Joe opened his locker to get the laptop Fern had issued to him, a battered old hand-me-down ‘from the pool’, though he would have thought ‘the shit heap’ a more accurate description. It was a far cry from his own state-of-the-art Mac Pro, but he supposed Acting Instrumental had a policy on what computers they made available to which staff and he was a very new, lowly volunteer who could be temporary. A shit-heap computer was evidently his level.
Also, he wasn’t turning on his own laptop, to avoid the siren call of his inbox at present. Raf, Nathan and Liam from the band were probably trying to contact him, not to mention Billy, but, though he felt slightly ashamed for ducking them, he hadn’t formulated answers to what he knew would be their very real concerns.
He cast a jaundiced eye over the overheated staff room. It boasted the kind of low chairs that seemed designed to make a tall person uncomfortable. A peek out of the door revealed not a single student, so for the second time since lunch, he broke the unbreakable rule that he shouldn’t be alone until his DBS checked out, and left. Soon he was unlocking a door that led him out of the building directly beneath the outside stairs that clung to the side of the building. From either side, the door looked to be the kind that led to a cupboard or some utility and had presumably been used to access staff accommodation in the days when the building had been a private residence. The flight of stairs was obscured by the bulk of the big rehearsal room and it had only been by chance that Georgine had caught him there on his first day. Wrong-footed at her presence, he’d hovered indecisively as she’d turned and spotted him. Letting her think he had no business being where he was had seemed the easiest way out.
But now he ran up the steps, tapped a number into the keypad and let himself into a corridor with three doors, two on the left and one on the right. He opened and went through the one on the right, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket.
The apartment, apart from being as big as the other two put together, had appealed to him because it was so white and clean looking. Its impressive kitchen area held a battery of built-in equipment, making him appreciate why whoever had planned the apartment had gone with open plan. That kitchen was a work of art and shouldn’t be hidden behind a door.
He crossed to the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of water, then moved into the living area and dropped onto the sofa, taking off his glasses and swinging his feet up onto the coffee table. Opening the shit-heap laptop, he emailed Oggie to let him know Georgine had recognised him, then fetched the photocopies of her storyboards from where he’d left them on the table by the window last night. Her notes had already dropped into his inbox so he searched out a notebook and a pen – he thought better with a pen in his hand. Then he settled down to work.
Interrupting himself, once in a while he tried a couple of lines of lyrics, as the songwriting habit, imbued in him at college, had never left. Something about an old crush being the reason he’d been wary of seriously long-term relationships …? Sounded ridiculous. An immature get-pregnant-to-get-him-to-marry-me scheme a few years ago had been responsible for any wariness he had in that direction, and the woman who’d followed had been so incredibly indiscreet on social media about the details of their relationship that he hadn’t even felt obliged to end things face-to-face. She’d got her revenge by revealing the details of that phone conversation in a Twitter storm that had made him feel sick.
He got up once to make coffee, standing at the kitchen window and staring out at the new block, which replaced what had once been a wonderful view over gardens and paddocks. He felt charged, restless, but made himself return to the work. He kind of wanted to show Georgine what he could do.
His long ago alter ego Rich Garrit continued to invade his thoughts. At nearly fourteen, he would have almost wet himself with excitement to know he was going to meet Georgine France in a pub tonight. She was the prettiest and most popular girl in their school year, and to him an unlikely but highly prized friend. She’d lived in a big house in Middledip village and her parents had a car each: a Jaguar XKR and limo-like black Mercedes.
Young Rich Garrit would have pretended to himself that they were actually going on a date. He’d never asked to start seeing her of course, knowing he’d be destroyed if she’d said no, and, in all probability, so would their friendship. And enough money for an actual date? In his dreams.
Present-day Joe Blackthorn had to explain what Georgine obviously considered strange, if not downright suspicious, behaviour. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to come to terms with that uncomfortable thought.
Rich Garrit had been an odd kid.
But Georgine probably thought Joe Blackthorn odder still. Fucksake. Why wasn’t his life ever simple?
After work, Georgine drove to Bettsbrough. Gold Street, on the left just before the town proper, led her to the sheltered housing where her father lived without her being sucked into the one-way system.
She used her key to let herself in through the main door. There was no sense in using the entry system, which would oblige her dad to ease himself out of his high-seat chair and shuffle across to press the ‘open door’ button. She would have tried to get him some kind of mobile phone-based system so he could remain in his chair while he talked to callers at the door, but his speech was now so unclear that he wasn’t keen. At least that saved her from having to find the money.
Money. Who said it was the root of all evil? To her it was the root of all sodding hassle and disappointment.
No trace of that kind of frustration showed in her face though as she let herself into the flat, past the bathroom and into the sitting room. ‘It’s me, Dad.’
Randall twisted in his chair. ‘Hi, honey!’ It came out more as: ‘Ha unny’ but he’d said ‘Hi, honey’ every time he saw her for as long as she could remember so the imperfect diction didn’t matter.
Cheered just to be with her dad, who seldom complained, no matter what life threw at him, Georgine stooped to hug him as he groped for the TV remote with his good hand to switch off the late-afternoon news. He was bulkier than he used to be and she couldn’t make her arms meet around him. ‘I called in at the supermarket and got the stuff for a full English as promised. Hungry?’
‘Oh, yes. Favourite.’ Randall gurgled a laugh. As his speech had deteriorated he’d compensated by developing a kind of verbal shorthand and making greater use of laughs, groans, nods and headshakes.
Georgine chatted for a few minutes, satisfying herself there was no fresh reason to worry about him, then moved into the kitchenette, switching on the grill to warm up as she unpacked sausages, bacon, eggs and mushrooms. ‘How’d you like your eggs today, Dad?’
‘’Amble, p’ease.’
‘Scrambled it is.’ She pricked the sausages and put them under the grill, letting them get a head start while she cut the rind off the bacon, wiped the mushrooms and mixed the eggs. As she worked, she updated Randall on the Blair-moving-in situation. She knew Blair had visited Randall and told him in person about Warren ending things.
‘Poor Bear.’ Randall couldn’t get his mouth to form the L in Blair very well. He asked a question, which, on the second attempt, Georgine got as, ‘Is she very upset?’
She paused to consider, cooking tongs dangling from her fingers. ‘Putting a brave face on, but I think it’s rocked her. She wasn’t expecting it and she still loves him.’
‘Gi’
