she wanted, and there was to be an unending supply of sweets for Leila, who planned to distribute them to the world’s less privileged children.
Jimmy and the girls were still singing by the time Catherine finally managed to shepherd them up the stairs, and she did have to admit, as they hummed while brushing their teeth, that Jimmy’s new song had a catchy tune. Jimmy was good at catchy tunes, but somehow they never seemed to fit into his rock-and-roll image. When you looked at Jimmy you saw a tall, long-haired, strong, purposeful-looking man. The sort of man who, if you didn’t live in Farmington and didn’t know Jimmy Ashley, you might be slightly threatened by. After all, Jimmy stood out in a crowd in his full-length leather coat. He should be writing songs about mayhem and seducing countless women, but it was always these softy lyrical love songs that he kept on producing. Jimmy might have a skull and crossbones tattooed on his right shoulder, but it was wreathed in roses, and once many years ago when Catherine had teased him about his rock credentials, he’d replied, “I’m a lover, not a fighter, babe.”
He’d more than proved himself right since then.
When she came downstairs Jimmy was still there strumming on his guitar and humming the now familiar tune. He’d opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, which meant he wasn’t planning on going back to the boat anytime soon, and Catherine realized that she was glad. They’d sit and talk about the girls, and her job and the PTA, and he’d entertain her with stories of the band’s latest exploits or whichever kid he was teaching in Rock Club who had the most promise. What Catherine missed mostabout living with him was simply having him around on a week-night, sipping a glass of wine and talking. Loving each other had been a trick they had never quite pulled off, but even after everything that had happened, they still had a knack for liking each other.
“Do you mind?” Jimmy asked, nodding at the wine. “I’ll go back to the boat in a mo, but the forecast said frost overnight. I could do with a drink to help keep the cold out.”
“You need a proper home, really,” Catherine said as she sat down, picking up her glass.
“I’ve got one,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “It’s just that I don’t live in it anymore.”
Catherine took a sip of wine. “I mean you need a proper home for yourself. You can’t go on living in that boat. It’s not even a proper boat, just some floating rust bucket that Billy cobbled together when he was half cut and off his face.”
“Don’t talk that way about Billy,” Jimmy said mildly, referring to his oldest friend and one-time bandmate who had died from an alcohol and prescription drug overdose almost three years ago. “If anybody had a good reason to drink, it was him. He went from the brightest, best-looking, most talented bloke I’ve ever known to a shell of himself in less than five years. He could never let go of what he had once been, that’s the worst tragedy of schizophrenia. Everyone stopped seeing him and only saw his illness, and yeah, it did make him pretty weird and hard to be around, what with him thinking he was being hunted by the FBI, but to me he was still Billy. He was still my best mate. But he knew he’d never have the life that everyone else would, never get married and have kids. So he loved that boat instead.” Jimmy paused. “I miss him.”
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I know you do. And it’s a great boat, but it’s not a home, not for you. If paying the mortgage onthis place is stopping you from getting a flat or something, then we need to think again. I might be able to manage if we cut down a bit.”
“Cut down on what?” Jimmy asked. “You haven’t got anything to cut down on, Catherine. And it’s not a rust bucket. Billy might have been a drunk, but he was a master craftsman.”
“I just don’t think it’s fair that you should be
Jimmy and the girls were still singing by the time Catherine finally managed to shepherd them up the stairs, and she did have to admit, as they hummed while brushing their teeth, that Jimmy’s new song had a catchy tune. Jimmy was good at catchy tunes, but somehow they never seemed to fit into his rock-and-roll image. When you looked at Jimmy you saw a tall, long-haired, strong, purposeful-looking man. The sort of man who, if you didn’t live in Farmington and didn’t know Jimmy Ashley, you might be slightly threatened by. After all, Jimmy stood out in a crowd in his full-length leather coat. He should be writing songs about mayhem and seducing countless women, but it was always these softy lyrical love songs that he kept on producing. Jimmy might have a skull and crossbones tattooed on his right shoulder, but it was wreathed in roses, and once many years ago when Catherine had teased him about his rock credentials, he’d replied, “I’m a lover, not a fighter, babe.”
He’d more than proved himself right since then.
When she came downstairs Jimmy was still there strumming on his guitar and humming the now familiar tune. He’d opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, which meant he wasn’t planning on going back to the boat anytime soon, and Catherine realized that she was glad. They’d sit and talk about the girls, and her job and the PTA, and he’d entertain her with stories of the band’s latest exploits or whichever kid he was teaching in Rock Club who had the most promise. What Catherine missed mostabout living with him was simply having him around on a week-night, sipping a glass of wine and talking. Loving each other had been a trick they had never quite pulled off, but even after everything that had happened, they still had a knack for liking each other.
“Do you mind?” Jimmy asked, nodding at the wine. “I’ll go back to the boat in a mo, but the forecast said frost overnight. I could do with a drink to help keep the cold out.”
“You need a proper home, really,” Catherine said as she sat down, picking up her glass.
“I’ve got one,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “It’s just that I don’t live in it anymore.”
Catherine took a sip of wine. “I mean you need a proper home for yourself. You can’t go on living in that boat. It’s not even a proper boat, just some floating rust bucket that Billy cobbled together when he was half cut and off his face.”
“Don’t talk that way about Billy,” Jimmy said mildly, referring to his oldest friend and one-time bandmate who had died from an alcohol and prescription drug overdose almost three years ago. “If anybody had a good reason to drink, it was him. He went from the brightest, best-looking, most talented bloke I’ve ever known to a shell of himself in less than five years. He could never let go of what he had once been, that’s the worst tragedy of schizophrenia. Everyone stopped seeing him and only saw his illness, and yeah, it did make him pretty weird and hard to be around, what with him thinking he was being hunted by the FBI, but to me he was still Billy. He was still my best mate. But he knew he’d never have the life that everyone else would, never get married and have kids. So he loved that boat instead.” Jimmy paused. “I miss him.”
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I know you do. And it’s a great boat, but it’s not a home, not for you. If paying the mortgage onthis place is stopping you from getting a flat or something, then we need to think again. I might be able to manage if we cut down a bit.”
“Cut down on what?” Jimmy asked. “You haven’t got anything to cut down on, Catherine. And it’s not a rust bucket. Billy might have been a drunk, but he was a master craftsman.”
“I just don’t think it’s fair that you should be
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