band? What’s it called?’
‘I haven’t got a band and it hasn’t got a name. I’m putting something together for a one-off thing, a friend’s wedding.’
‘I’m going to be the guitarist,’ said Amos.
‘It’s just an amateur thing, then,’ said Frank, dismissively. ‘I thought you meant something serious.’
‘What’s so good about being serious?’ said a voice behind me. I turned in my chair and squinted up to see who was speaking. A tall man with soft brown hair in a wing over his forehead, grey eyes with crows’ marks around them, wide white smile, crumpled shirt.
‘This is Hayden,’ said Frank, then added, as if he couldn’t help himself: ‘He plays in a real band.’
Hayden studied Frank for a moment. His smile disappeared and his face seemed thinner, older, colder. ‘You’re a bit of a tosser, aren’t you?’ he said softly. ‘I play music, that’s all.’
Frank blushed a deep, unbecoming red. It seeped into his hairline. Even his ears turned red. I almost felt sorry for him. He muttered something about getting a drink and left. Hayden remained. ‘What do you play?’ he asked me.
‘Oh, this and that. Piano. Violin.’
‘She plays everything,’ said Amos, proudly. He was behaving as if I was his girlfriend again. ‘She only has to pick up an instrument to know how to play it.’
Hayden ignored him and concentrated on me. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bonnie.’
‘Hello, Bonnie.’
He held out his hand and I took it. ‘Hi,’ I said. Then: ‘This is Amos.’
Hayden nodded at him. ‘Sorry about Frank,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No,’ said Amos.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A spicy tomato juice, please.’
‘One spicy tomato juice coming up – oh, except I don’t seem to have any change on me.’
I laughed and stood up. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said. ‘What are you having?’
‘A lager, I think. I’ll come with you.’
We left Amos scowling at the table and stood at the bar. Several people recognized Hayden, calling out in greeting. There was an ease about him, a casual familiarity.
‘What kind of music will you be playing in this band?’
‘I’m not sure yet – maybe a bit bluegrassy, and country stuff, folk.’
‘Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, that kind of thing?’
‘Yes! Exactly.’
‘I love that. Soulful, spine-tingling music.’
‘Me too.’
Our drinks arrived and we carried them back to the table. Amos was looking sulky. ‘I noticed you didn’t get one for me,’ he said.
‘You said you didn’t want one.’
‘I thought this was going to be just you and me,’ he muttered, and Hayden raised his eyebrows.
‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Is there a vacancy?’ asked Hayden.
‘Vacancy?’ Amos leaned forward pugnaciously.
‘In your band, Bonnie. I’d like to be involved – if you need any help.’
‘We don’t need anyone else,’ said Amos. ‘We’re full.’
Hayden ignored him. ‘Bonnie?’
‘You’re probably out of our league.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ he said. He stared at me as if I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. ‘What about it?’
‘Are you serious? You don’t even know me.’
‘No, but this way I will.’
Later that day I went with Neal to a little street market in Stoke Newington, near his house. Stalls had been set up under striped awnings, selling local honey, organic vegetables, burgers and sausages in soft white rolls, and also beaded cushions, incense sticks, strings of beads – things whose bright charm fades as soon as you get them home. It was another warm evening and there were swallows among the plane trees.
When Neal had rung me, he had been awkward, blurting out the invitation, and now he was shy. We wandered among the stalls. I bought us both a glass of white wine that came from an English vineyard and tasted pale and flowery, and he bought a tub of black-bean salad that we shared.
‘You know,’ he said, as we stood and watched a
‘I haven’t got a band and it hasn’t got a name. I’m putting something together for a one-off thing, a friend’s wedding.’
‘I’m going to be the guitarist,’ said Amos.
‘It’s just an amateur thing, then,’ said Frank, dismissively. ‘I thought you meant something serious.’
‘What’s so good about being serious?’ said a voice behind me. I turned in my chair and squinted up to see who was speaking. A tall man with soft brown hair in a wing over his forehead, grey eyes with crows’ marks around them, wide white smile, crumpled shirt.
‘This is Hayden,’ said Frank, then added, as if he couldn’t help himself: ‘He plays in a real band.’
Hayden studied Frank for a moment. His smile disappeared and his face seemed thinner, older, colder. ‘You’re a bit of a tosser, aren’t you?’ he said softly. ‘I play music, that’s all.’
Frank blushed a deep, unbecoming red. It seeped into his hairline. Even his ears turned red. I almost felt sorry for him. He muttered something about getting a drink and left. Hayden remained. ‘What do you play?’ he asked me.
‘Oh, this and that. Piano. Violin.’
‘She plays everything,’ said Amos, proudly. He was behaving as if I was his girlfriend again. ‘She only has to pick up an instrument to know how to play it.’
Hayden ignored him and concentrated on me. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bonnie.’
‘Hello, Bonnie.’
He held out his hand and I took it. ‘Hi,’ I said. Then: ‘This is Amos.’
Hayden nodded at him. ‘Sorry about Frank,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No,’ said Amos.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A spicy tomato juice, please.’
‘One spicy tomato juice coming up – oh, except I don’t seem to have any change on me.’
I laughed and stood up. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said. ‘What are you having?’
‘A lager, I think. I’ll come with you.’
We left Amos scowling at the table and stood at the bar. Several people recognized Hayden, calling out in greeting. There was an ease about him, a casual familiarity.
‘What kind of music will you be playing in this band?’
‘I’m not sure yet – maybe a bit bluegrassy, and country stuff, folk.’
‘Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, that kind of thing?’
‘Yes! Exactly.’
‘I love that. Soulful, spine-tingling music.’
‘Me too.’
Our drinks arrived and we carried them back to the table. Amos was looking sulky. ‘I noticed you didn’t get one for me,’ he said.
‘You said you didn’t want one.’
‘I thought this was going to be just you and me,’ he muttered, and Hayden raised his eyebrows.
‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Is there a vacancy?’ asked Hayden.
‘Vacancy?’ Amos leaned forward pugnaciously.
‘In your band, Bonnie. I’d like to be involved – if you need any help.’
‘We don’t need anyone else,’ said Amos. ‘We’re full.’
Hayden ignored him. ‘Bonnie?’
‘You’re probably out of our league.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ he said. He stared at me as if I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. ‘What about it?’
‘Are you serious? You don’t even know me.’
‘No, but this way I will.’
Later that day I went with Neal to a little street market in Stoke Newington, near his house. Stalls had been set up under striped awnings, selling local honey, organic vegetables, burgers and sausages in soft white rolls, and also beaded cushions, incense sticks, strings of beads – things whose bright charm fades as soon as you get them home. It was another warm evening and there were swallows among the plane trees.
When Neal had rung me, he had been awkward, blurting out the invitation, and now he was shy. We wandered among the stalls. I bought us both a glass of white wine that came from an English vineyard and tasted pale and flowery, and he bought a tub of black-bean salad that we shared.
‘You know,’ he said, as we stood and watched a
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