Chapter 12
GUY
It’s Not a Crime to Smile
‘Stop being a big girl’s blouse!’ Dave tells me.
We’re holding opposite ends of a hefty floral-patterned sofa belonging to Dave’s parents.
We’re helping them move from their bungalow in Seaham to an assisted living flat in what seems to be quite a nice mini village, set around a green, about five minutes along the road.
This is the final big piece of furniture.
We’ve been at it for a couple of hours now, both sweating as we do the heavy lifting in twenty-odd degree heat.
Betty, one of the new neighbours, brought us tea and homemade scones at eleven. Since then, Dave’s mam and dad have been in Betty and Fred’s place, resting their respective false hips and knees whilst we graft. Not that I mind. Martha and Rob are class, honestly. Dave’s lucky to have them.
Especially since… ‘I’m not being a big girl’s anything. That’s Lyra and my sister you’ve given my number to and now you’re asking about putting the band in touch.’
We make it to Martha and Rob’s new living room and I drop my end of the sofa in place just before Dave, letting him see how pissed off I am.
‘Ha way, man, you’ll put my back out!’ he gripes.
‘I haven’t spoken to any of the band. And I don’t want to. There’s nothing left between us. Trev was just as complicit for being a passive witness, and Jay? I’ll never speak to Jay again.’
Dave rises to full height and we’re both panting, hands on hips, facing each other as if we’re having a stand-off. We are. Sort of.
‘D’ya not think it’s time now, though, Guy, eh? Let bygones be bygones.’ He speaks calmly and for some reason, that makes the words he speaks hit me harder. ‘Wouldn’t ya like to get the band back in one place and see how you’d get on without Scotty? You as frontman.’
It’s as if all the energy drains from me and I’m no longer trying to catch my breath, I’m holding it. ‘There is no band without Scott.’ My words feel like they catch spikes on the way out. ‘Even if— I’m not a frontman. I never was.’
‘I hate to be the one to point out the obvious but you’re the only man singing at these weddings and the crowd are lapping it up.’
‘Literally an hour ago, you told me I had to cheer the hell up and sing what the guests ask me to sing,’ I tell him, though a part of me that I massively resent is a tiny bit buzzed by his compliment. And I don’t know why, but my mind goes to Lyra, again.
Lyra who came to see me perform in Madrid once at the top of my game.
‘I’m just a has-been singing Ed Sheeran’s wedding classics,’ I say. ‘I’m Adam Sandler.’
‘Oh no, you’re much more handsome than Adam Sandler.’ Martha’s voice comes from the small kitchen behind us, then she and Rob shuffle-walk into the lounge.
‘He’s the one who shouts for a laugh, isn’t he?’ Rob asks. Meaning Adam Sandler, as opposed to me, which he confirms when he says, ‘Happy Gilmore. Don’t find him funny either. He’s not got a lot going for him, that lad.’
Dave and I smirk together, friends again, I guess. ‘Except a bank balance the four of us’ll never have put together, Dad,’ Dave says.
‘Aye, well…’ He plonks down onto the sofa we just placed. ‘Money isn’t everything, son. Yer mother and me have barely had two pence to rub together all our lives but we’ve had a good life, Martha, haven’t we?’
Martha rolls her eyes but she’s smiling and this, if I could freeze this frame, is one of the things I love about Dave’s folks.
‘He’s soppy when he wants to be,’ Martha says. She takes hold of my chin in her hand, wiggles my head and tells me, ‘It’s not a crime to smile, young man. It suits you.’
‘Leave the lad alone, Martha,’ Rob says.
Fifteen minutes later, a brew and a KitKat Chunky consumed in payment for our efforts, Dave and I are back in his van, windows down and enjoying the sea salt breeze, fabricated by the drive on this otherwise still day.
‘Did ya message her back, then?’ Dave asks.
‘My sister? Not yet.’ I’m not convinced I will.
He signals and takes a right at a roundabout. The smell of fish and chips drifts into the van, making me close my eyes. It’s a smell that always reminds me of my grandad.
I look to the few wisps of cloud in the sky. I’d bet he and Scott are sitting up there munching on fish, chips, mushy peas and curry sauce every night for dinner.
‘She’ll keep on at ya until ya do. So ya might as well grow a pair and get on with it. But I meant have ya been messaging Lyra?’
I come back to look out of the side window at a family of two-point-four children making their way down to the beach front, the youngest boy carrying a kite, the eldest a bag of beach toys.
The mam telling the boys to walk nice by the road, the dad limping under the weight of a cooler and two deck chairs. A very average family.
What I would have given to be average at that age.
‘She doesn’t need me messaging her,’ I reply. I bet Lyra had that kind of upbringing. Loving, complete. Average. ‘Can I ask you something?’
Dave looks at me and even through his sunglasses, I know his expression is saying, Duh.
‘Do you remember that last gig in Newcastle, with you as manager?’
‘Well, aye, since I was fired right after it.’
I wince behind my sunglasses. Technically, he resigned but only because I refused to let him go and put our record deal on the line. ‘Do you remember that I asked you to get a girl from the crowd to come backstage to meet me?’
Again, he looks at me like duh. ‘I was always gettin’ girls to come backstage.’
‘Not for me, you weren’t.’
He inclines his head, conceding. Later, as the band got famous and I realised getting girls to come back almost went along with the job, yeah, I asked a few more times, but not Dave, and not That Night.
‘Aye, I remember, vaguely.’
‘Well—’ I stop myself, knowing how crazy I’m about to sound. Wondering if years of smoking and drinking too much might have messed with my brain.
‘Well?’ Dave presses.
‘Nah, forget it, it’s mad.’ But what if it isn’t? ‘Okay, here it is. Was it Lyra? The girl. Was she Lyra?’
Dave pulls out of a junction and when he straightens the van, he looks at me. ‘How the hell would I remember that?’
Yep. Booze and nicotine sent me potty.
He checks his watch, hand still on the wheel. ‘Fancy a Greggs? I reckon we can squeeze in a drive-through pasty, since you’re getting showered at my gaff.’
‘I used to love a Greggs,’ I say, my mouth filling with saliva. ‘Do they still do a steak and bean pasty?’
‘What d’ya think I’m getting?’ He turns us full circle at a roundabout, so that we’re driving in the opposite direction. ‘Do me a favour though, matey, don’t tell Kylie. She’s got us on a couple’s diet.’
I reach over and pat his beer belly. ‘Looks like it’s working out well for you.’
‘Keep yer hands to y’self. Or yer photographer girl. But leave my gut alone.’
My playfulness is short-lived and replaced with something between dizziness and nausea, panic and excitement. I find myself swallowing down the ball of mixed emotions, my foot tapping, fingers scratching my head. Why? Because I’m going to see Lyra in… I check my watch… a couple of hours?
I don’t even know her.
Though I see her in my dreams most nights.
Haunting. Terrifying.
Beautiful and real.
I catch Dave in my peripheral vision, chuckling and shaking his head.
What is happening to me?