Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Boy Phoebe arrives just in time with a trolley full of food for us.
Girl Phoebe is not so lucky and appears a minute later already soaked.
They set about their task without a word, and we pretend not to notice them.
This curious form of hyper-discretion is a two-way street.
It is their job not to be intrusive, and it’s ours to act as if they don’t exist.
I go to stand with Ade. His closeness reminds me of the night we drunkenly kissed in a cupboard, and I still feel weird about it after all this time.
He looks down at me and smiles a sad smile.
I usually think I’m pretty tall, but Ade makes me feel like a pixie.
It was almost as if he was bred in a laboratory so that the people at the back of his concerts could still get a glimpse of his ever-changing hairstyle.
Even in the time I’ve been on the ship with him, the bleached dreads have been arranged in three different formations and none of this is important because, as the thunder thunders and lightning cracks, I feel like none of us will ever find the words to break this uncomfortable silence.
As we stand watching the rain and the dark clouds, I think of the way Mick was slumped against the glass wall by the toilet.
I think about the tourniquet on his arm and the tightness of his muscles, which had become discoloured in death.
I think about his eyes peeking out from behind lashes and lids as if the last hit he had was the best of all.
I try to think of something else, but that just reminds of Sasha and Ade, and I’m so thankful to Phoebe when she clears her throat and in an apprehensive voice declares, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Okojie, but dinner’s served. ”
We sit down to eat, and the sky continues its show for us. As we’re so far out in the Indian Ocean, it’s possible that we’re the only ones lucky enough to see it. The view stretches around the room, and it feels as if the storm is closing in on us from all sides.
The boat rocks so much that whenever someone serves food from the elaborate buffet in the centre of the table, they pause over the bowl and then quickly whip their chosen helping to their plate for fear that it will drop.
Jake has been put in charge of carving a leg of Spanish ham, but he occasionally puts the long, savage knife down to avoid slipping and stabbing someone.
Sasha consumes the bare minimum of salad and cold meats and then decides it would be best to take Tom to their suite.
He hasn’t moved since he lay down on the sofa, but I have the feeling he’s still awake.
I can picture him staring wild-eyed at the wall, trying to make sense of the world and whatever state his mind and body are in.
When his wife tries to help him to his feet, he makes no attempt to resist. He’s as willing as a sleepy child to be taken where he needs to go. Petite Sasha puts his broad arm over her shoulders, and they both make their apologies.
“Really sorry to dampen the fun, guys.” Tom sounds like he means it, but this message doesn’t fit with anything else he’s said tonight.
These are the words of a man who has to get up early for work the next morning and is disappointed to miss the end of the dinner, not an alcoholic struggling to cope without a fix.
“Have a nice night,” Sasha coos. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
It’s all strangely civil, but their departure plunges us back into silence. There are five of us around the table, and I’m sure we all wish that there was a port in sight or it was at least time for bed.
“It’s weird to have been apart for so long and to come back together.” Though the quietest and most discreet, Clara is also currently the bravest person here and won’t let the fractured evening overwhelm us.
“I kind of feel like I’m crashing the party,” Ryan admits, and Ade raises his eyebrows but says nothing.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jake reassures him.
“We always saw a lot of you, especially when me, Mick and Ade were gigging in the last year of our course.” He pushes his long hair from his eyes, and a truly wicked grin reshapes his face.
“Here, Ade, do you remember that night in Camden when—” He evidently realises that whatever sordid tale he was about to share might not be suitable. “Actually, never mind.”
Ade doesn’t smile. He looks serious and nods, as if trying to decide whether he likes a piece of music he’s hearing for the first time.
“You know what?” He glances from face to face, but I for one couldn’t possibly guess. “This feels right.”
He seems to relax for the first time today. It’s like those broad shoulders had a load whisked off them. I suddenly understand that the atmosphere in the room doesn’t belong to us. It is entirely dependent on our lodestar, Adesina.
“I remember one night when we were all together…” he starts again. “I mean, even you, Ryan.”
Ryan is currently chomping on a slice of chorizo and is unable to respond, but he shows his appreciation at being included by raising his fork in salute.
“The first gig our band played.”
“Oh, please don’t,” Jake puts down his cutlery to cover his face. “We were terrible.”
Ade ignores this interruption. “It was in a dingy little pub in Peckham.”
“It was the Firkin, and I was standing in the middle of the front row.” Now that his mouth is empty, Ryan reels off the information like he wants us to know how proud he is to have been there. “Best gig ever.”
“Which shows you have very bad taste.” For his trouble, Jake gets a stick of carrot thrown at his head, and Ade keeps talking.
“We’d been practising for months, but I had a sore throat, so I told Jake he had to join me on backing vocals to get me through.”
His former guitarist interrupts at this point to prepare us. “Just so you know, his anecdote is about to get a lot more pathetic.”
Ade has always loved telling stories and barely breaks off for the interruption. “So we got up on stage and played a really long instrumental intro, not because it was planned, but because neither of us wanted to start singing.”
The two have fallen into a neat little double act, just like when I first knew them.
Ade used to conduct the conversation, but Jake was always there to chip in asides.
“I ended up playing a half-remembered lick from a Frank Zappa song that my dad loved because I could tell that Ade didn’t want to get to the first verse. ”
Ade quickly picks the thread back up again.
“And I went along with it because I felt exactly the same way and, as the bassist, it was easy enough for me to pretend I knew what I was doing.” The two of them look straight at one another, then laugh like mad things.
I can already tell that this tale will be funnier for them than anyone else.
“For some stupid reason I’ve never understood, when we started the song properly, the audience actually enjoyed what we were playing. ”
“And that’s why I instantly fell in love with the music,” Ryan says, still waving his fork around to make his point. “I’ve never seen another new band who got the crowd behind them in seconds. It felt radical and unique.”
Clara is happy just to listen to the ping-pong match of a discussion. Her tiny grey eyes flick back and forth around the room with every point that is played. I imagine I look much the same.
“So the crowd is into it, and I finally have the courage to start the first verse, but it’s been so long since I said anything, and I’m still so nervous, that the first words come out in a high-pitched squeal.” He bites his lip and looks up at the teak ceiling. “I can’t remember what the line—”
“It was, ‘Let me out, I want to see.’”
Ade clicks his fingers three times super-fast and points at Jake. “That’s it! That’s it! ‘Let me out, I want to see.’ Which you have to admit, sounds like the most desperate cry for help imaginable, and it was only enhanced by the fact that I sung it like I was a chipmunk someone had stepped on.”
“But the crowd spontaneously yelled out in response.” Ryan shakes his head. I don’t know if he’s overjoyed to relive the moment, or still amazed that it happened.
“Be fair. Half the people in that room were already in love with Ade,” I have to point out, as nostalgia has infected them. “Do you remember how the girls from Sasha’s course followed you about everywhere?”
Perhaps it’s the mention of obsessive fans, but Ryan loses some of his enthusiasm and looks gloomily at his plate.
Even Ade calms down a notch. “That’s true,” he concedes. “But they’d never heard me sing before or play the bass very poorly, and it seemed like every last person in the room was really into it.”
Jake raises his hand to interrupt. “I’d just like to remind everyone that I was also on the stage with him.”
I copy the gesture because I love teasing them. “And I’d like to point out that there was also a bloke called Ben on drums.”
“True again.” Ade winks at me, and it really does feel like we’ve travelled back in time.
“But what I’m trying to say is that, if it hadn’t been for that gig – and all of you there, spaced out around the room cheering on me and Jake and a bloke called Ben, who quit the band before our first tour so Mick could take over – we’d never have had the confidence to make a go of it, and we’d never have discovered our sound. ”
“Wait,” Clara says when we’ve all sat considering this for a few moments, “are you saying that it was in that moment you chose to sing the way you do?”
Ade turns to Jake for confirmation.
“It’s not fake exactly,” he’s quick to explain. “We just realised that, when Ade sang like that – occasionally really high but really low the rest of the time – people enjoyed it.”
I knew this story already. I was not far from Ryan when it happened. And that was the night—
“And that was the night Bridget finally agreed to go out with me.” Jake is shy again. I think he might even be blushing, but his hair hangs down in front of his face, and I can’t quite tell.
Clara’s fair eyebrows rise higher up her forehead, and her eyes get really big. “I didn’t remember any of that.”
“You were standing near the back talking to that awful Jonathan guy who claimed he wanted to be a poet.” Apparently, it still irks Ade that there were two people in the room who weren’t paying attention to his grand debut.
To cut into our conversation, a flash of lightning illuminates the room.
The subsequent startled hush is interrupted by a burst of thunder that’s so loud it sounds as if it’s coming from within the ship.
Before we can recover from the shock, the yacht lunges downwards and panic spreads through the group.
Clara, Ade and I all grab hold of the dining table as my stomach turns and, just for a moment, it feels as if we’ve taken to the air.
When the ship rights itself, and we realise that we’re not headed to the bottom of the ocean, Jake and Ryan have every right to laugh at us.
Jake looks like he’s having a great time until Ryan picks this happy moment to raise a difficult question. “Come on, Jake, you have to tell us. Why did you leave the band? You could have had a yacht of your own.”
The laughter slowly dies. Ade looks edgy, but he fixes his eyes on his former bandmate and won’t shift them until he hears the answer. When it comes, Jake’s voice is more fragile than I was expecting, and no one there believes a word he says.
“I was a bad guitarist. The record company didn’t want me because I only knew three chords.” Clara looks at him sympathetically, and Jake’s leg jogs beneath the table as he switches focus once more. “Anyway, what’s for dessert?”
“You can tell them the truth.” Ade’s response is little more than a begrudging whisper, and Jake turns to stare at him like he’s in the mood for a punch-up.
“I have. It’s the only truth that matters.”