SailtotheMoon (12 page)

Despite the disapproving glares from her father, Amy sat
next to Zazz on the huge sofa and talked to him about fashion and clothes.
“Will you dress Laura?”

Zazz choked back his initial answer, that he was more likely
to undress her. “If she wants me to.”

“Would you dress me?”

He’d guessed that was coming. “You need to learn your own
style first. For all I know, you have it.” But not here, not now. Amy wore
simple clothes, white shirt and black trousers. Maybe she had a stash of
exciting clothes somewhere. He hoped to God she was legal, and she didn’t turn
up at the stage door made up and dressed up. One reason Chick gave his “be
careful” speech to all new recruits to the crew. Some girls had come, not for
sex, but to catch them out and earn money outing them in the media. It was a
wicked world out there.

“I wanted to see you.”

That was something he could help with. “Can you come to
London next weekend?”

He could feel Amy’s excitement, but immediately her father
dampened it. “You have mock A level coming up a week on Monday. Science. You’ll
be revising.”

Shit, the old man didn’t want her to have any fun. But he
forced a grin. “Don’t worry, we’ll work something out.” If it fucking killed
him. He’d get her over to New York. That was it.

A ring came at the door. Interesting to notice that Mr.
Wilkinson didn’t attempt to rise to answer it, leaving the task to his wife. He
remained where he was, like some doom-laden chaperone.

Quiet voices, and then the room filled with four more
people. At least, this part of the room did. Zazz got to his feet and suffered
the introductions. Laura’s brother brought an air of cheerfulness with him,
much needed here, and the formal introductions didn’t do much to dispel it. He
hugged his mother and clapped his father on the shoulder. That was one way to
cope. Ignore the repressive atmosphere. Zazz wondered if he could ever do that.

The kids knew him, and so did her brother, Andy, who gave
him an appreciative, though not fawning, summary of
Nightstar
. Zazz
shrugged. “Thanks, it’s a job.” To his relief, Andy laughed.

“Great job if you can get it, and if you’re good enough.” He
tilted his head toward his father. “I bet Dad never heard of you.”

“Not everybody has.” He wasn’t too keen on the knowing
smile. He didn’t want to join any faction here.

By the time they’d sat at the table, Mrs. Wilkinson having
refused to let them help her carry the dishes in, the kids had kind of recovered
from their initial dumbstruck response. Zazz would have preferred dumbstruck
and staring to the volubility they exploded with. Two girls, their ages
definitely in single figures, but he wasn’t too familiar with small children to
know if they were five, six or seven, or even eight. Very excited at meeting
him. It troubled him to think they knew him because his lyrics weren’t meant
for kids that age, but when he recalled what he was doing at the age of six, he
relaxed. It could be a lot worse.

That meant her brother was around the same age as Laura.
Zazz exchanged a glance with her, brief, but enough to know how uncomfortable
she felt. He didn’t think it had much to do with his presence, more from being
here. She was far too subdued. He understood that she was trying to get through
this, and her attitude made him even more determined to behave. He controlled
the temper that boiled up in regular intervals during that meal at pointed
comments from her parents about his career and his lack of qualifications. He
didn’t even have the solace of a good home-cooked meal. It turned out that Mrs.
Wilkinson was a great believer in getting up early to put the sprouts on. At
least the meat, while cold, was edible. He worked his way through, even the vegetables,
which he’d always hated, and smiled.

For Laura, he smiled.

Zazz had decided on his revenge, and a way to cheer up Amy.
He needed to call Chick. Accordingly, he excused himself after the meal to
visit the bathroom and after a brief conversation, Chick promised to call him
back when he had the answer. Then he went downstairs, ready to do battle if
necessary.

At the bottom of the stairs he saw a familiar shape.
Black-shrouded, it lay propped by the front door, its air of neglect palpable.
As he went through to the main room, he asked Amy, “You play guitar?”

Amy glanced out to the hall, then shook her head. “No,
that’s Laura’s.”

“Ah yes,” Mrs. Wilkinson said. “I meant to ask you about
that. I was planning to drop it off at the charity shop next week. Unless you
want to keep it.”

“Is there anything left of me in this house, Mum?”

Why didn’t her mother hear the hurt in Laura’s voice? Or did
she, and chose to ignore it? “Not much. You took most of it when you left.”

“And you cleared the rest out.”

“I needed the space. Sorry, if you’d wanted to keep
anything, you should have said. But when the girls stay over, they need
somewhere to sleep. So should I take the guitar down to the shop?”

Since they’d mentioned it, Zazz took it on himself to go and
fetch it. Unzipping the plastic shroud, he found a cheap acoustic, still
stringed but hopelessly out of tune. One of the pegs was nearly slack, and when
he tightened it, the string tensed and broke. Another had already gone. Mrs.
Wilkinson said nothing. She didn’t need to. She had an expressive
long-suffering sigh.

Four strings remained. Zazz tuned them. The instrument had a
tinny sound. It reminded him of an abandoned Christmas present, after someone
clueless had taken the advice of a bad salesman. It would never make a great
sound. He perched on the arm of the sofa and played a tune. The first few notes
of Rodriguez’s guitar concerto. Not that he could play the whole thing, he
didn’t have the technique. And it needed a Spanish guitar, not a standard
acoustic. So he gave up, remembered the song he had in his head, the one he was
working on most at the moment, and played a few notes of that.

Interesting. Slightly wrong, kind of shallow and off.

“Would you like the guitar?” Although he hadn’t spoken
loudly, Mr. Wilkinson’s voice easily intruded into Zazz’s thoughts. What must
it have been like, to grow up with that kind of interference? His dad would
have left him alone, maybe placed food in front of him if he was sober enough.
But not intruded, unless Zazz asked for help.

“I’m sorry?”

“You seem to have taken to it. I don’t recognize that tune.”

He plucked a string, heard the fuzz in the tone. “I only
wrote it recently. It’s not made it to an album yet.”

Gasps told him he’d created A Moment. If
Anticlimax
made it to a proper track, those girls would tell their friends, as if he was
John fucking Lennon writing
Imagine
in their front room. Although Zazz
guessed the song would always mean more to him than to anyone else. However he
knew how his oddest, most melancholy music sometimes found a home in the hearts
of the most unlikely people. “Yes, I’d like the guitar. Thank you.”

“But it’s awful,” Laura said. As he turned an amused gaze on
her, she stammered, “T-that is the guitar, not you. You know I love your
music.”

“Yes, I know. And thanks. That’s why I want it. The song is
about fizzling out, things not working, and this is perfect. I want to repeat
the initial pure melody on this at the end. It’s fucking perfect.”

Only when the room fell perfectly silent did he realize he’d
uttered the forbidden F-word. Shit. And he’d behaved so well so far.

Suddenly, he’d had enough. He’d fallen over backward to
please these people and they regarded him either with suspicion or adulation.
He welcomed neither. Her brother wanted to make him his best buddy and her
parents wanted to demonize him. He was Zazz, that and nothing else. He made his
own way, and if people liked it, good. If they didn’t like it, good. He’d never
tried to pass popularity contests, and now he knew why. Because it involved
courting people he didn’t like.

The mist rose before his eyes, like red-light-infused dry
ice, and he started to lose it. Then he looked at Laura and knew he must not.
She was on edge, she must have seen his growing impatience. He set himself to
calm down, to behave like a civilized person. Difficult but he managed it long
enough to say, “I’m sorry but we have to leave soon. Thanks for a great meal.”

Ten minutes later the cab had arrived and they were out of
there. He had the guitar case in his hand and his other wrapped around Laura’s.

Once in the taxi, she sighed and snuggled into the shelter
of his arm in a way that made him feel good. “My parents seem to have
discovered their soft side with their grandchildren. If either of the kids had
wanted to learn the guitar, I’d never have seen it again.” She touched the
case. “I know it’s a crap instrument, but I saved all my pocket money for
months to buy it. It was all I could afford.”

“My dad would have kept it. He’d probably have made sure I
had something better.” That gave him an idea. “Will you play for me?”

“What?”

“I want to hear what you do.”

She shook her head. “I’m not up to your standard—”

He put his free hand over hers. “Just do it for me, will
you?”

She hadn’t wanted to go into work, but she had to make sure
everything was okay and book the time off. The first thing she did was check on
Jimmy. She called him, and he smugly told her Zazz had called that morning to
chat with him.

“Yeah, and the rest. Jimmy, has the media been around?”

“Not so far.”

That was what she wanted to hear.

“Your friend’s calling around later,” Jimmy said.

“Oh?”

“Riku. Nice to have a fan again.”

“Jimmy, you always had fans. But take care.” What had Zazz
said? That Riku could take shit and walk away? Dangerous for the people around
him, especially an alcoholic and addict like Jimmy A. And something else Jimmy
thrived on—admiration. He adored being the center of attention, and Riku would
give him that.

She finished the call and glared across her desk at the one
pushed against it, behind which sat Kelsie. “Was that your idea? To get Riku to
visit Jimmy?”

“No, it wasn’t.” She lowered her voice. “He’s not made
another date with me or anything else. Took my mobile number reluctantly. Do
you think he’s gone off me? Already?”

Laura didn’t know Riku well enough to tell, and she said so.
Kelsie had made up her eyes quite heavily this morning. Had she been crying? “Rock
stars,” she said with a twisted grin. “Take what you get and keep it, but don’t
ask for more. They’ll run a mile.”

Except Laura had asked for more, and he’d said yes. Shit,
there was nobody like Zazz.

“Laura? Can I have a word?” Their boss, the slightly
overweight, slightly balding Jeff Conrad called across the office. “Bring James
Asaro’s file with you, please.”

Apprehension rose within her and she forced a deep breath
before she composed her features and picked up the plastic file with Jimmy’s details.
A fat file, denoting how long he’d been in the system and how they’d conspired
to keep him alive and as healthy as they could. Not how she’d worked to keep
him away from dealers and pubs. They had even more on electronic media, but
some people in the department still preferred hard copy, so her office still
had myriad filing cabinets ringing the central desk blocks. They probably kept
the local cabinet and hanging file manufacturers in business.

Focusing her mind on Jimmy’s case, she stepped into the
office and received a, “Close the door”. Uh-oh, not good. Anxiety filling her,
she took a seat when Jeff indicated it and placed the file on the desk in front
of her.

“Have you seen the papers?”

“The evening paper isn’t out yet,” she said, wondering where
he was going with this, not daring to think.

“I daresay that’ll be full of it as well.” He gave her a
gloomy glare.

He rotated the screen on his desk so she could see, and
silently clicked through several screens.

By the end of it, she wanted to hide. This was national
media and big gossip sites. Pictures of the kiss Zazz had given her in the
press room, other pictures she hadn’t known they’d taken, of them with Riku and
Kelsie outside Zazz’s father’s flat. All with salacious headlines, some of them
puns on the Murder City Ravens’ songs, others comments that made her ears burn.
Zazz Takes a Poke at Manchester
was the crudest and the worst. One of
their loudest songs was called
Poke
. They hadn’t done it on either of
the nights.

“I’m switching your caseload,” he said bluntly. “You can
have Mrs. Callaghan instead of Mr. Asaro. You can add her on your rounds after
Mr. Gray.”

“You’re taking Jimmy away?” It didn’t take the analytic
faculties of Sherlock Holmes for her to work that out.

He shrugged. “I don’t have much choice.”

Her world turned bleak. How could she go on with this job?
Some social workers did it for the pleasure of helping others. Not the money,
that was for sure. She’d known for a while that she did it because she’d found
the degree the easiest to do, and then went along with the career plan. The
unemployment queues scared her, and so far she’d avoided them. Enjoy her job?
Sometimes, especially when she came across someone like Jimmy A—colorful,
bright and a joy to visit.

If she looked on the bright side, she could hope that Mrs.
Callaghan was a bright old lady, one who had a fund of anecdotes. But she could
easily be the complaining type, or one of the ones who lived in squalor. Once
she’d had to call out the district nurse to someone, and they’d had to unstick
the woman from her bed. Not the poor old lady’s fault, but not a pleasant task.
Laura realized that had formed her turning point, when she decided she didn’t
enjoy the job. But who enjoyed what they did for a living?

Apart from Murder City Ravens.

“What happened this weekend?” He leaned back, folded his
arms over his paunch.

“Everything?” She sensed the change of power in the room.
Jeff was a middle-aged man with a young family. She got the feeling he’d never
been hip, trendy or in. Or even cool. He’d shy away from anything intimate that
didn’t concern work. On personal hygiene and mental welfare of the people they
cared for, nobody could be better, but not this.

“I’ve been corresponding with Zazz for a while now, but as
James Asaro, Jimmy’s son. As you know, Jimmy’s a complicated case, not least
because his son is traveling the world, so it’s hard to talk to him. James and
I started to talk about other things, made friends. He was avoiding talking
about his father and I wanted to keep up the dialogue.” She paused. “That was
how it started anyway. When we met—” She shrugged.

Jeff shook his head. “The headlines are brutal. Be careful,
that’s all I can say. I’m taking you off the case partly for your own
protection, but partly for Jimmy’s. Is this affair likely to go on?”

She couldn’t think of that now. And in any case, she
thought, brightening up, it helped her other request. “Probably not much
longer. He’s going to the States soon, and I can’t—” And he hadn’t asked her. A
pang filled her. Regret, mostly, but also fear for what she’d become after he
left. Back to her old life. It had no attraction for her anymore, not without
him.

How could she explain a feeling she barely recognized
herself? This last weekend was like learning to fly. She’d slipped into the way
he lived as if she belonged there, she’d found people who thought the way she
did. As if slipping into a place she’d searched for all along. Best time to
push her request. “The band’s manager and his assistant are working on limiting
the damage. We never thought it would get this public, that people would behave
this way. Or I didn’t. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. Or I didn’t
properly understand. Something like that. Anyway, with this fuss, I thought I
might take a few days off. I have some holiday time due—”

“I think that’s a great idea. That way they can do their
damage limitation.”

She didn’t like the way he’d jumped on the idea, but at
least it meant she’d get her time off. “I’ll tidy everything today. I have a
few notes to do.”

“You do that. Then take two weeks starting tomorrow. Or do
you need more?”

If she hadn’t seen the relief in his eyes, she’d have
thought he was the best of bosses. “Has the media contacted you?”

He sighed, heartfelt. “Yes, this morning. Or rather, the
department. They’re not happy.”

And she’d bet they passed on the message for her to take
holiday time. By the time she came back everything would have settled down.

Even the thought of returning to work turned her heart to
lead.

* * * * *

Laura found herself in her own flat with a beautiful
acoustic guitar balanced across her lap. His guitar, the one he’d composed some
of his songs on. The songs she loved. The ones she’d poured out her adoration
of in her emails to James Asaro. Oh fuck, she felt so stupid, so gauche. And
she should never have let him come anywhere near her family. She’d inwardly
winced the entire time, waiting for her father to say that she looked peaked,
or why didn’t she wear prettier clothes, or work less, to give her time to find
a husband and give them grandchildren before it was too late. Luckily they
hadn’t, but they would when they saw her without Zazz.

“Breathe.” His voice, so soft, so calm, gave her pause. This
wasn’t Zazz, it was James. As long as she held that in her mind, she could keep
it together.

She played a few notes. They sounded good, much better than
her crappy old instrument. Better than the one she used now, to be honest. A
few chords. Getting the music in her heart, settling it there, she played one
of her songs. It had a fairly long introduction, so she could recall the words
and get into the mood.

By the time she started singing, she’d almost forgotten who
she was singing to. This song lasted around four minutes, based on a
traditional air about a soldier coming back from the war married to someone
else. The song had originally been plaintive and the singer killed herself.
Laura had turned it into a song about a woman who realized what a fool she’d
been to believe him when he obviously hadn’t wanted her, and she vowed to make
a life for herself.

The notes faded into the air, and Laura stared at the
guitar, studying its shiny black surface. It was edged with a thin line of
mother-of-pearl, the iridescence responding to the soft light of the lamps set
on the tables by the sofa. She watched the colors ripple as it moved as she
raised her head to meet his perceptive gaze.

He nodded. “I like it.”

Better than she’d hoped. She thought he might shower her
with effusive praise and then never mention it again. Keep her happy. “I do it
for me.”

He nodded. “Everybody does, at least at first. I get it.”

She’d been wrong. She wasn’t playing to James. This was Zazz
the musician, the professional. His eyes held a cool calculation she’d rarely
seen when he looked at her. He lounged back in his chair, his leg draped over
one wooden arm, his mouth straight. “You definitely have something. You’re not
going the same place we are, but you are heading somewhere. Play some more.” He
waved, a negligent curl of his long fingers, but it didn’t look sensual.

Laura filled her lungs. Everyone had a few strokes of luck,
if they worked hard enough. This might be hers.

This time she sang a plaintive song about a man going to war
who didn’t want to. Only she made the he a she. She loved distorting and changing
old folk songs for the modern age, something that spoke to people now. Without
pause, at the end of the song she segued into one she’d written from scratch.
She didn’t want him to think about it. She was playing a song of her own to one
of the foremost songwriters around.

One musician to another. She tried to speak to him on that
level, but knew better than to try her trickiest pieces, or something that
required a fiendish amount of guitar work. She was good but not brilliant.
Enough that she could sing and play the guitar at the same time. And, as it
happened, operate a looping box if she wanted to, but she’d leave that for
another time. If there was another time.

She stumbled on a series of notes and stopped. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “It happens.” Then he cracked the first smile
she’d seen since she started playing. “You’re good. Not brilliant, but I know
what you need.”

“What?”

“Public performance. You need to play to other people, make
mistakes and recover. I wouldn’t suggest that you plunge into the big time yet.
Too many people do that and they crash and burn. You’re not ready.”

She laughed shakily. “Hey, I only do this as a hobby.”

He shook his head. “You should think about branching out.
What you sang, those songs could help people.”

She frowned, not understanding what he meant. “I help more
in my day job.”

“But do you help yourself?”

She wasn’t getting this. Or she didn’t want to. Familiar
feelings rose to swamp her. “Yes, of course. I have a nice flat, and a good
life. Even—” She was going to say, “When you’re gone” but she couldn’t. A wave
of sorrow rose out of nowhere and she stopped, not wanting to reveal how deep
in she’d grown.

When he left, she’d cry for a week, maybe two, then she’d go
numb for a while. She’d seen it in others, in people who’d lost a partner.
Grief, they called it. She’d call it a broken heart. Perhaps it amounted to the
same thing. She’d find out soon enough.

“All nice, all good. How about brilliant? How about totally
immersive? How do you feel when you write?”

“Happy, fulfilled, I suppose.” She’d never thought about it
properly before. Just something she had to do. “Absorbed. Nothing exists except
the song when I’m writing or singing.”

He nodded. “I know exactly what you mean because that’s what
happens to me. Will you play for Chick?”

“What?” Startled, she stared at him, goggle-eyed.

“He knows the business like I don’t. If there’s a place for
you, where you’d fit, all that kind of thing. Or if you’re better keeping it as
a hobby.”

It
, her music. The thing that had sustained her
during the bad times, the boring times—fuck, all the times. If she took this
step, her world might come crashing around her ears, the music with it. The
music that spoke to her in a language all her own. He was asking her to share
it. She’d thought about it once, but then changed her mind.

He sat, leaned forward, legs splayed wide, leaning on his
thighs, his hands clasped loosely. “You think I don’t know? I did it once. I
listened to my old man play. He could still play, not with his old brilliance,
but you can’t unlearn technique and intelligent phrasing. I sat at his feet,
asked him questions, listened to his stories. Started writing. My early stuff
was nowhere near as good as yours—self-pitying and melancholy, and I wrote
clever-clever crap. I had to kill all that before I could find what lay inside.
It’s hard, Laura, but you know that, don’t you? You’re partway there. Why did
you never tell me you played and sang?”