phone’s keyboard ready to type her name into the appropriate time slot on his schedule, so Sarah fixed a smile on her face. ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said.
10
E van cursed his lack of nerve as he drove out of the car park. He’d been desperate to tell Sarah his news, but he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, and besides, how did you tell someone you’d just met – someone who’d moved here from the States – that you were about to move there for the next twelve months?
He’d been still buzzing from their night together when he’d arrived at the hotel earlier, and was sure that had carried itself into the way he’d played at the audition – though ‘audition’ was stretching it – it had been more like an audience. He’d recognised the man himself at once, of course, even though he’d been sporting a beard, but Evan had assumed Sting had just wanted someone to do some session work on one of his jazz albums. Little could he have guessed that the Police were reforming for one last farewell – and that it would mean he might have to make a few farewells of his own.
He felt sorry for the guy he’d be replacing – after scarcely a week’s rehearsals, the band had been having their doubts about him, and had wanted to see who else was out there – but even though the offer had been last-minute, he knew the tour was too good an opportunity to turn down – a year, travelling the world with one of its biggest ever bands, starting and finishing in the States – and the money . . . But then again, for Evan, it was never about the money. Though he cursed his bad timing. Finally, he’d met someone he might have a chance of some sort of future with – though he’d be hard pressed to explain why he thought that already – and his music, the thing that had brought them together, was likely to keep them apart. And as much as he wanted to go on the tour, Evan found himself almost wishing he hadn’t been asked.
Gunning the Mercedes through an amber light, he drove quickly towards Borough, then circled the block in search of a parking space, eventually squeezing the car into a bay at the top of Long Lane. It was still too early to phone Mel – the hours he kept were somewhat nocturnal – so, keen to share his news with someone who’d understand, he headed towards the familiar café and peered through the window. As usual, Finn was busying himself behind the counter, his hands whizzing expertly around the front of a huge chrome-plated coffee machine, just like they used to do over the keyboards he once played in Jazzed.
Evan paused to hold the door open for a young black woman struggling with an enormous pushchair, then made his way towards the counter and cleared his throat noisily. ‘Can you tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, please?’
Finn, still with his back to him, stopped what he was doing. ‘You not a coffee lover, then?’
‘Would I be here if I was?’
‘That’s a bit of a deep question for a Friday.’
As Finn turned round and grinned at him, Evan leaned heavily against the counter. ‘You ain’t heard nothing yet.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘Doesn’t look that good, given the expression on your face.’
‘No, it is, it’s just . . .’
Finn turned back towards the coffee machine, placed an espresso cup under the spout, and punched a button. ‘Do I need to tell the missus to buy a hat?’
‘Nothing like that. Though . . .’ He waited until the machine had finished its noisy spluttering. ‘I have kind of met someone.’
‘Kind of ?’
‘Yeah, but . . . it’s complicated.’
‘Aren’t all of yours?’ Finn gave Evan a look over his shoulder. ‘Does she have a name?’
‘Sarah.’
‘And what’s the complication?’
‘I’ve been offered a gig. A big one.’
Finn removed the cup from the machine and placed it on the counter. ‘The Police thing?’ he said, waving away Evan’s attempt to pa y.
‘How did you
10
E van cursed his lack of nerve as he drove out of the car park. He’d been desperate to tell Sarah his news, but he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, and besides, how did you tell someone you’d just met – someone who’d moved here from the States – that you were about to move there for the next twelve months?
He’d been still buzzing from their night together when he’d arrived at the hotel earlier, and was sure that had carried itself into the way he’d played at the audition – though ‘audition’ was stretching it – it had been more like an audience. He’d recognised the man himself at once, of course, even though he’d been sporting a beard, but Evan had assumed Sting had just wanted someone to do some session work on one of his jazz albums. Little could he have guessed that the Police were reforming for one last farewell – and that it would mean he might have to make a few farewells of his own.
He felt sorry for the guy he’d be replacing – after scarcely a week’s rehearsals, the band had been having their doubts about him, and had wanted to see who else was out there – but even though the offer had been last-minute, he knew the tour was too good an opportunity to turn down – a year, travelling the world with one of its biggest ever bands, starting and finishing in the States – and the money . . . But then again, for Evan, it was never about the money. Though he cursed his bad timing. Finally, he’d met someone he might have a chance of some sort of future with – though he’d be hard pressed to explain why he thought that already – and his music, the thing that had brought them together, was likely to keep them apart. And as much as he wanted to go on the tour, Evan found himself almost wishing he hadn’t been asked.
Gunning the Mercedes through an amber light, he drove quickly towards Borough, then circled the block in search of a parking space, eventually squeezing the car into a bay at the top of Long Lane. It was still too early to phone Mel – the hours he kept were somewhat nocturnal – so, keen to share his news with someone who’d understand, he headed towards the familiar café and peered through the window. As usual, Finn was busying himself behind the counter, his hands whizzing expertly around the front of a huge chrome-plated coffee machine, just like they used to do over the keyboards he once played in Jazzed.
Evan paused to hold the door open for a young black woman struggling with an enormous pushchair, then made his way towards the counter and cleared his throat noisily. ‘Can you tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, please?’
Finn, still with his back to him, stopped what he was doing. ‘You not a coffee lover, then?’
‘Would I be here if I was?’
‘That’s a bit of a deep question for a Friday.’
As Finn turned round and grinned at him, Evan leaned heavily against the counter. ‘You ain’t heard nothing yet.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘Doesn’t look that good, given the expression on your face.’
‘No, it is, it’s just . . .’
Finn turned back towards the coffee machine, placed an espresso cup under the spout, and punched a button. ‘Do I need to tell the missus to buy a hat?’
‘Nothing like that. Though . . .’ He waited until the machine had finished its noisy spluttering. ‘I have kind of met someone.’
‘Kind of ?’
‘Yeah, but . . . it’s complicated.’
‘Aren’t all of yours?’ Finn gave Evan a look over his shoulder. ‘Does she have a name?’
‘Sarah.’
‘And what’s the complication?’
‘I’ve been offered a gig. A big one.’
Finn removed the cup from the machine and placed it on the counter. ‘The Police thing?’ he said, waving away Evan’s attempt to pa y.
‘How did you
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