In the interval, I waited and watched. As soon as I saw the security man go to the bar, I took my chance and headed backstage to the dressing room. I took a deep breath as I stood outside the door, unsure of what I’d say. I was a cauldron of mixed emotions: angry, sad, hurt, confused, most of all curious. I needed to know why. Why had he dumped me? I needed to find him, hear it from him, look him in the eyes and see what was there.
I knocked on the door. ‘Come in,’ said a voice I recognized as Lou’s. I opened the door and he was sitting on a stool in front of a mirror, guitar in hand. He went white when he saw me and I heard him say ‘shit’ under his breath.
‘I need to speak to Jack,’ I said.
He looked around as if for help, a man in a corner with nowhere to escape to.
‘Where is he? Why isn’t he here? Why’s he not with the band tonight?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Oh Christ. Jack. He was killed last year, before we left for the States. Motorbike crash on the M1, on his way to see you, I believe. A lorry went into him, skidded, he didn’t stand a chance. Not Jack’s fault. It was a filthy night.’ Lou looked angry, as if he blamed me.
I felt as if I’d been hit full force in the abdomen, a body blow. ‘Killed? But … why didn’t anyone let me know?’
‘No one had your number. We looked through his things, honest, searched everywhere but he … he must have had your number on him or in his head and then we had to go to the States and leave it all in the hands of Dave, our producer over here.’
‘So why didn’t anyone tell him to contact me?’
Lou gave me a look I’ll never forget. It said, why would we? You weren’t important. Just another girl chasing after a bass player, one of many. Lou would have had no idea what we meant to each other, and why should he? We’d done our best to play our relationship down.
‘I am sorry, Mitch. I think Dave tried to find you but none of us even knew your surname.’
‘You left to go to the States? Didn’t go to his funeral?’
Lou looked sheepish. ‘We had to go. It’s what Jack would have wanted.’ He sounded irritated. ‘We all agreed on that and we did a tribute night to him in San Francisco.’
‘Did you? How big of you.’ I turned and left. I wanted to strangle him but it wasn’t his fault. Jack and I had agreed not to tell the band what we were to each other. I stumbled out of the venue onto the street, trying to take in the enormity of what he’d told me. Jack killed on the night he was coming to me. He hadn’t given up on us. All that anger and hate I’d directed to him had been wrong, all wrong. I found a shop doorway, collapsed down to the cold concrete where I sat and cried like a wounded animal. Sara Rose. I’d let her go. Would I have kept her if I’d known what had really happened? One hundred per cent I would. I would have found a way. She wouldn’t have been a reminder of a bad time, of being let down, she would have been a reminder of the best man and best time I’d ever known.
Chapter Seventeen
Jo
Present day, January
Another three pounds down, not bad going seeing as we’ve just had Christmas. I had a programme worked out. Jogging. Pilates. Yoga. The 5:2. I was seeing a nutritionist. My body is a temple and, seeing as mine had turned into the Parthenon, I had some rebuilding to do. So far, so good. Since my experience in hospital, I had renewed energy, and after being nose to nose with my mortality, the world looked a brighter place. What had worried me before was now like water off a duck’s back.
My daughter Kirsty doesn’t like her job so goes in late, gets reprimanded, then wants to retrain, again. I’ve already forked out for three different courses since college. Not this time, amigo. The bank of Mum is closed.
My son Graham got done for speeding and has had his driving licence taken away. No, I will not be ferrying you about.
My grandson, Jason, is smoking dope. Get over it, kid. I am not going to spend more sleepless nights worrying over you or trying to talk sense into you because you never listen to me and are going to do what you want anyway.
My granddaughter Holly’s been dumped by her arse of a boyfriend. Tough, I know. I’ve been there. Turn the page, move on. Find a boy worthy of you.
And while you’re all at it, start looking for your own place to live, do your own laundry, cook your own meals, make your own beds, do your own grocery shopping, stack the dishwasher, and clean out the shower after use. That ship – of having me as your unpaid servant, babysitter and all-round mug – has sailed.
I picked an angel card from the pack this morning, bought for me by a neighbour when I got out of hospital. It said, ‘Spread your wings and say yes to invites’.
Bend stretch, bend stretch, morning exercise.
Saved by the phone ringing. It was Sara Meyers.
‘Simon Redburn is doing the second programme about men’s friendships,’ she said.
‘Simon Redburn the cricketer?’
‘Ex-cricketer.’
‘God, I love him.’ If meeting Simon was on the agenda, it was beginning to sound tempting. ‘If we did take part, would we meet people in the other programmes?’
‘Possibly, there’s usually an end-of-recording party which everyone goes to.’
‘Let me think about it,’ I said. ‘Ally is still insistent she won’t take part, though.’
‘Maybe she fancies Simon so could be persuaded if she could meet him.’
‘Doubt it. It was only
