Shane
Back from trip, bit of a shock to find Valter here. We need to talk about things.
Elaine
Sorry, should have said. He’s a sweet guy. Hope you liked the flowers! Did you find the cakes I made? Cupcakes in the red biscuit tin. Help yourself xxx
Shane is not a cupcake person and steeled himself to push on through her generous gesture.
Shane
Thanks. Thing is, I didn’t know he was here and I don’t even know him. Basically came home to a stranger in my flat.
(A naked stranger, he almost added.)
Elaine
You need to get to know him! He’s lovely. Having fun here in Brighton! See you soon! Xxx
He’d glanced briefly at the attached photo of four women, all crammed around a table, cocktails brandished aloft. And he’d thought of that little bundle of Polaroids of him and Josie, taken at various stops on their trip, and wondered whether she’d post them to Pam and Kamal. Would they even notice that they’d never made it to Huddersfield?
It doesn’t matter now, he supposes. They tried, at least. What he needs to focus on is getting through the day, and leaving the shop on time for once, as Elaine is due back tonight.
The first potential customer of the day offers a welcome distraction – although it turns out he’s only here with a flyer for the shop’s noticeboard. When he’s gone, Shane inspects it: Tambourine lessons for all levels. Beginners to advanced. Is this a joke?
Something else is snagging his attention now, wafting in the periphery of his vison. That bloody eyebrow hair! He tries to grasp it between his thumb and forefinger and yank it out. It won’t budge. He delves into the cupboard behind the counter, hunting for scissors among the selection of tools that he and Fletch keep in there. No joy. The chunky pliers, frequently used for snipping off excess strings on a newly strung guitar, will have to do.
He has an exploratory poke, but trying to plier out the rogue hair feels like something of a risky endeavour without being able to see what he’s doing. There’s no mirror here – not even in the tiny bathroom. He’s seen Liv put her phone on selfie mode in order to check her appearance, but no way is he doing that. What if a customer were to walk in?
His gaze lights upon the cymbals, displayed vertically on a stand. The effect is something like a metallic Christmas tree. Shane removes the top cymbal and props it up on the counter to act as a mirror. While not ideal, it will have to do. He peers at his distorted reflection, clutching the pliers, wondering if he always looks as wired as this as he moves in on the eyebrow region.
There it is, the fucker! He clamps it between the pliers and tugs. It still won’t come out. He pulls harder, the pliers’ metal jaws gripping tightly. Still, it won’t move. Is it cemented in? On the third go, as the hair comes out sharply, the sudden movement causes his elbow to shoot forward, sending the cymbal toppling over the counter and landing on the wooden floor with a metallic crash.
‘Mate, what’s going on?’
Shane swings round and straightens up. ‘Just, uh, rearranging things a bit!’
Boris smirks. ‘I’m used to a drum roll when I make an entrance, but I’ve never had a cymbal clash…’ Shane laughs obligingly. ‘So how did it feel being back on the road?’
‘Brilliant!’ he enthuses.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Really appreciated the van,’ Shane adds. ‘Thanks a lot. It was so generous of you…’ He fishes the keys from his jeans pocket and hands them to Boris, along with a paper carrier bag containing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s – his tipple of choice – plus a box of Pontefract cakes.
‘Aw, mate! You needn’t have. But thanks. So, she handled all right?’
‘Like a dream,’ Shane says, feeling as if he’s on autopilot as he follows Boris out of the shop and along the alley to where the ambulance is parked in the street. His friend wanders around it, as if checking for – what? Scratches? Dents? He bends to peer closely at the back door and beckons Shane towards him. ‘Where is it?’ he asks.
Shane frowns. ‘Where’s what?’
‘My sticker.’ Boris gives him a quizzical stare.
Feigning bafflement, Shane inspects the spot. All that’s left are a few whitish traces that he hadn’t been able to pick off. ‘No idea. Must have fallen off,’ he says.
Boris sighs heavily. ‘Weird, that. All those years, it’s been there. Misty bought it when we met at the Isle of Wight Festival.’ He seems to go off into a sort of reverie.
‘Misty?’ Shane prompts him.
