Making Music Page 2

  If Karen was in, she could take the opportunity to tell her that she had finally decided not to record the song with Stuart. Not that it had required much thought. She had tried to consider everything Karen had said -- that it was for charity, that she would not have to meet him herself -- but even the idea of it made her feel tearful. No, she could not do it. Not now -- not yet. Perhaps when another year or two had passed…but not now.

  The stairs up to Karen's flat were forbiddingly bleak. The prison-house effect was not improved by a flickering light tube, which bathed everything in white glare and grey dimness, alternately. Jen wondered why the landlord did not do something about it.

  The flat itself was lovely, though, she reminded herself. Small, and cheaply furnished, but with a huge window overlooking a corner of parkland. She had helped Karen move in, and had bought her a potted aloe plant which had now reached gigantic proportions. Karen always said it was the perfect plant for her -- it needed hardly any attention, and did not mind if she forgot to water it for weeks on end.

  She pressed the doorbell, and waited patiently. If Karen were not in, she would simply push the parcel and card through the letterbox. It looked easily big enough.

  "No, don't bother, I'll get it." A man's voice filtered through the woodwork, and Jen felt her knees give under her as she recognised the deep, confident tone. Oh, God! she thought despairingly. Whatever had possessed her to come here, today, at the very moment when Stuart Markham had obviously chosen to make a friendly visit?

  She could have fled back down the stairs, if only she could have believed that her legs would carry her, but the thought of being discovered ignominiously sinking to the ground at the mere sound of his voice made her restrain the impulse. She transferred the parcel and card to her left hand, and put her right hand against the wall for support.

  The door opened, and Stuart stood in front of her. Tall, well-built, with a plain black T-shirt and faded black jeans encasing a lithe, muscular figure. She swallowed. He always looked so fit. He was, too, she remembered: apart from the daily workout, which she had watched in frank admiration, he spent a lot of time hauling instruments and equipment from place to place, an activity not calculated to encourage indolence.

  Or perhaps he had people to do that sort of thing for him, now, she thought caustically. On the evidence of her eyes, though, he did not.

  He had been smiling cheerfully when he opened the door, but the moment he recognised her the smile disappeared, and his vivid blue eyes became flint-hard.

  "Jen," he said curtly, in brief acknowledgement.

  "Stuart."

  She had expected her voice to come out as a croak, but in fact it rang clear and confident, as though she was not in the least put out by this vision from a painful past.

  "I'm here to see Karen."

  He stood aside to let her in, holding the door open with a look of resigned distaste, as if she were a pest exterminator: unavoidable, but unpleasant. Holding her head high, Jen walked past him and into the sitting-room.

  Karen was balancing precariously on a chair, putting the finishing touches to a riot of red and black and dangly things which, since it enclosed a lightbulb, must presumably be called a lampshade.

  "Oh, good heavens, Jen!" she exclaimed, scrambling down hastily, with a look of concern. "I'm sorry -- I'd no idea it would be you."

  "I just came to give you these," Jen said, trying to smile, and placing her gifts on the small round pine structure that served variously as breakfast, dinner, coffee, and occasional table. "Happy birthday -- a few days in advance."

  "You are a darling!" Karen pounced on her and gave her a hug. "Thank you! Although you shouldn't have got me a present as well."

  "It's nothing really," Jen said, forcing a happy smile, acutely aware that Stuart had followed her into the room and was leaning against the wall behind her. "It's a kind of joke -- you'll understand when you open it."

  "Thank you," Karen said again, smiling back at her. "You'll stay for a coffee?"

  Jen's first impulse was to say no. She had carried out her purpose in visiting, and any further contact with Stuart was something she would prefer to avoid. Yet she could feel his mocking smile searing her back, as if knowing she would allow herself to be frightened away by him.

  "Please," she said. "I'd love to."

  Karen brightened up perceptibly. Jen could read the message in the kind brown eyes: good girl, Jen, don't let him beat you!

  "I'll get the kettle on," she said. "Stuart, do you want another one?"

  "Sure." His voice was as languid as ever. If Jen's sudden appearance had been an unpleasant surprise, it had no power to unsettle him. "Black, no sugar, remember?"

  "You're easy to cater for," Karen said, and the phrase stung Jen to the heart, because she and Karen had started saying that, way back when Stuart used to come and see them both.

  She heard Karen walk into the tiny kitchenette just off the living room, leaving the two of them alone together. Determined to show no emotion, she began to flick idly through the heap of newspapers and magazines that littered the table. Karen, she remembered, had a system: the heap moved between table and floor, depending on whether a meal was in progress or not, and when it became too big to move, the whole lot got binned. Then a new heap would start growing in its turn. Judging by the size of this one, another binning was due.

  "You look well, Jen," Stuart said behind her, and she wondered if he guessed how her heart began to beat faster as he spoke.

  "So do you," she said unconcernedly, without moving her eyes from the magazines. She pulled a new one from the heap, and suppressed a small gasp of pain. Unfair! Stuart's eyes bored into hers from the magazine cover, even as they bored into her back from behind.

  She drew in a deep breath, fabricated a confident smile, and turned around.

  "I gather congratulations are due," she said, in her most polite and indifferent voice. "The number one slot again. Is it two weeks now?"

  "Four," he said calmly. He was leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and she would not let herself think how his stance drew the eye downwards, to below the line of his belt.

  She swallowed painfully. She even recognised the belt -- it was the same one he had worn five years ago, when they had first met.

  "Is it really?" she said, still in that artificial tone. "Well, congratulations, Stuart."

  "Thank you," he said impassively.

  Nothing else: no return congratulations. Admittedly she had not reached number one, and never would -- her brand of simple acoustic music stood no chance against the relentlessly commercial manufactured pop that dominated the charts. With a talent like Stuart's, she might have done it, as he had: no one could ignore that raw, powerful voice and that uncompromisingly brilliant guitar work. If she had a voice like Karen's, and a few outstanding session musicians behind her…maybe. As it was -- no chance.

  Even so, she had got to number fifteen, and that in itself was an achievement. It would have been no more than common politeness for him to mention it. Or perhaps, she thought with a sudden access of bitterness, he considered it too far beneath him to notice.

  "So," he said, after a interval of ringing silence, in which the clatter from the kitchen could be clearly heard, "are you in on this record, then?"

  Jen felt her hands clench. How could he be so maddeningly calm about it? More to the point: how could she refuse now? He would know why she was doing it -- he would know, or guess, how badly he had hurt her, so badly that even after two years had passed she could not contemplate doing anything that would bring her into contact with him.

  "I suppose," she said, tilting her chin at him, her voice brittle with desperate resolution. Any moment now she would start crying. She could feel the tears pricking her eyes, even as she tried to avoid looking at him. Why did he have to be here, now, after all this time? Why could he not just have stayed out of her life? "Rhoda is flying over from America especially to be on it, I hear."

 
"And you won't be outdone by her, is that it?" His voice struck her face like a whiplash. "You always have to prove you're better than everyone else?"

  She stared at him in absolute, dumb amazement. In the frozen silence that fell, Karen marched in from the kitchen, holding a tray of steaming mugs in front of her like a restaurant waiter carrying in the piece de resistance of the evening.

  "Coffee," she said brightly, in a tone that quelled any opposition. Jen knew then, beyond any doubt, that she had been listening to every word from the cover of the kitchenette.

  "No," Jen said coldly, staring right back at Stuart. All her sense of intimidation had vanished. She was angry now, pure and simple. How dare he -- how dare this arrogant self-satisfied lying two-timing cheat speak to her in such a way! "No, that isn't it. I just think if she's willing to make a big effort, then I'm willing to make a small one." She turned to Karen, and brought out the artificial smile again. "Karen, I'm in. I'll do the record."

  "Great!" There was nothing artificial about Karen's smile, but then there was nothing artificial about Karen herself. "I'll tell Rhoda -- she'll be so pleased. Go on, Jen, grab a chair." She had turned her back on Stuart, demonstratively cutting him out of the conversation. With Karen the force of nature could no further go. She must be furious. "I'll just shift all this stuff."

  She wrapped her arms expertly around the slithering pile of papers and lifted them off the table and onto the floor.

  "Aren't they due for the bin?" Jen asked lightly, striving to recover her composure.

  "Almost," Karen agreed. "I think I can hold out for another day or two."

  Stuart walked slowly over to the table, pushing a few errant magazines back into their place with his foot as he passed them.

  "Do you ever actually read those things, Karen?" he asked, pointedly ignoring Jen. His bare arm brushed against hers as he reached out to pick up his mug, and she steeled herself to suppress the involuntary shiver that ran through her body at the physical contact.

  "I do actually read them, Stuart, yes," Karen said tartly.

  "All at once?"

  "No. Obviously not."

  "So why can't you -- and I'm only asking out of curiosity -- why can't you throw them away when you've finished reading them?"

  "Is it any of your business?" Karen asked, giving him a challenging look.

  "No," he admitted, smiling faintly, with a mocking edge to the smile that wrenched at Jen's heart, it was so achingly familiar. "None of my business, I agree. I was only asking."

  Karen swept her arm out in an exaggeratedly dramatic gesture.

  "Ask away," she said. "Just don't expect any answers."

  Stuart leaned back in his chair and grinned at her. Again Jen felt the tears stinging her eyes. Once he had smiled as freely and openly at her -- and more, there had been a look in his eyes that was missing now, one she had never seen him give anyone else. Suddenly she felt she did not want to be at odds with him any more. He had hurt her, but that was a long time ago, and if there was still some small shred of friendship to be rescued from the ruins of their relationship, then she wanted it.

  She took a big gulp of hot coffee and forced it past the lump in her throat. Then she stared fixedly into the milky liquid until the starting tears began to evaporate, and she was fit to be seen again.

  "Is it too strong?" Karen asked anxiously, misunderstanding her look. "Shall I get you some more milk?"

  "No, no, it's fine." Jen looked up, and smiled -- a genuine smile this time, without pretence. "No, I was just thinking -- " she sought feverishly for some painless topic of conversation -- "I was just wondering…" -- a thought occurred to her suddenly -- "…this doesn't taste like instant coffee, Karen, have you gone upmarket?"

  "Wow!" Karen flashed her an admiring smile. "You are amazing. It isn't, actually, it's those one-cup filters you can buy." She glanced at Stuart. "You gave me so much grief about instant coffee being worse than tap water, I had to switch. I'm impressed, Jen, I really am."

  Jen shrugged modestly: it had been a lucky guess, that was all.

  "You're getting a taste for decent coffee at last?" Stuart asked disbelievingly, giving her a look of surprise tinged with -- Jen's heart stirred -- positive approval.

  She bit back the first reply that came to mind, which was that she did not care what the coffee tasted like, as long as it woke her up in the morning.

  "I suppose I am," she said self-deprecatingly. "It must be age, or something." She avoided meeting his eye; her self-control was not yet strong enough for that.

  "Well, I never thought I'd see the day," Stuart said blandly. "Miss ‘just give me the caffeine, I don't care what it tastes like' herself?"

  Jen flushed at his accurate portrayal of her -- and, she reflected, his perfect memory of what she had been like two years ago.

  Her lips tightened. She was not that gullible child any more. She was a young woman, reasonably successful, in control of her life and her emotions. She was worth keeping as a friend.

  "I've grown up a bit since then," she said calmly, with just a touch of boredom. Hopefully that would convey the hint that she had passed him on the way.

  "Have you?" he asked, his voice a perfect mix of politeness and doubt.

  Jen turned to look at him, and gave him her sweetest smile.

  "Oh yes," she said, and then turned back to Karen, as though he held no particular interest for her.

  Karen winked at her: atta girl, Jen! It was heartening to feel that although Karen had stayed friends with Stuart, she was not taking his side.

  "I've even learned how to cook," she said mischievously. "Karen can vouch for that."

  "I can," Karen confirmed heartily. "She gave me the most gorgeous pasta with tomato and basil sauce the other day."

  Stuart was looking from one to the other, as if he was not sure whether they were making fun of him. Serve him right! Jen thought.

  "You used to make a mean omelette, I remember that," he said cautiously.

  Jen glanced at him in surprise, and caught him eyeing her with a strange mixture of hostility and -- could it be regret?

  "Not to mention fish fingers," Karen interjected quickly. "Not to mention boiled eggs and beans on toast -- "

  "Now don't you start on me!" Jen cried out, stifling her laughter as she remembered their giggly evening of two days ago. "Otherwise I'll start reminding you of -- "

  "No, no!" Karen waved her hands frantically. "Don't mention the linoleum!"

  "Or the towel rail?"

  "Or the towel rail! And I won't mention the red dress. Deal?"

  "All right," Jen laughed. "Deal." She turned to Stuart, still with laughter bubbling inside her, and for a moment he seemed almost about to smile. "We went through all our disasters the other night."

  "All of them?" he asked softly, and now there was no hint of humour in his face. The blue eyes hardened again. "All your disasters?"

  "No." Jen felt her face tighten. "Not all of them." Not the worst one of all, she thought: not you.

  "No," he said, nodding agreement. "I suppose that would take too long."

  Then, while she was still recovering after that blast, he turned to Karen.

  "I've been thinking," he said, "and I'm not sure that idea of mine was such a good one after all. Maybe we're better off staying here in London."

  "Oh, Stuart!" Karen's voice was frankly exasperated. "Don't be like that. It's a great idea." She looked across the table at Jen. "Stuart was saying we could all go and stay at his place for a while -- you know he's got this big house in the country -- "

  "No," Jen said flatly. "I didn't know."

  "I guess you don't read the magazines," Stuart murmured. "Everyone else seems to know."

  "Maybe I don't find anything of interest in them," Jen said coldly, staring past him. "Sorry, Karen. Go on."

  "Well, anyway, he's had a full recording studio built in the basement, and we were saying it would be fun to do the record there, with all of us. Oh, come on, Stuart, it's a great
idea!"

  Stuart shifted uncomfortably. Jen dug her teeth into her lower lip as she watched him. If he felt the same way about seeing her as she did about seeing him -- not that he had any right to, she reminded herself -- but suppose he did…? Then it was not fair to impose on him, not even for Karen's sake, and certainly not only in order to score off him.

  "Don't worry about it, Stuart," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, and was surprised and even a little shocked at how very mature her voice sounded. "If it's a problem for you having me there, then of course I won't come. I can do my bit here in London -- or even drop out altogether."

  They both stared at her. It was a speech as far removed from the impulsive, up-and-down, everyday Jen as it was possible to be.

  "I mean that, Stuart," she said, feeling rather proud of herself for being so sensible about it. "If you would rather I didn't come, then please say so. I understand completely."

  "No." With an effort, Stuart found his voice at last. "You'd be very welcome, of course. Okay, Karen, we'll go with you on this one. My place it is. And you'll want to start before you go on tour, yeah? Or leave it till afterwards?"

  "The sooner the better, really," Karen said, likewise struggling to regain her equilibrium. "But I'll phone around and see what everyone else's plans are. And I'll keep in touch with you, Jen, of course."

  Stuart nodded.

  "Okay then. And now I'd better be going. I've got another interview this afternoon."

  "It's tough being a star," Karen said unsympathetically. "I should try it some time."

  Stuart grinned at her.

  "You will," he said. "Don't you worry. Next year you'll be wiping me off the face of the earth, and I'll be pleading for a bit-part on your next album." He stood up, with the energetic movements that characterised him. "See you, Jen."

  Jen looked up at him. All the way up, for a full six foot and one inch. She remembered his exact height, from long ago: the last inch was a point of pride. There was little emotion -- either good or bad -- in his voice and eyes, and that, on the whole, was an improvement.