What Might Have Been (3 page)

4

S
arah peered through the windscreen, biting her lower lip in concentration as she piloted the big car through the dimly lit
backstreets
, and Evan couldn’t take his eyes off her. She glanced to her left and caught him staring, and he looked away,
embarrassed
.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ He cleared his throat loudly. ‘Keep your eyes facing in the direction of travel, please.’

‘What is this? Driver’s ed?’

‘Driver’s ed?’ Evan frowned. ‘Oh, you mean like a driving instructor?’

‘Yeah.’ She flashed him a smile and turned her attention back
to th
e road ahead. ‘Just like a driving instructor. Where are we going, anyway?’

‘You’re the one driving.’

‘And if this was NYC, I’d be taking you to all my favourite spots. But it’s not. So why aren’t you?’

‘Point taken. What do you fancy doing?’

Sarah had to stop herself from replying
You
. ‘I’m in your hands,’ she said, suggestively.

‘Okay.’ Evan cleared his throat again and thought for a moment. ‘Well, would you like to go and hear some more music? Or we could get something to drink? Or to eat? Or matching
tattoos
?’

‘All of those things sound good.’ Sarah frowned suddenly. ‘Though where would we get the tattoos?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I’d said that last thing out loud. But there is this twenty-four-hour place near Waterloo station . . .’

‘No, where on our bodies?’

Evan’s mouth suddenly went dry. ‘Perhaps we should get a drink before we make that kind of decision,’ he said pointing at an upcoming junction. ‘Take a left here.’

‘Left. That’s your side, yeah?’

‘Right. If you see what I mean?’

‘I do.’ Sarah gave the rear-view mirror a cursory glance before throwing the Merc round the corner. ‘It drives well,’ she said, and Evan tried to ignore the screeching from the tyres.

‘I wish I could say the same about you.’

‘Hey – no fair! I’m not used to driving on the wrong side of the road.’

‘Is that why we’re in the middle of it?’

‘. . . or handling, you know . . .’ She tapped the top of the gear lever. ‘A stick.’

‘It’s called a . . .’ Evan stopped talking.

‘What?’

‘Well, a “knob”, actually. And besides, this car’s an automatic. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed?’

‘So
that’s
why it’s making that noise whenever I try to
change ge
ars.’

‘Very funny.’

Sarah laughed. ‘I’ll have you know I’m driving very carefully. You have to, when you’ve had as much to drink as I have this
evening
.’

Evan looked across sharply, then saw she was joking – or at least, he hoped she was. ‘Pull in here,’ he said, indicating a space on the left.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, bringing the Mercedes to a halt in front of a large brick wall, where the car’s headlights illuminated a sturdy-looking metal door. ‘What is this place?’

‘Secret,’ said Evan, climbing out of the car.

‘I only asked!’

‘No, it’s called “Secret”. Come on.’

Intrigued, Sarah switched off the ignition and followed him out of the Mercedes, hanging back a little as he walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer. Almost immediately, a metal spy flap slid open with a loud clang that made her jump, though not as much as the sight of the bald man with tattoos covering most of his head suddenly appearing through the gap did.

‘Evan,’ the man said gruffly. He slammed the flap shut, then after a rough sliding of bolts, the door was flung wide open. As the two men exchanged a complicated handshake that she was sure she’d never be able to copy, Sarah saw that the tattoos extended down his arms, and even to the backs of his hands.

Evan ushered her inside and, as the doorman secured the bolts behind them, led her down some stairs into a dimly lit cellar, its minimalist styling and smart clientele belying the understated entrance. On a small stage at the far end, just past the whitest bar she’d ever seen, a familiar-looking woman was singing a breathy jazz vocal, accompanied by a guitarist who looked suspiciously like . . .

‘Is that . . .
Elvis Costello
?’ whispered Sarah.

Evan glanced casually towards the stage, then nodded. ‘With his missus.’

‘What are they doing here?’

‘Well, I’m no expert, but it looks like she’s singing while he plays the . . .’

‘No I meant . . . what is this place?’

‘Just a bar.’

‘It’s hardly just a bar. And is that . . .’ Sarah was staring at a booth in the corner, where someone she was sure was a famous
Hollywood
actor was sitting, surrounded by a gaggle of blondes dressed more for a day on Miami Beach than the chilly London night.

‘Yeah,’ said Evan. ‘Want me to introduce you?’

‘You know him?’

Evan shrugged. ‘Only because he’s a regular here. As are most people. It’s members only. People come to Secret for a bit of privacy.’

‘And how do you get to be a member?’

Evan tapped a finger on the side of his nose. ‘That’s the secret.’

The music finished, and as the crowd applauded politely, Evan nodded hello to the performers, who waved him up onto the stage. As he shook his head and indicated Sarah by his side, she turned to him, a look of wonderment on her face.

‘You’re quite the celeb.’

Evan laughed. ‘That’s the point of this place. No-one’s a celeb.’

‘Well, I’m impressed.’ She gazed around the room. ‘Do you play here too?’

‘Sometimes. It’s open mike.’ He nudged her. ‘You can get up and sing if you like.’

‘Me?’ Sarah looked at him, aghast. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

She nodded towards the woman stepping down from the stage. ‘Her voice is an instrument. Mine’s more an instrument of torture. Fine for karaoke, maybe. But bad karaoke.’

Evan smiled encouragingly. ‘There’s no such thing as bad karaoke, just an unappreciative audience. And by the looks of this lot, they’re drunk enough to appreciate anything.’

‘Evan, I haven’t sung a note since . . .’ Sarah stopped talking. Saying ‘since my dad died’ would have brought the evening right down, almost before it had got going.

‘You sang earlier. In the G-Spot.’

‘A few bars of the theme tune to Rising Falls hardly
counts a
s . . .’

‘Come on. It’ll be fun!’

‘No, I . . .’ Sarah started to protest, but Evan was already dragging her gently up onto the stage. He handed her the microphone, then picked up the acoustic guitar.

‘What’s it to be?’

Sarah gazed out at the expectant audience, her heart pounding as she recognised another couple of chart-topping musicians in the crowd. This was seeming a worse idea by the second, but she couldn’t see a way out, and as Evan sat with his fingers poised over the strings, she had an idea.

‘I only know the one song.’

‘Which is?’ asked Evan, innocently.

Sarah looked at him mischievously, then took a deep breath and raised the microphone hesitantly to her lips.
‘Why do I know you’ll hurt me?’
she breathed, and Evan blanched, then reluctantly began strumming the familiar chords to Jazzed’s one and only hit.

He played on as Sarah found her voice, impressed by how she’d risen to the challenge, and also by the power and clarity of her voic
e –
as the audience seemed to be, too, judging by the way they’d all stopped their conversations to listen – and for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, Evan found himself happy to be playing ‘his’ song. It was strange, too, to hear a woman sing the
lyrics
–
Finn’s
lyrics – that Evan knew weren’t simply about affairs of the heart.

‘I thought we’d be forever. But forever didn’t last. And now I see that you and me, we never stood a chance.’

Sarah made a face at Evan as he strummed the final few bars, then she replaced the microphone in its stand, embarrassed by the applause rippling round the room, and they stepped down from the stage.

‘That was amazing,’ he said, beaming proudly as they squeezed into a booth in the corner. ‘Although your choice of song was a
little me
an.’

‘And forcing me up on stage to sing wasn’t?’

‘You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?’

She shrugged, still a little flushed from the experience. ‘I’m not sure “enjoyed” was the right word.’

‘You were great.’

‘Again, I’m not sure “great” really nails it.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Now
that
might be a more appropriate description.’

Evan rolled his eyes, then frowned as the barman deposited two Martinis on their table. ‘But I didn’t . . .’

‘From that table over there,’ said the barman, indicating the Hollywood star and his entourage, and Evan waved his thanks.

‘Here you go,’ he said, sliding one across the table to Sarah. ‘Whatever else happens this evening, you’ll at least be able to say that a famous Hollywood actor bought you a drink.’

She smiled, and raised her glass in the direction of the star’s table. ‘As opposed to a famous British pop star?’

Evan made a face. ‘Not any more, thank goodness,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers.

‘You didn’t really say what happened.’

‘When?’

‘Earlier. When I asked you what the deal was with Jazzed.’

‘Ah.’ Evan wondered how best to explain it. The official reason that Jazzed had split up – the one he’d usually tell people, at least – was because they’d reached their peak, and had nowhere else to go. Their hit single had been down to luck more than anything
else – reco
rd companies hadn’t wanted to know them until the song had been picked up by the TV show – and so the chances of them ever doing anything better had been pretty unlikely. And while that was the party line, he found himself reluctant to admit that to someone he’d just met, and especially someone he found himself wanting to impress. But as for the real reason . . . well, that was
even mor
e of a secret than the club they were sitting in.

‘So?’

‘We just thought we’d retire at the top. You know the old showbiz maxim –
always leave them wanting more
. . .’

‘And is that your philosophy towards everything in life?’ said Sarah, retrieving the cocktail stick from her drink, then, with her eyes fixed on his, she pulled the olive delicately off it with her teeth in a way that made Evan’s head spin. ‘What?’ she said, noticing his expression.

‘Nothing.’ He gulped down a mouthful of his cocktail, desperate to change the subject. ‘So you’re from New York?’

She nodded wistfully. ‘Yeah. You been?’

‘A couple of times. Always wanted to spend longer. Some
people
think New Orleans is the place to be where jazz is concerned, but for me, Harlem has the best . . .’ He stopped talking, worried he was being insensitive, as Sarah’s expression had hardened a little. ‘So what are you doing here in England?’

‘I got transferred.’

‘Like a footballer?’

‘Huh?’ She frowned as she took a sip of her drink. ‘Oh, you mean a
soccer player
.’

‘Yup.’ Evan nodded. ‘Soccer,’ he said, putting on a bad
American
accent, and Sarah kicked him lightly under the table.

‘No, it was just . . . After my dad died, I just felt I needed a, you know . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Change of scene?’

‘Yeah.’ She smiled again, to Evan’s relief. ‘A change of scene. And this opportunity came up, and so six weeks ago . . . What is it you Brits say? “Bingo!”’

‘No other family? No-one to keep you in America?’

Sarah’s smile faded, and immediately, Evan regretted asking. He’d only meant it as a subtle enquiry to ascertain whether Sarah had someone special back in New York, but this current line of questioning didn’t seem to be doing him any favours.

‘Nope.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Dad you already know about,’ she said, counting off on her fingers, ‘no brothers or sisters, and my Mom left when I was four, which kind of did it for her as far as I was concerned.’ She smiled flatly. ‘So no, no family to speak of. Just little old me.’

‘Your mum left you?’ Evan didn’t quite know how to react, mainly because the matter-of-fact way that Sarah was talking didn’t seem to invite any sympathy.

‘People leave. What can you do?’

‘Right. Nothing, I suppose.’ Evan stared into his glass for a second or two. ‘And have you never tried to track her down?’

‘What would be the point?’ said Sarah, brusquely.