‘Well, it’s not going to work, Nina,’ I say defiantly. ‘Nothing you can do can make me feel any worse than I do already.’
I replace everything in the box, with the exception of my wedding photograph and the flyer of The Hunters’ performance withhispicture on it. I don’t want his or Alistair’s pictures in this room, reminding me of what they took from me. I rip them in half, then into tiny shreds until they’re like a small pile of confetti lying on the floor.
CHAPTER 20
MAGGIE
TWENTY-FOUR YEARS EARLIER
I don’t know the first thing about modern music or what kids listen to these days. But I do know that the man Nina is spending time with is in a local band. I rack my brains as to where I can find out more about them before I come up with a starting point. I make a few shortcuts while cleaning the surgery and finish early, then hop on a bus into town. From there, it’s a short walk down the hill to Spinadisc, a record shop that Nina talks about.
There are a dozen or so teens here, still in their school uniforms and flicking through racks of CDs or trying on T-shirts with band names I don’t recognise emblazoned across the front. Rock music blasts from wall speakers and rattles my bones. I wonder how the staff can focus on their jobs when they’re surrounded by this noise day in, day out.
I question when I became so out of the loop with popular trends. At forty-four, I am prehistoric compared to everyone else in this shop. I know by sight the difference between Oasis and Blur when I see them performing onTop of the Popsand of course I remember the hangers-on from the 1980s like Madonna, George Michael and Prince. But the rest of these new faces stacked up in racks are alien to me.
I flick through the CD singles until I find one by The Hunters, and recognise Nina’s friend in the centre of the cover picture. I look at my surroundings and the walls are plastered with brightly coloured posters. Some are advertising the release of new records, others are posters you can buy. There’s a section dedicated to the local music scene. I scour the walls and find a much larger image of Hunter’s band. Below it is a list of tour dates they are playing across the county this month. One immediately captures my attention – it’s for a gig tonight, only a ten-minute walk away from where I am now. I look at my watch. It’s 5 p.m. I wonder if Jon Hunter is already there with his band setting up equipment. It’s an unexpected opportunity. I hesitate as I think this through. As far as I can see, I have no choice but to confront him. I need him to leave Nina alone.
My hunch is right. When I arrive, the front doors to the Roadmender are locked shut, but around the corner and to the side, there is a fire door propped open by red extinguishers. Two greasy youths are carrying amplifiers and guitar cases from a transit van into the building. I hover on the pavement, partly because I want to see Hunter in neutral territory, and partly because I’m still unsure of what to say. Five, ten, then fifteen minutes pass before he finally appears from inside and makes his way to the corner of a small car park, turning his back to the street as he lights a cigarette with a match. I take a deep breath before I approach him.
‘Jon Hunter,’ I begin, the words almost sticking in my throat.
He turns to look at me. The whites surrounding his grey irises are pinkish and framed by dark rings. His skin is so pale, it’s as if he hasn’t seen sunlight in years. His cheeks are sunken and he’s as thin as a rake, but despite these flaws, he is startlingly pretty for a man. He takes another drag from his cigarette and from its smell, it’s clear that it doesn’t contain only tobacco.
Saying nothing, he raises his eyebrows as if to ask, ‘And who are you?’
‘May I have a minute of your time, please?’
‘What about?’
‘My daughter.’
‘And she is?’
‘Your girlfriend.’
His expression tells me he is unsure who I am talking about, which indicates that either he and Nina aren’t serious, or he is not the monogamous type. His occupation suggests the latter. ‘Nina Simmonds,’ I clarify.
Momentarily, his bravado is replaced with defensiveness. ‘I don’t know what’s she’s told you, but—’
‘Please don’t insult me by denying your relationship,’ I reply, enjoying the feel of the upper hand. ‘I know that you two are dating. I’ve seen you both with my own eyes, canoodling in a pub.’
‘Canoodling,’ he repeats, and laughs at either the word or at me, I can’t be sure. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about, we’re not serious.’
‘I should hope not, she is a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl,’ I say. ‘But does she know that?’
‘Know what? That she’s fifteen? I’d hope so. Anyway, she told me she was eighteen so it’s hardly my fault.’
With my added confidence comes added frustration. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool. Does she know that she’s probably one in a long line of other gullible girls?’
‘Look, I’m really not comfortable with this conversation,’ he says. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to promise not to see her again.’
Hunter lets out another laugh and smoke gushes from his mouth. ‘You want me topromise? How about I go one better and give you a pinkie swear? Or a Brownie’s promise?’
‘Perhaps you would prefer it if I went to the police and reported you?’ I snap.
The smile falls quickly from his face. ‘I don’t think you’ll do that.’
