I took a step forward, careful to stay in the shadows.
She was staring at her hands, which were resting on the keys. Her short nails were painted peacock blue. They were exactly the same shade as her leather ankle boots, which had silver buckles and a wooden spool heel. I recognised the designer – her shop was in Soho and I walked past her window often, coveting her handmade designs.
Marcie suddenly looked up. Her blue-green eyes were ringed in dark eyeliner, her lashes heavy with mascara. I was caught in her laser stare, my mouth hanging open like a haddock in a fishmonger’s window.
‘Don’t think I don’t know you’re there, young lady.’
‘I... I...’Shit, say something, Zoë.‘I love... your boots,’ I said. ‘Suzi D’Arcy, right?’
She glanced down at her feet as if to check. ‘Yes. Not many people know Suzi.’
‘I walk past her shop all the time. Her stuff is beautiful.’
‘She made them in this shade especially for me.’
‘They’re exquisite.’
I felt light-headed. I was having an actual conversation with Marcie fricking Tyler. She wasn’t just telling me to sling my hook.
I thought about paying her another compliment, but then I’d sound like a crazed fan. I’d mean every word of it, but she didn’t need to know the depths of my awe.
I gave myself a little shake, trying to get back into professional editor mode. ‘I’m Zoë Frixos, by the way, fromRe:Sound. I’m friends with Patrick Armstrong. I was hoping to talk to you.’
She seemed to shrink back on the stool. ‘An interview?’
‘I know you don’t like to give them, but you’ve got so much to say, and so much is written about you that you have no control over.’ Oh God, she was going to ask me what I was talking about, and I’d have to admit I had a Google alert on her name and knew about every bonkers rumour that had ever circulated about her.Smooth, Zoë.
‘Where did you say you were from?’
‘Re:Sound.’
She made a face. ‘Don’t you usually prefer to interview man-babies who can only play three chords, yet think they’re Jack White?’
She had a point. The magazine had tended towards whiny guitar-based bands who requested they be interviewed in lap-dancing clubs. It was the first thing I’d put a stop to when I’d taken over two years ago. ‘I’m the first female editor and I want to take the magazine in a different direction. Go back to basics, talk to real musicians and cover real issues.’
Well, she wasn’t laughing in my face, which was a win. Was she mulling over my offer?
‘How did you know I would be here?’
Damn, it had started off so well. How to reply without getting Dawn into trouble? ‘My office is just round the corner.’ This was true, at least. ‘Sometimes I pop in here.’ Completely untrue.
‘Do you play?’
‘Piano?’
‘No, chess.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, piano. What else?’
Oh crap, I was getting sass from Marcie Tyler. ‘Yes, but not very well. I’m a music journalist cliché – can’t play well enough to be in a band, so I write about them.’
I was hoping the self-deprecating shtick would raise a smile, but she didn’t react.
‘Play me something.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Play something. I want to hear how this piano sounds.’
She’d obviously skipped over the fact that I’d just explained I was a terrible pianist. But this was a command, not a request, and besides, I wasn’t sure I could ever refuse Marcie Tyler anything. Panic welled up in my throat, but I forced myself to take a breath. This wasn’t going out on the main stage at Glastonbury, this was a couple of minutes of tinkling on a piano. I could do this.
