Chapter 19
CLARA
‘You would not believe the past couple of days I’ve had,’ Minty says.
I don’t have time for this. We’re in the kitchen. It’s a mess. ‘Me too, Minty, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t keep things organised at home.’
He pulls out one of the pine kitchen chairs from under the table and sinks onto it. ‘That’s because you’re amazing.’
‘No.’ Sometimes he makes me so mad. ‘It’s because I’m organised. I don’t let one little thing like an oil change upset my universe.’
He stops rubbing his temples and gives me an odd look, as if realising for the first time that life does not actually revolve around him.
‘I could get a takeaway for us tonight?’ This is Minty’s answer to everything.
‘I don’t want a takeaway.’ I don’t want to eat.
I want to get things sorted in the house and then hit the sack.
I’d love to sleep, but I’ve started to worry.
No one has seen any trace of Marco. Not for forty-eight hours.
Then there’s the missing guitars, Betsy still on the warpath, and nothing is right.
‘I’ve got this new mate,’ Minty says, picking the oil out of his cuticles, ‘that I think would be perfect for you.’
‘Minty, no! Not after the last one. No way. And don’t do that with your hands. We eat at that table.’
He sighs, leaning back in his chair, running both of his palms down the full length of his face. ‘Ugh.’
‘I want to get back to the office. Stan said he’ll try to help me trace Marco. He knows a driver that Marco uses. I know it’s stupid; he’d contact me if he wanted to, but… I need to see him again, just once. Have you got any washing to do?’ I ask Minty.
He groans. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’m putting on a wash. Anything blue. Nothing oily.’
Minty pulls himself from the table and ambles up the stairs. ‘I don’t feel like I’ve seen much of you recently,’ he says, his voice growing thinner as he reaches the landing.
My brother’s right. We’ve sort of become like valet cars passing in the night. I want to tell him what’s happening at work, but I’m not even sure I can explain it. Certainly not to a simple soul like my brother.
‘Here,’ he says, ambling back into the kitchen and dumping a pair of filthy jeans and a sweatshirt on the kitchen table.
‘Not where we eat, Minty,’ I say, pushing the bundle onto the chair he left out when he took his leave from the table.
‘Sorry,’ he says, his voice sounding a little hurt.
I sigh. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ I run a hand through my hair.
Knotting it back into the tortoise shell clip I’ve been wearing since I got in.
I’d spent ages curling it before I went out.
I spent hours trying to get my image right.
Then I opened my mouth in the studio and…
I give my head a quick shake. I don’t want to think about that.
Besides, once I was in the choir, I sang like an angel – Jackson Black’s words, not my own.
‘Have you checked the pockets?’ I say, grabbing hold of the jeans.
‘Aw.’ Minty hits his head with the palm of his hand. ‘Next time.’
‘Next time,’ I repeat, knowing the exact same scenario will happen again the next time.
My brother is nothing, if not predictable.
I stick my hand in his jeans and draw out a tissue.
‘See.’ I waggle the thing in front of his eyes.
‘If this goes in the wash, it breaks up. I have to clean the drum and…’ Suddenly, I realise there are dark stains all over the tissue.
It’s not a tissue, it’s a napkin. The dark stains are…
‘Minty,’ I say, trying to keep the horror out of my voice. ‘Is this blood?’
He glances at the napkin. ‘Oh yeah. I think it might be, sorry.’
‘What… your blood?’
‘No.’ He pulls the napkin from my fingers. ‘The guy that got knocked down.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah.’ He gives me a wary, disbelieving smile. ‘You would not believe what kind of a…’
‘Jack’s?’ I say, reading the logo on the napkin and snatching it back.
‘Yeah.’ Minty nods. ‘I was just crossing the road to…’
But whatever Minty was saying fades into the background as I open the napkin and see there’s a letter written on it.
A letter to me, from a man who’s sorry. Who says that the night at the gala didn’t end in the way he wanted it to.
That he was protecting me. That work has gone crazy, and I’m the only good thing left in his life.
‘Minty!’ I say, clutching the napkin to my chest. ‘I’ve got to meet this guy.’
My brother’s eyes brighten with absolute joy. ‘Sis, that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. You seriously have to. This guy saved my life. You will love him.’
* * *
MARCO
‘I’ve messed up.’ This goes without saying, since I’m lying in a hospital bed with an IV sticking out of my arm, a broken leg, and one arm in a cast.
‘Well…’ Fitz shifts awkwardly on the hard plastic seat. She’s munching her way through the grapes that she bought me, which is fine. I don’t want grapes. I want someone to give me a rollicking. Tell me what an idiot I’ve been.
Fitz swallows hard. ‘Most of the Betsy balls-up has been kind of,’ she waves one arm in a so-so gesture, ‘sorted. Not sure your songbird will ever sing solo again, though.’
At the mention of Clara, my whole body has a surge of adrenaline. ‘I can’t believe you put her through that.’
Fitz shrugs, kicks off her shoes and places her dainty painted toes on my immaculate hospital sheets. ‘I didn’t know she had some kind of phobia.’
Nor did I. Anyone who had heard that voice on the tape would have thought they were hearing a consummate professional, someone who could slide into any of the main music venues worldwide.
‘Besides, the choir was sweet.’ Fitz waggles one toe, kneels towards it and flicks off a fleck of paint.
‘Might even join myself.’ Suddenly she pulls her legs back, slips her feet back into her shoes, and leans forward.
A note of seriousness weighs down her features.
‘There’s still the problem with the missing guitars. ’
‘Those were mine,’ I say, feeling irritated. ‘My dad gave them to me.’
She chews her bottom lip. ‘You have a record of that?’
‘Course not. He’s my dad. Parents just give kids things.’
‘Hmm.’ She places her head on one side. ‘Yeah, but there are things like balloons and birthday cakes and roller skates, and then there are things like yachts, penthouses, and Heritage guitars.’
I pull one hand through the patches of my hair that are still available without the decoration of white bandages. I can see maybe this is a bit of a problem.
‘And then you did kind of let everyone think they were stolen.’
‘That was because Betsy was going on and on about it.’
Fitz pouts. ‘So, you thought you’d jump on the bandwagon?’
I sigh. ‘Fitz, I just want to get out. I don’t want to produce music anymore. I don’t want to find the next big voice. I want a simple life. Play my own guitar. Do a few gigs every week. Read the paper. Get a dog. Get a life.’
She bites her lip, clearly trying hard not to smile. ‘Get a Clara.’
‘No, I–’
‘Oh, come on.’ She laughs. ‘It is so obvious. Besides, I like her.’
‘Great,’ I say, glad of any approval I can get.
‘Only I’m not sure she feels the same way about me.
Not now anyway.’ I sigh, edging my body into the mattress a little deeper, wondering why I can’t get comfortable.
Oh course, that would be because my body got hit by a truck. ‘I messed things up at the gala.’
Fitz frowns. ‘You messed more things up?’
I shoot her an irritated look.
Suddenly, her face looks deadly serious as she takes her hand between mine and stares into my eyes. ‘You’ve got to stop the drinking.’
‘But I-I…’ I stutter, my hand shooting up in protest.
‘Ughh uh.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not good enough. Not anymore. No excuses. You need to get yourself straight.’
I can feel myself bristling. ‘It’s not as if I can knock anything back in here.’
‘Marco, drink is messing with your life. This girl is great, wonderful. I genuinely do like her. She doesn’t deserve a weekend drunk.’
She’s right. Okay, so maybe I’m not an alcoholic, or at least not a regular drinker, but the binge drinking is messing up my life. If Clara was in it, I’d want everything to be perfect. I feel a wave of disappointment.
‘Yeah, you’re talking like we’re a thing. We’re not. I don’t even know how she really feels about me.’
‘Oh come on, Marco.’ Fitz gets to her feet, leans forward and plants a kiss on my forehead.
‘Just tell her how you feel. That’s all you have to do.
It’s a great start, and don’t worry about the,’ she waves one arm, attaching the back of her sling-backs into place with the other, ‘work thing. I don’t want you back.
’ She smiles. ‘I think I can pull it off. Find the voice. Manage the office. Deal with Betsy and the guitars. Bring them back when you’re ready.
I’ll draw you up a chit, saying you’ve loaned them to us. Get everything above board.’
‘Wow,’ I say, laughing. ‘You really have got the whole thing figured out.’
She squeezes my arm. ‘So have you. In your own way. You just need to tell her.’
Easier said than done. I watch Fitz swagger away, smiling at the other sick people on the ward.
They all smile back, putty in her hands.
I kind of wish I’d realised what a force that woman was before, but I have to admire her for keeping it quiet.
Some people are all shop windows, whereas others run deep.
Fitz runs deeper than the Marianna Trench, which is thirty-five thousand feet deep and counting – so pretty deep!