SailtotheMoon (11 page)

He gave a slow nod. “Inevitable. Local girl, local rock
star, local jazz genius.” His mouth twisted into a bitter laugh. “Once I’d have
done anything for that kind of recognition. Now, I’d like some anonymity once
in a while. It’s only happened this year. Before, people might have recognized
Jace or Hunter or Donovan, but not like they do now. Jace was almost mobbed in
Baton Rouge.” He gave a sharp laugh. “That’s where he comes from, partly.
That’s where his mother lived, anyway.”

“Do you know any more about your mother?”

“Just her name and what happened to her.”

Tragic, but Jimmy’s goodness threaded through the sorry
story like a white thread on a crow’s back. Without Jimmy, Zazz might not be
here, or he’d be in some gutter somewhere. Or dead. Unable to bear the thought,
she moved close again, climbed over him to curl her legs around his back and
hold her close.

“I’ll text my mother, tell her I’m bringing a friend.”

Zazz didn’t have much experience of what passed for normal
family life. Occasionally he’d gone home with a school friend, but such visits
had usually ended badly. Until he’d learned to simulate behavior, copy what
others did. His success had formed his first confidence boost, but after a
while he’d also decided that he’d be himself. Never be anything for anyone.
Except now he wanted to be what Laura wanted and all his youthful anxieties
surged up to choke him and twist his stomach into knots.

He dressed down. As much as he could anyway. Black
close-fitting shirt over a white T-shirt, black jeans and his favorite leather
jacket, the one he’d bought to replace the one that had finally fallen apart
after years of sleeping in it. This one was better quality and had better
memories attached to it, but he still missed the old one sometimes. He brushed
his hair back to minimize the navy-blue color, but he didn’t want to change it.
Not yet, not that much.

Grimacing, he turned away from the mirror. He saw enough of
himself these days, mirrored by other people for the most part, rather than a
sheet of glass. Strolling out of his room, he encountered Chick. Just as well.
“I won’t need the room,” he said. “I’ve packed what I need for the week.” He
lifted his holdall, then the guitar case he had in his other hand. He’d
traveled with a lot less than that in the past. He’d buy what he’d forgotten.

“I’ll get the other stuff dealt with.” Chick looked up from
his electronic tablet. “Riku’s moving hotels, so this place is done after
today. You happy with it?”

“Great. No security problems, everybody was pleasant to us.
Give ’em a good tip, and I’ve left something in my room for the chambermaid.”

Chick added a note to his tablet. “You might want to rethink
staying with your girlfriend. The media won’t give up chasing you.”

Zazz shrugged. “I’m sick of hotels. Great, you think at
first, then it fucks you up. Everything is done for you, and one room is like
the other, has the same things. I want home cooking, a quiet evening in. I
don’t want everything perfect.” He paused. “In London, I still have a flat. I
never sold it, because you said the market was down right now. I want to stay
there when we go.”

“Give me the keys, I’ll get it serviced.”

“It gets serviced. I might buy the building.”

Chick nodded. “The market’s still with you. Nothing wrong
with good investments.”

He wanted more. Although it still boggled his mind that he
could talk casually about buying property in central London, it would have
meant the same had he bought a small house in a suburb. He’d never owned a
place before he bought that flat, and that was why he did it. Now, he had a
place he could call home.

It certainly wasn’t the place he’d run away from thirteen
years ago. Shit, thirteen years! He’d accomplished so much in that time and he
still didn’t know how.

He walked out the front door of the Buckingham, a rare
treat, and climbed into one of the cabs waiting there. The driver merely
glanced in his mirror, and then did a double take and grinned broadly. “Where
to?”

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at her flat, and she
welcomed him with a kiss. “You’ll get sick of this,” she said as she showed him
his bedroom. Their bedroom. That sounded good. He dropped his bag and turned to
take her in his arms, loving the way she fit there, but she moved away,
laughing. “We have to get going. Or I do. You don’t have to come.”

He hated the guarded expression that came into her eyes. No
fucking way was she going there alone. He took her hand, twining his fingers
between hers. “Yes I do.”

It took half an hour to get there. Her parents lived in a
respectable suburb of Manchester with her younger sister. Her brother had left
home but would be present with his wife and kids that evening.

He’d brought a bottle of wine with him, a traditional gift,
but he hoped a welcome one. Not a sign that he was into untold debauchery. He
felt her tension, even though he was only holding her hand. She wore something
boring—badly fitting plain black pants and a beige pullover—but he didn’t want
to comment on that and make her even more nervous. Even her makeup was subdued.
It made him wish he’d put some on himself, instead of dressing for “dinner with
the parents”.

“It’s my first time,” he confessed, more to make her smile
than anything else.

“For what?”

“Dinner with my girlfriend’s parents.”

For a moment, it was as if the sun had broken out from
behind the clouds. Her smile beamed, and he recollected why he was doing this.
Because he couldn’t do anything else. He doubted if she realized she could
twist him around her littlest finger, but no doubt she would soon enough. It
worried him that he didn’t care.

“Is that what I am?” she asked.

He drew her close and pressed a deliberately gentle kiss on
her lips. “It certainly is.”

“For now.”

Yeah. He’d see about that. They’d work something out. For
now, he’d continue with his life’s philosophy. “There is only now.” It had
worked for him, one way or another, for some time.

He thrust money at the driver. They exited the taxi, but he
waited until the cab had rounded the corner at the end of the street before he
let her take him through the metal gate and up the concrete path to the
green-painted front door. She rang the bell, although he imagined she’d have a
key. Perhaps her family was security-conscious, although a glance at the
rusting burglar alarm fastened to the wall above them hinted otherwise.

He shivered, though the mild autumn air hadn’t caused it. He
had no time to ponder the reason, because the door opened.

For some time Zazz had worked on a song he’d called
Anticlimax
.
He couldn’t get the end right. Neither could Riku or Jace or any of the others.

Now he knew.

The man who stood at the door was of medium height. He wore
a white shirt with faint blue checks, a pair of trousers that shone with
polyester and came up a little too high on his waist. He was a little
overweight, balding, and he had the coldest eyes Zazz had ever seen. The phrase
energy vampire
came to him. That was it. Someone who sucked the vitality
out of everyone around him, but remained the same. Perhaps parasite might be
better. He’d have one of those in
Anticlimax
.

The thought would certainly enliven the experience. He got
the feeling that something had to.

“Hello.” He held out his hand. “I’m Zazz.”

“I thought your name was James.” The man barely touched his
hand, but that was okay by Zazz. “I’m Laura’s father. Come in.” So Zazz still
had no idea what to call him. He’d settle for the formal Mr. Wilkinson until
told otherwise.

“It is, but I come from Manchester. I got the nickname at
school and it stuck.”

He followed the man inside. While the house was relatively
small, the ceilings were high and he shouldn’t have felt this claustrophobic.
Just as well he didn’t have that particular terror, though he had plenty of
others. He followed Mr. Wilkinson into the living room. This stretched the
length of the house. A three-piece suite dominated the front part and a flat-screen
TV set on the wall above the wooden mantel. The TV looked like the only
innovation since the seventies. The suite was a leather one, shit brown with an
oatmeal carpet. The back part of the room currently contained a table set for
dinner, with cloth and cutlery by every plate.

And before him stood the epitome of anticlimax. A woman with
a vague resemblance to Laura. Laura without her vitality, perhaps, someone with
a different power. She wore pale-blue eye shadow to enhance her gray eyes, the
color of fog in autumn, and raspberry-pink lipstick, currently stretched in a
smile. “Pleased to meet you, James.”

“Hi.” He touched her hand, then gave her the wine. “For
you.” He’d thought of sending flowers, but the vases on the mantelpiece and the
windowsill already held the silk variety. He decided he’d send some tomorrow.
Something extravagant and exotic to lend the place a touch of color. Everything
that wasn’t cream was brown. The only splashes of color were a few ornaments in
the cabinet by the window and some subdued tones in the landscape hanging over
the fireplace in the dining area. Outside, the rain had taken hold again. It
seemed appropriate.

“Thank you.” She took the wine and glanced at it, then
pushed a perfunctory smile through and turned, taking the bottle to the table.
She set it on the cloth, changed her mind and found a mat to set it on.

The wine should have been opened to breathe, but Zazz didn’t
know if it was worth breaking the silence to say so. They might take it as a
criticism. Nervousness suffused him, prickled at his skin, making him want to
yell, sing, anything to change things up. Only Laura, standing tensely by his
side, stopped him.

“Where did you live in Manchester?” Mr. Wilkinson asked him.
Laura tugged him to the sofa and they sat.

“My old man had a council flat in Hulme. I bought the place
and he still lives there.” His mouth firmed. “Laura is his social worker.”

“He’s not well?” To do him justice, Mr. Wilkinson was trying
to make conversation. The least Zazz could do was oblige.

“He has health issues that affect his lifestyle. You might
have heard of him? Jimmy A, the jazz trumpeter?” Zazz couldn’t say he felt
surprised when he received a shake of the head. Laura’s father took a seat in a
well-worn chair in prime position in the room—close to the fire. A small table
rested by the side of the chair, holding a china dog with the label “Biscuits”
hung around its neck. Even the dog had a lugubrious air. “Can’t say I do.
Sorry. I like some music, but I don’t bother with CDs or anything like that. I
listen to what’s on the radio.” He cleared his throat. “Do you do music full
time?”

Zazz’s breath caught on the answer, but he satisfied himself
with, “Yes.”

Laura’s mother disappeared into the kitchen, only to
reappear almost immediately. “You’re not a vegetarian or something, are you?”

Tempted to confess to being a strict vegan, Zazz recalled he
might visit this place more than once. “No.”

“Roast lamb all right?”

“It sounds delicious.” Zazz guessed most meat served here
would come out of the oven gray, or if they were lucky, brown. Red meat
wouldn’t survive here for long. He could smell it now, a thick, meaty scent
overlaid with the tang of cooking vegetables, and despite his misgivings, his
mouth watered. Maybe Mrs. Wilkinson was a great cook, albeit of the traditional
variety. Traditional Sunday lunches were rarities in his life. “Hotel food can
get boring. Home cooking is a treat.”

“Good.”

Oh well, at least he’d tried. He didn’t actually smile,
although he put a relaxed expression firmly in place. He reached for Laura’s
hand.

He didn’t miss the way Mr. Wilkinson’s pale gaze went
straight to the link, and then to his face. Zazz raised a brow slightly and
smiled. “Do you work in Manchester?”

“I’m the head teacher at the local comprehensive school,” he
said.

Zazz turned his smile to self-deprecating, tightening his
lips. “I didn’t do well at school.”

Mr. Wilkinson lifted his chin a little. “Oh?”

“No qualifications at all, I’m afraid.”

“That’s sad.”

He shrugged. “If I’d stayed on, I’d have started my career
later. I might have missed the opportunities that came my way. Who knows?”

“Why did you leave school so early? Didn’t you want to pass
your exams?” If Zazz wasn’t mistaken, he read a not-so-subtle hint there. Or
was he so stupid he wouldn’t have passed them?

“For what I do, I don’t need qualifications. My bandmate,
Riku, has qualifications for two people and yet he earns the same as me. Riku
also does film music and I write songs for other people sometimes. Not that we
need the income.” He tried another shrug.

“It sounds interesting.” Not that he sounded interested.
“But isn’t it luck? Like winning the lottery? Nothing you can be sure of. And
you could flop tomorrow.”

Zazz kept a lid on his temper. This man was deliberately
trying to belittle him. “We could. But that’s not why we do it. We all have
enough money.”

Mr. Wilkinson didn’t look impressed. It didn’t bother Zazz.

The half-suppressed squeal sent a jolt of alarm right down
his spine. He didn’t so much turn as swivel on the soft cushion to face the
female standing in the doorway. Her “Ermagahd!” vied with her father’s “Amy!”
to create a hubbub he guessed rarely happened in this house.

The unearthly calm broken, he felt better, especially when
Laura’s laugh soothed his spirit.

“You have to be Laura’s sister.” He got to his feet and
smiled at the shell-shocked girl. She looked around sixteen. Quite a gap
between her and her sister. An afterthought or an accident?

None of his business, but it didn’t stop him wondering.

She stared at him. “Zazz.”

“Well done. Yes, Zazz. Your sister’s boyfriend.”

Her mouth rounded, then her white teeth touched her lower
lip and her upper curled in the unmistakable shape of an “F”. If Zazz didn’t
act quickly, she’d commit a sin that would probably get her grounded. “But it’s
me, nobody else. Don’t tell me I’m your favorite.”

“Well yes, no, I mean—”

“Riku, I’m guessing.” Riku, with his flamboyant clothes,
tended to attract most of the teens who followed the band.

“How does he do it? He has to spend hours getting ready.”

“A day, sometimes. But he has a series of looks planned, and
it doesn’t take him as long as people imagine. Except when he’s creating the
looks. That can take days. Then he draws it into a book and makes notes.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m flattered, but no.” He did have stage clothes, but it
didn’t go much further than that. “I put on what I’m in the mood to wear and
it’s as haphazard as it looks.”