Chapter 7
LYRA
The Angel of the North
‘Dad?’ I tap gently on my parents’ bedroom door. ‘Are you ready to come downstairs?’
I stayed over at my parents’ house last night, as I do every night my mum is on rota to work or be on call at the hospital. She was the consultant cardiologist on stand-by last night for the Freeman hospital. Dad can do most things himself but some are tricky, like making a decent hot meal safely.
I’ve been awake for a while, reviewing the photographs I took of Charlotte and Mark’s wedding yesterday.
Couples expect a first Instagrammable cut almost instantly.
My first edit is a simple tidy-up. The bad pictures – the ones with a fault, or poor lighting, closed eyes, duplicates – are the easiest to cull.
I can drop thousands in a couple of hours.
Which is what I’ve been doing since waking shortly after five, when Mum got called out to the hospital.
She’d already helped Dad up to bed by the time I arrived home last night. I was later than usual and I blame one angsty musician with a voice I can’t tear myself away from.
Dad appears at the door, nudging it open with a crutch. He uses a stick outdoors – a fancy one with a mallard duck head that Mum bought him – but inside, where he’s comfortable, he prefers a crutch.
‘Morning,’ he says, with his lopsided beam.
In my head, I add, Sweetheart. After his first stroke, seven years ago, Dad’s speech never fully recovered.
His second stroke, six months later, made it worse.
These days, though he can be difficult to understand for people not overly familiar with his speech, and whilst he’s a man of few words, he’s as rehabilitated as he’ll get.
Despite how long it’s been, pride won’t let him concede on the constant request from Mum to have a stairlift fitted in their house. He can manage the stairs himself but he’s clumsy, so we like to have someone walk down in front of him. I don’t mind in the slightest. It’s the least I can do for him.
In the lounge, we eat toast, I set him up with his favourite news channel on the television, and I continue to edit my photographs. Intermittently, I check my phone, trying desperately to ignore the fact that Guy hasn’t messaged me back.
Honestly, I don’t know what possessed me to text him last night. I just found myself sitting on the sofa, with Mum reclined in a chair watching a series that I couldn’t get in to. I had Guy’s number open on my phone screen, where Dave input it.
I had no business messaging him. Nor did I have any intention of doing so. I don’t know him. He certainly doesn’t want to get to know me. Or anyone, it seems. He’s cold and crabby.
But wasn’t it my fault that he got hit in the face? Wasn’t it me who squirted profiterole innards all over his suit?
So I sent him a message:
Hi Guy, it’s Lyra. I hope your eye isn’t too bad. If you need anything – ice pack, boxing lessons, someone to hold you whilst you sob – give me a shout xx
Urgh, why? Why did I even hit send? It was too familiar. Was it even—? God, I hope it wasn’t… flirty?
It was, wasn’t it?
Give me a shout!
Kisses!! Plural!!!
I pick up a sofa cushion and cover my face. If Dad wonders what’s up with me, he doesn’t ask.
Around 10 a.m. Mum returns from the hospital, having fitted an emergency stent into a woman’s artery, and as I start to pack my camera back into its case, I realise I must have left one of my lenses at the castle yesterday.
* * *
I know exactly where I left my lens; I can picture it on a table in the corner of the marquee, where Dave and I had been chatting to one side of the stage.
Hopefully, one of the staff picked it up for me when they cleared out the glasses and crockery and dumped it where they usually leave the lost and found from weddings – in the hidden passageway between the three main function rooms inside the castle.
I don’t know why but as I climb the old stone steps, I check my phone again. He’s obviously not going to reply to my message. He’s seen it. He saw it at forty-seven minutes past midnight.
I type the access code into the heavy wood side entrance to the building, muttering ‘Morning’ to the pelican on the crest overhanging the door.
Inside the cold, windowless corridor, Pearl is standing with a clipboard and speaking into a phone at her ear.
‘I can’t believe it either, sweet pea, but it’s true.
I’ve got a trusty spreadsheet on my board that tells me every weekend of the season has been booked for at least one wedding and next year is starting to fill up.
Oh, I’ve got to go, Holly, darling, Lyra is here. ’
Pearl ends her call and focuses on me. ‘Good morning, sunshine. Have you forgotten something?’
‘A camera lens and I’ll need it for work in the week. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but did I just hear that bookings are up?’
‘You did.’ Her delight is so infectious, I’m beaming with her, genuinely pleased for the people who have become my friends.
‘I’m sure I owe thanks to that one from The Second Handers.’
Through laughter, I tell her, ‘The Hand Me Downs.’
‘That’s it.’ She presses a gentle hand to my arm and winks at me as she walks by to head outside. ‘He’s quite a dish, that new man of yours.’
‘Oh, God, no, he’s not my anything.’ Nothing stays secret within Earl’s Castle.
‘Nonsense, I see the way he watches every move you make.’
He does? If that’s true, it’s probably because he’s on tenterhooks waiting for my next faux pas. Still, my tummy jiggles at the idea.
‘We just—’ Kissed when I forced myself on him. Kissed in a way I can’t stop thinking about.
Right before the big old door thuds closed behind Pearl, I hear her singing, ‘There was an old lady called Pearl, who managed the castle of an Earl. She thought she was doomed, until business boomed. Now she’s chirping like a merle, excited to see her brides twirl.’
She really is a dreamboat.
As I near the secret passage, there’s music coming from one of the function rooms. My best guess as to why at this time on a Sunday morning is confirmed when I see staff setting up a three-tiered baby-girl cake. A christening party.
I find my camera lens in a bundle of lost and found belongings. Before I go, I can’t resist a look at the tables. One of my favourite parts of photographing events is watching through the lens as a naked room is transformed into something special, beautiful and bespoke.
I can immediately tell this is an expensive bash.
Pastel-pink tablecloths adorn the large rounds.
Dining chairs are being covered white and finished with velour bows.
There are pink trinket favour boxes and two florists are preparing centre pieces – tall pink flower vases, complete with sparkling rainbows, feathers and balloons.
‘It’s only a song, mate. You wrote it, ya know it off by heart.’ I recognise Dave’s voice before turning to see him and Guy setting up a stool, microphone and speakers at the head of the room.
‘I said no,’ Guy says, not taking his focus from setting up the standing mic.
Through my camera, I watch him move, unable to resist taking his picture, using the tables to add line and depth to the image, and the decorative arched window in the background as a frame.
‘Guy, people’ll keep asking you to play stuff from The Hand Me Downs. That’s why bookings’ve gone through the roof. They want Guy Walker.’
Guy rises to full height and turns, so that he and Dave are feet apart and facing each other.
His eye is lightly bruised, though not as badly as I was expecting last night.
‘That’s why I told you not to use my name.
’ His tone is neutral, unfazed. ‘I’m helping you out as a wedding singer because you’ve got too much business for the three acts you’ve already got on your books. That’s it.’
‘You’re helping me out because you’re broke. Because you’re playing fucking Angel of the North to a woman you barely know any more.’
I feel the tension that courses through Guy. I watch him stiffen in every limb, in his jaw. ‘She’s not just some woman, Dave. She’s Matty’s mam. And the money isn’t for her; it’s all for the kid.’
‘I’m just saying, ya wouldn’t have to do any of this if?—’
‘Dave.’ The low register of Guy’s words is ominous and sexy in equal measure. ‘How I spend my money or invest my money is none of your business.’
Dave holds out his arms. ‘I’m just saying?—’
‘Don’t just say.’
‘I will just say because people are booking functions here because they want you, Guy Walker, famous musician, to play at their weddings and christenings. You can’t let them down, or Pearl and Geoff and their livelihood.’
‘I couldn’t give two shits about these brides and mams with their fucking over-the-top christenings. Who the hell throws a four-course meal for two hundred people for a three-month-old kid anyway?’
‘Vicky Burton.’
‘What? Like the lass from Geordie Scenes?’ This information seems to halt the argument.
‘The OG.’
‘Huh.’ Guy pauses, hands on hips, and through my camera, I capture the alluring tease up at the very corner of his mouth.
But it’s a sight that stills me. Because I’ve seen it before.
I saw it once when he was on stage, looking back at me.
It seems surreal, that I’m standing in this room with him now – the wedding photographer and the wedding singer.
If someone would have told me That Night, as I held his gaze, that I would become a wedding photographer with a two-bedroom bungalow in a mining village, five minutes’ drive from my parents, getting my kicks by writing articles that will never be published…
If someone told me that he would become a wedding singer, refusing to acknowledge just how great he is… I’d have scoffed with disbelief.
Yet, here we are. Here I am, listening to him argue with his boss.
‘Look, I’m learning the songs we’ve agreed. I’ll learn requests. But I’m not gettin’ out my guitar and I won’t, under any circumstances, sing a fucking song from The Hand Me Downs. I don’t even know Pearl and Geoff, so why should I give a shit about whether they manage this place or not?’
Dave shrugs. ‘Because to people like me, they’re a lifeline, matey. This is my livelihood now. I’m not a band manager any more.’
His words strike a chord with Guy. I see it in the way he sucks in his cheeks, visible now without the beard he was sporting a few weeks ago.
He looks… heavy. Laden with burden. He cares. And for the first time, I think maybe he isn’t just an angry washed-up rock star. He’s sad. Though the thought has no rational reason for doing so, it makes my insides feel like a deflating balloon.
‘Look out, Lyra,’ someone says behind me. I’m startled, turning sharply to find two of the waitstaff right behind me and carrying a round tabletop. ‘Coming through.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Navigating out of their way, I clumsily kick my shin into the metal leg of a chair and yelp.
It strikes me that I oughtn’t to be here. I have no business eavesdropping, or taking pictures of private discourse.
But it’s too late because Dave is already heading my way. ‘Are ya alreet, flower?’
‘Yep.’ It comes out all high-pitched because just like when you whack your funny bone, it bloody kills and it is definitely not funny. ‘I was just, erm, picking something up.’ I try to stand and walk away but I’m limping, willing the stinging pain in my shin to dissipate.
‘Here, sit down.’ Guy has appeared whilst I’ve had my eyes squeezed shut.
He pulls over a chair and encourages me down onto it, then bends to his hunkers in front of me.
He smells of the same manly scent he was wearing last night, only in the quiet emptiness of the room, it feels like it’s all around me, filling my senses, infiltrating my bloodstream.
I glance to his injured eye. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s not the first time someone’s taken a swing at me,’ he says, avoiding the question.
‘First time ya didn’t finish the fight, though,’ Dave says.
I can well imagine. Something tells me Guy was brought up to hit back harder at anyone who dared to strike him.
Maybe it’s his stern attitude, or the tattoo I can see poking above the collar of his white shirt.
Or perhaps it’s simply in the way he seems like a man who doesn’t get pushed around easily.
Something about that is admirable. Enviable.
I have no idea where those thoughts come from but they’re stark right now as I watch his dark blue eyes soften.
‘Should I get you some ice?’ he asks.
I realise his hands are touching me, his thumbs gently rolling across my shin. It’s kind and gentle, caring. It’s a small touch but it thrusts me back to that kiss.
I shake my head. ‘It’s going off now.’ And I fight against my body’s desire to look at his soft, plump lips.
What would have happened if I had gone to his dressing room That Night?
The thought brings me crashing back to real time.
That Night was a disaster and I don’t need to relive it.
Not the freedom I had felt so fleetingly for the very first time in my life.
Not the way I abandoned my parents’ hopes for me by crashing out of medical school.
Not the phone call my dad got from the Dean of Faculty to tell him before I did myself that I’d quit.
And not the phone call I got just hours later to tell me that Dad had suffered a stroke.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, brushing Guy’s warm touch from my skin and limp-walking as fast as I can away from the place I don’t want to go back to in my head.