A gap had appeared in the crowd and I followed Jacob’s lustful gaze to where the singer was perched on one of the leather-studded bar stools in the corner. His fingers were strumming the strings of his guitar, an unruly mass of jet-black curls concealing most of his face. He was handsome in that obvious kind of way that meant, statistically, he was 90% likely to also be an asshole. Broad shoulders. Chiselled jaw. An air of confidence that meant he could make eye contact with just about anyone – like he was with me right now, those impossibly dark eyes trained unashamedly on mine. Musicians.
‘Speaking of Mum, she asked me to ask you how you’re doing. Apparently, you’re not replying to her texts?’ Matt winced with the pained reluctance of someone passing along a message they really didn’t want to give.
‘I’m fine.’ The words, ready to go on the tip of my tongue, tumbled readily out of my mouth. ‘She texts me a million times a day; shoot me if I don’t respond to every single one.’ I scowled, hating the sharp, overly defensive edge to my voice. ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed at Matt, who just placed a big, bear-like hand on my shoulder with unexpected tenderness, the briefest shake of his head that saiddon’t worry about it.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he whispered in my ear. He was a man of few words, my brother, but the squeeze of my shoulder said so much. It was only when Matt’s shirt started to blur as I watchedhim walk away, the colours bleeding into each other, that I realised my eyes were watering. God, I wasn’t becoming that annoying person who cried every time she had a drink, was I?
‘Got to pee,’ I muttered, slipping quietly out from behind our table before either Alice or Jacob could see. The bathroom was deserted and I braced my hands either side of the basin, the ceramic smooth and cool beneath my skin. I leaned over, splashing cold water on the back of my neck as I tried to calm the blotchy red patch slowly spreading across my chest, creeping up my throat like an ink stain. My face was paler than normal, dull even, with a greying undertone that matched the bags under my eyes. Maybe it was time to call it a night?
An image of Joe and I snuggled up in bed, watching old episodes ofFriendsas we passed a tub of Ben & Jerry’s back and forth between us swam into my mind. It looked so perfect. I nodded decisively to myself in the mirror, spinning on my heel as I headed for the door. But as I exited the bathroom, my left foot tripped over something (probably my right foot), sending me stumbling forwards.
‘Woah, easy there.’
A big, strong arm looped itself around my waist, body-slamming me against the torso it was attached to, to prevent my fall.
‘You OK?’
I looked up, coming nose to nose with the singer with the capable hands. Jacob’s words, not mine, although seeing as they did just save me from going arse over tit, the evidence thus far seemed to support his hypothesis. I was suddenly very conscious that said hands were still flat against the small of my back, the hem of my top riding up beneath his grip.
‘Fine, thanks,’ I said, clearing my throat a little too loudly as I took two steps backwards. His head tilted to one side as he started to push the door to the men’s bathroom open, eyesglinting in the dimly lit corridor.
‘Make sure you tie that shoelace now.’ I looked down, clocking the trailing shoelace responsible for my clumsiness. Well, maybe the four glasses of wine had also had a little something to do with it. ‘Wouldn’t want you falling for anyone else.’ He winked, an amused curl to his lips, before the door swung shut behind him. I rolled my eyes, wondering how many women he’d used that one on.
As I made my way back through the crowd, my gaze fell on a young couple. They were sat at a tiny table in the corner, edging towards each other like two magnets, him inching his stool closer, her ducking her head coquettishly as she leaned into him. He reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, a single finger caressing the side of her cheek. They were sat at mine and Joe’s table. Our heart-enclosed initials, carved into the underside with my protractor 15 years ago, declared it so.
This way we’ll always be together. Me and you. Jenny and Joe. Always and forever.
An unwelcome heaviness pressed against the pit of my stomach, the wine threatening to make a reappearance. Yep, definitely time to go.
4
‘What breaking news awaits us this week, do you reckon?’ Jacob mused, plonking himself down next to me in the staffroom. I say staffroom. Again, like a lot of things at theBrighton Tribune, it was quite an overgenerous description for what was essentially a semi-circle of ten plastic chairs in the worst-smelling corner of the office. I took the polystyrene cup of coffee Jacob handed me with a weak smile, the first sip doing little to alleviate the pounding headache that had been present all morning. It was like the better version of myself – the smug one who knew that fifth glass of wine was a bad idea – was sitting on her high horse with a giant wooden mallet, bashing it repeatedly against my skull.
‘Can’t be worse than the Asbo from last week,’ I yawned, smiling at the thought of poor Rory, the local cockerel, who finally ruffled one too many feathers with his early-morning siren calls and was served a noise abatement notice by Brighton & Hove City Council.
‘Order, order,’ Derek bellowed, rapping his knuckles on the back of his clipboard as he perched one butt cheek on the edge of poor Sally’s desk. He was sporting a particularly hideous salmon shirt today, paired with an aggressively yellow tie. I had to squint just to look at him. ‘Everyone’s favourite time of the week – new assignment day!’ He paused, as though expecting an enthusiastic cheer, but all he got was a loud slurp of teafrom copyeditor Rahul. ‘Right, Jenny and Jacob, I need you over in West Blatchington this morning, some music therapy group operating out of the community centre is under threat of closure. Oh, and I almost forgot – Jenny, you’re down to interview a Mr Hatfield next Friday at 10 a.m. He’s convinced he’s seeing his dead wife’s face in the clouds.’
I spluttered a mouthful of coffee back into my cup, only narrowing avoiding spraying it in Derek’s face. Shame.
‘I stand corrected,’ I coughed quietly to myself.
‘Wasn’t Rahul going to cover that one, Derek?’ Jacob was trying to communicate something to Derek via his bulging eyeballs, but I was too focused on dabbing at the coffee running down my chin to notice.
‘Why would I send Rahul? He’s already covering the village fete on Friday, poor man can’t be in two places at once, Jacob,’ Derek chided.
‘It’s fine,’ I mouthed silently to Jacob, who’d just opened his mouth to argue otherwise. My stomach churned as I downed what was left of my coffee, last night’s wine threatening to make a reappearance as my grip tightened on the edge of my chair.
‘Right, Sally,’ Derek continued, not missing a beat as he ran one finger down his clipboard. ‘You’re covering the town council meeting this afternoon, and it’s your lucky day. Wheelie bins are on the agenda!’
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’
It was late March, the omnipresent clouds not having parted for a single second to reveal even aglimmerof sunshine these past few months, so sunglasses were entirely unnecessary, bordering on ridiculous, but today they were essential for my continued survival. I lowered my Ray-Bans a fraction to survey the – well, it could only be described as an oversized garden shed, thanks to its bottle-green corrugated iron facade. Someonehad tried to brighten the place up, with a hanging flower basket dangling on a rusty chain to one side of the flaking wooden door, the vibrant blooms a stark contrast to the otherwise gloomy building. I took a few exploratory steps up the cracked, weed-riddled path before an assault of sounds stopped me in my tracks. A low warble, followed by a nails-on-a-chalkboard style screech that only a brass instrument can produce, floated out of the open window. The rhythmic pounding of a bass drum made the poorly fitted door shudder slightly on its hinges. And a familiar piano melody tinkled over the top of the chaos.
‘Sounds like the right place,’ Jacob smiled, hoisting his camera bag further up his shoulder. The door gave a sad, pained wail as he held it open for me with a dramatic sweep of his arm.
The community centre was just one big room with a raised, stage-like platform at the far end, a foot or so off the ground. The floor was that awful faux-varnished wood that you get in village halls, and it smelt a bit like an old church. Musty and a tad damp. A bunch of kids were sat in a circle on the floor, captivated by the short, bearded man wearing a burgundy cardigan in the centre who was demonstrating different musical instruments. A boy who looked about seven or eight was bashing a xylophone with one hand, while another clung firmly to the trousered leg of a woman sat with a smattering of other adults on the chairs that lined the edge of the room. Another group of children were crowded around a piano on the other side of the room, belting out the lyrics to theLion King’s ‘I Just Can’t Wait to Be King’ at the top of their lungs. One little girl sat atop the piano, her flashing trainers dangling just above the pianist’s fingers, the multicoloured beads on the ends of her braids click-clacking along to the rhythm.
‘Which one’s yours?’
