Page 26 of The Key to My Heart

Oh. God.

Congratulations, NATALIE FINCHER, on signing up for … THE LOUNGE CLUB.

OPEN MIC NIGHT CONTEST.

Fucking hell.

10THOCTOBER. £200 PRIZE. 8 HEATS. 4 SEMI-FINALS. ONE GRAND PRIZE: £500 PLUS FULL EP RECORDING SESSION. DOORS OPEN AT 7PM.

‘Oh my God.’ Lucy laughs, butting the table with her midriff, causing it to shake. Coffee brims over the edge of my mug, spilling milky, brown liquid over the envelope. ‘She’s gonered.’

Priya stares at me, the way someone does, waiting for a firework to take off and explode. And it just did. Inside of my chest.

‘Wow, I … Is this—’

‘We paid the entry fee,’ says Lucy, ‘Roxanne and I. Signed you up. You have to have three songs ready. They have a keyboard there, apparently. And a PA. Whatever that is.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right. Wow. This is …’ I look up at Lucy, her face: expectant, oblivious, and I force a smile. ‘Thank you. I’ll, erm … I’ll have to see if I can make it …’

‘I think this is what you need,’ says Lucy. ‘It’ll sort you out, work wonders. It’s long overdue.’

‘Is it?’ I ask, my voice tiny, in the din of the busy café, and Lucy steamrolls over my words.

‘As soon as Rox told me about it, I thought, it’s a sign. A sign that it was your birthday coming up, a sign that we found out about it when we did.’

‘Wow,’ I say again, like a broken robot. ‘And … the Lounge Club. Isn’t that … Didn’t Edie host events at the Lounge Club?’

Lucy’s eyes now slide towards Priya, fingers holding a spoon in her mug, and something lands in my gut. A deep knowing before she’s said even a word.

‘Oh, erm … I …Yes,’ says Lucy, the word like a plaster, pulled.

‘You saw her? You saw Edie?’

‘Well. Bumped into her. It’s London, isn’t it, small bloody world, and she needed her roots done and we went for coffee after,’ says Lucy, barely a breath between the words, and I know Lucy. She can’t lie. When Lucy lies, when Lucy has to keep a secret, it’s like she’s got a mouth full of goldfish, and she’s waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment she can spew them out and set them free.

‘Oh. Right. I didn’t realise—’

‘She’s still in London, yes. Still living locally. Of course, she has to be, for the show.’ And I shove down the urge to say ‘that wasn’t what I was going to say actually, Lucy.’ I was going to say I didn’t realise you were friends again. Behind my back. ‘We just thought, so much time has passed since – you know. The musical,and the funeral and everything and … well, you have to move forward, don’t you? And she really thinks you’ll enjoy it.’ And while words, so many hot, fiery words circle, like a tornado in my mouth, the fortune cookie in my fist shatters.

‘Oh!’ yelps Priya. ‘Er … so, what does it say?’

I look down at the words in my palm. ‘A feather in the hand is much better than a bird in the air.’

‘Er,what?’ Priya laughs, as Lucy squeaks, ‘See! How much more of a sign do we need?’

I thought this is what I wanted. The ideal really – another piece of music, and on my birthday, after a soul-destroying brunch with my friends. But it’s floored me, a little, today. I feel knocked out. Like someone just punched me in the gut, knocked me on my arse. Drained every last bit of energy from me. I was so happy to see it at first, that spark of excitement surging through me like a comet, and the song – it’s Nervous Alibi by The Outfield and it was one of my favourites, growing up. I remember hearing it and thinking it was one of the most desperate, saddest songs I’d ever heard, and asking my dad for the name of it. I’d always add it to mixtapes I’d make for Russ in uni, and I learned it, those beautiful opening notes, and played it for him at the hospital. A kind receptionist had printed it for me. I knew it would make him laugh, hearing it, because he was always so amused at how one ofour songswas a song about someone who didn’t trust their partner to an – in my opinion – unnerving degree. ‘Not exactlyfirst-dance material, is it?’ Russ would laugh. How can this not be him? How can Maxwell be in the dark about this? This has to be Russ. I don’t understand it, but ithas to be Russ.

Then I try to play it. I place my fingers on the keys, but my fingers freeze, as if my joints are refusing to take part in this today. I can’t. I press the first chord. I stop. Crowds swarm past me, things to do, places to go, lives to lead. And my heart aches, among them all, like a squashed peach in my chest. I think of the brunch this morning. I think of the open mic night. Maybe this isn’t Russ. Maybe this isn’t someone doing this forgood.Maybe it’s – my friends. Maybe it’s Edie. Someone trying to make me do or be something I’m not ready for. I look up, and there’s her poster. Of course it is. Bold as brass, glittering – bloodygoading me.

‘Heeeeey,’ says a voice, ‘well, if it isn’t Natalie from the bar. You gonna serenade us?’

I drop my hands from my head and stare up at him. Tom, from the bar. Tom the Target. Tom the bloody stand-in who always seems to be knocking about, wherever I am.

‘What?’

The warm smile slides off his face. ‘Are you … are you okay?’

I glance up at him, and then at the piece of music on the piano stand. My head is full of tangles – like a handful of spaghetti in my skull. I don’t know what this is, and now I don’t know who to trust. If I can’t trust my friends, thenwho’s left?

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