I Remember You by Martin Edwards Page B

Harry’s a local solicitor.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ The girl sniffed as if she’d been introduced to a lavatory attendant.
    â€˜Tracey’s one of our rising stars,’ said Sophie. ‘The weather report today - who knows what tomorrow may bring?’
    â€˜The football results, most likely,’ said the engineer as he lifted a cassette marked kwikslim from the bank of pigeon-holes which ran across one wall of the control room. With casual efficiency, he flipped it into the machine in front of him and pressed a switch. Another silly little tune played, followed by two housewives discussing the merits of a new miracle diet.
    â€˜Okay, Harry,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re on.’
    He took a deep breath and, clutching the bits of newspaper like a passport to a new world, opened the door into the studio. Baz waved him to one of the three vacant chairs round the table.
    â€˜Welcome. I hear last night ended with a splash, so far as Finbar was concerned. Rumour has it he’s not one of my lord and master’s bosom buddies.’
    Harry wasn’t in the mood to discuss Finbar. All he wanted was to make sure the next ten minutes passed as quickly as possible and without too much embarrassment. ‘I have the snippets here,’ he said, fanning the bits of paper out on the table between them.
    â€˜So, this is it, eh? First broadcast to the nation, right? Don’t worry. Next thing, “on your dressing room door they’ve hung a star”, and all that crap. Now, this is simple. After the news bulletin, Tracey will tell us when the fog is going to clear and the moment I start talking about the lane closure on Runcorn Bridge, you wet your lips and get ready to speak, right,’ cause there’ll only be seconds to go. Okay? Good luck.’
    The local news was bad, as usual: an attempted murder in St Helens, redundancies at a printing firm, a drugs haul in the docks, a strike in local government. The weather outlook was equally grim, but Harry was past caring. His mouth was dry and he was wishing he was anywhere but behind a microphone.
    Suddenly, the microphone was open and he was on air. How he actually sounded to the indifferent outside world, Harry was never sure. Against all expectations, his time on air sped by. The stories he had chosen seemed to go down well, with Baz chuckling at regular intervals, and the lead-in to his choice of song was less of an ordeal than he’d imagined.
    He didn’t tell the whole truth about the song, of course, describing it simply as an old favourite. It had hooked onto a peg in his mind long ago, but had acquired a special meaning since Liz had left him. Whenever he walked along the Liverpool streets he had walked along with her, he couldn’t help but recall how much in love they had once been. He didn’t know how to forget her when there was always so much to remind him of the past.
    At last Baz was thanking him and giving a thumbs-up sign and farewell wave as he cued in the next jingle. ‘Great, Harry. See you around.’
    He made his way to the other side of the panel, where Sophie mimed applause. She had been joined by a young man with an anarchic haircut and John Lennon glasses; Harry recognised him as an authority on the tangled web of Liverpool politics.
    â€˜Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I told you it would be a success. Thanks a million, sweetie. You know your way out, don’t you?’
    And that was it. The show would go on and Harry’s part in it was history. He wandered back alone through the labyrinth and a couple of minutes later found himself outside in North John Street where it had begun to spit with rain. He turned up his jacket collar as people hurried past on their way to work, oblivious of his presence.
    His flirtation with stardom was over.

Chapter Seven
    â€˜Have you heard the news?’
    Suzanne’s tone as he arrived at the office was hushed, yet her eyes sparkled with