What Might Have Been (6 page)

8

E
van stared at Sarah until he feared it might be perceived as creepy, then cleared his throat. ‘So, have you made your
choice yet
?’

She looked round in shock. ‘Pardon?’

He held up the carrier bag. ‘Egg mayo? Cheese? Some sort of white meat that we’ll identify afterwards?’

‘Oh. Right. Which do you prefer?’

‘I don’t mind.’

Sarah peered into the bag in disbelief. ‘They’re tiny – and there’s so many of them. What is this – the
menu degustation
?’ she said, adopting a French accent.

‘The disgusting what?’

‘No, the . . . Never mind. Did you make them yourself ?’

Evan tried not to blush. ‘Take’ would have been a better word, but he didn’t want to admit he’d swiped them from an abandoned buffet at the hotel where his audition had been earlier. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, whatever, it’s very thoughtful of you.’ She helped herself to a sandwich and took a bite, and Evan followed suit, fighting the urge to sniff the suspicious-looking filling. ‘So tell me about you,’ she continued, ‘seeing as you got the full run-down on me last night.’

‘Not much to tell, really. As you know, I play the sax.’

‘For a living. Which makes you pretty lucky. And special.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘I do,’ she said, earnestly.

Evan stared off into the distance, surprised to find himself
daydreaming
that, one day, Sarah might even say those two words while standing next to him, and almost laughed at the idea.

‘What?’

Evan felt himself redden. ‘Nothing.’

‘So, you were saying, Mr. Lucky . . .’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Though it can’t
all
be down to luck.’

Evan thought for a moment. He
was
lucky to make a living from something he loved. ‘Actually, it was. If Finn hadn’t been sleeping with that record exec . . .’

‘Come on, Evan. I’m a musician’s daughter, remember. What made you want to play? To put in the hours and hours of practice in the first place? I’m guessing it wasn’t the money.’

Evan laughed. ‘Hardly. No, it was my granddad.’

‘Your granddad? Did he play?’

‘Only records.’

‘Records?’ Sarah scratched her head. ‘Oh, hang on. I think I remember my father telling me about them. Round flat black
plastic
things with grooves in them, right?’

Evan glared at her good-naturedly. ‘Yeah. He had a bunch of old 78s – all the jazz classics. Basie, Coltrane, Monk . . . He let me play them to death on what I called his “grandadphone” . . .’

‘Aww. Cute.’

‘Do you want to hear this or not?’

‘Sorry,’ said Sarah, contritely. ‘You were saying?’

‘Well, it was then I decided I wanted to be a sax player. Then one day, he came home with a surprise for me.’

‘A double bass?’

Evan reached into the carrier bag, removed a sandwich, and handed it to Sarah. ‘Eat this. It might keep you quiet.’

‘Sorry. Again.’

‘So anyway, he bought me my first sax.’

‘Tenor?’

‘I don’t know how much he paid for it.’

‘No, I meant . . . Right. You got me. Very good.’

Evan grinned. ‘But yeah, actually, it was a tenor sax. And a nice one too. Must have cost him most of his pension money – much to the disgust of my parents, who thought I’d play with it for five
minutes
then abandon it in some cupboard, much like the expensive Scalextrix set they’d bought me the previous Christmas. But I loved it, you know? Even got blisters from trying to
master
the thing. And then, just after my twelfth birthday, when my
parents
died, and I eventually got out of hospital, I moved in with my grandparents and kind of shut myself away in my bedroom to practice.’ Evan stopped talking. Sarah was holding her hand up, like a child in a classroom. ‘Yes?’

She put her hand down. ‘Did it help?’

Evan nodded. ‘Funnily enough, yeah. The sax is a very expressive instrument. Sometimes it can . . .’

‘What?’

He swallowed hard. ‘Express the emotions you find impossible to voice.’

‘That sounds like something a shrink would say.’

‘And they’d be right.’ He forced a smile. ‘So anyway, I got good enough to earn a bit of money busking on the South Bank and picked up the occasional gig on the South London jazz circuit, where I met Finn, and from there . . . well, Jazzed you know about.’

‘And now the G-Spot?’

‘Yeah. Which I love. And while perhaps it isn’t where I see myself playing out the rest of my career, there’s always some session work to look forward to, and the occasional tour . . .’ He took a deep breath, then his nerve failed him, and he couldn’t meet Sarah’s eyes. ‘But it certainly isn’t a bad way to pay the mortgage – ignoring the fact that, given that it’s the only thing I’m any good at . . .’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘. . . it’s my
only
way to pay the mortgage.’ Evan did a double take, realising what Sarah must have just been referring to, and for the second time in as many minutes, fought to control the blush he could feel starting. He fished inside the carrier bag, removed a sandwich, and stuffed it into his mouth, wondering how on earth to tell Sarah that – given this morning’s developments – soon he might not have a mortgage, then looked up to find her smirking at him.

‘What?’

‘Your mouth. You’ve got . . . Hang on.’ She leaned across, took his face in her hands, and brushed his lips suggestively with the tip of her tongue. ‘Mayonnaise,’ she said, her mouth millimetres from his. ‘At least, I hope it was mayonnaise.’ Then she kissed him.

And at that precise moment, Evan felt his legs go so weak he was glad he was sitting down.

9

S
arah sat at her desk and stared out of the window, replaying her and Evan’s lunchtime encounter in her mind. They’d kissed for what had seemed like hours before she’d realised where they were and had breathlessly broken away to finish her lunch in an
awkward
silence. Then she’d raised her eyebrows at what she’d assumed was Evan’s rude suggestion that she might fancy a quick ‘99’, but when he’d pointed to the nearby ice cream van and explained it was
actually
the name of some sort of ice cream cornet with a chocolate flake stuck into it – which had still sounded rude to her – she’d laughed, pointed to the rain clouds that were gathering overhead, and suggested they go back to his flat for a proper dessert instead. Though they hadn’t gotten much farther than the garage in
Bermondsey
where he parked his car – where they’d been interrupted by the grinning garage owner knocking on the windscreen – before she’d remembered that she in fact had a job to return to.

As she was re-applying her lipstick in the cab she’d insisted on flagging down to take her back to the office, Sarah hadn’t been able to get the park’s incredible stories of self-sacrifice out of her mind. Would David ever be brave enough to do something like that? Sarah hoped so – though somehow she
knew
that Evan would. And it was then she knew she needed to have a little courage herself, and make a decision – and soon. She knew she owed them both that in return, at the very least.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

She looked up with a start. David was standing in her office doorway, and immediately she felt guilty.

‘Is that your best offer?’

He smiled down at her, absent-mindedly fiddling with one of his cuff-links. ‘Well, how about dinner this evening?’

Sarah regarded him for a moment. He was tall, his swept-back hair probably the same style he’d had since public school, impeccably dressed, and with strong, confident features, but handsome in more of a well-groomed way, rather than naturally good-looking – completely the opposite of Evan, she realised. ‘I can’t,’ she said,
realising
she had to play for time. ‘Tonight, I mean. I’m going out,’ she added, quickly.

‘Anywhere nice?’

For a moment, Sarah worried he was angling for an invitation. ‘A jazz club,’ she said, and when David made a face, she knew she’d said the right thing. ‘Near London Bridge. There’s a friend of mine playing there.’

‘A friend?’

Sarah hesitated, then thought
what the hell?
‘Yes. His name’s Evan. He’s a musician.’

‘I guessed that from your use of the word “playing”.’ David smiled, then pulled his Blackberry out of his pocket and consulted the calendar. ‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow?’ Sarah looked up at him, and realised Grace was right. If she
was
going to cool things with David, better to do that before things went any further, no matter how difficult that made things for her at work, and over dinner tomorrow might well be the perfect opportunity. Besides, David was a nice guy. Surely he wouldn’t do anything, well,
nasty
. She’d go to see Evan tonight, just to make sure, and then . . . well, if she did choose him, it would be much better to tell David over the weekend, and give him a day or so to get used to the idea.

David was looking at her expectantly, his thumbs poised over his phone’s keyboard ready to type her name into the appropriate time slot on his schedule, so Sarah fixed a smile on her face. ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said.

10

E
van cursed his lack of nerve as he drove out of the car park. He’d been desperate to tell Sarah his news, but he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, and besides, how did you tell someone you’d just met – someone who’d moved here
from
the States – that you were about to move there for the next twelve months?

He’d been still buzzing from their night together when he’d arrived at the hotel earlier, and was sure that had carried itself into the way he’d played at the audition – though ‘audition’ was stretching it – it had been more like an audience. He’d recognised the man himself at once, of course, even though he’d been sporting a beard, but Evan had assumed Sting had just wanted someone to do some session work on one of his jazz albums. Little could he have guessed that the Police were reforming for one last farewell – and that it would mean he might have to make a few farewells of his own.

He felt sorry for the guy he’d be replacing – after scarcely a week’s rehearsals, the band had been having their doubts about him, and had wanted to see who else was out there – but even though the offer had been last-minute, he knew the tour was too good an opportunity to turn down – a year, travelling the world with one of its biggest ever bands, starting and finishing in the States – and the
money
. . . But then again, for Evan, it was never about the money. Though he cursed his bad timing. Finally, he’d met someone he might have a chance of some sort of future with – though he’d be hard pressed to explain why he thought that already – and his music, the thing that had brought them together, was likely to keep them apart. And as much as he wanted to go on the tour, Evan found himself almost wishing he hadn’t been asked.

Gunning the Mercedes through an amber light, he drove quickly towards Borough, then circled the block in search of a parking space, eventually squeezing the car into a bay at the top of Long Lane. It was still too early to phone Mel – the hours he kept were somewhat nocturnal – so, keen to share his news with someone who’d understand, he headed towards the familiar café and peered through the window. As usual, Finn was busying himself behind the counter, his hands whizzing expertly around the front of a huge chrome-plated coffee machine, just like they used to do over the keyboards he once played in Jazzed.

Evan paused to hold the door open for a young black woman struggling with an enormous pushchair, then made his way towards the counter and cleared his throat noisily. ‘Can you tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, please?’

Finn, still with his back to him, stopped what he was doing. ‘You not a coffee lover, then?’

‘Would I be here if I was?’

‘That’s a bit of a deep question for a Friday.’

As Finn turned round and grinned at him, Evan leaned heavily against the counter. ‘You ain’t heard nothing yet.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve got some good news.’

‘Doesn’t look that good, given the expression on your face.’

‘No, it is, it’s just . . .’

Finn turned back towards the coffee machine, placed an espresso cup under the spout, and punched a button. ‘Do I need to tell the missus to buy a hat?’

‘Nothing like that. Though . . .’ He waited until the machine had finished its noisy spluttering. ‘I have kind of met someone.’

‘Kind of ?’

‘Yeah, but . . . it’s complicated.’

‘Aren’t all of yours?’ Finn gave Evan a look over his shoulder. ‘Does she have a name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘And what’s the complication?’

‘I’ve been offered a gig. A big one.’

Finn removed the cup from the machine and placed it on the counter. ‘The Police thing?’ he said, waving away Evan’s attempt
to pa
y.

‘How did you . . .?’

‘Well, they asked me first, obviously, but I’ve got the café to think about, and . . .’

‘And you can’t play the sax.’

‘That too. Though to be quite honest, even if I could, they wouldn’t have offered it to me. Too worried I’d draw the attention away from the main men.’ Finn ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Mel told me you were up for it.’

‘When?’

‘You’re not my only customer, you know?’

Evan looked around the near-empty café, hoping his friend was right. He often wondered whether Finn ever dwelt upon the old days, although he supposed he didn’t have the time, what with a business, a wife, and two kids. His life made Evan’s schedule look positively lightweight, but then Finn had always thrown himself into everything he was involved in – something Evan knew to
his cos
t.

‘Mel knew it was for a tour?’

Finn nodded. ‘Yup.’

‘I wish he’d told me.’

‘He didn’t want to make you nervous. And wanted to make sure you showed up for it.’

‘Why wouldn’t I have?’

Finn shot him a look. ‘What was the name of that Whitney Houston song?
Didn’t we almost have it all?
’

‘You almost did, if you remember. More than was good
for you
.’

‘Yes, well, that was a long time ago. And it wasn’t all bad.’

‘Come on. All that stuff – the limos, the way we had to dress, that stupid interview for
Smash Hits
where we had to pretend we hated each other – it wasn’t really
us
, was it? And then . . .’ Evan’s eyes searched his friend’s face. ‘You can’t tell me you miss it?’

Finn forced a smile. ‘Of course not. No, for me, MTV
was alwa
ys
just a stepping stone to where I am now, serving coffee to ungrateful punters in a café in South London. Anyway,’ he continued, clapping Evan on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks. I think.’

‘You are doing it, right?’

‘Yeah, it’s just . . .’ Evan picked up his coffee and took a sip.

‘Sarah?’

‘I think I like her, Finn.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘That’s not the point.’

Finn raised both eyebrows. ‘What did she say when you
told h
er?’

‘That I like her? Or about the gig?’

‘Either.’

‘Well, there’s the thing . . .’

Finn helped himself to a bottle of water from the fridge
underneath
the counter. ‘You’ve got to tell her. Both of those things.’

‘It’s a little . . . early.’

‘How early?’

‘We, um . . .’ Evan coloured slightly. ‘Met last night.’

‘Last night
?’

‘But I really think we had some kind of connection, you know? And I don’t want to spoil things.’

‘Don’t you think buggering off to America without telling her might do that?’ He unscrewed the top from the bottle and took a swig. ‘Do you think she likes you?’

Evan shrugged. ‘Maybe. Yeah. I think so. Though I met her today for lunch, and she initially seemed a bit . . . distant.’

‘So will you be, when you’re in the States.’

‘That’s not funny, Finn. Though what
is
funny is that she’s American.’

‘Well, there you go. Ask her to come with you.’

Evan almost dropped his cup. ‘I couldn’t!’

‘Why not?’

‘Well . . . Because she wouldn’t, for one thing.’

‘You don’t know that.’

Evan made a face. ‘People don’t just up and leave the country just like that,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘Especially with people they hardly know.’

‘You’re about to. And besides, that’s not the point.’

‘It isn’t?’

Finn folded his arms and rested on the counter. ‘The point is that you’ve asked her. Whether she can go or not is neither here nor there. Unlike where the two of you’ll be, of course.’

‘She won’t think it’s too . . .’ Evan tried to find a better word than ‘inappropriate’. ‘Forward?’

‘Nah. But better she does than you say nothing and lose her, surely?’

‘I suppose. And you’re sure it’ll work?’

Finn grinned. ‘Just think of it like eBay.’

‘Like eBay?’

‘Yeah. You see something you really want, you don’t just stick in a bid and hope. You’ve got to go in with your best offer.
Buy it now
, and all that.’

‘You think?’

‘Only one way to find out,’ said Finn, walking round from behind the counter to collect some empty cups from a nearby table.

Distracted by shouting from outside, Evan looked out of the window, where a minor shunt between two cars had escalated into a fist-fight between the drivers, though currently, neither of the two participants was standing close enough for their flailing arms to actually connect. He watched for a moment, then downed the last of his espresso and decided that maybe Finn was right – he
could
ask Sarah to come with him. She had admitted she missed the U.S., and that there were times she hated her job . . . At the very least he could ask her to wait for him – he’d even fly back home regularly to see her, or she could come out and see the show, maybe take some holiday, and . . . He turned his attention back to his friend, conscious that Finn had reappeared behind the counter and started speaking again.

‘But if you do ask her, just be prepared for one thing,’ he was saying.

‘What?’

Finn smiled, then laid a hand on Evan’s shoulder. ‘She might actually say “yes”.’