All signs of popularity that had dimmed Billy’s smile a bit.
Joe scratched his head through his shorn hair. The blow up with Billy had awoken a pretty pissed-off kraken.
He sank his head into his hands and for a full half hour chased his thoughts in circles. He could ring each of the guys individually, but that would be messy and inefficient. On the other hand, meeting with Liam, Nathan and Raf without Billy and/or Pete stank of collusion. But he couldn’t talk to Billy and/or Pete until he’d got together with Liam, Nathan and Raf … He still couldn’t believe they’d voted not to even record a demo of his version of the song.
Mess. It was a mess.
The only ‘conclusion’ he came to was that possibly he wanted both to stay with the band and with Acting Instrumental. Or maybe he didn’t.
After a few minutes’ more thought, he texted Georgine: Just to confirm that I’ll be back on Monday. Looking forward to visiting the theatre as we discussed.
It felt important to set a limit on the time he bubbled in the present cauldron of discontent, but if the boys from the band could see him sending that they’d be miffed. The Hungry Years had been his life for fourteen or more years. He’d lived the band. Endured the period of five men sharing crappy rooms meant for two and supporting bigger bands. Found success.
He pulled his laptop towards him and began to compose an email.
To: Raf, Nathan, Liam
From: JJ Blacker
Subject: I’m in London
Sorry to have been out of contact but I needed to get my head together. We need to talk but I’m not sure of the best approach. What do you think?
JJ
Then he took himself off into the tiny room behind the kitchen, just large enough for his practice drum kit and digital piano, set Green Day’s International Superhits playing, picked up a pair of drumsticks and relieved his feelings by drumming along, arms flying while his right foot set the pounding rhythm on the bass drum and the left brought in the hi-hat cymbals, the music thrumming through him like his heartbeat. Then he switched it off and let the sweat dry while he messed around with an eight-beat sequence using bass, floor tom, snare and crash cymbal, which had come into his head in the car. He thought about writing a song advising everyone never to join a band, but Reel Big Fish had done it already. Finally, reluctantly, he laid down his sticks and went back to the laptop.
Three emails had pinged into his inbox, so the boys must have been hanging around waiting for him to show signs of life. All three replies were some variation of About time! Yes, we have to talk. And all three of them suggested that Billy and Pete be excluded from the first meeting. After all, as Nathan said bluntly, they’ve had their say while you’ve been out of contact, JJ.
The time was set for the next evening and the venue Joe’s house. He closed his laptop with an unfamiliar reluctance to meet up with the guys. He wasn’t sure there was any way back from where they were … which would make it easier to leave the band.
If that was what he wanted.
If.
He went back to his drum room to think as he practised, head swinging, limbs flying. Becoming the beat.
Chapter Thirteen
On Saturday morning, Georgine decided on a run through the frosty village to clear her head.
Despite gloves and two long-sleeved base layers under her running jacket, she shivered as she stepped outside and began to jog. Left right, left right, her feet slapped the tarmac along Top Farm Road and the cut-through to Port Road. She was nicely warmed up by the time she reached the bridleway through Church Close to the Carlysle estate and the winter skeletons of hawthorn edged her route past greensward and coppices.
As she ran, she pondered the text she’d received from Joe last night confirming arrangements for Monday. It was a courtesy she wasn’t sure she had a right to expect as she now knew Joe to be an odd kind of assistant, not only a volunteer but landowner of the very place she went to work every day. When he’d left for London she’d suspected his life there would call him back, yet he’d deliberately flagged up that he intended to return to Middledip.
Funny to think he’d been living in the apartment in the roof of the building for the last couple of weeks. He’d obviously done a good job of coming and going discreetly, and she understood why: without knowing he was the landowner she, and probably most of the staff, would’ve asked questions about someone joining Acting Instrumental and instantly beginning to live on site.
Her feet slowed as she approached a stile, scrambled over it – cautious of the slipperiness of the wood – and then re-established their rhythm again on the other side. Away from the road, there wasn’t much to hear but her breathing and the thump of her feet carrying her along. Her cheeks stung with cold and she was glad of the headband that protected her ears.
As it had so many times since Joe had shone a light on his past, her mind turned back the clock to the days when she and Rich had been gawky teenagers. Who would have thought the kid with such low prospects would return with such personal wealth?
He’d been in her heart a little bit, Rich Garrit. At fourteen, she’d been old enough that she and her friends had teased each other about boys they liked, but none of them had teased her about Rich, perhaps because he’d never occurred to them as being boyfriend material. Secretly, she’d thought friendship was about to become something more when she’d received that handmade Christmas card signed Rich – which, of course, was why she’d made such a fool of herself racing back to thank him for it …
At the fork in the path, she swung left towards Little Lane, not wanting to enter the trees around the little lake and lose what warmth there was in the wintry sun. Her throat rasped and she wished she’d brought water.
That day when Rich had switched from friend to jeering enemy had shaken her to her young core. She remembered gaping at the scorn on his face, shocked into immobility as he’d crowed, ‘Ooh-er, as if I’d waste my time on a pretty card for you.’ His hoots of derision had invited the others to join in.
Horrified, mortified, betrayal like acid in her throat, she’d turned and fled. For the next couple of weeks she vowed never to speak to Rich Garrit ever again. By the start of the January term she’d calmed down enough to realise there might be an explanation for Rich’s turncoat behaviour. But by then it was too late.
Amazing how these memories had the power to tighten her chest. She slowed her pace until she could drop her breathing back into the correct rhythm and tried to think about preparations for the Christmas show. If Joe kept on handling the tech then it was going to enhance the production because he was really creative.
The Christmas show made her think of Christmas presents and that, however much she loved the festive season, it had to be budgeted for. She wasn’t a greedy person but it would be nice to think that one day she wouldn’t have to worry about money. Like Joe …
Every thought seeming to come around to him one way or another, she concentrated on picking up speed, moving out of the bridleway and onto the grass verge beside Little Lane, legs protesting as they carried her past Honeybun Cottage. She shouted a breathless hello as she overtook Tess and Ratty Arnott-Rattenbury as they set out for a walk with their youngster in his buggy. At the Cross, she had to slow for traffic, jogging on the spot before crossing. Passing Booze & News she was just in time to catch sight of her sister in a fetching red woollen cloche hat, turning up the path to the Angel Community Café.
‘Blair!’ Georgine called hoarsely, coughing because her throat was dry.
Blair grinned and waved. ‘I’ve decided to splash out on one of Alexia’s cappuccinos. Join me?’
‘Thanks,’ Georgine wheezed, and let Blair make an elaborate performance of putting her arm around her as if she needed help to cover the distance to the warm and fragrant interior of the café. While Blair ordered, Georgine did some half-hearted stretches hanging on to the back of a chair, more interested in exchanging greetings with those she knew – tiny blonde Carola behind the count
er with Gabe, his grey hair gathered in a ponytail, and darkly pretty Alexia who replied, ‘Mawnin’ Mizz Jaw-Jean,’ with a wink and a grin.
Two students slurped shakes while their mothers drank coffee and they all looked up to say hi too.
When Blair arrived with their drinks and two double-choc cookies, Georgine gladly fell into a chair and prepared to refuel. Alexia, Gabe and the two students instantly joined the table and as the laughter and chatter gathered pace and volume Georgine sipped her frothy coffee and laughed along. She might have a lot in her life to worry over, but everything she had to enjoy more than made up for it.
Nathan was first to arrive at Joe’s on Saturday evening, peering from beneath his blond combed-forward hair as if he’d walked from his place in Chalk Farm in a tornado rather than the chilly breezes of late November.
‘Hey,’ he said glumly, when Joe opened the door. His eyes widened. ‘Where’s all your crazy red hair?’
‘Haircut, natural colour,’ Joe replied economically.
Nathan stepped inside and flopped onto the sofa without removing the long black coat that nearly reached the top of his boots. An illuminated stick pin in the shape of a Christmas pudding flashed from his lapel. He studied Joe. ‘You OK?’
A car door slammed outside and the bell rang before Joe could reply so he rose to let Liam and Raf in. Liam’s hair was long enough to be pulled back in a man bun. Raf’s quiff was in relaxed mode, lying to one side instead of gelled up. They both stared at Joe and echoed Nathan’s words of a moment earlier. ‘Where’s your hair?’
‘It’s shit-awful short,’ Nathan answered for him, still sounding as if he was at a funeral. ‘And where are your sideburns? Man, you look all … tidy.’
Somehow it relaxed Joe to be gently ribbed about his new look. ‘I’m trying tidy out to see if it suits me.’ He went to the kitchen where he’d left a jug of coffee on the hot plate.
‘It doesn’t,’ Liam called after him.
He didn’t have to be told the boys’ individual coffee preferences so he soon returned, handing out the mugs.
Then he took a seat on the very end of the L of the sofa and glanced around at the guys. He couldn’t recall a single other occasion on which he’d felt so jittery in their presence. ‘So? What are you thinking?’
The others exchanged glances, obviously feeling their way. ‘We should have sent both versions of the track to the record company,’ Nathan began. ‘But you overreacted. We’ve never had violence in the band. You were out of order.’
Joe nodded, though he pointed out, ‘If the entire band turned on you, Nathe, you might get cross too.’
A further exchange of glances. Liam, often the peacemaker, sat forward. ‘If you want an apology, JJ, it’s yours. We let Billy and Pete panic us into backing Billy’s song by listening when they said the record company talked about it being “more challenging” or whatever this week’s buzz phrase is. Your song’s better and no one seems to know who it was at the record company that made this mysterious pronouncement anyway.’
‘But why did you disappear?’ Raf butted in, chin jutting. ‘And where have you been? Why not answer your phone?’
With a sigh, Joe sank back into the sofa. ‘I took time out. Billy pulling a fast one made me reassess. It’s not just the publishing royalty on the lyrics; his lyrics poked fun at being hungry, and I don’t think being hungry is funny.’
Liam tried a feeble joke. ‘But your song’s about a pie. Pies are always funny.’
For a second, Joe thought rage might rupture a vein in his temple, and something of his fury must have shown on his face, judging from Liam’s startled expression. Joe took a breath, letting it out slowly so he could reply calmly. ‘It’s a song about hunger. Our freakin’ band name’s about hunger. You know these things. And you know why I find it unacceptable to joke about it.’
‘Being irreverent is part of being a rock band,’ Raf murmured, ‘but we accept we might have stepped over the line. We know your background.’
Joe had told them his story when, straight out of college, they took the band to Tenerife to play in the bars of Playa de las Américas. One day Billy had referred to a down-at-heel teenager hanging around the beach as ‘feral’. Joe had jumped in to tell him fiercely that the kid’s problems probably stemmed from neglect, and exactly what neglect could mean.
His story had all come pouring out. Their horror, mixed with pity and compassion, had made him vow not to talk about it in future, a vow that had held good until he’d seen Georgine again and his younger self had suddenly come at him out of the past.
Joe cleared his throat. ‘If we need to be insensitive arseholes in order to succeed then you can see why I needed time to think. I went to hang out at Acting Instrumental. It’s been good just to be with people only just getting started, untarnished by the bullshit.’
Raf fiddled with the ends of his hair. ‘And all the thinking turned your phone off?’ He glanced at Liam and Nathan. Nobody cracked a smile.
Joe’s stomach clenched with an uncomfortable mixture of anger and remorse. ‘I didn’t want to talk to Billy or Pete mainly, but I was in no rush to talk to you either. I felt fucking betrayed and so I had a diva moment.’
‘For three weeks? Long moment.’ Nathan looked at Joe with puppy-dog eyes. ‘We didn’t even know if you were alive. Then Liam rang your uncle and he said you were OK.’
Joe hadn’t known that. It moved his guilt up a gear. ‘Thank you for worrying about me, Liam.’ He took a couple of quick gulps of coffee to swallow down the lump that had jumped to his throat. ‘I’m OK.’
‘You’re not OK,’ Raf contradicted him softly. ‘You’ve been like our brother since college so if you blew us off you’re not OK; if you ignored our messages, you’re not OK, and it’s not OK to do that no matter how pissed off you were.’
Liam glared at him. ‘We’ve been proper scared for you.’
Unexpectedly, Joe’s eyes prickled. ‘That’s confusing. One minute you’re ganging up on me and the next you think I owe you explanations?’
Nobody chose to tackle that. After a silence, Liam leant forward and offered Joe his hand, thumb uppermost as if they were about to arm-wrestle. ‘Good to see you in one piece.’
‘Despite that hair,’ Nathan put in as Joe shook Nathan’s hand and then Liam and Raf’s in turn.
Even such a feeble joke defused some of the tension and Raf volunteered an update on happenings in Joe’s absence. ‘Billy’s backtracked and says maybe we should go with your version of the song. Pete doesn’t agree but has said grudgingly that it might be less incendiary if “Running on Empty” is replaced on the album with “Worthy”, which you and Billy at least wrote together so you get fair shares.’ Liam pulled a face. ‘The Hungry Years has never had problems like this. You hear it with other bands, but never with us. It’s shit. I hate it.’
Sombrely, Joe agreed.
Nathan’s eyes bored into Joe. ‘So, what next? We all heard you say you were leaving the band. And you haven’t taken it back.’
Silence.
Emotion closed up Joe’s throat. ‘I suppose I don’t feel sure you want me,’ he managed in a low growl. ‘Certainly not Billy.’
‘That’s shit, so we’ve got to freakin’ sort it,’ Liam said bitterly. ‘Talk to Billy, JJ. He was a thoughtless twat, but we’ve got second from top of the bill on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury next year. We’re supposed to be pushing the new album by then. If you can clear the air now we can all enjoy Christmas and start pulling together our tour material in the New Year.’
Joe had to clear his throat before he vocalised what he’d been forced to think about. ‘You can get another drummer.’
Raf’s eyebrows almost jumped off his head in horror. ‘But that won’t be you! Even the fans who are excited by your big tattoo flexing to the beat know you do loads more than the drumming.’ Raf leant forward and gripped Joe’s forearms as if he could physically prevent him from drifting away. ‘You’ve written over half our mat
erial, you sing leads on some tracks and your voice is part of the sound of the band. Come on, man. Sort it out. It’s like the end of the freakin’ world. If the music press gets hold of this …!’
It wasn’t quite doomsday, but the idea of what could be made of The Hungry Years suffering infighting was scary. They talked for the remainder of the evening, ordering in pizza and drinking Joe’s coffee.
‘What’s with Acting Instrumental, anyway?’ Raf demanded, trying to stand his hair up by pulling it hard through his fingers. ‘I thought you were only involved as an investor.’
‘I was.’ Joe felt an urge to share his joy in his odyssey. ‘We’ve got such great facilities: a studio theatre with a lighting rig and sound equipment, a sprung-floor dance studio and rehearsal rooms.’ He halted, seeing only astonishment and dismay on their faces, conscious that he’d sounded like Georgine during his first-day tour. He went for a simpler sell. ‘It feels good to decompress at Acting Instrumental and we’ve got this amazing Christmas show, A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones.’
Nathan snorted in amusement. ‘Wacky title.’
‘It’s written for students by a student who was one of the many who got enough UCAS points at Acting Instrumental to do a music degree.’
‘Since when do you need a degree to get in a band?’ Raf demanded blankly.
‘Maybe not to be in a band, but there are lots of other careers in the performing arts.’ But Joe could tell by the sceptical expressions that he wasn’t convincing his audience.
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