guys. I would have been here sooner, but—” Mark sighed, pushing a hand through his black hair. “Look, there’s no easy way of saying this, so I’ll just come right out with it. I talked to Jeannie for a couple of hours last night, and I just… I just don’t feel my place is in the band anymore. I’ve got things in my life I need to sort out. Things I should have dealt with years ago. I’m going over to Bodega Bay to stay with Jeannie for a while. She’s going to help me work through them.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re walking out on us?” Stefan sounded strangely calm. I was anything but. I knew if I opened my mouth now it would be to emit a scream of pure rage. “A week before we’re supposed to open the tour in Pittsburgh, and you’ve decided that’s it? You’re off?”
“I appreciate this might not be the greatest time to do it, but I just can’t get up on stage night after night. Not with my head where it is right now.”
When had Mark stopped talking like the born and bred North London boy he was and started justifying his actions with a stream of mid-Atlantic psycho-babble? Probably about the same time he’d met and married Jeannie Montacute. A New Age therapist who ran an exclusive rehab facility on the California coast, she had encouraged Mark to quit drinking, start eating a macrobiotic diet and perform yoga on a regular basis. Even though they’d split up within two years of the wedding, they were still close. Closer than the rest of us thought, apparently, if the fact he’d gone to her for advice was any proof.
“And it gives me a chance to spend time with the boys,” Mark continued. “God knows I haven’t seen enough of them over the last couple of years.”
The boys were Mark’s four-year-old twin sons, Gunnar and Sky. He carried photos of them everywhere, dog-eared from being pulled out of his wallet and looked at repeatedly, and their names were embroidered on his guitar strap. A combination of touring and the breakup with Jeannie meant he’d missed their first steps, their first words. Furious as I was with his decision, I couldn’t fail to appreciate his need to watch them grow up.
For a long moment, the five of us exchanged awkward glances. The tension in the room enveloped us like a clammy blanket. Then Davey, always the most forgiving soul, stepped out from behind his bank of keyboards and enfolded Mark in a huge hug.
“All the best, mate. I really hope it works out for you.” Davey pulled back, regarding Mark with a rueful look. “And remember, whatever else happens, we’ll always have that night in Prague with the strippers and the Danish tour guide.”
Stefan’s farewell to Mark was curt, but given the history between the two men, it was hardly surprising. Paul, summoning up his trademark crooked grin, shook Mark’s hand and told him, “Just fuck off and don’t come back, you old bastard,” in a tone conveying the exact opposite.
I almost couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Mark. The announcement of his departure had hit me like a physical blow, and I was afraid if I started telling him how I felt, I’d never be able to stop. But he pulled me into his arms, once such a safe haven for me, and simply murmured over and over, “I’m sorry, Aimee. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I replied, certain he knew I wasn’t just referring to the fact he was leaving. When we finally broke the embrace, we both had tears in our eyes.
With one last affectionate ruffle of my hair, Mark turned and left the room. His slamming of the door seemed to echo for an age after he’d gone.
It was typical of Paul to break the silence. “So that’s us fucked, then.” He glanced at his watch. “The Miller’s Arms should be open, if anyone wants to join me for a pint. There are worse places we could have a wake for the band.”
“Someone should speak to Martine,” Davey pointed out. “The press are going to be all over this as soon as they find out. She
“So what you’re saying is you’re walking out on us?” Stefan sounded strangely calm. I was anything but. I knew if I opened my mouth now it would be to emit a scream of pure rage. “A week before we’re supposed to open the tour in Pittsburgh, and you’ve decided that’s it? You’re off?”
“I appreciate this might not be the greatest time to do it, but I just can’t get up on stage night after night. Not with my head where it is right now.”
When had Mark stopped talking like the born and bred North London boy he was and started justifying his actions with a stream of mid-Atlantic psycho-babble? Probably about the same time he’d met and married Jeannie Montacute. A New Age therapist who ran an exclusive rehab facility on the California coast, she had encouraged Mark to quit drinking, start eating a macrobiotic diet and perform yoga on a regular basis. Even though they’d split up within two years of the wedding, they were still close. Closer than the rest of us thought, apparently, if the fact he’d gone to her for advice was any proof.
“And it gives me a chance to spend time with the boys,” Mark continued. “God knows I haven’t seen enough of them over the last couple of years.”
The boys were Mark’s four-year-old twin sons, Gunnar and Sky. He carried photos of them everywhere, dog-eared from being pulled out of his wallet and looked at repeatedly, and their names were embroidered on his guitar strap. A combination of touring and the breakup with Jeannie meant he’d missed their first steps, their first words. Furious as I was with his decision, I couldn’t fail to appreciate his need to watch them grow up.
For a long moment, the five of us exchanged awkward glances. The tension in the room enveloped us like a clammy blanket. Then Davey, always the most forgiving soul, stepped out from behind his bank of keyboards and enfolded Mark in a huge hug.
“All the best, mate. I really hope it works out for you.” Davey pulled back, regarding Mark with a rueful look. “And remember, whatever else happens, we’ll always have that night in Prague with the strippers and the Danish tour guide.”
Stefan’s farewell to Mark was curt, but given the history between the two men, it was hardly surprising. Paul, summoning up his trademark crooked grin, shook Mark’s hand and told him, “Just fuck off and don’t come back, you old bastard,” in a tone conveying the exact opposite.
I almost couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Mark. The announcement of his departure had hit me like a physical blow, and I was afraid if I started telling him how I felt, I’d never be able to stop. But he pulled me into his arms, once such a safe haven for me, and simply murmured over and over, “I’m sorry, Aimee. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I replied, certain he knew I wasn’t just referring to the fact he was leaving. When we finally broke the embrace, we both had tears in our eyes.
With one last affectionate ruffle of my hair, Mark turned and left the room. His slamming of the door seemed to echo for an age after he’d gone.
It was typical of Paul to break the silence. “So that’s us fucked, then.” He glanced at his watch. “The Miller’s Arms should be open, if anyone wants to join me for a pint. There are worse places we could have a wake for the band.”
“Someone should speak to Martine,” Davey pointed out. “The press are going to be all over this as soon as they find out. She
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