Good at Games (24 page)

* * *

“The thing is, I love you,” said Leo, his voice throbbing with emotion. “I can't help it, I just do.”

“Golly.” Suzy swallowed, enthralled, gazing up at him and feeling her fingers curl helplessly around the padded velvet arm of her chair. “But what about Harry?”

“Shhh, first things first. Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will!” The words spilled out joyfully. This time Suzy knew, she just
knew
it wasn't a trick.

“In that case, why don't we let Harry come live with us.” Leo moved toward her, his hand reaching out and brushing her hot cheek. “I've thought it all through. He can sleep in a kennel in the garden and we'll pay Lucille to take him out for walks…”

Whoa, what's going on here?

Oh, bugger and blast
, thought Suzy.
This isn't really happening. I'm having a
dream
.

She reluctantly opened her eyes. Oh, yes, it had been a dream all right.

Having closed the office at five, Suzy had driven up to the Sea Walls overlooking the Avon Gorge. She had parked the car, opened the paper bag containing her white-chocolate and fresh-cream éclair from Charlotte's Patisserie and settled down to enjoy both the éclair and the spectacular view in peace.

Just for ten minutes.

Then she'd definitely go home to where Harry was waiting for her,
promise
.

Instead, peering at her watch, Suzy discovered that she'd been asleep for almost an hour. And since there were no padded velvet chair arms for her fingers to tighten around, she had actually been squeezing the life out of her fresh-cream éclair.

There was cream and melted white chocolate all over the seat of the car. Suzy wondered what Leo would have to say if she sent him the bill for having the upholstery steam cleaned.

Well, it was his fault, telling her he loved her like that. He jolly well
should
pay.

Suzy checked her watch again, without enthusiasm. Oh dear, was this how prisoners on day release felt every evening?

Six o'clock, time to go home.

To Harry.

“Suzy, is that you?” Harry's voice drifted down the stairs as Lucille let the front door swing shut behind her.

“No, it's the other one.”

“Oh, hi,” he said when Lucille came into the living room. “I don't know where Suzy's gotten to. The office shuts at five on Saturdays, and her cell phone's switched off.”

“Probably with a client.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, Lucille kicked off her shoes and threw herself into a chair. Six hours of waitressing at the Alpha had really taken it out on her feet—weirdly, they ached far more than if she'd run a half marathon.

“Suzy should have phoned, let me know she was going to be late.” Harry sounded petulant. “It's not much fun being stuck here on my own.”

Accustomed to the bustle of the hospital and the endless attentions of its adoring female staff, Harry was suffering withdrawal symptoms.

“Hasn't Maeve been over?” Lucille rotated her ankles and glanced meaningfully at the coffee table, piled high with enough plates of home-baked cakes and scones to stock a PTA bake sale.

“She has.” Harry sighed. “And she's great, I know that, but it's hardly the same. Oh, Jaz phoned, by the way. He wants to see you.”

Lucille looked blank. “To see
me
? What about? Jaz already saw me this afternoon.”

“He didn't say why. Just asked you to go next door when you got home from work. But not yet,” Harry added in alarm as Lucille began feeling around with her feet for her discarded shoes. “You don't have to run over there straightaway.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Luce, don't be mean. Stay and keep me company,” he pleaded. “At least until Suzy gets back.”

Under pressure, Lucille was forced to stay. She couldn't imagine why Jaz would have called her. It was like taking delivery of a mysterious, exciting-looking parcel and not being allowed to open it. Feeling rather like Harry, she tried calling Jaz back and was frustrated that he didn't answer.

“I'd love some coffee,” said Harry, who was doubly hampered by the fact that he was on crutches
and
had a broken arm. Making himself a hot drink wasn't a problem, but carrying it anywhere was impossible.

While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, Lucille heard the front door bang again. She almost threw her arms around Suzy in delight when she appeared in the kitchen.

“You're back.” Hobbling through from the living room, Harry's tone was accusing. “I didn't know where you were.”

Asleep in my car up on the Downs
, thought Suzy,
having a saucy dream about your brother.

Sensibly, she said, “Seeing clients.” Then, “Where are
you
going?” as Lucille sloshed boiling water into a cup, heaped in coffee and sugar, and thrust it into Suzy's unsuspecting hands.

“That's for Harry. Just popping next door.” Lucille was already halfway out of the kitchen. “Won't be long, OK?”

Astonished, Suzy watched her go. “What was all that about?”

“No idea. Something to do with Jaz. Actually”—Harry eyed the cup in her hand with the air of a persnickety maiden aunt—“I'd rather have freshly ground than instant.”

* * *

It was ages before Jaz answered the door. Lucille, who had been on the verge of giving up, was startled by the sight of him.

Jaz's blond hair was looking disheveled, there was a wild, almost feverish glitter in his dark eyes, and beneath the Antiguan tan, his face was tense and drawn.

For an alarming moment Lucille wondered if he was on something. She knew next to nothing about drugs, but wasn't this how people looked when they'd taken speed or coke?

“Hooray,” said Jaz, whisking her inside. “About time too.”

Or alcohol?

Her stomach lurching in panic, Lucille really hoped he hadn't fallen off the wagon. His voice didn't sound slurred, but maybe he was just brilliant at hiding it.

Oh, please no
, prayed Lucille as he towed her across the hall.
Don't let it be that.
Racing to keep up, she strained forward and attempted—surreptitiously—to sniff the back of his neck for telltale alcohol fumes in his slipstream.

The next moment Jaz came to an abrupt halt at the head of the staircase. Lucille promptly cannoned into him from behind, her nose making painful contact with his shoulder blade. “Ouch… God, sorry…”

“What are you doing?” Jaz swiveled around in surprise.

Oh well, get it over with.

“Your eyes are strange, and you seem a bit weird,” Lucille bravely announced. “I wondered if you'd been drinking.”

Initial disbelief gave way to amusement.

“No,” Jaz told her with a grin. “Nothing to drink.”

OK. Next.

“How about drugs?”

His smile broadened. “No drugs either, I promise.”

Wondering why he was taking her downstairs, Lucille said, “Where's Celeste?”

“Shopping. I dropped her off after lunch and came straight home.”

“I thought you were out. When I called just now, there was no answer.”

“You can't hear the phone down here,” Jaz explained, leading her past the swimming pool.

“But you heard the doorbell.” Lucille frowned.

“In here.”

Opening the door on their left, Jaz ushered her through it.

Lucille gasped. “Oh my God, this is your recording studio!”

“See that light?” He pointed to an unlit green bulb fixed to the wall above the console. “When someone rings the front doorbell, it flashes.”

“But what are you doing? Suzy said you hadn't set foot inside this room since…since…”

“I know. I hadn't. But I have now. You can sit down if you like.”

Helpfully, Jaz pulled out a swivel chair. “Make yourself at home.”

Lucille couldn't sit down. In a flash she realized what this was about.

“Oh, no, no,
no
.” She groaned, mortified. “This was all Suzy's idea. She made you do it, didn't she? She forced you into this…Please, really, you don't have to lend me your recording studio, and I will personally
strangle
that girl when I get my hands on her—” Lucille's beaded braids were clattering with agitation as she swung her head from side to side.

“Shhh, stop it. Calm down.” Firmly, Jaz said, “This has nothing to do with Suzy, I promise you. Nobody forces me to do anything I don't want to do—and this isn't about me lending you the studio anyway. Now”—he gestured patiently to the revolving chair once more—“all I want is for you to sit down and listen and give me your honest opinion.” With a faint smile he added, “Your
brutally
honest opinion.”

Lost for words, Lucille sat. She couldn't imagine what she was about to hear. Tucking her hands between her knees she waited for Jaz to fiddle with a tape and gazed around at the state-of-the-art equipment. Then again, what did she know about recording studios? If everything in here was at least three and a half years old, it wasn't likely to be state of-the-art anymore.

Crikey, it was probably antique.

Still, there was an awesome array of buttons, sliding switches, knobs, and dials. Lucille, whose only previous experience with a recording studio had been a musty little closet under the stairs, was deeply impressed.

Then she stopped gazing idly around the room and gave the music her undivided attention, because this was why Jaz had invited her here.

He wants my opinion
, thought Lucille, marveling at her own gullibility. It was like Eric Clapton asking Mr. Bean for advice.

* * *

“Well?” said Jaz three minutes later when the last notes had faded away.

The tiny hairs on the back of Lucille's neck were standing on end. Glancing down at her knuckles, she saw they were white. Only a very few songs in the world had that genuinely spine-tingling effect on her.

Aloud she said, “Well, I think you're
completely
mad.”

Jaz's face was totally expressionless. “Why?”

“Because if you wrote that, I don't understand for the life of me why you never released it. I mean, I know hard rock was your thing, but you could still have put it out as a single.” Wide-eyed with amazement, Lucille thrust out her hands. “Look, look at me…I'm still shaking! It's that good, don't you see? And I bet you never even considered it for one of your albums, just because it was so different…heavens, what a waste!”

“It's for you,” said Jaz. “I want you to have it. I want you to record it. Oh Jesus, don't cry.”

“You can't do that.” Furious with herself, and seriously lacking in tissues, Lucille was forced to use the hem of her primrose-yellow top to wipe her eyes. “You can't give me the best song you've ever written because you feel
sorry
for me.”

“No, no, that's not it.” Shaking his head, Jaz pushed his spiky hair out of his eyes. “I don't feel sorry for you.”

“You do. You pity me,” Lucille retaliated, “because I couldn't write a decent song to save my life! So to clear your conscience, you've decided to dig out one of your old ones, some little number you once effortlessly knocked out in ten minutes when you were smashed out of your mind, and let me have it as some kind of…
consolation
prize—”

“But—”

“No, let me finish.” Lucille held up her trembling hands, the words spilling out faster and faster. “I mean, I'm sorry if I sound ungrateful, and you probably think you're being really kind, but as far as I'm concerned, it's just patronizing. I feel like a seal who can't balance a ball on my nose, but you've decided to throw me a sardine anyway.”

She ran out of breath, pressed her lips together and gazed hard at a section of gray, foam-padded wall, unable to meet Jaz's eyes.

“Finished?” he said at last.

Lucille nodded. “Yes.”

“That's it? You're sure?” He raised his eyebrows. “If I start to say something you promise you won't interrupt?”

Oh Lord, I've really upset him now
, thought Lucille.
He thinks I'm a belligerent, ungrateful cow and he's seriously offended.

A combination of pride and PMS had a lot to answer for. It really did.

Feeling hormonal and lectured to, she tossed back her braids and said, “Fire away.”

Oh dear, horribly reminiscent of a belligerent teenager.

“Thank you
so
much,” Jaz replied silkily. “OK, d'you see that filing cabinet over there? That's where all my old tapes are kept, in the third drawer down. Songs I started and never finished, songs I decided not to use, ideas for songs that in the end never got written.”

“So?”

Good grief, just
listen
to me
, thought Lucille, privately appalled.

“
So
,” Jaz drawled with heavy irony, “that filing cabinet isn't where I got this tape from. It hasn't been unlocked for over three years. What you just heard wasn't one of my old songs. I wrote it this afternoon. And for your information I didn't knock it out in ten minutes.” He added drily, “There was nothing effortless about it either, I can promise you that.”

Lucille's mouth had dropped open as she realized what he was saying. “Oh my God…”

“No, please,
don't
interrupt,” mimicked Jaz. “It's my turn now, remember? And I didn't do this because I felt sorry for you, OK? I did it because I felt like such a shit the other night. I could have kicked myself when I realized what I'd done, telling you your songs weren't great—it was a terrible thing to say, and I was so ashamed of myself I knew I had to make up for it somehow.” His dark eyes were fixed on Lucille's face, his expression intent. “But I didn't just do it for you. You do see that, don't you? If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have come back down here. You made me
want
to write another song.”

“And now you have,” whispered Lucille.

“Now I have. Sober,” Jaz added with a brief smile. “And you can't begin to imagine how that makes me feel.”

It all fell into place now. Lucille, understanding exactly why he had done it, no longer felt patronized.

Instead, she clapped her hands together and said, “This is
fantastic
.”

“More than fantastic.” Jaz began to grin with relief. “It's a bloody miracle.”

Longing to fling her arms around him, but not quite daring to, Lucille said instead, breathlessly, “Go on, play it again!”

Jaz did. And this time it sounded even better, like nothing he had ever written before, but slow and melodic, powerful and unbearably moving.

“Still needs a lot of work, of course,” he told Lucille when it had ended. “And the lyrics need sorting out. God, you can tell I'm out of practice—did you hear me miss that B flat in the middle eight?”

Lucille nodded. She was still tingling all over in the aftermath of hearing the track again. Jaz's voice was rusty and he'd hit a couple of wrong notes, but in her eyes, the rawness of it only added to the song's appeal.

“So,” Jaz said softly. “Will you sing it?”

“Why me? You could sing it yourself.” Lucille realized she was having to press her knees together to stop them from knocking like castanets.

“I don't want to. Not interested. I'll write songs, but I won't sing again. And I still want you to have this one, because it's the least I can do to make up for saying what I did the other night.”

Lucille willed herself not to start blubbering all over again. The least she could do was accept graciously.

“OK.” She smiled, still longing to hug him. “I don't know what to say. Except thank you.”

Jaz breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I should be the one thanking you.”