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‘Defy reason.’
She shook her head.
Returning to the table she pushed the page with the words onto the floor and stared at the furl of pencil sharpenings and tiny shards of lead.
She looked at the sketch of Alice and drew her again, quickly, with the chains now around her feet.
Thank you, said Alice.
It’s a pleasure, said Frankie.
Can you write me a story where the Ditch Monster comes to my rescue? Instead of the two of us always unravelling everything together? Think about what Scott said.
What did Scott say?
When he told you – to actually ask me.
Frankie was transported back to Maison Bertaux and there she stayed awhile, conjuring the taste of the cakes, the warmth from Scott’s knee next to hers, the lurch in her stomach, the soar of her heart, the buzz between her legs when his fingers had entwined with hers. All they had talked about. The timbre of his voice. The way he looked when he listened, the way his mouth moved when he talked, the way his eyes made her feel when they locked onto hers.
What’s your favourite song, Alice?
Not that noisy one you just played about your brain, thank you. My favourite song is ‘Mr Tambourine Man’.
I never knew that.
You do now.
It had been a jingle-jangle morning of sorts.
I’ll be back in a mo’ – don’t go anywhere, Alice, I just need to make a phone call. Then I’ll play you the Byrds’ version. Which I like better than Bob Dylan’s.
Frankie walked into the kitchen, to the window which looked out to the garden. It was her favourite place to muse. Her heartbeat competed with the silence. She phoned Scott.
‘It’s Frankie.’
‘I know.’
Just two words and she could hear him smiling. She laid her head gently against the wall.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘How’s Norfolk?’
‘Alice is back.’
‘Well that’s just great.’
‘Are you at work? Can you talk?’
‘I’m at work but I can talk. I’m playing some guitar.’
‘Really?’
‘Listen.’ He really was. ‘You liked it?’
‘It’s beautiful!’
Should she tell him about the Byrds? That’s not why she’d phoned.
‘It’s Friday,’ she rushed.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Scott.’
‘Yes.’ He waited. ‘Frankie?’
‘If I – if I.’ She caught sight of herself reflected back from the window, changed her focus to look out over the lawn to the hedge and the Mawbys’ fields beyond. A beautiful day. ‘If I could make it to London, tomorrow, could we have any time?’
‘I would like nothing more. I need to cancel something, rearrange something else. Can I call you back?’
‘Of course you can call me back.’
And, behind the silence, they could hear each other grinning.
Frankie arrived at Annabel’s school later that afternoon a full half-hour before the bell went. She wasn’t worried about being late, she just needed to know that she could sit in the car and have the time to phone her sister and not rush.
‘Peta? It’s me.’
‘I know – it says so. How was London? Did the kids cope with The Mother?’
‘Yes – they did. She cleaned the clean fridge and reorganized the contents.’
‘You know she changes the sheets on my spare-room bed as soon as she arrives here – even though I lay them fresh for her?’
‘I know.’
‘And Alice?’
‘I don’t want to jinx it – but we had a little progress today.’
‘Good for you, Frankie.’
‘How was your book club?’
‘It was – heated. I drank too much and told them I thought the choice was over-verbose, pretentious and essentially dull and that they were silly twats if they thought otherwise.’
‘You rebel.’
‘Anyway – I got to pick the next book.’
‘What did you choose?’
‘Maggie O’Farrell.’
‘She’s a genius. I’m phoning – I’m phoning, Peta.’
‘I know you’re phoning me!’
‘I mean – I wanted to –’ Frankie slapped the steering wheel. ‘Peta I was just phoning, really, to tell you something. And actually to ask you something.’ She took the phone off hands-free and pressed it to her ear. ‘Something happened in London.’ Her voice had changed, she liked the sound of it – no awkwardness, just delight. ‘I met someone.’
Nothing from Peta.
‘A man. Called Scott.’
It remained silent in Hampstead.
‘Who?’ Peta finally responded.
‘He’s called Scott.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know something, I felt exactly that way. Only now I do understand – I truly do.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s – just amazing.’
‘But who is he, Frankie?’
‘He’s called Scott Emerson. And he’s a musician.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Frankie. Not a musician. Oh dear God.’
‘What’s your problem?’
‘My problem? I don’t have a problem, Frankie. You do. A musician? That’s the problem. No more artsy-fartsy fuckwits.’
‘He’s not a fuckwit!’
‘You may well say that now, while he’s serenading you.’
‘You have to trust me on this one.’
‘No Frankie – you have to listen to me. You had musicians and actors and painters and that stupid bloody poet and they all systematically broke your heart and then trod the pieces down hard into piles of shit. Then came Miles. Oh Peta, you said, wait till you meet him. He’s a free soul you said, he’s amazing, you said. He’s someone who can make a difference. He’s an ideas man – you said. He’s so spiritual and real and I never felt this way before.’
‘I’m not the impressionable girl I was then, I’m forty-one,’ Frankie said quietly. ‘And Scott is nothing like Miles.’
‘How so?’
‘Well he’s older, for a start.’
‘Oh great. Frankie! Some waster still tinkling the ivories, or strumming his guitar or playing his fucking fiddle because he’s never knuckled down?’
‘Jesus Peta. He’s a talented musician. He writes soundtracks for movies. He’s won awards. He’s in demand. He’s respected.’
‘I have a respectable man I’ve been trying to introduce you to for months – Chris!’
‘Oh God – not him again.’
‘You could at least meet him.’
‘We have nothing in common – and anyway, you showed me that picture of him.’
‘Christ you’re shallow.’
Peta wanted to retract that. Her sister was not shallow. Her sister’s problem was that she was unable to see trouble even when it was up so close and very personal. She pitied her, really, worried for her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant – it’s been so long, and I have to be your sensible older sister and say please, please don’t go for anyone flaky who’s going to hurt you.’
‘Why should being a musician make him flaky? Maybe he really likes me and has no intention of hurting me – have you thought of that?’
‘You’ve known him for what – forty-eight hours? Please don’t come out with but I feel I’ve known him my whole life.’
‘But it honestly feels like I have.’
Oh Frankie. Peta calmed herself. Soundtracks for films? Well it was better than poems that made no sense and were never published, or that actor who was too arrogant to learn lines or attend auditions, or the artist who didn’t know one end of the paintbrush from the other. Or Miles – bloody Miles with his charm and his bullshit and his gorgeous face and abject disregard for responsibility and total uselessness when it came to anything important, anything that could hurt or endanger those he professed to love.
Peta laughed gently. ‘What do you call a guitarist with no girlfriend?’
‘Is this an actual joke?’ Frankie asked. Peta’s skill lay in neutralizing atmospheres, however bizarre and untimely her tactic.
‘Yes.’
‘OK – what do you call a guitarist with no girlfriend?’
‘Homeless!’
Frankie had to giggle.
‘Is this Scott person homeless? Ask yourself that.’
‘No he’s not homeless, you silly cow.’
‘Well,’ Peta sighed, ‘that’s something, I suppose.’
Frankie took a deep breath. ‘He has an amazing house, with land and everything.’ She let that information settle. ‘In Canada.’
Peta thought, I am actually going to close my eyes, dig my nails into the palms of my hands and count to ten. ‘Canada,’ she said, when she’d done so. It wasn’t a question.
‘Yes.’
