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‘So what do you do out by the sea that you’re here in London on business?’
Frankie hated that question; it usually led to a barrage of questions she’d had to answer a million times before. And when it was known she was an author of some repute, people changed the way they spoke to her, even looked at her. She became a novelty. She’d never liked that.
‘I’m an accountant,’ she said.
Scott appeared to choke on his drink. ‘Seriously?’
Frankie’s face creased with awkwardness. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I lied.’
‘You lied?’ He tipped his head back and really laughed. ‘Who are you? A spy? Royalty?’
‘I – work in publishing.’
‘What kind of publishing?’
‘Books.’
‘What type of books?’
‘Children’s books.’
‘OK.’ It was the way Scott looked at her, steadily, interested, open. His eyes she’d thought were brown were actually a layered and dark slate-blue. ‘Children’s books,’ he repeated.
‘I write them.’ There you go. That’s me.
He tipped his head to one side. ‘You’re an author?’
‘Yes,’ she shrugged. ‘That’s what I do. What about you?’
Scott appeared to think about this, as if he wasn’t entirely sure. ‘I’m in music.’
‘A musician?’ That was much better than an accountant.
‘Well – I guess.’
‘Are you in a band?’
Scott laughed at the way her face had lit up. ‘No. God no.’
Frankie thought he didn’t really look like a rock star anyway; no piercings, no visible tattoos or rings in the shape of skulls, just a pair of dark jeans, a shirt loose, brown shoes or boots, she couldn’t tell. On looks alone, she’d hazard a guess at university lecturer, or perhaps some outdoorsy career. Close up, there was something rugged and lived in about his face, soft stubble that might be consciously groomed or simply because he had chosen not to shave away from home. The eyes she knew now to be steel-navy; hair in carefree brushstrokes of brown. Well, perhaps once upon a time, he had been in a band. She placed him a little older than her.
‘What do you play?’
‘So – guitar, piano.’ He appeared to be thinking whether he played anything else. ‘Harmonica.’
As he cut into his steak, his reserve struck Frankie. Perhaps her questions were precisely those he tired of too. Perhaps he was wishing he’d told her he was an accountant. She turned to her food. It was just a pasta dish, despite the fancy name. And, on first forkful and to her dismay, speckled with olives.
‘A children’s author,’ he said, chinking his glass against hers.
‘A musician,’ she said, raising her glass to him. ‘What sort of music?’
‘These days, I write for other people mostly.’
He smiled quizzically because she’d balked at that.
‘But isn’t songwriting akin to ghostwriting?’ she asked. ‘Producing work for someone else to claim as theirs and bask in unentitled glory?’
‘Do you only write for the glory?’
And it was then that Frankie experienced an unexpected surge of pure attraction. His sudden bluntness, that he’d challenged her straight, his eyes steady, his smile wry. Actually, she liked it that he wrote music, she liked his face and his hands and that she was here, right now. She liked it that she’d gone ahead and said yes to a drink and to this plate of revolting pasta. She liked his even gaze, that he was focused on her, wanted to know her, wanted her in his evening.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘I don’t write for the glory. In fact, I often feel I’m little more than my characters’ PA. I’m at their mercy, at their beck and call. I take dictation while they tell me their stories.’
He thought about that. ‘I always assumed an author was – I don’t know – like a Master Puppeteer.’
‘Oh blimey no. My characters run rings around me, especially Alice,’ she said darkly.
Scott didn’t know who Alice was. He’d like to know. He’d ask later. It was just that she had a little sauce on her cheek and he was sitting there with an urge to take his finger and wipe it away, to feel how soft her skin was, to touch her. It all felt suddenly a little crazy. He told himself, just eat your steak and talk about books and music. He felt ravenously hungry and yet full.
‘I was in a band,’ he said, ‘in my misspent youth. Nowadays, I hate performing but I love to write music, that’s the sum of it. And you know what, I don’t do so much songwriting these days anyway – I was finding it depressing. The lack of control. I’d put my soul into a song, create something I believed in, something – I don’t know – nourishing. Then the producers change it, fuck with it, manufacture it and before you know it, the stuff the labels churn out is the musical equivalent of fast food. And the kids spend their money on it. It can get a little depressing.’ Scott thought, if Aaron could see me now he wouldn’t believe his eyes or his ears: Scott Emerson actively choosing to be sociable, talking away, engaging with a girl, seeking company and conversation. ‘Mostly these days I write music for movies. That’s why I’m here at the moment – the movie I’m working on has British funding so the music needs to be recorded here for tax breaks.’
Frankie just wanted to listen. ‘You write soundtracks? Wow.’
But Scott just shrugged. ‘And you write books. Double wow.’
‘How many films do you do?’
‘Well, depending on the budget, probably up to four a year.’
‘Do they tell you what they want?’
‘Well, I guess I’m lucky. Mostly I get to work with directors I know, who like my music anyways, who give me the freedom to read the script and interpret it my own way.’
‘You’re really a composer, then,’ said Frankie.
Scott looked a little bashful. ‘Sounds a little grand. I guess so – on paper. But you know there’s a whole department that makes the music happen. The orchestrators, the editors, the producer, the engineers, the music supervisor, the copyist. You know, in a movie if there’s a song you know playing quietly in the background of, say, a scene in a bar – that’s no accident, that’s been sourced very specifically. I’m talking too much.’
‘No you’re not,’ said Frankie quietly.
‘No?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I spend most of my evenings with people who don’t exist – my characters – so this is welcome. Can I ask you, how do you write, how do you compose?’
He sipped thoughtfully. Usually when he told people what he did they pretty quickly steered the conversation to wanting autographs, even phone numbers, of actors. No one had ever asked him how do you do it, how do you come up with the music, yet it was such an intrinsic part of his life.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll read the script and see what comes to me – like images or scenes come to you, so tunes come to me. Then, near the final cut, I’ll have a spotting session with the director and producer and we’ll discuss the various cues, then off I go. At that point, it’s probably not dissimilar to you – though the process and the output are different. You probably go about your day with a head full of words and dialogue, eh? So – my head’s full of disparate notes which tumble into melodies, feelings for rhythm, phrasing, which start to steady. Soon as I read a script – I hear it. It’s weird sometimes. Like the music’s already written, already exists out there in the ether, waiting for me to harness it. When I read dialogue something happens – I hear tone of voice in terms of musical tone, a conversation between characters carries melody, cacophony, harmony, dissonance. And I just take it from there, really. I play, I write, I’ll record.’ Surely he was talking too much, surely. But Frankie was alert, her face animated. ‘But like I said, I only play guitar, keyboard – so then my music and my directions are passed on to an orchestrator or an arranger and finally the fixer organizes professional musicians to really spin the magic and give gravitas and meaning to my simple notes.’
‘I never met one of you before,’ Frankie said quietly, with a shy smile.
‘Well, you’re my first children’s author,’ said Scott.
Their eyes locked and silently, they marvelled. Of all the places. It’s here. It’s now.
‘You don’t like your food?’ He noticed she’d hardly touched it.
‘Olives,’ she said darkly, giving an emphatic shudder. ‘It’s full of olives.’
‘Here.’ He loaded his fork with his own food and passed it to her, insisting she try it.
‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘that’s the best steak and fries.’
‘You have mine,’ he said. ‘Please.’ And the creature of habit that’s Scott let his favourite dish go, happy enough to have to eat around the olives himself, happier still to watch Frankie tuck in.
What was that feeling, that zip sensation? A heady chemical misfiring of excitement and unbalance, desire and calm. Chatting girls up in hotels was something he used to do so efficiently he could switch off part of himself in the process. It was a routine, motions, a set pattern that was self-centred and greedy. But the end product was never in doubt. He came, he went. Was that what he wanted tonight? In an hour, or two hours? No, strangely, no. Tonight wasn’t about edging towards something; it was about being in the moment. This wasn’t chatting up some girl, this was talking to a person he wanted to get to know. It was different and new and he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. What he did know was that he liked her.
‘Norfolk?’ he said, clearing his throat and downing a glass of water. ‘But you once lived here, in the city?’
Frankie dabbed her mouth with the napkin. She’d still missed the little smudge of sauce that Scott had been so taken with earlier. It felt natural, now, to take his napkin and wipe her cheek, smile at the way she was both grateful and a little embarrassed. She called herself a mucky pup.
‘It was a fresh start,’ she said. ‘I wanted a house, not a flat. I wanted space and the sea. I wanted peace, quiet. For my writing. For my children and me. I have two children. Sam – my son – is thirteen. Annabel – my daughter – she’s nine.’ There. That’s me. ‘But actually, it wasn’t just about geography and logistics. I wanted to be gone from what I knew.’ She thought how she’d put into words for Scott something she’d never expressed to anyone else. ‘I’d felt like I was stagnating, time tumbling on with me just rooted to a spot that wasn’t letting me grow. It was like being planted in a barren place.’
Frankie saw him glance at her finger, note there was no ring.
‘I’m a single mum,’ she pre-empted.
‘So that’s a brave thing you did,’ he said and his voice was gentle, ‘finding a new place for you, your kids, on your own?’
She shrugged. ‘Or mad – if you asked my sister Peta.’
‘Frank and Peter?’
‘Peta. Our mother wanted boys.’ She rolled her eyes and Scott really laughed.
‘They see their dad?’
Again, the bluntness, the straightforward question unembellished. It could have sounded impertinent but it didn’t, it came across as thoughtful.
‘Sporadically,’ said Frankie. ‘He’s – unreliable. He’s mostly abroad.’
Scott thought about this and looked steadily at Frankie. ‘Hard on you, hey?’
She laughed that one off. ‘I’m used to it. It’s been a long time. I have a friend who summed up Miles as little more than an annoying fly on the windowpane of my life.’
Scott nodded. They both nodded quietly, then he looked up at her quizzically. ‘She said what?’
Frankie giggled. ‘My friend Kirsty talks a load of old bollocks sometimes.’
Their laughter ebbed away but it left its vestige, like the reprise of a melody remaining in the air long after the song has faded out. Frankie thought, how do we keep this evening going?
‘Room for pudding?’ she said.
‘You betcha,’ he said. ‘Any idea where the washrooms are?’
‘Probably hidden inside a huge column of bamboo.’
She watched him as he went, suddenly surprised by all the action in the busy foyer beyond; guests and their guests and bellboys and bags, the scents and the sounds and the comings and goings amplified by mood lighting and mirrors at strange angles. I am tingling, Frankie thought. It’s all mad and wonderful. A sudden recall of Ruth’s hairdresser randomly telling her it’s the time when you’re not looking that love finds you. Frankie hadn’t looked for ages, years really, because she truly believed the landscape of her life lacked nothing. But tonight? It felt as though her blood was infused with colour and sound and an energy she couldn’t believe was hers.
Just then, in between their plates, on top of a napkin, Scott’s phone beamed into life and right there, between her drink and his, Jenna arrived on the scene like an unwanted guest.
Who’s Jenna?
Frankie deflated. The caller ID photo showed Scott and Jenna, cheek by cheek, cosy in woolly hats and snowy smiles, bathed in togetherness against a stunning winter landscape.
And Frankie thought you stupid idiot – why wouldn’t there be a Jenna? Of course there’s a Jenna.
An utter fool, that’s what she felt. What had she been thinking, ordering a dish with olives when she’d’ve been perfectly happy having that bath with the glass of wine and the free copy of Grazia? Why had she listened to Kate bloody Moss?
‘Hey.’
Scott was back and Frankie thought, why would he be available, someone like him? Of course he’s going to be with a Jenna.
‘Sticky Toffee Pudding,’ he said, passing her the menu. ‘I have it every day.’
‘Your phone – you missed a call.’
Scott checked it. Checked his watch. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I have to call home.’
‘And I think I’m going to call it a night,’ Frankie said, folding her napkin precisely. ‘I’m tired.’ She smiled in the vague direction of the lifts. She was standing up and it struck Scott that he really didn’t want her to go. Not just yet.
‘Wait.’
‘Good night,’ said Frankie, moving away, ‘thanks so much for supper.’ But he stood too and put his hand on her arm though she continued to turn.
‘Frankie.’ He caught her other arm. ‘Wait?’ He said it quietly, now searching for what to say next. ‘Look,’ he scratched his head. ‘OK – so here’s a thing. I hate olives too.’ His eyes were coursing her face. ‘It’s just – I wanted you to eat. And I’d really like you to stay.’ He was rubbing the back of his neck now, agitated, frowning a little. ‘Please,’ he said, and he slipped his hand into hers for a moment, ‘please don’t go just yet. But I need to make this call. Please?’
Frankie watched him walk to a quiet corner to make the call back to the smiley Jenna in those picture-perfect Canadian mountains. If Jenna hadn’t called, Frankie would have been none the wiser. She wasn’t sure whether she should hate her or thank her for it. Bubble bath and a glass of wine. Divine hotel linen, a good night’s sleep. That’s what she needed most. Alice was required on parade for her agent tomorrow and it was getting late.
Oh but Scott and his eyes and his mussed hair that she wanted to touch. Scott who could be only one great big transatlantic fuck-up. Scott who she’d happily kiss. It had been so long. She turned and faced their table. Why didn’t she just stop being Frankie and take advantage of one lone night with a man she desired who she’d never see again anyway? For once in her life, why not pack her personality at the bottom of her case and not bring it out until she was back home, nice and private, in Norfolk? Why didn’t she just live a little, switch her mind off and give her body a treat?
But that’s never been me.
No. She’d go to her room.
She turned again, to head to the lifts.
But here’s Scott, back already, happy as you like.
‘That was Jenna,’ Scott said, standing close, eyes refusing to let her go. ‘My daughter.’
