Chapter 11
SHANE
Shane and Fletch have to be jacks-of-all trades in order to keep things afloat.
While Shane is adept at drum and guitar repairs, his friend and business partner (not a term either of them would ever use) takes care of woodwind and brass.
When Fletch disassembles a saxophone and lovingly pieces it back together again, it’s as astounding to Shane as if he’d operated successfully on a human heart.
Yet there are aspects which Fletch is, frankly, crap at – like managing their extensive online string business and the colossal amounts of admin involved in running a specialist shop.
Shane regards all of this with the same bleary acceptance of scrubbing out the charred remains left by Elaine in his frying pans.
However, he is also rather good at it. That, and actually making sales as, for some unfathomable reason, takings are up whenever Shane mans the shop.
He suspects that Fletch might be a tad overzealous, which can come across as pressurising.
Shane is certainly more patient with people who wander in and proceed to ‘try out’ every guitar in the shop – it’s all ‘Nice action, man! Yeah, I’ll think about it’ – with no intention of buying.
One of these people is Boris: a permanently denim-clad man in his sixties, his mop of grizzly grey curls poking out from a faded baseball cap.
Shane hands him a coffee and they catch up on each other’s news.
‘It was all right, you know?’ he says when his friend enquires about the Yorkshire trip. ‘Sad, of course.’
‘Yeah, tragic, mate.’ Boris scratches at his beard. ‘Those things are hard.’
Yet not completely, Shane muses – because it had got him back in touch with Josie.
Thank God he’d gone down to the hotel bar because that had made things feel less awkward between them.
He’d looked for her again at breakfast and assumed she’d decided to skip it.
As he’d chewed gamely on an anaemic sausage, he couldn’t say he blamed her.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see her again, but at least things were cordial – to the point where he’d messaged her last night to check she’d got home safely, and she’d replied that she had.
Coffee finished, Boris wanders over to a Fender Telecaster and caresses it reverentially.
He likes it to be known that he’s played guitar ‘for everyone’ (although he is vague about actual names).
Apparently, he even recorded a solo instrumental album, although Shane has never found any evidence of this.
In all the years Boris has been coming in, their friendship has never progressed beyond music talk, and tales of his travels.
As a longtime singleton, Boris undertakes these campervan trips alone, apparently content in his solitude.
‘I’ve told you,’ he announces now, ‘you can borrow Doris any time you like. ’Cause you look knackered, mate,’ he adds, not unkindly.
‘Take some time off from this place! Have a holiday!’ Frankly, Shane’s idea of a holiday is somewhere sunny and hot, with his kids, even though it’s been a couple of years since they’ve gone away together.
He’s asked them, of course, but they have busy schedules, and in the two years that Tony’s been in their lives, they’ve all gone to Florida, Mexico and skiing in the Alps.
On top of that, there are so many weekend breaks – Copenhagen being the latest – that Shane feels lucky if he is able to see his kids at all.
As the day goes on, the image of Boris’s van buzzes away in Shane’s brain.
He’s picturing a classic VW camper, lovingly restored – chrome fittings gleaming, a pot of tea on the stove, bacon sizzling in a pan.
Admittedly, it’s appealing. Boris was right in that he’s spending an awful lot of time in the shop these days.
It’s become his habit to stay on a bit later, long after the shop has closed, to give the place a thorough clean.
By the time he’s finished tonight, the floor is almost as shiny and gleaming as the trumpets and French horns.
Even Fletch has commented on his efforts: ‘Place is looking good, mate! Are we getting inspected or something?’ In fact, the reason for Shane’s recent vigour on the housekeeping front is to delay the business of going home.
His place isn’t particularly smart. It’s a post-war flat in a three-storey block, bordered by patches of straggly undergrowth and accessed by means of a rickety walkway.
But it was a place of his own, which he was grateful to find after he and Paula broke up six years ago.
He’d always felt comfortable there – until Elaine moved in.
For a small woman, she takes up an awful lot of space.
Shane lets himself into his fuggy-smelling hallway. ‘Hiya!’ Elaine appears, beaming, in the kitchen doorway.
‘Hi, Elaine.’
‘Good day?’
‘Not bad, yeah. How’re you?’
‘Good!’ She plants her hands on her hips and does a little shimmy. ‘What d’you think?’
Shane realises he is expected to comment on her outfit.
The tiny porridge-coloured dress, in some kind of stretchy, bobbly material, brings to mind sofa upholstery.
Usually, her crinkly reddish hair is pulled back and secured with a glittery scrunchie.
But today it appears to have been flattened somehow. Ironed, presumably.
‘You look great!’ he manages.
‘Thanks!’ She grins.
‘Going out?’ he asks, unnecessarily.
‘Yeah.’ She continues to hover, clearly waiting for him to ask about her plans.
All Shane is concerned with is opening every window to dissipate the sealed-canister atmosphere in here.
She has been frying again – when is she not frying?
– and the place has the fuggy air of a greasy spoon café.
Yet even when he does this, the odour still hangs.
It must be heavier than air, he thinks, as she follows him around.
‘Got a date. We’ve been chatting. Don’t want to get my hopes up but he sounds lovely… ’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ Briefly, he eyeballs the dirty frying pan still sitting on the hob, and the plastic utensil which she seems to have melted beyond all recognition.
It’s only a spatula, he tells himself. And she’ll be gone soon.
This is not his life forever. His second urge – stronger than the window-opening one – is to send another message to Josie.
She’s been on his mind all day. Her beautiful, finely boned face filled his mind as he politely turned down the chance to buy a wheezy old accordion from a man emitting cast-iron confidence and whisky fumes.
He thought of her while a teenage boy tried out seven different trumpets, assaulting his eardrums with a series of tuneless blasts.
‘Not sure they’re what we’re looking for,’ his mother trilled, and they left.
‘Anyway, you’ll meet him!’ Elaine announces as he looks for a beer in the fridge.
‘Meet who?’ The beers have gone. Elaine must have had them.
‘My man! Valter!’ Hang on, is he her man already?
‘Valter?’ he repeats.
‘Yeah. He’s Brazilian. Gorgeous,’ she adds.
Shane frowns, trying to make sense of this. ‘But you haven’t met him yourself, have you? In real life, I mean?’
‘No, but he’s coming round to pick me up. We’re going to that cute little tapas place. The one I keep saying we should try, but you’re always so busy—’ She snorts and swivels her gaze to the small digital clock on the kitchen shelf. ‘Anyway, he’ll be here any minute, so—’
‘Right! I’ll let you get on then.’ Shane smiles tightly and heads for a shower, more to try and wash away his irritation than anything else.
In his cramped little bathroom, tubs of glittery body gel emblazoned with mermaids and unicorns have colonised every surface.
There are fat tubes of fake tan leaking brownish goo, and several outsized, darkly stained mittens strewn about.
He hasn’t dared ask what they’re for. A clear plastic pouch perched on his windowsill bears the words LAMINATING KIT.
He doesn’t understand what that’s for either.
Is it her face she laminates, or something else?
He’s asked, gently, if she’d mind storing some of this stuff in her room, but nothing has happened and he hasn’t had the energy to pursue it.
How had Josie signed off that first message to him again?
Yep – that’s it. He just needs to chill out and adopt some of those best golden love vibes himself.
From the sanctuary of his bedroom, Shane hears a sharp rap on the door and Elaine exclaiming, ‘Hi! Hi! Come in!’
There’s a low male rumble – ‘Lovely to meet you at last!’ – and a tumble of voices as they chatter over each other and then…
silence. No, not quite silence. Shane has wondered sometimes if all of those years spent drumming in bands might have damaged his hearing a little.
But apparently not, as it seems that his ears can pick up the tiniest sounds.
He hears a long, drawn out mmmmmm from Elaine, followed by what are clearly kissing noises.
So his hearing is fine – but Jesus! This is his home!
A home he virtually bankrupted himself to buy, and a stranger is in it, snogging Elaine!
Shane sits on his bed, staring bleakly at the wall and trying to figure out why this feels so wrong.
After all, they’re only kissing – he assumes – and Elaine is entitled to do whatever she likes, with whoever she fancies.
He’s not going to police her. It’s the fact that this is happening within earshot, alerting him to the fact that somehow, he has relinquished control over his own flat – and by extension, his life.
On and on they go, slurping and giggling, and Elaine lets out an ecstatic sigh: aaaaaahhhh.
It’s the first time they’ve met! Is this how it happens these days?
You ‘chat’ for a while and the first time you meet in the flesh, you eat each other’s faces off?
He’s become a prude, Shane realises with a flash of shame.
A retired colonel from Frinton-on-Sea battering out a furious letter to The Telegraph.
She’s young, he reminds himself. Hang on – forty-five isn’t that young! Have some fucking decorum! At the sharp snapping noise, he flinches. That sounded like elastic being pinged. Is she taking her knickers off?
Shane jumps up from his bed, primed to do something.
He just doesn’t know what. He’d barge out and exclaim, ‘Oh! Sorry!’ – but what if Valter has his cock out?
This is crazy. It’s Shane’s flat and he should be able to roam it freely!
The thing about overhearing this kind of stuff is, you feel like you’re the one who’s in the wrong.
That you’re the perv for hearing anything, and you should magically transport yourself out of the vicinity, or at least possess noise-cancelling headphones, which Shane has never had any need for until now.
Go to your room, he wills Elaine. It’s the room his kids slept in regularly until a couple of years ago, and it still has the lilac feathery lampshade which Liv chose from IKEA.
However, no sounds follow to indicate that Elaine and her beau are relocating to a more appropriate ‘space’.
Then, suddenly: ‘Shane?’ she bellows. Ah, they’ve taken a break. ‘Shane, come and meet Valter!’
‘I’m busy just now,’ he shouts back.
Silence. Then, ‘He’s a bit uptight,’ Elaine hisses. Oh, is he really? His mobile rings and his heart jumps as he sees Josie’s name displayed.
‘Hello?’ he barks, trying to sound calm and normal.
‘Hi, Shane,’ she says levelly, and he senses her hesitation. ‘Is now a good time to talk?’
He is being summoned again by his housemate. He thought they were going for tapas! Why can’t she leave him alone? ‘Just on a call, Elaine,’ he yells back.
‘We’re off, then. Don’t wait up for us!’ She hoots with laughter. ‘See ya!’
The door bangs, and he clears his throat and tries to gather himself together. ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ he tells Josie. ‘Sorry about that. So, erm, how did things go at work?’
She exhales forcefully. ‘Not very well. I seem to have walked out on my job. Or been sacked. I’m not quite sure which…’
‘Oh no! Because of the cheese?’
‘Yeah.’ She pauses. ‘He’s still convinced I sabotaged the order. As if I’d do that.’
‘As if!’ Shane exclaims, filled with outrage on her behalf. He strides out of his room towards the kitchen. It feels liberating, having his flat to himself for once.
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I’ve been thinking.’ He rubs at his chin, wondering what’s coming next. ‘About Ravi,’ she continues. ‘About her request – her instruction or whatever you’d call it – to us. And I wondered, perhaps we could actually do it—’
‘You want to do this thing?’ he cuts in.
She seems to hesitate. ‘Maybe want isn’t the right word. More like, I feel we should, for Ravi…’
‘I feel the same,’ he says quickly.
‘Really? You do?’
‘Yes, really. If you want to, I mean. That guy with the van popped into the shop today…’
‘Boris?’ she says, and he can’t help smiling at that.
‘You remember.’
‘It’s a memorable name, isn’t it? So, d’you think he’d be okay with lending it to us?’
‘Oh, yeah. Any time, he’s always saying, as long as he’s not away. I have no idea what it’s like, but—’
‘But it goes, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He chuckles. ‘It definitely goes.’
‘And could you take time off from the shop?’
‘I’ve been manning it a lot lately,’ he replies. ‘Fletch wouldn’t mind covering a few days. But what about you? Are you having to work notice?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’ She pauses. ‘I called him this afternoon. Rupert, I mean. Apologised for flouncing out. I thought we could figure things out, but he wasn’t having any of it.’
‘God, I’m so sorry,’ Shane murmurs.
‘Thanks. I’m okay, honestly. I’ll find something else, even just to tide me over. Anyway, I’m paid till the end of the month, and I’ve done loads of extra hours, so…’ She trails off.
Shane leans against the worktop, allowing all of this information to settle and wishing there was a chilled beer in the fridge.
So it’s actually happening. After all these years – and all that awful stuff he’s tried to forget – they’re going to be thrown back together again.
Not just for an afternoon and an evening, like at the Kapoors’ and in that hotel bar, but for five whole days.
What will they do all that time? What’ll it be like?
He’s trepidatious, of course. He doesn’t know Josie at all – at least, not as a grown-up woman. Yet the prospect is also sort of… thrilling.
‘Okay,’ he says, trying to keep his tone light, ‘so if we’re going to do this, when would be a good time? I mean, when are you free?’
He senses her smiling and now Shane, alone in his kitchen, is smiling too. ‘Right now,’ Josie replies, ‘I guess I’m free pretty much all of the time.’