What Might Have Been (11 page)

18

E
van cursed his stupidity as he drove up Bermondsey Street. Of course Sarah and David were going to be spending the day together, probably off to some pretentious restaurant to eat food served in portions that cost four times as much despite being one quarter of the size, then trailing round Harrods afterwards, or
Harvey
Nicholls, or wherever it was these City boys went to fritter away their outrageous salaries.

Though with Saturday fast approaching, maybe their last few weekends had been an endless procession of wedding duties or household chores instead, and if that was the case, Evan hoped it might count in his favour – as far as he could tell from the one time he’d been in her flat, Sarah hadn’t seemed like one for domesticity. He took some comfort that she still lived in the same place, which meant – probably – she and David didn’t live together, which was a good thing. Prising her out of a situation like that would be even more difficult.

He eased the Mercedes into the traffic inching its way along Jamaica Road, smiling when he spotted the familiar railway
viaduct
up ahead, then gunned the car towards the arches just before the station. The dashboard clock told him it was nearly midday – nine hours until the club opened – though given Mel’s questionable
living
arrangements, that didn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t
be th
ere. Parking the car underneath a notice warning him he’d
be clamped
if he left it there – although seeing as he’d helped Mel paint and hang the sign, Evan wasn’t worried – he walked purposefully up to the dilapidated building and banged loudly on the door. After a few moments he heard the heavy bolts sliding open, and Mel’s face appeared through the gap.

‘Fuck me!’ said Mel, blinking in the sunlight, before pushing the door wide open and giving Evan a hug that squeezed the breath out of him.

‘I’ll pass, thanks.’

‘You never wrote, you never called . . .’

Evan grinned at his friend. He looked like he’d just woken up, which was a distinct possibility. Mel wasn’t exactly someone you’d describe as a morning person – or an afternoon one, come to think of it – which was just as well, given that the club stayed open till five a.m. most nights.

‘That’s not strictly true, is it?’

‘Well, you didn’t say you were coming home.’ Mel shook his head slowly, as if unable to believe who he was seeing. ‘When did you get back?’

‘Last night.’

‘You’re looking good, man,’ said Mel, giving him the once-over. ‘Mister Sumner been kind to you, I see?’

‘Can’t complain.’ Evan folded his arms. ‘So are you going to invite me in, or just make me stand here?’

For a moment, Mel pretended that that was exactly what he was going to do, then he held the door open and ushered Evan inside. ‘So,’ he said, walking round to the other side of the bar and jabbing a thumb at the row of bottles behind him. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Mel, it’s not even lunchtime yet.’

‘And your point is?’

Evan hopped up onto the nearest stool and patted the bar affectionately, happy to see the club hadn’t changed in the year he’d been away. Mel had given him the closest thing to a residency he’d ever had, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday night for the best part of two years, and while the money hadn’t been great – and some nights, had been non-existent – and his fellow band members had come and gone, Evan had loved it, so he’d stayed. Up until
Mr. Sum
ner – as Mel liked to call him – had come calling, and Evan had gone too.

He caught sight of the spot a few stools along where Sarah been sitting when he’d first noticed her, almost as if he expected to see a blue plaque commemorating the location, and he smiled to himself. It was the kind of thing a lovesick teenager might do, and he and Sarah weren’t teenagers. Though during their brief time together, it had almost felt like they were.

Mel coughed noisily, breaking Evan’s train of thought. ‘Well?’

‘Sorry.’ Evan thought for a moment. ‘Whiskey, please.’

Mel indicated the row of bottles on the shelf behind him.
Maker’s
Mark, Knob Creek, Jim Beam, and of course, Jack Daniels. All classic jazz drinks. ‘Bourbon or rye?’

Evan pointed at the Jim Beam. ‘I’m more of a rye man.’

Mel winked. ‘Like the stationers,’ he said, then he roared with laughter at his own joke, and as Evan couldn’t help but join in, he realised it was the first time he’d laughed in a while.

‘So,’ Mel splashed healthy measures of whiskey into a couple of glasses, then slid one Wild-West-Saloon-style across the bar towards him. ‘When are you going to play for us?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m in the mood.’

‘Too high and mighty now after your brush with rock royalty? Which you owe me for, don’t forget.’

‘Not at all. It’s just . . .’

‘Come on,’ Mel insisted. ‘There’s some good guys here now. You might even learn a thing or two.’

Evan picked his glass up and clinked it against Mel’s. ‘Okay.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I can’t. I’m . . . busy.’

‘Well, when?’

Evan thought for a moment. ‘Tuesday night,’ he said.

‘Great. Just like old times. And make sure you play that song I like.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Nat King Cole one.’

‘That doesn’t narrow it down a lot.’

‘You know – the one I can never remember the name of.’

‘
Unforgettable
?’

Mel grinned. ‘That’s the one!’ He downed his whiskey in one, then grimaced, as did Evan when he realised that was probably Mel’s breakfast. ‘So the tour was good?’

Evan nodded, then took a mouthful of Jim Beam. The whiskey burned his stomach, and he remembered he hadn’t eaten anything yet either. ‘Yeah.’

‘I sense a “but” in there somewhere.’

Evan stared into his glass. ‘I missed her, Mel. Really missed her. And couldn’t help thinking that I’d made a mistake.’

‘By going on tour?’

‘By going, full stop.’

Mel leaned over the bar and punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Well, now you’re back. Sorted.’

‘Not quite. She’s getting married.’

‘Not to the wanker?’

‘He’s a
banker
, Mel.’

‘Same thing.’ Mel frowned as he refilled their drinks. ‘When?’

‘Saturday.’

Mel stared at him. ‘
This
Saturday? As in a week’s time?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well, what are you doing sitting here with me then? Go
get her.
’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Why the hell not? If you love her, go and tell her. If she loves you back, you’re sorted.’

‘She’s hardly going to “love me back”. Not after one night, and especially a year down the line.’

‘Depends how good a night it was.’

‘Be serious, Mel.’

‘I am being serious. You never know. Besides, if she doesn’t, then there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.’ He put his glass back down on the bar. ‘But love at first sight does exist, you know.’

‘Says the man who’s been married how many times now?’

‘Three. Which proves my point.’ He grinned again. ‘Seriously, go and see her. Now.’

A flake of paint had fallen from the ceiling and into Evan’s glass, and he fished it out with the tip of his finger. ‘I’ve already seen her.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. The, er,
banker,
was there.’

Mel made a face. ‘And he has no idea about you and her?’

‘Well, he didn’t punch me in the face, so I’m guessing not.’

‘So what’s your next step?’

‘Well, it’s his stag night tonight.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Why is that excellent?’

‘Because it leaves the coast clear for you to go and see her.’

‘Well, it would, if it wasn’t her hen night tonight as well. And besides . . .’

‘Besides?’

‘I’m kind of going. To the stag.’

Mel stared at him, his glass halfway to his mouth. ‘I was going to ask why, but that’d be a bit bleedin’ obvious of me, wouldn’t it?’

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Evan leant back against the bar. ‘And I can’t really not turn up now that I’ve said “yes”.’

Mel rolled his eyes, and reached for the whiskey bottle. ‘Let’s hope that’s not how Sarah feels next Saturday, eh?’ he said.

19

E
van adjusted his bow tie self-consciously using the reflection in the tube window, and wondered whether he’d be the only guest this evening wearing a pre-tied one. He’d flirted with ‘proper’ bow ties before, but had quickly decided that unless you had someone else to tie it for you, or were James Bond – who could probably tie his one-handed and in the dark – life was too short to waste on trying to get the damn things to look half-respectable.

He tutted under his breath as he fiddled with his collar. The evening hadn’t even started and he already felt at a disadvantage, sure the rest of this evening’s guests had probably been taught bow-tie tying on their first day at Eton, along with clay pigeon shooting, how to talk down to the help, and how to be an arse.

David’s words still irked him slightly.
Of course
he owned a dinner suit. Most professional musicians had one, in case they were called upon to play at some upmarket hotel gig or private party, and his hadn’t been cheap when he’d bought it some five years back. He’d been worried whether it would still fit; his most recent engagement – he bristled a little at the word – that had required formal dress had been at the Hilton on Park Lane three Christmases ago, but after he’d nervously discarded the plastic dry-cleaning sleeve that had kept the suit dust-free in the back of his wardrobe since then, he’d been relieved to find that he could still get into the trousers.

Evan let out a short laugh at the phrase, remembering his
discussion
with Sarah in Postman’s Park about the way
Americans
spoke English, and realised he could have used the difference between ‘trousers’ and ‘pants’ in that sentence to make his point, though he knew he should forget getting into her pants, seeing as he suspected he had some way to go before he could even get into her good books.

He sighed loudly, and a distinguished-looking old lady sitting in the next seat looked at him strangely.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just these damn . . . I mean, these ties. Even the Velcro ones don’t make it easy for you.’

‘Hold on.’ The woman reached across and untwisted the fastening. ‘There.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re looking very smart. Going somewhere nice?’

‘No . . .’ said Evan, before he could stop himself, then he quickly added ‘. . . where special. It’s a fr . . . someone’s stag do.’

‘Oh. Are you the Best Man?’

‘I hope so. I mean, no. I don’t really know the groom. I’m more a . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Friend of the bride.’

‘Oh yes?’ The old lady stood up unsteadily as the train pulled in to Charing Cross. ‘So you’re going to check he’s good enough for her, are you?’

Evan nodded as he got up to help her off the train. ‘That’s right,’ he said, though he suspected he already knew the answer
to that
.

He smiled to himself as he sat back down. That was about the size of it – though whether Sarah would take any notice of his opinion was another thing entirely. She hadn’t seemed too shocked when he’d agreed to go this evening, although he had to hope that was because she was a little stunned at seeing him rather than pleased that he seemed to be accepting the fact of her forthcoming
wedding
. And she must have known he was bound to see their wedding announcement – it had been in all the U.S. papers, after all – so maybe she just wanted him and David to be friends. Perhaps that was all she might ever want of him and her too, though trouble was, that wasn’t what Evan wanted at all.

He pulled the crumpled newspaper clipping out of his
wallet
and stared uncomfortably at the photo of the two of them,
wondering
where it had been taken. David was smiling from ear to ear, and Sarah . . . Well, Evan didn’t like to admit it, but she looked happy too.

For a second, he felt like getting off the train and going back home, but he reminded himself this was something he had to do, knowing he couldn’t go the rest of his life wondering what might have been, just like he’d known he couldn’t turn down the Police tour. Okay, so it wasn’t quite on the same scale as the man who turned down the Beatles, but you just knew some things in life had the potential to eat you up forever, and besides, it was important he went this evening to find out what he was up against. He couldn’t present his case to Sarah without at least some knowledge of his rival, and if it wasn’t strong enough, well, he’d just have to live with that. And at least he’d always know he’d tried – though Evan doubted that would be much of a consolation.

Not that he was scared of a little competition. Musicians faced it all the time. But this was different to his music, where Evan was confident in his ability; whenever he was auditioning, people usually judged him on merit against other sax players. He rarely found himself in competition with a completely different sound, or someone who played another instrument entirely. And that, unfortunately, was how he saw things between him and David.

He took a last look at his reflection in the window, then stepped off the train at Leicester Square and fought his way through the usual Saturday evening Soho crowds. It was nearly eight o’clock, so he reluctantly quickened his pace, mindful of David’s earlier emphasis on punctuality – while he’d prefer not to spend more time than was necessary with David’s friends, Evan didn’t want to start the evening off on the wrong foot by being late and upsetting what he was sure were his carefully laid plans for the night.

Pausing at the corner of Greek Street and Old Compton Street, he looked up at the grey-green building, checked the discreet
silver
plate next to the door, then headed up the stairs towards the
reception
desk, before stopping suddenly at the top. What the hell was David’s surname? Had he even told the club that the booking was for a stag party? Establishments could be funny about things
like tha
t.

As he stood there, the girl behind the desk flicked her eyes up at him. She was pretty, in a slightly emaciated way, as if she believed that those size zero women she was reading about in the magazine half-hidden under her desk weren’t simply models, but role models.

‘I’m looking for a private party,’ he said, realising too late how sleazy that sounded.

‘Cook?’ said the girl, consulting her clipboard.

‘No, I’m one of the guests,’ he replied automatically, before remembering he did, in fact, know that was David’s surname. I
t w
as on the wedding announcement, after all. ‘I mean, yes. The, er, Cook party.’

The girl half-smiled before directing him up a further flight of stairs. ‘They’re in the top-floor bar,’ she said. ‘Would you like someone to show you the way?’

Evan shook his head. By the looks of the various people milling around the club’s reception, dressed in that geeky-yet-trendy way the London media world liked to style themselves, his party would be easy to spot. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them.’

He made his way up to the third floor and walked into the bar, where a group of maybe half a dozen men dressed like just like him – though a variety of shapes and ages – were standing in a corner, identifiable as much by the braying noise they were making as by the outfits they wore. David had his back to him, and Evan took the opportunity to size him up: He was tall, sure, but all those business lunches hadn’t done him any favours, and he looked like he’d be out of breath running for a bus – though Evan had to wonder whether David had ever been on a bus in his whole life. Plus, he was a drinker – that was obvious from the slight paunch that had been straining against his rugby shirt earlier, not to mention the contents of his shopping trolley. Couple that with the soft features, and what looked like the beginnings of a bald patch . . . While David had a confidence about him, and could probably be charming company once you got past all that public-school bluster, physically, at least, Evan was confident he had the edge. The year on the road had been refreshingly different in that it hadn’t subjected him to the usual excesses of touring life. There had been very few drugs, hardly any alcohol, and thanks to the well-documented healthy lifestyle of his employer, the hotels they’d stayed in had been picked for the quality of their gyms rather than the quantities in their mini-bars, and for the first time in his professional life, Evan wondered whether he hadn’t actually put on a little muscle and lost a little weight. He even feared he’d lost the taste for beer, although that may have been down to that American ‘lite’ stuff that had been the only backstage option.

Trouble was, this wasn’t a beauty contest. Evan knew from past experience how pragmatic women could be – he could name at least two former girlfriends who’d taken up with him because he was a musician, and then left him a few months later for precisely the same reason – and when it came to making a long-term bet, he knew he’d find it harder to compete. There was no way he could match David financially, but the Sarah he’d known back then hadn’t seemed that fickle, couldn’t possibly be that mercenary. He hoped that was still the case.

With a last anxious tweak of his bow tie, he strode purposefully over towards the group and tapped his rival on the shoulder.

‘Evening.’

David wheeled round, then smiled in recognition. ‘Evan! Pleased you could make it,’ he said, though Evan suspected he was resisting the temptation to look at his watch. ‘Come and say hello to the chaps.’

He found himself being steered into the centre of the group, and readied himself for the usual pissing-competition round of handshakes. Sure enough, as David’s friends were introduced to him, each one tried to crush his fingers in turn, though years of handling a saxophone meant Evan could give as good as he got.

‘Evan’s a friend of Sarah’s,’ announced David, which produced a round of raised eyebrows and ‘aye-aye’s from the group.

‘And what do you do?’ asked one of them, whose name Evan had already forgotten.

‘I’m a musician,’ he said, smiling through the customary five seconds of silence that answer always invoked, as if he’d just admitted to being a pornographer or a serial killer.

‘And are you . . . I mean, do you make a living at it?’ someone else said incredulously, as if any kind of occupation that didn’t involve moving other people’s money around for vast profits couldn’t possibly put food on the table.

‘I get by,’ Evan said, pleasantly.

‘Don’t be modest,’ said David. ‘Evan’s quite famous. He’s just been on tour. With The Police.’

Evan glanced at the sea of blank faces that surrounded him. Judging by the lack of reaction, it was clear that the only Police record any of this lot might have would be for insider trading, and he worried he was in for a long evening.

‘In fact,’ continued David, ‘he and that Sting fellow are on first-name terms. Isn’t that right, Evan?’

Evan shrugged, then took a gulp from the glass of Champagne that someone had handed him. ‘Well, technically, Sting’s only got a first name, so I suppose so,’ he said, reluctantly playing along, though the truth was, even after touring with the band for so long, he wasn’t sure Sting even knew his name wasn’t ‘sax’.

‘So, how do you know Sarah?’ someone else was asking him, and Evan had a sudden, crazy impulse to tell him the truth, but the waitress had arrived to tell them their table was ready. Downing the rest of his Champagne, he stifled a burp and followed the group through into a side room, where a table was set for the seven of them.

‘Come on,’ said David, draping an arm round his shoulder. ‘You sit here next to me.’

And to his surprise, Evan found himself feeling more than a little grateful.