She opened her guitar case. Inside was a 1970 Zemaitis acoustic. Only around three were ever made. It was scratched and scuffed, but that only added to its value. In fact, just having it in the flat probably voided my contents insurance.
‘I wrote a song.’
I swallowed. ‘Really?’
‘Some of what you said got through to me. Maybe I didn’t need that damn necklace, maybe it was a copout I gave myself whenever I tried to write and nothing came out.’
Pure pleasure spread throughout my body. Something I’d said had broken through ten years of writer’s block for one of the most famous singers in the world. I could die happy; tombstone engraving sorted.
She put her mug down. She’d barely drunk it and I didn’t blame her. God knows how long that jar of Nescafé had been open.
‘I’m going to play that song for you now. And if you think it’s any good, you can have your interview. But if you don’t like it, I will leave.’
This was getting crazier by the minute. Of course I was going to love Marcie’s song. She’d never recorded anything I hadn’t immediately loved, including an ill-advised album of duets with Val Doonican.
She fixed me with her blue-green eyes. ‘You have to tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.’
She picked up the honey-coloured guitar, passed the strap over her head and placed her left hand on the fretboard, her index finger resting on a heart-shaped mother-of-pearl inlay.
She started to strum, her fingers picking out a haunting melody that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Then she started to sing.
Her voice was crisp and clear on one phrase, then raspy and raw on the next. She sang about letting go. She was saying goodbye to a lover because she knew her future was without him. And at the end of the song, her lover was wishing her love and luck on her journey. She was letting go and he was giving her his benediction.
The song ended and my ears buzzed in the silence.
Marcie reached forward with her hand outstretched. Her thumb slowly wiped my wet cheek; I hadn’t realised I’d been crying.
She smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
She put her guitar back in its case. ‘Now, let’s start this interview.’
*
It was light when Marcie left. We had talked till four in the morning and then she’d rung Ronan to come and pick her up. I’d waved her off like an old friend as they rattled down my road in a surprisingly battered old Mini. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I powered up my laptop, sat down at my dining room table – mercifully free of taramasalata – and began typing up the interview.
When I was done, I emailed it to Mike and closed my laptop.
I was exhausted but happy. But as I sat dazed on my sofa, not quite able to bring myself to wash the mug Marcie had used –it had her lipstick on it!– I knew there was something I had to do.
Something that had been niggling at me, which I’d pushed down and tried to ignore. But Marcie’s song had pulled everything into razor-sharp focus.
I needed to talk to Simon.
I showered and changed, and got ready for work. It was still barely seven o’clock, but I knew Simon would be up.
As I passed Mrs Hargreaves’s flat, I stopped to stroke Snowy, but all of a sudden her door swung open.
‘Morning, Zoë. It’s going to be a hot day.’
I’d chosen to wear a summer dress because for once I’d checked the weather app on my phone.
‘Can’t wait,’ I said.
‘Was that Marcella Taglioni who came round last night? She knocked on my door when you didn’t answer.’
I frowned because the name was familiar.Shit, it was Marcie’s birth name. ‘Tyler’ was a stage-name.
