‘He’s not himself,’ Ravi went on, anger in his voice. ‘He’s going to have to move out of his shoebox in Shepherd’s Bush. What with him not being able to play lead guitar in a successful rock band. Mind you, I’ve got no money either. Pub gigs don’t pay these days. Even when you agree to clean the toilets. Ever cleaned pub toilets, Nora?’
‘I’m having a pretty shit time too, if we’re doing the Misery Olympics.’
Ravi cough-laughed. A hardness momentarily shadowed his face. ‘The world’s smallest violin is playing.’
She wasn’t in the mood. ‘Is this about The Labyrinths? Still?’
‘It meant a lot to me. And to your brother. To all of us. We had a deal with Universal. Right. There. Album, singles, tour, promo. We could be Coldplay now.’
‘You hate Coldplay.’
‘Not the point. We could be in Malibu. Instead:Bedford. And so, no, your brother’s not ready to see you.’
‘I was havingpanic attacks. I’d have let everyone down in the end. I told the label to take you on without me. I agreed to write the songs. It wasn’t my fault I was engaged. I was with Dan. It was kind of a deal-breaker.’
‘Well, yeah. How did that work out?’
‘Ravi, that isn’t fair.’
‘Fair. Great word.’
The woman behind the counter gawped with interest.
‘Bands don’t last. We’d have been a meteor shower. Over before we started.’
‘Meteor showers are fucking beautiful.’
‘Come on. You’re still with Ella, aren’t you?’
‘And I could be with Ellaandin a successful band, withmoney. We had that chance. Rightthere.’ He pointed to the palm of his hand. ‘Our songs werefire.’
Nora hated herself for silently correcting the ‘our’ to ‘my’.
‘I don’t think your problem was stage fright. Or wedding fright. I think your problem waslife fright.’
This hurt. The words took the air out of her.
‘And I thinkyourproblem,’ she retaliated, voice trembling, ‘is blaming others for your shitty life.’
He nodded, as if slapped. Put his magazine back.
‘See you around, Nora.’
‘Tell Joe I said hi,’ she said, as he walked out of the shop and into the rain. ‘Please.’
She caught sight of the cover ofYour Catmagazine. A ginger tabby. Her mind felt loud, like a Sturm und Drang symphony, as if the ghost of a German composer was trapped inside her mind, conjuring chaos and intensity.
The woman behind the counter said something to her she missed.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nora Seed?’
The woman – blonde bob, bottle tan – was happy and casual and relaxed in a way Nora no longer knew how to be. Leaning over the counter, on her forearms, as if Nora was a lemur at the zoo.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m Kerry-Anne. Remember you from school. The swimmer. Super-brain. Didn’t whatshisface, Mr Blandford, do an assembly on you once? Said you were going to end up at the Olympics?’
