‘I’m not sure there are any here tonight. But if I see one, I’ll send him your way.’
He clinked my champagne glass with his gin and we both took a sip. Mine was depressingly warm, thanks to Delaney.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you,’ he said. ‘You’re wearing a dress.’
‘All in honour of you, Pat.’
‘And you look very good in it too. I saw how that Hands Down chap was looking at you.’
‘That was fury, not lust,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’
‘Pinnacle look after the band. I’ve seen the sales figures. You wouldn’t believe the units they shift,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘My god-daughter asked me to get her tickets to Hands Down for her tenth birthday.’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘Ten seems a bit young. Have you heard their lyrics? The closest The Beatles could get to singing about sex was ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’. But Hands Down wail about bumping and grinding, without any attempt at a metaphor, and they’re marketed at pre-teen girls. It’s not right.’
‘Aren’t they just love songs?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Those boys wouldn’t know love if it bit them on their waxed arses.’
He smiled a refreshingly nicotine-stained smile. ‘Maybe I’ll buy her a subscription toRe:Soundinstead.’
‘Much better idea.’ I gave his hand a squeeze. ‘I’m going to miss you, Pat. Are you sure you want to retire?’
‘Hardest decision I’ve ever made.’
‘You’re sixty-five, Pat. You deserve some time off for good behaviour. A chance to let that suspiciously full head of hair down.’
He ran a hand through hair that seemed to get thicker every time I saw him. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying. Elton might have given me the name of a specialist, but that’s all I’ll say...’
‘You should have been a diplomat,’ I said. Then, ratherundiplomatically, I added: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Marcie?’
He shook his head and my stomach lurched. Marcie Tyler was a notorious recluse and I’d staked everything on an interview with her for the magazine. She’d sold 150 million albums, was rumoured to have been the inspiration for David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’, and was just out of rehab. Patrick had been her manager for years and we’d both hoped she might make an appearance tonight, but they’d fallen out and hadn’t spoken for a decade. To be fair to Pat, she hadn’t spoken to many people in the last ten years – and certainly no journalists. An interview would be a spectacular coup and would prove to my publisher that my vision for the magazine was right.
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way to get to Marcie,’ he said. ‘You’re a very resourceful woman.’
Patrick always knew the right thing to say, but before I could thank him for the faith he had in me, Justin, his partner of thirty years, appeared. ‘Sorry, Zoë, I need to steal Pat away from you.’
‘Uh-oh, sounds like I’m in trouble.’ Patrick winked at me.
‘We’ll be at the vineyard in Crete at Christmas. Come for a break and drink yourself silly, then we’ll find you a nice Greek man like your parents always wanted.’
I’d given up on finding a nice man – Greek or otherwise. Music was a great industry to work in, but it made for a terrible dating pool. I dated the news editor ofNMEa few years back, but he kept wanting to know what I got up to on the nights I went out without him – and not because he was the jealous type. God forbid I stumble on a news story he’d missed because he was at home watching back-to-back episodes ofStar Trekin his pants.
Being single suited me just fine. It meant that if the mood took me I could stay in and watch the Federation’s finest in my pants, too.
But Patrick was one of life’s good guys and I was going to miss him. Tears blurred my vision and I hastily swiped a finger under my eyes. God, what was wrong with me? In this mood, I may as well just go home – the last thing I wanted to do was descend into full-on blubbing. It had been a glorious July evening when I’d set off, but British summers being what they were, I’d wisely brought along my leather jacket for the journey home.
I made my way to the cloakroom and handed my ticket to the attendant, but instead of disappearing behind the velvet curtain to retrieve my jacket, he leant forward and grinned.
‘I fuckinglovedwhat you said to that pop star prick.’
‘Jonny Delaney? You heard it all the way out here?’
He shook his head. ‘I was doing drinks earlier. I passed by with a tray and lingered. No one notices waiters; it’s like wearing an invisibility cloak.’ He pointed over my shoulder and grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, he heard it too.’
A tall man in a dark suit was stalking towards me. Unlike the attendant, he did not look amused. His brow bone cast a shadow across his face, and as he moved, the lining of his jacket flashed angry red silk. He came to a rest beside me, his sleeve scratching the skin of my bare arm. He didn’t speak or turn his head; he simply placed his hands flat on the counter, which the attendant took as a cue to hightail it behind the curtain.
He looked about my age and had one of those profiles you usually see immortalised in marble in museums. The way his brow, nose and jaw aligned would have made Pythagoras sing. This was good-looking on a mathematical scale.
