What could I still remember to play? Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now’? Carole King’s ‘You’ve Got a Friend’? I’d played them constantly when I was younger, so hopefully the muscle memory would still be in my fingers.
Marcie stood up and nodded for me to take her place. I sat on the stool, trying not to get distracted by the fact that it was still warm because my idol’s posterior had just vacated it. She stayed behind me, where I couldn’t see her. She was wearing a Chanel perfume; one my mum sometimes wore, except on her it always smelt musty and old-fashioned – on Marcie it smelt fresh and vibrant.
Sod it, I’d play one of Marcie’s songs. Something only connoisseurs knew – ‘I Don’t Believe in Love’, from one of her early albums. I’d driven my family mad practising it when I was a kid.
I readied my fingers on the keyboard, then began. The keys felt solid under my fingers, resistant and yielding in perfect proportion.
I hit a couple of bum notes, but I got through it passably – even the tricky coda.
When I finished, I heard Marcie clapping. Except when I looked round, I realised the applause wasn’t coming from her. Standing next to her, a smug smile on his face, was Nick Jones. When had that fucker snuck in?
‘A woman of many talents,’ he said to Marcie, as if I were an old friend he was introducing.
I faked a game smile. There was no point saying anything untoward to Nick, not if he and Marcie had a thing going.
‘You just happened to be here at the same time as Marcie? That’s quite a coincidence.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ I said, channelling my attention back to Marcie. ‘You were saying we could sit down and chat?’
Marcie looked at Nick and I knew what was coming. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Maybe another time.’
A man was striding over from the front door; I recognised him as the driver of the 4×4. He walked her out of the shop and I was left to face off with Nick.
‘That was not cool, Zoë.’
‘I saw a chance and took it. Any journalist would have.’
‘You were harassing a client of mine – and not for the first time. Do you want me to get the police involved?’
For fuck’s sake. He was kidding, right? ‘I wasn’tharassingMarcie, I was just—’
‘Sneaking behind my back.’ His eyes glinted with anger.
‘You’re the one sneaking behind backs and inveigling yourself with my publisher.’
‘It was a pleasant change talking to someone who understands the relationship between the press and an artist.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘As if Marcie would randomly give a journalist an interview, especially one who butchers her back catalogue.’
Ouch, that stung. ‘She asked me to—’ I closed my eyes for a second, determined not to let him get to me. ‘I happened to be here and we struck up a conversation.’
‘Well, I hope you enjoyed it, because it’s the last one you’ll ever have with her.’
