* * *
When he dashes out I allow myself to relax. This might just be the perfect solution. All my friends think I’m at the party, so they won’t bug me. I’ve done enough adventuring this year. Tonight I’m happy to be an observer of other people’s stories.
I’ve thought a lot about what Gabe said earlier. Have I accepted the Edinburgh job because of the link with Sam? Why did I choose Edinburgh?
The job, for sure, but I saw similar roles at Cardiff, Warwick and the University of Gloucester in Cheltenham. I can’t in all honesty claim to have considered any of those.
Maybe it was because of the way Sam always talked about Scotland. Edinburgh helped make him who he is. He discovered music there and a man who looked out for him like his own father should have done. It isn’t Mull. But it might be close enough to visit if I ever decided to go. I fell in love with the Island through Sam’s eyes.
Gabe’s right, isn’t he?
I’m going to Edinburgh because the heart of the man I fell in love with beats there.
Why couldn’t I see my choice for what it was?
I look down over the fast-filling room, its beautifully dressed guests bathed in sea-coloured light. And I remember Sam’s descriptions of silver-sand beaches, of the ocean that changes every hour, of vast sweeping hills and mountains, and the shock of machair peppering the moorlands. Colour and drama and life. More than I’ve ever found in London. And suddenly, he is everywhere – in my memories, in this place, in my future that calls me into next year and beyond.
I can’t escape him, even though I wanted to.
Sam Mullins is as much a part of me now as he was last New Year’s Eve. And I have no idea how to move on.
My phone rings and as I answer I see Osh wave from the stage.
‘Hey, can you find the third set of sliders from the left? There should be a bit of blue tape on the desk beneath them.’
‘Got them.’
‘Great. Move the middle two in that set up to the next mark.’
I do as he says and a warm golden light floods the front of the stage.
‘Perfect. You’re hired. On my way back up, dude.’
I smile and stand up to look at the new wash of light.
And that’s when I see the tall figure moving across the stage, violin in hand.
And I lose my breath.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Sam
I shouldn’t be on the stage yet, but my A string was dodgy so I’ve restrung it. Not the best time to make a change, but it’s preferable to losing the string mid-gig. Plus, I need to keep busy.
A guy in a blue velvet suit that looks like it’s been nicked from a 1980s lounge singer is pacing the stage, a tablet in one hand and the other pressed to a hands-free earpiece. He backs towards me as he talks and I have to put my hand out to block him from the line of instruments behind me. At the last minute he looks over his shoulder and stops, raising the tablet as a sign of apology. I sincerely hope he’s working here. The last thing I need is a stage invasion from random drunks before the gig even begins.
I watch him give a thumbs up to the glass control-booth on the mezzanine floor above us, then hop down from the stage and make his away towards the steel and glass staircase. I look up at the booth, curious to see if his co-workers have been forced into the same woeful velvet monstrosity – because I can’t believe anybody would wear a suit like that out of choice. But the darkened glass just reflects the lights from the room. Even when I shield my eyes and focus harder I can only make out shadows inside it. At least our only request regarding dress code was to wear all black. Judging by that poor bloke, we got off lightly.
* * *
When I return to the dressing room my friends have been enjoying the free hospitality a little too much and have started singing. I’d better keep an eye on them or else the guests may well get a show they aren’t prepared for.
‘Hey, hold off the beers a bit now.’
‘Aw, Sam Mullins, Party Pooper!’ Niven yells.
‘Whatever. Just think of how much you’re being paid for this gig. If you drink too much you can kiss that goodbye.’
That works more effectively than a vat of coffee.
* * *
The first set runs like a dream. DeeDee receives a warm round of applause for her Ella Fitzgerald medley and turns back to us all wearing a look of pure shock. It hardly ever happens at events like these, especially not during the opening set. To quote Niven, the crowd aren’t usually reekin’ enough to enter into the spirit at that point but by the time the third set begins just after Big Ben’s chimes (always with ‘Auld Lang Syne’, of course), the crowd are normally so inebriated that they’ll dance to pretty much anything.
When I’m playing, I can forget everything else. This is what I know: it never lets me down or abandons me. I’m not usually one for sentimentality at New Year (usually because I’m too busy with a gig) but this one is significant. This year began with so much hope and promise but now I feel its weight dragging me down. I’m determined to mark what I have achieved, though. I’ve learned things about myself this year that I never expected to. Even the lessons that bruised me – Frank, Phoebe – have been important. I won’t be looking to repeat that kind of lesson next year, mind. I have learned more than enough about Sam Mullins.
Tonight we’re playing two sets with the DJ taking the stage in between, so we have two and a half hours to kill until our next. I suggest to the others that now might be a good time to enjoy the complimentary food rather than the beer. They head back to the dressing room yelling, ‘Yes, Dad!’ and I smile as I watch them go. DeeDee hangs back and when I finish checking my fiddle she’s waiting for me.
‘Samuel. Walk with me.’
She loops her arm through mine and we follow our designated route out of the building, skirting the catering area behind an enormous star curtain and passing stacks of boxes and flight cases on our way to the warehouse doors.
‘I’m worried about you,’ she says.
‘Don’t be. I’m good.’
‘So you say. So you’ve kept saying ever since we loaded in this morning. I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now.’
I stop walking and look at her. She’s wearing that expression she always adopts when a lecture is imminent – where she manages to raise her eyebrows and frown at the same time.
‘Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t need to hear it, Dee.’
‘Babe, you do. Why didn’t you ask Meg about your girl?’
It’s a kick I wasn’t braced for. ‘Phoebe is not my girl.’
‘Maybe not now but she was. No way that woman hired you out of all the bands she could’ve had for this gig unless she had a plan. No offence, but you don’t even have an events band. I mean, we’re here and we’re rocking it, but this isn’t what we do. We’re tours and studio sessions and live sets, and if we’re not doing our own stuff we’re doing someone else’s. We ain’t weddings, New Years and Bar Mitzvahs, babe.’
I have to laugh at that. ‘Okay, fair enough. Meg didn’t have the chance to chat, even if I’d wanted to. I mean look at this gig – you reckon she even has time to think, keeping all this going?’