London
The doorbell of the dusty little shop tinkled. Sapphire Stevens looked up from behind the counter, where she had been gently strumming on one of the guitars. The lyrics had come to her easily, but she just couldn’t get the melody.
‘How’s it going?’
It was Jerry, back from his lunch-break. He was the friendly-faced owner of the Camden music shop where Sapphire worked part-time. Unlike other places she’d worked, Jerry didn’t mind if she practised when the shop wasn’t busy. Even though he was quite old – at least in his forties – he was really encouraging about her music and always took time out to help her or listen. Sapphire’s dad had died when she was little and she thought of Jerry as the father figure she’d never had.
Sapphire gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, you know.’
Jerry grinned. ‘Don’t tell me, the melody again.’
‘I just can’t get it right,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know why the words come so easily, but the tune won’t.’
‘It’ll come, don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘Even the most successful artists struggle with one or the other. Elton John has worked with loads of lyricists, for example.’
Sapphire laughed. ‘He’s ancient!’
‘Ancient, but very rich,’ Jerry pointed out. He eyed her over the counter. ‘Why don’t you knock off? It’s really quiet today.’
‘If you’re sure? I really don’t mind staying.’
‘Nah, it’s cool.’ Her boss’s eyes twinkled. ‘Go home and start practising. Those melodies won’t sing themselves.’
Five minutes later, Sapphire was taking her usual route home through the twisty streets of North London. It was a fifteen-minute walk home, or a five-minute bus ride, but Sapphire preferred the fresh air. Her life was so hectic, what with college and work, it felt like the only time she could think. As she pounded the pavement, Sapphire noticed a hole beginning to appear in one of her Converse trainers. It was last thing she needed. All her wages from her job went on supporting herself through her art degree at the prestigious Central Saint Martins college. Her mum helped where she could, but money was tight at home. There was just about enough for the two of them to live and eat comfortably, with the odd takeaway or cinema trip thrown in.
A white van drove past and the driver honked his horn.
‘All right, sexy!’
Sapphire blushed beetroot and pulled her jacket round her. At five foot six, with soulful brown eyes and a petite figure, there was no doubt she was a natural beauty. Not that Sapphire ever thought that. Her long, brown hair seemed to have a mind of its own and her double-D breasts were a source of constant embarrassment to her. Instead of flaunting them in tight tops, Sapphire covered up her assets in baggy T-shirts and oversized checked shirts.
She put her head down and hurried home, away from beeping drivers and sleazy comments. Five minutes later she reached an old Victorian mansion that had been converted into flats. It was a rather dilapidated building, with crumbling brickwork and ivy climbing up the walls, but Sapphire liked it. It had character. She and her mother, Leonie, lived in a cramped little flat on the ground floor.
As Sapphire opened the front door the smell of herbs and spices greeted her. ‘Hi, Mum!’ she called out, as she took her jacket off and hung it on one of the hooks in the narrow corridor. A fluffy black and white dog wearing a red neckerchief appeared at the end of the corridor, ears cocked.
‘Hello, Beatle, come here, boy!’ The ancient collie ambled up to Sapphire and stuck his wet nose in her hand. Beatle was named after her mother’s favourite band – The Beatles – and was nearly as old as Sapphire. He was like the third member of their family.
‘In here, darling!’
Sapphire walked into the cluttered, cosy kitchen. An older woman, with the same tumbling hair as her but tinged with grey, stood stirring a big pot on the Aga.
‘That smells good,’ Sapphire said, as she came over to kiss her mum on the cheek. She caught a whiff of patchouli oil, her mother’s signature sent.
‘Lentil curry. I thought I’d make up a big batch and we could freeze the rest.’ Leonie Stevens watched her daughter as she went to the fridge and opened it. ‘You’re home early.’
Sapphire came out from the fridge holding Beatle’s lead. ‘Mum, what’s this doing in here?’
‘That’s where it was!’ Leonie laughed. ‘I must have put it in there by mistake when I came back from our walk. I remember walking in and…’
Sapphire shook her head fondly. ‘What are you like?’
Leonie’s absent-mindedness was a bit of a family joke. She had been the ultimate rock chick when she was younger, and her party-loving lifestyle had left its mark on her memory. Sometimes Sapphire felt more like the mum in their household, but she wouldn’t swap Leonie for the world.
‘Jerry let me off early, the shop was quiet.’
‘There’s a letter here for you,’ her mum said, turning back to stir the pot. ‘It looks very posh.’
Sapphire picked up the shiny black envelope from the kitchen counter. It had an address badge on the front, with her name printed in swirling black letters. It was probably a promotion for a product Sapphire could never afford. Carefully, she opened the envelope and pulled out a stiff piece of black card, covered in gold writing.
‘You are cordially invited to a party celebrating the fiftieth birthday of Brad Masters,’ she read out.
There was a loud ‘plop’ as her mum dropped the wooden spoon in the curry.
‘Brad Masters?’ Sapphire repeated, confused. ‘He’s that big music industry guy, isn’t he?’
Leonie kept quiet. In disbelief, Sapphire carried on reading. ‘It’s being held at his beachfront villa in Capri.’ She looked up. ‘This has to be some kind of mistake! He’s obviously got the wrong person.’
Her mum hesitated. ‘Well, maybe not. I used to know Brad Masters, back in the day.’
Sapphire’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking!’
Leonie nodded. ‘We were close for a while. Well, lovers actually.’
‘You…what?’ spluttered Sapphire.
‘Sex is natural, darling!’
Sapphire stared at her mum in horror. ‘Ewww!’ She couldn’t believe her mum had dated Brad Masters!
Leone smiled. ‘Maybe he’s decided to look me up again; he always was wonderfully generous.’
Sapphire frowned. ‘The invite should be addressed to you then. Brad Masters doesn’t even know me!’
‘Well…’ Her mum started stirring the pot again. ‘He and I have stayed in touch a bit over the years. I may…have mentioned you.’
