night.’
‘Not much to tell, really. As you know, I play the sax.’
‘For a living. Which makes you pretty lucky. And special.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do,’ she said, earnestly.
Evan stared off into the distance, surprised to find himself daydreaming that, one day, Sarah might even say those two words while standing next to him, and almost laughed at the idea.
‘What?’
Evan felt himself redden. ‘Nothing.’
‘So, you were saying, Mr. Lucky . . .’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Though it can’t all be down to luck.’
Evan thought for a moment. He was lucky to make a living from something he loved. ‘Actually, it was. If Finn hadn’t been sleeping with that record exec . . .’
‘Come on, Evan. I’m a musician’s daughter, remember. What made you want to play? To put in the hours and hours of practice in the first place? I’m guessing it wasn’t the money.’
Evan laughed. ‘Hardly. No, it was my granddad.’
‘Your granddad? Did he play?’
‘Only records.’
‘Records?’ Sarah scratched her head. ‘Oh, hang on. I think I remember my father telling me about them. Round flat black plastic things with grooves in them, right?’
Evan glared at her good-naturedly. ‘Yeah. He had a bunch of old 78s – all the jazz classics. Basie, Coltrane, Monk . . . He let me play them to death on what I called his “grandadphone” . . .’
‘Aww. Cute.’
‘Do you want to hear this or not?’
‘Sorry,’ said Sarah, contritely. ‘You were saying?’
‘Well, it was then I decided I wanted to be a sax player. Then one day, he came home with a surprise for me.’
‘A double bass?’
Evan reached into the carrier bag, removed a sandwich, and handed it to Sarah. ‘Eat this. It might keep you quiet.’
‘Sorry. Again.’
‘So anyway, he bought me my first sax.’
‘Tenor?’
‘I don’t know how much he paid for it.’
‘No, I meant . . . Right. You got me. Very good.’
Evan grinned. ‘But yeah, actually, it was a tenor sax. And a nice one too. Must have cost him most of his pension money – much to the disgust of my parents, who thought I’d play with it for five minutes then abandon it in some cupboard, much like the expensive Scalextrix set they’d bought me the previous Christmas. But I loved it, you know? Even got blisters from trying to master the thing. And then, just after my twelfth birthday, when my parents died, and I eventually got out of hospital, I moved in with my grandparents and kind of shut myself away in my bedroom to practice.’ Evan stopped talking. Sarah was holding her hand up, like a child in a classroom. ‘Yes?’
She put her hand down. ‘Did it help?’
Evan nodded. ‘Funnily enough, yeah. The sax is a very expressive instrument. Sometimes it can . . .’
‘What?’
He swallowed hard. ‘Express the emotions you find impossible to voice.’
‘That sounds like something a shrink would say.’
‘And they’d be right.’ He forced a smile. ‘So anyway, I got good enough to earn a bit of money busking on the South Bank and picked up the occasional gig on the South London jazz circuit, where I met Finn, and from there . . . well, Jazzed you know about.’
‘And now the G-Spot?’
‘Yeah. Which I love. And while perhaps it isn’t where I see myself playing out the rest of my career, there’s always some session work to look forward to, and the occasional tour . . .’ He took a deep breath, then his nerve failed him, and he couldn’t meet Sarah’s eyes. ‘But it certainly isn’t a bad way to pay the mortgage – ignoring the fact that, given that it’s the only thing I’m any good at . . .’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘. . . it’s my only way to pay the mortgage.’ Evan did a double take, realising what Sarah must have just been referring to, and for the second time in as many minutes, fought to control the blush he could feel starting. He fished inside the carrier bag, removed a
‘Not much to tell, really. As you know, I play the sax.’
‘For a living. Which makes you pretty lucky. And special.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do,’ she said, earnestly.
Evan stared off into the distance, surprised to find himself daydreaming that, one day, Sarah might even say those two words while standing next to him, and almost laughed at the idea.
‘What?’
Evan felt himself redden. ‘Nothing.’
‘So, you were saying, Mr. Lucky . . .’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Though it can’t all be down to luck.’
Evan thought for a moment. He was lucky to make a living from something he loved. ‘Actually, it was. If Finn hadn’t been sleeping with that record exec . . .’
‘Come on, Evan. I’m a musician’s daughter, remember. What made you want to play? To put in the hours and hours of practice in the first place? I’m guessing it wasn’t the money.’
Evan laughed. ‘Hardly. No, it was my granddad.’
‘Your granddad? Did he play?’
‘Only records.’
‘Records?’ Sarah scratched her head. ‘Oh, hang on. I think I remember my father telling me about them. Round flat black plastic things with grooves in them, right?’
Evan glared at her good-naturedly. ‘Yeah. He had a bunch of old 78s – all the jazz classics. Basie, Coltrane, Monk . . . He let me play them to death on what I called his “grandadphone” . . .’
‘Aww. Cute.’
‘Do you want to hear this or not?’
‘Sorry,’ said Sarah, contritely. ‘You were saying?’
‘Well, it was then I decided I wanted to be a sax player. Then one day, he came home with a surprise for me.’
‘A double bass?’
Evan reached into the carrier bag, removed a sandwich, and handed it to Sarah. ‘Eat this. It might keep you quiet.’
‘Sorry. Again.’
‘So anyway, he bought me my first sax.’
‘Tenor?’
‘I don’t know how much he paid for it.’
‘No, I meant . . . Right. You got me. Very good.’
Evan grinned. ‘But yeah, actually, it was a tenor sax. And a nice one too. Must have cost him most of his pension money – much to the disgust of my parents, who thought I’d play with it for five minutes then abandon it in some cupboard, much like the expensive Scalextrix set they’d bought me the previous Christmas. But I loved it, you know? Even got blisters from trying to master the thing. And then, just after my twelfth birthday, when my parents died, and I eventually got out of hospital, I moved in with my grandparents and kind of shut myself away in my bedroom to practice.’ Evan stopped talking. Sarah was holding her hand up, like a child in a classroom. ‘Yes?’
She put her hand down. ‘Did it help?’
Evan nodded. ‘Funnily enough, yeah. The sax is a very expressive instrument. Sometimes it can . . .’
‘What?’
He swallowed hard. ‘Express the emotions you find impossible to voice.’
‘That sounds like something a shrink would say.’
‘And they’d be right.’ He forced a smile. ‘So anyway, I got good enough to earn a bit of money busking on the South Bank and picked up the occasional gig on the South London jazz circuit, where I met Finn, and from there . . . well, Jazzed you know about.’
‘And now the G-Spot?’
‘Yeah. Which I love. And while perhaps it isn’t where I see myself playing out the rest of my career, there’s always some session work to look forward to, and the occasional tour . . .’ He took a deep breath, then his nerve failed him, and he couldn’t meet Sarah’s eyes. ‘But it certainly isn’t a bad way to pay the mortgage – ignoring the fact that, given that it’s the only thing I’m any good at . . .’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘. . . it’s my only way to pay the mortgage.’ Evan did a double take, realising what Sarah must have just been referring to, and for the second time in as many minutes, fought to control the blush he could feel starting. He fished inside the carrier bag, removed a
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