Chapter 2
two
. . .
It didn’t matter how many zeros appeared in Harry’s bank account on the first of the month or what sort of lifestyle they allowed him to maintain.
Every time he saw the royalty payment from Love on the Line, the one and only hit song his years of blood, sweat, and tears in the music industry had produced, he felt sick.
He sighed and tapped out of his bank’s app on his phone, then leaned back on his sofa and rubbed a hand over his face. “It could be worse,” he reminded himself, like he did every first of the month. “You could have had no hits, no money, and no idea what to do with the rest of your life.”
Not that he had any real idea what to do with the rest of his life anyhow. Sure, he still had dreams and ambitions. Those things didn’t go away just because the industry turned its back on you. He still had music in him. A lot of music.
The problem was that no one wanted it.
He turned his head to look at the closed door to the room where his various guitars and other instruments sat in their stands and cases, waiting for him to feel inspired enough to pick them up and play with them again.
He practiced every day, playing old songs and even working through exercises that newbie guitarists did to keep their fingers nimble and to develop their skills, but every time he tried to compose something new, no matter how badly he wanted it, the only thing that came out was the same tired strains of Love on the Line.
“Fuck this shit,” he grumbled, pushing himself to stand and stomp away from his sofa, his guitars, and his failures. He had other things to do anyhow. Like food to cook and a flat to clean and maybe a walk to take.
The life of a has-been was so terribly exciting.
In the kitchen, he rinsed his coffee mug from earlier and chucked it into the dishwasher.
The sleek, high-end dishwasher that he’d chosen specifically because it was expensive and would waste more of his Love on the Line money.
He slammed the dishwasher closed with too much force, hoping it would break so he could waste more of the stupid money buying another one.
Once that was done, he stared at the counter for a second. Then he turned around and scanned the kitchen.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t have anything to do.
That was the problem with one song providing him with more than enough to live comfortably off of for the rest of his life.
Especially since one of the nation’s biggest rail companies had acquired it to use in their advertising.
He would be collecting big fat royalty checks for a long time thanks to the train, but selling out his work to the point where everyone heard it daily in the commercial breaks from their favorite gameshows and serials meant no one took him seriously anymore.
He should just cut his losses and become a barista or something equally boring and busy to fill his long, empty days.
Somewhere out there was a plain white desk with his name on it where he could wear a suit and do data entry or something dull until he turned gray and moved into a retirement village.
Somewhere, there had to be something he could do where people wouldn’t laugh at him and where his heart wouldn’t be broken because he was good but not good enough.
“You need to get over yourself, mate,” he mumbled, pushing away from the counter and walking into the lounge.
Nothing good would come from him sitting around feeling sorry for himself.
He was a musician at heart and always would be.
Nothing else but music would do when it came to work and fulfillment.
He’d made it to the top once, and he could do it again.
Or else he was just fooling himself and he never should have been at the top to begin with.
He pushed that thought aside, which was made easier when the alarm on his phone went off, reminding him that he actually did have something to do that day and somewhere to be.
He’d been heading to his guitars, but he shifted direction and marched to his door instead, taking his phone out of his back pocket to silence the alarm.
His phone screen lit up with the message “RAB 10am – Favor for Javier”. With a lopsided smirk, he tucked the phone back into his pocket, grabbed his wallet from the table near the door, and headed out into the hall of his building.
Javier Rivera was one of the few friends that he still liked and trusted.
A little over a year ago, Javier and his partner, Desmond, had set up an agency that was a cross between a talent agency and a dating service that matched up men who needed a date or companion or fake boyfriend for all sorts of reasons.
Harry had thought the idea was ridiculous until several months before, when it came out that Rent-A-Boyfriend had set up Hollywood mega-star Drew Oberlin with fantasy writer Lee Cresswell.
The relationship was supposed to be a publicity stunt, but Drew and Lee had fallen in love and rocked the entertainment world with the startling force of their commitment to each other.
Since then, Rent-A-Boyfriend had been in high demand.
And good for Javier and Desmond. There was a certain sort of justice in an agency that matched people up for devious and underhanded purposes, even though Javier insisted that wasn’t what it was at all.
Whatever Javier believed he’d created, Harry loved the unhinged chaos of guys being matched up for completely falsified reasons.
Which was why he’d agreed to do Javier a favor by meeting and pretending to go out with some mysterious guy whose name Javier still hadn’t told him. He had a feeling the guy was someone big based solely on the way Javier had been so hush-hush about the whole thing.
Whatever. It was something different, something to break up the monotony of life he’d fallen into lately. Maybe it would even be fun.
That uncharacteristic flash of hope managed to put a smile on his face just as the door to the flat across the hall from his opened and Maggie and Laura stepped out.
“Well, that’s a sight we don’t see every day,” Maggie met Harry’s smile with one of her own. “Has Venus entered Aquarius or some other auspicious sign?”
“Maggie, you know I don’t believe in any of that astrology shit,” Harry laughed, heading to the stairs with the ladies.
“I don’t really believe in it either,” Maggie confided, swaying closer to him, “but it adds to the mystique.”
Harry grinned and shook his head. He might have been a grumpy bastard who didn’t like people anymore, but he still liked Maggie and Laura.
They were in their sixties, had been a couple since the days when the two of them being together was still a shock and something polite society whispered about while turning up their noses and going out of their way to make the lives of queer people a living hell.
They’d never given a fuck about any of that, though, and had lived, loved, and thrived despite the odds being set against them.
Now that they were gray-haired and fully committed to their eccentric artist era, they cared even less.
They dressed however they wanted—which meant a flowery muumuu for Laura today and a long, vintage sundress from the seventies with a black leather corset over top for Maggie—did whatever they liked, and kept whatever hours they felt like.
“Your party ran late last night,” Harry commented as they all made their way downstairs and through the large foyer in their trendy building in Notting Hill. “I could still hear you all carrying on at two a.m.”
“Sorry if we kept you up,” Laura said, not looking sorry at all.
“You should have come over and joined us,” Maggie said. “We were smoking cannabis and playing charades.”
Harry laughed. “Next time,” he said. “My charades game needs a little work.”
“Never mind about that,” Maggie said as they walked out into the dreary morning. “You should bring your instruments over and play for us and our guests sometime.”
“Yes, we love your music,” Laura added with bright enthusiasm.
Harry smiled even as a sharp pang hit his heart. “You two are the only ones who want to hear anything I play,” he said.
“Oh, dear boy.” Maggie rested a hand on his arm, looking at him with her unique blend of sympathy and impatience. “You’re too talented to wallow in self-pity. If the music industry refuses to recognize your greatness, you have to throw it in their face and prove them wrong.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Harry laughed, as if it were all a joke and not something that made his every waking moment just a little bit torturous.
Maggie hummed and glanced to Laura, who met her look with a knowing one of her own. She turned back to Harry and said, “You’ll never find a handsome stud to fuck if you let the world get the better of you, man.”
It might have been an insult, but more likely, Maggie was just serving up her brand of love. Either way, Harry had to laugh. “I’ll take that into consideration,” he said. “And maybe I’ll show up at your place next time you throw a party.”
“Friday night,” Laura told him. “We’re having both our knitting group and our shibari class friends over for what promises to be a fabulous night of knitting with people.”
Harry laughed out loud, visions of middle-aged guests rigged in various bondage positions using knitting wool popping into his mind. Knowing Maggie and Laura, that probably wasn’t far off the truth.
They said their goodbyes and parted ways once they reached the Tube station.
Less than five minutes of conversation, and Harry’s day was already feeling brighter.
If only he could disappear into whatever weird and fascinating alternative world his neighbors existed in, maybe he’d be happy.
Freedom like the kind Maggie and Laura had only came with age, experience, and hitting the point where you no longer had any fucks to give.