My brother’s right. We’ve sort of become like valet cars passing in the night. I want to tell him what’s happening at work, but I’m not even sure I can explain it. Certainly not to a simple soul like my brother.
‘Here,’ he says, ambling back into the kitchen and dumping a pair of filthy jeans and a sweatshirt on the kitchen table.
‘Not where we eat, Minty,’ I say, pushing the bundle onto the chair he left out when he took his leave from the table.
‘Sorry,’ he says, his voice sounding a little hurt.
I sigh. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ I run a hand through my hair. Knotting it back into the tortoise shell clip I’ve been wearing since I got in. I’d spent ages curling it before I went out. I spent hours trying to get my image right. Then I opened my mouth in the studio and… I give my head a quick shake. I don’t want to think about that. Besides, once I was in the choir, I sang like an angel – Jackson Black’s words, not my own. ‘Have you checked the pockets?’ I say, grabbing hold of the jeans.
‘Aw.’ Minty hits his head with the palm of his hand. ‘Next time.’
‘Next time,’ I repeat, knowing the exact same scenario will happen again the next time. My brother is nothing, if not predictable. I stick my hand in his jeans and draw out a tissue. ‘See.’ I waggle the thing in front of his eyes. ‘If this goes in the wash, it breaks up. I have to clean the drum and…’ Suddenly, I realise there are dark stains all over the tissue. It’s not a tissue, it’s a napkin. The dark stains are… ‘Minty,’ I say, trying to keep the horror out of my voice. ‘Is this blood?’
He glances at the napkin. ‘Oh yeah. I think it might be, sorry.’
‘What… your blood?’
‘No.’ He pulls the napkin from my fingers. ‘The guy that got knocked down.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah.’ He gives me a wary, disbelieving smile. ‘You would not believe what kind of a…’
‘Jack’s?’ I say, reading the logo on the napkin and snatching it back.
‘Yeah.’ Minty nods. ‘I was just crossing the road to…’
But whatever Minty was saying fades into the background as I open the napkin and see there’s a letter written on it. A letter to me, from a man who’s sorry. Who says that the night at the gala didn’t end in the way he wanted it to. That he was protecting me. That work has gone crazy, and I’m the only good thing left in his life.
‘Minty!’ I say, clutching the napkin to my chest. ‘I’ve got to meet this guy.’
My brother’s eyes brighten with absolute joy. ‘Sis, that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. You seriously have to. This guy saved my life. You will love him.’
MARCO
‘I’ve messed up.’ This goes without saying, since I’m lying in a hospital bed with an IV sticking out of my arm, a broken leg, and one arm in a cast.
‘Well…’ Fitz shifts awkwardly on the hard plastic seat. She’s munching her way through the grapes that she bought me, which is fine. I don’t want grapes. I want someone to give me a rollicking. Tell me what an idiot I’ve been.
Fitz swallows hard. ‘Most of the Betsy balls-up has been kind of,’ she waves one arm in a so-so gesture, ‘sorted. Not sure your songbird will ever sing solo again, though.’
At the mention of Clara, my whole body has a surge of adrenaline. ‘I can’t believe you put her through that.’
Fitz shrugs, kicks off her shoes and places her dainty painted toes on my immaculate hospital sheets. ‘I didn’t know she had some kind of phobia.’
Nor did I. Anyone who had heard that voice on the tape would have thought they were hearing a consummate professional, someone who could slide into any of the main music venues worldwide.
‘Besides, the choir was sweet.’ Fitz waggles one toe, kneels towards it and flicks off a fleck of paint. ‘Might even join myself.’ Suddenly she pulls her legs back, slips her feet back into her shoes, and leans forward. A note of seriousness weighs down her features. ‘There’s still the problem with the missing guitars.’
‘Those were mine,’ I say, feeling irritated. ‘My dad gave them to me.’
She chews her bottom lip. ‘You have a record of that?’
‘Course not. He’s my dad. Parents just give kids things.’
‘Hmm.’ She places her head on one side. ‘Yeah, but there are things like balloons and birthday cakes and roller skates, and then there are things like yachts, penthouses, and Heritage guitars.’
I pull one hand through the patches of my hair that are still available without the decoration of white bandages. I can see maybe this is a bit of a problem.
