His soft expression suddenly hardened. ‘Is there someone else?’
I closed my eyes. ‘I think I’m fated to be single for ever.’
Simon smiled sadly. ‘I’m starting to think that you and Twisted Sister were right all along: loveisfor suckers.’
‘I’ll always be your friend, Si. If ever there’s a day I’m not, you can send Zak Scaramouche to hunt me down.’
That raised a smile. He leant forward in his chair. ‘But how can you be sure? Maybe you just need time to adjust to this new aspect of our friendship. Call it V2.0.’
‘But real love – love that inspires you to write songs or stops you from sleeping or makes you risk everything – is either there or it’s not.’ I felt more sure of myself now. ‘You don’t have to adjust to it; you don’t grow into it. We’ve known each other long enough. If you’ll have me, I want to be your friend, yourbestfriend. The sort of friend who’ll help you bury the bodies and not ask questions.’
‘Is there nothing I can say to convince you that you’re wrong?’
I shook my head sadly. ‘One day you’ll see I’m right.’
I got up because there was nothing left to say. My tea stayed undrunk on his kitchen table, and we didn’t hug or say anything as I stood on his doorstep. I gave his unyielding hand a tight squeeze and walked away.
*
I don’t know how I got through the day. The high of interviewing Marcie helped a bit, especially when I told Gav and Lucy about it.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Lucy. ‘You do realise that you’re the first person to hear a new Marcie song in ten years.’
She was right, but it hadn’t sunk in at the time. I’d been too lost in the music to think about anything other than the pain in her voice and the pain that echoed in me.
Rob had already designed the Marcie spread. It was four pages – twice as long as a regular feature. But the truth was I’d struggled to stop writing; I could have filled the whole magazine with Marcie.
Mike had spoken to the board and they were drawing up fresh contracts and pay rises for everyone now that the new investment was guaranteed.
Our normal print run was fifty thousand and I rang Mike to see if he thought it needed changing.
‘Shall we increase it?’ I asked. ‘Sixty thousand or maybe sixty-five to be safe?’
Mike’s chuckle came down the line. ‘Zoë, they’re cutting down rainforest as we speak so we have enough paper. We’re estimating a print run of a hundred thousand.’
This wasamazingnews. Apart from the bit about the rainforest, obviously. Mike was joking, wasn’t he? Our paper came from sustainable sources, buta hundred thousand? That was comparable to the heyday of the magazine in the seventies.
Okay, so the print-runs would return to more rainforest-friendly sizes, and maybeRe:Soundwouldn’t survive another thirty years, but I’d given it the best possible chance.
And when the day came for me to hang up my boots, at least they’d still be there for editor number fourteen.
