called her.
He’d long ago made peace with his conscience about how he related to Debs. The flat she lived in for a peppercorn rent was his. Her cousin Mari lived with her as a companion and, earlier this year, Debs had fallen in love – with a black-and-white Jack Russell called Bernie. Joe hadn’t been callous enough to mention that Debs showed a lot more responsibility and love to Bernie than she ever had towards Joe.
The pragmatic truth was that Debs had been too young, too weak, too addicted, too scared to perform well when motherhood had sought her out. Joe accepted it, but Debs wasn’t the person he looked to when he was feeling vulnerable.
A Christmas Gift Page 9