“Thinking of the money,” Abel said, getting out of his chair like he was ninety and needed new knees. Isaac followed but Oscar didn’t move. Evie kicked him. He didn’t budge, just moved his leg out of reach.
“Get up,” she hissed.
“I don’t have to forgive him.”
“And I don’t have to post that photo of you in your superman suit when you were five.”
He shrugged. He had a point, that photo was super cute. He’d been an angelic-looking kid, the baby of the family, the only one Evie as the third born had been big enough to bully at the time. “I don’t have to post the photo from last year of you in your birthday suit when you’d barfed all over yourself, either.” Her techniques had improved since then and didn’t rely on cute factor.
Oscar got up. They’d all been hurt when Jay ran out on them. In Errol, it showed up as bewilderment. He never said Jay’s name again. In Abel and Isaac, it had solidified into the kind of artful hate that comes from having been bested by someone who was once a technically inferior friend. In Oscar, it was hero-worship turned rancid and sneering.
And in Evie, what were you supposed to feel when the lover who changed the whole course of your life reappeared and he was more amazing then ever? Like kicking doors, like running away, like bracing for a final blow, like bursting into tears because your body still wanted that heartless traitor of a man to wrap his long arms around you and kiss your spinning brain quiet, sweeten your bitter soul.
It was her bitter soul that made her get up in the mornings. She needed it.
She was the only person in the room still seated, and only the work experience girl was more of an outsider and even she was chatting to Grip. Kicking doors it was then. She stood and made her way towards Jay and slipping between Abel and Errol, she offered him her hand.
“Hi.” The words it’s good to see you snagged in her throat and she dropped her arm as Jay reached for her. It was altogether better not to touch him, too many memories of how his touch made her feel as if she didn’t have to try to find words and meaning, they just fell into place effortlessly. The world had made sense when she was in Jay’s arms.
The only thing that made sense now was getting this tour done to cosmically rebalance the damage Jay had done to her family. Had he not been a coward, it could’ve been Property of Paradise who won three Grammys, had their songs used in movies and advertising. It could’ve been her brother’s musical legacy that made them rich and famous enough never to need jobs as plumbers or painters or office droids, or the session musicians they sometimes were now to supplement their income. It could’ve been Errol’s chance to retire in comfort after decades of scraping by as a music teacher and the band’s manager.
And if she could manage this right, by ruthlessly exploiting the association with Jay, maybe they would be at least a little closer to that vision when the tour was over.
And maybe then, when she’d used Jay up, when she’d walked away from him on her terms, she’d be ready to let the ghost of him finally go.
FOUR
Jay thought the thing with Evie and Grip in the corridor was a weird vibe. It had nothing on the arctic chill of the conference room he walked into. Apart from the girl who offered him coffee, no one was happy to be there.
He’d known coming back would be awkward and his own band thought the whole old-score settling theme was a hassle they didn’t need. Even Mum had counseled him against it. She’d always been worried that Errol would come after them for a share of royalties from songs Jay had written but never played or recorded when he was still with PoP. Songs that had helped make him and the rest of World’s End richer than men who could hold a tune and play musical instruments well deserved to be.
Back then he’d thought Abel was a better lead singer, that the brothers wrote better lyrics than he did, and that as classically trained musicians who could each play multiple instruments, didn’t need anything he had to offer. He still thought Abel had the better voice, that Lost Property were tight, and their stage presence was electric.
It was just that after he left, their songwriting sucked. It was inconsistent, a hit followed by a string of misses and then another hit and a miss and so on. A lot of that was simply bad luck, not enough airplay or marketing, or a release schedule that pitted their songs against a bigger hit from an overseas artist that soaked up all the attention. A part of it was the fact they never stopped arguing and he’d been their referee.
When he quit the band, Jay intended on quitting the industry all together and for a while he simply traveled, poured drinks in dive bars and felt sorry for himself. He missed Evie like he’d lost an arm or a leg and the part of himself that could express emotion easily withered to a stump overnight. He was an irritable lump of quiet despair and writhing resentment for almost two years until the day he missed being killed in a car accident by the width of a guitar string.
It was too close to home, his broken collarbone a mere scratch, but a wake-up call. He might’ve died, just like his dad, with only a dazed heart, a beaten-up backpack, a five-year-old laptop and credit card debit to his name. He wrote his first new song with his arm still in a sling and his whole body a bruise of pain.
And now Evie stood in front of him, her rigid posture saying step around, just like she did in the corridor, and he felt bruised all over again.
“Yeah, hi,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” In a hurts so good way that made him want to go lie down in a dark room with a cold cloth over his forehead.
She laughed, no real mirth, only sarcasm. “I can’t say the same thing, but we have to work together.”
“Grip explained what you do. It’s not,” he lost steam and shook his head. This wasn’t the place to ask her why she wasn’t singing or writing or being her own star.
Arms crossed over her chest defensively she said, “Not what?”
And asking that question would rip up old scar tissue for both of them. “Not what I expected.”
“Let’s get things clear. The only thing you should expect from me is using you for content for the fans, driving ticket sales and making sure Lost Property gets a fair deal.”
“All business then.”
She had a phone in his face before he saw her hands move, a magician’s trick, “Smile, arsehole.”
He put his hand up to block the shot. Who the fuck did she think she was? But she posted it somewhere anyway, with a smirk he wanted to kiss off her face. It was fucking inconvenient to find she hated him, to find he still wanted her, in spite of being brutally rejected by her all those years ago.