The Summer We All Ran Away (9 page)

chapter six (then)

Jack suspected he was losing the art of being with other people. Aboard the train to London, he tried not to flinch when a woman in her fifties took the seat next to him and began talking. She was visiting her daughter, who lived in Fulham and had just had a baby. By skilful questioning and a great feigned interest in the baby, he managed to deflect most of her questions; but his seat-companion still compelled him to admit that he'd recently met a girl, yes, a very nice girl, who, yes, he was hoping to marry one day, although no, he hadn't mentioned this to her yet. As they pulled into Paddington Station, he wondered what kind of Nice Girl the woman was picturing. Someone horsey perhaps, with a carrying voice and a long stride and a way with dogs.

The memory of Mathilda's tall, spare frame, her wide mouth and her light hair and her grey eyes, was like a talisman in his pocket. He remembered how she'd looked two nights ago, before leaving for London. She'd sat on the floor of the library while he, clutching his guitar and sweating with nerves, sang the tracks from
Landmark
.

“It's the Landmark hotel, isn't it,” she'd said.

“Yes.”

“I bet Alan thinks you meant
Milestone In My Career
, though, doesn't he?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Maybe I'm a genius too. It's very personal, you know, this album. Are you sure you want to show the world that
much of yourself?”

“Doesn't it have to be personal to be good?”

“What are you doing in this industry?” she'd asked him then. “Oh, I don't mean that,” she added, seeing his face. “It's brilliant, even better than
Violet Hour
. But you'll need to do interviews about it, and promote it, and answer questions about what it means and where it came from and that's not you at all, is it? It's all about the music. Being rich and famous is just the unintended consequence.”

“How do you know me so well?” he had asked in amazement.

“Because I'm a witch,” she told him. Then she had lain down in the spot where the firelight littered the tiled floor with flickers of light like leaves.

The rumble and whoosh of the approaching tube dragged him back into reality.

An hour later, Jack sat in a smoke-filled office on King's Road, watching Alan listening to the demo. Alan kept his face a smoothly professional blank, occasionally making opaque and miniscule notes on the blotter. Jack deciphered the words ‘weepie', ‘stad R???' and ‘spine'. Was that good, or bad? Was it related to the album at all? Was Alan just planning his next session with his chiropractor?

“Mmmm,” said Alan at last, and pressed the stop button.

Jack braced himself.

“You wouldn't think anyone'd still want poetry, would you?” he mused. “Didn't all that shit have its heyday back in the fifteenth century?”

“Pardon?”

“Poetry. Peaked with Shakespeare and Spenser, been declining ever since. I know I act like an ignorant tosser but even I've got my moments. Right?”

“So what do you - ”

“Gather you and Evie split up.”

“We were never together,” said Jack in exasperation.

“Yeah, if you say so. Are you and that other bird knocking around together? That bird from the party?”

“Do you mean Mathilda?”

“Do I? Skinny, young, hair in a mess. Got her kit off.”

“Saved someone's life.”

“Yeah, that's the one.”

“Yes.”

Alan looked at him and grinned. “Got it bad at last, haven't you? You daft bugger. She here with you?”

“She came up two days ago for an audition. Why?”

“Just you be careful, alright? Not sure I like you being in love, to be honest.”

“It's none of your fucking business.”

“Simmer down. If it affects your work, it's my business.” Alan rummaged in his desk drawer. “Want a coffin nail?”

“No thanks.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Course not.”

Jack watched Alan put a long cigarette between his lips, hold up a heavy gold lighter, summon the flame, inhale luxuriously, hold it for a second, breathe out.

“How about a coffee?”

“No.”

Alan twinkled at him. “No what?”

“No! Just no! All I want is for you to tell me what you think of the album!”

Alan looked at him blankly. “But it's fucking brilliant, you wanker. We'll have
Landmark
and
2:43am
for the singles, maybe another couple if it goes well.” Jack's spine turned elastic with relief. “You weren't actually worried, were you?”

Jack shrugged.

“You dozy sod. I told you, I'd take it whatever. But as it happens, it's the best thing you've done so far. Straight up vintage Laker, but with a twist.” Jack winced. “Look, we're not all blessed with your magic way with words.”

“I don't want to stand still.”

“Nothing wrong with giving the fans what they want.”

“It's not
for
the fans, it's for - ”

“Give over,” said Alan. “Let's talk about the tour.”

Jack sat up straight in his chair. “No.”

“We need the tour to sell it. You'll get rave reviews, I'm sure, but you can't count on airplay.”

“Violet Hour
got airplay.”

“Shush. How many dates can you handle?”

‘No' is a complete sentence
, Mathilda whispered in his ear. She'd repeated this mantra to him over and over, in the deep warmth of their bed before she left to drive to London. That night, he'd lain against her pillow and breathed in the smell of her hair.

“No.”

“We can cut them right down if you want. In fact, that might even be a good ploy. Make you rare.”

“No.”

“It'll sell out, I guarantee it. For a guy who's been invisible for over a year, you are fucking
ludicrously
in demand. People call all the time wanting to meet you. Not just ordinary people, either.
Real
people.”

“What do you mean by a
real
person?” asked Jack, fascinated enough to deviate from his stonewalling.

“Oh, you know. Agents, actors, musicians, film producers, you know,
real
. Not just punters.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “That's good to know.”

“Take this seriously, you arsehole.” From outside in her tiny cubbyhole, Alan's secretary buzzed him. “What?”

“He's here, boss.”

“Count to twenty-five and send him in.” Alan looked at Jack. “Actually, fifty.”

“Okay.”

“What are you up to?” Jack demanded.

“I'm not giving up on the tour, you know,” said Alan.

“And I'm not doing it. I swear to God, if that guy out there is - ”

“Yeah, we'll have that conversation another time. Sit down, you pillock, it's nothing to do with the tour, I've found this new artist who might do the cover. Found him at your party, actually.”

“It wasn't my party.”

“Alright, Evie's party.” Alan grinned. “She was a good bet, you know. Better than that actress bird. Only room for one artist in the family.”

Jack remembered Mathilda's intent face as she sat coiled in the window seat, murmuring lines under her breath, committing Ibsen's
Doll's House
to heart in less than three days. A process she described, to his astonishment, as mere preparation for the ‘real work' of finding the character of Nora. He was awed by her commitment – all that work for a mere audition! – and moved by the happiness that came off her in waves; a self-sufficient, bone-deep contentment that was nothing to do with him, with his presence or his absence.

Alan was still talking.

“Anyway, I've asked around and apparently this kid's going to be a superstar.”

“Do you know a lot of art critics, then?”

“I know a lot of rich people. That good enough for you? He's a nice kid. And a big fan.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And you're looking at me like I'm going to have a problem.”

“No I'm not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Fuck me, Jack, but you sound like my missus sometimes.”

“You're not married.”

“That's 'cos I'm too busy nursemaiding idiots like you. Isaac's a decent kid. Just a little bit, you know, unique.”

“You can't be a little bit unique. Unique is an absolute.”

“Fuck off, you pedant. He's special. And bloody talented.”

“He sounds utterly charming.”

“Just meet him, okay? Try and be nice. Take him down to the studio, play him the new songs or something.” Jack looked doubtful. “Come on, Jack, throw me a fucking bone here. Isaac's good publicity. That's got to be worth half an hour with a slightly strange foreign guy.”

“Strange? Now he's
strange?”

“Oh, God give me fucking strength - artistic, okay? Lot of ideas.
Strange
. Like you.” He paused. “I must be insane putting you in the same room. You'll probably implode the whole bloody universe.”

“In here,” said Alan's secretary, opening the door. Alan changed his secretary every few months and Jack had long ago given up trying to learn their names, but they were always young, pretty and surprisingly competent. The latest girl had long blonde hair, thick black eyelashes and wore a black rollneck and alarming tartan trousers, which he'd been expecting. The young man, almost a boy, who followed her shyly into the room looked Italian and rather sweet, which he hadn't expected. Jack's mental image of an up-and-coming foreign artist was someone taller, thinner, grubbier, older and less healthy. He stood up to shake hands. Alan gestured halfheartedly from behind his desk.

“Isaac, Jack. Jack, Isaac.” The phone rang. “Hang on.”

Isaac caught Jack's eye and smiled. A number of half-formed thoughts:
My God he's younger than me / different generation almost / is this what people mean when they talk about ‘in my day' / how long will my day last anyway / am I over the hill already
wandered across Jack's mind. Alan had his hand over the receiver and was looking at them both with a kind of calculating shiftiness.
This is like being set up on a blind date by your mother
.

“Sorry, lads,” he said apologetically, “I need to take this. Take them down to the studio, will you, love?”

The secretary rolled her eyes at
love
, but led them away. Jack was interested to see that, as he passed the girl's desk, Isaac quietly stole a wad of paper and a pencil.

It was a pleasure just to stand in the studio again. Even the dank sweat leeching out from the booth recalled the select thrill of hearing his music captured, groomed, cleaned, perfected and finally sent out into the world.
It's brilliant, you wanker
. Would it be brilliant? Who cared? It would exist, that was what mattered.

The framed artwork from
Violet Hour
– a cityscape shot of him lounging moodily against a purple Mercedes-Benz, head bowed, chest bare – hung on the wall. Jack glanced at it, and looked away again. He'd approved it on the grounds that the photograph looked almost nothing like him. Isaac was studying it closely. Was he supposed to make small talk with this boy?

“Do you like it?” Jack asked, for something to say.

Isaac shrugged, that eloquent expressive gesture seen only on the Continent, sat down at the mixing desk and began drawing on his stolen paper.

One of the session guitars rested temptingly against the wall. It was a Gibson, well-used, without temperament, a reliable workhorse instrument you could depend on when your own was out of reach. Isaac wasn't looking at him at all, apparently absorbed in his drawing. Jack had the uncanny feeling Isaac was somehow willing him to become oblivious to his presence. He looked again at the Gibson.

The silence was companionable rather than awkward. Jack picked up the Gibson, put it down again, picked it up again, strummed a few chords, remembered he wasn't alone, forgot again. The opening notes of
2:43am
flowed out through his fingers. He'd have preferred a piano, but the guitar was alright. The train this morning had had the rhythm he wanted, that paradox of energy and stillness. There must be a way to weave it into the music -

When he opened his eyes, he found Isaac had moved closer and was quite openly staring at him, waiting patiently for Jack to come back from whatever world he was in.

“Jesus God,” said Jack, swallowing his heart back down
into his chest. “Sorry mate, you startled me.” Isaac shook his head affably, and continued to study Jack's face. “Um, look, could you please not do that?”

Isaac looked sad. Jack felt as if he'd unfairly told off a small child.

“You're not drawing me, are you?” he asked.

Isaac offered Jack his drawing. It was a deft caricature of Alan at his desk. Alan had eight tentacled arms and a malevolent expression. Jack couldn't help laughing. Isaac looked modest.

“I'd have liked something like that for
Violet Hour.”
Isaac glanced at the framed cover. “No need to be polite. It's hideous.”

Isaac smiled shyly. Keeping his eyes fixed on Jack's face, he turned over the paper.

Even as a rough sketch, the image was arresting. An old-fashioned microphone – the beautiful old Deco style Jack had grown up loving and whose departure he still mourned – stood on an empty stage before a pair of heavy velvet curtains. The audience consisted of just one young woman, her face turned up towards the stage. Creeping unobtrusively up the right-hand edge of the paper in simple capitals were the words,
Violet Hour
.

“That's brilliant,” said Jack. “Shit. That's absolutely brilliant.” He looked again at the paper; the deserted stage, the audience of one, the seedy glamour of the curtains. “I swear to God, mate, if I could draw - ” he paused. “Are you okay?”