Page 47 of The Key to My Heart

After the session, we decided that instead of grabbing coffee, we needed something cold, so we ordered icedteas to take away from an empty just-opened juice bar. A lone photographer from a local paper stood snapping the balloon-arched entranceway on the street, and to mark the opening day, a woman behind the counter had flirtily leaned and slid novelty straw spectacles on Joe’s expressionless face.

‘Um. Thanks?’ Joe had said as she giggled, and outside, he’d stared at me in the glasses, deadpan, then wordlessly dipped the straw into the iced tea and sipped. ‘Not sure if this invention is a win for the species, but … anything’s a life experience, I suppose,’ then he’d walked along in them for a while, pale green liquid travelling around his eyes, as I laughed, before he threw them into his backpack, grinning. ‘That’s enough airtime for those, what do we reckon?’

We arrive at the canal now, in Granary Square, the ice in our drinks already melted to thin shards. For a Thursday, it’s busy, but the summer holidays mean there are families everywhere there usually aren’t. Parents push strollers, children squeal through the water fountains that spurt from holes in the pavement, commuters in their lunch breaks perch on square pallet benches eating takeaway sandwiches, their shirtsleeves rolled up, collars loosened and unbuttoned.

‘So, how are you finding music therapy?’ asks Joe. ‘So far. I know you’re only two in …’

‘Yeah, it’s … good, I think?’ I say. ‘Plus, I’ve never really done anything like this before so I feel like I should persevere – give it some time. It helps Devaj is sounbelievablynice—’

‘Sobloody nice,’ says Joe. ‘So-nice-you-worry-he-might-suddenly-crack-and-lose-it nice.’ Joe flashes me a sideways smile and I almost wish I could take a photo of him with my eyes, like some sort of Terminator, so I could send it to Jodie. He looks good today. Sort of boyband-member good. The tousled dirty-blond hair, the wide hazel eyes, the beige chino shorts and Converse.

‘And how about you?’

‘Music therapy?’ Joe shrugs, ‘I enjoy it, yeah. I try a lot of things, try to keep busy, but the people are sound at NMT. James and Dev are decent blokes. And music is something I’ve always sort of gravitated towards. Especially when shit hits the fan. It helped me when Tanner was in hospital. It was music over people. Well. It’s alwayssomethingover people for me.’ He gives a playful smile. Joe’s an introvert, and I’ve wondered, as we’ve been talking over the last couple of weeks, if that was something that happened after losing his brother, or if he’s always been this way. Grief made me withdraw, retract, like a tortoise, disappearing into its shell.

‘How long was Tanner in hospital?’ I ask.

‘About three months, after the injury,’ he says. ‘He was – basically thrown against a rock, in the sea? He was a surfer. Red-flagged beach. He broke bones, but – it was the head injury he struggled with. The doctors used to say he was lucky really, but – yeah, he’d have never ever agreed with that.Lucky.’He laughs sadly.

‘God. That’s awful.’

Joe nods sadly. ‘He was in an induced coma for a bit—’

‘So was Russ. Over at Melrose. In North London?’

Joe pauses, like he thinks I might say more, but then nods, pushing his hands into his pockets. ‘Nothing much worked, though,’ he says as if he’s told this story, to himself and to others, so many times that the words have lost all meaning. ‘They tried but – progress was so slow it was practically non-existent. And it was like he just gave up.’ Joe runs a hand through his hair and sighs. ‘But, yeah, the music therapy helps. A lot of it does, if you let it.’

I stroll beside him, the hot sun beating down on my bare arms. ‘I hope so. Music’s always been a bit of an anchor for me. It’s why I was actually tempted by the NMT ad.’

‘You saw my flyer,’ smiles Joe. ‘I’m glad. I didn’t think anyone would take any notice. People hate flyers. People aresuspiciousof flyers.’

I laugh. ‘I didn’t realise it was yours.’

‘Yeah.Put it up. Waited for Devaj to be prank-called by the pervs of London town,’ he chuckles.

We wander along, and people trickle by us, cones balancing with mounds of pistachio-coloured ice-cream in their hands, sheens of sweat glistening on their foreheads. Last year there was a three-day heatwave, and I stayed inside the cottage for the entirety of it. I’d pretended to Jodie that I was simply following the guidance on ITV news, because ‘they said closed blinds kept the heat out and the cool in, Jode. I’m doing the clever thing by staying holed up! Thewisething! Heatstroke causes death, you know, and I do not wish to die.’ But really, I just wanted to avoid the pressure of it – to mark it with barbecues and pub gardens and photogenic happiness like I used to.

‘And what other things do you try?’ I ask Joe. ‘Anything I’ve simplygotto do? A cure-all?’

‘A cure-all? Besides a lobotomy?’ Joe replies dryly, removing a hand from his pocket and swiping it through his hair. ‘Mm, I’m not sure. I volunteer a bit. Visit people over at the hospital every week, people that don’t have visitors, which is sometimes supremely depressing, but, mostly, it’s pretty cool. Humbling. I saw a bereavement counsellor for a while, too, but she sobbed once after I shared something with her and I felt guilty formakingher cry, so, yeah, that sort of ended. Abruptly. Got enough guilt without her giving me an extra dose.’ He laughs. ‘Oh, but past-life regression. Jesus. Donottry past-life regression.’

‘Oh my God, did you get put under? Actually hypnotised?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Joe looks sideways at me and grimaces. ‘She basically told me I was some small Tudor boy who was rejected by his father, which I might have been able to get on board with, but then she told me my father was Cardinal Wolsey.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Wow. So, I’m in the presence of an illegitimate Tudor child.’

‘Apparently, yeah.’Joe laughs. ‘Gonna add it to my dating profile. What do you reckon?’

‘Do it. A mention of Cardinal Wolsey and you’ll have dates coming out of your ears. You’re basically famous. A Tudor Brooklyn Beckham.’

Joe and I slow by the railings overlooking the canal, the water thick and gravy-like, and come to a stop,look out. On the verge, by the water, there are grassy steps for seating, almost like stands, at a stadium, and people lounge back on them, shrugged-off cardigans as makeshift blankets, bottles of water warming in the sun.

‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’ I say, leaning against the railing. ‘Two Goode’s customers, meeting like this …’

‘I know,’ Joe says, smiling thoughtfully. ‘I see you all the time. Out the front. With the manager. Shauna, is it?’

‘That’s right. God, I dread to think theawfulstates you’ve seen me in over the last few months.’

---