Page 38 of Before You Say Goodbye

“I’ve been calling your home number but nobody ever answers.”

“And you didn’t take the hint?” Bowie asked, stepping back to invite him in. He sounded amused, if not a little irritated. Bowie led the way to the kitchen, his fluffy blue dressing gown floating dramatically behind him like a cape.

Autumn, who had come to investigate, could barely manage a friendly smile. She, Marley and Bluebell had shared an entire bottle of rum and a whole bottle of vodka between the three of them the night before. Her head felt like someone had taken a chainsaw to it. Bowie put the kettle on, inviting the man to sit down.

“Autumn, this is Larry Ross. Larry Ross, this is my girlfriend, Autumn.”

“Nice to meet you.” He reached out to shake her hand. Autumn took it and shook it, but could not summon interest in Larry Ross or whatever it was he wanted. She wished she hadn’t left their bed to answer the door with Bowie and wondered if it would be rude to bid them goodbye and slither back into their bedroom. She was about to do it when she noticed Bowie had taken three mugs from the cupboard, one for each of them. She sat down, dejected. Larry was making small talk. She focused her attention on his bony cheeks, hollow green eyes and pointy, middle-aged nose.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Bowie. How long have you two been together?”

“A couple of months. We met right before I came home.”

Autumn saw judgement flicker across Larry’s face. She scowled at the kitchen counter. Who was this stupid Larry Ross,with his stupid opinions and his stupid, expressive face? She was not in the mood for this.

“Nice,” he said.

“What do you want, Larry?” Bowie asked stiffly, handing him a mug of coffee. Larry took a sip and set it down. He clasped his hands in front of his face and blinked theatrically. Bowie rolled his eyes.

“I need you, Bowie,” he said. Bowie shook his head.

“I’m retired.”

“I know that, but I need you.”

“I know that, but I’m retired,” Bowie repeated shirtily.

“How much do I need to pay you?”

“I have enough money.”

“Then what do I need to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. I don’t want to work.”

Larry guffawed dramatically, quietening himself with a hand across his mouth. His laugh echoed throughout the house. He mouthed a silent sorry at each of them in turn, hiding a smirk behind his fingertips. His playful manner succeeded in making Autumn smile. If she hadn’t been seriously considering the possibility she might have alcohol-induced kidney failure, she imagined she might even like him. Bowie glared at him.

“If my mother comes down those stairs and finds you here, she’s going to kill us both,” he said warningly.

“I know. I’m sorry. But, seriously, Bowie, everybody who knows you knows that your work is your life.”

Larry Ross had a stupid face, but he was right about that. Bowie was still working constantly, no matter what he said. Emma disapproved, but he often hid himself away to scribble down melodies or play compositions on his piano. He and Marley would sit for hours with their guitars in the garden. They talked and wrote and sang together, while the other Whittles enjoyed the sunshine and Autumn tried to focus on writing herown work. Emma, always desperate for attention from her sons, whined incessantly about it.

“Nobody ever wishes they’d spent more time at work when they’re on their deathbed.” She would remind them of this at least once a day and Marley would argue back every single time.

“That saying only applies to people who hate their job.”

“Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” Bowie might add, depending on if he had the energy.

Autumn knew Bowie loved his job as much as she loved hers. He’d been far too ill to do it now for several months. The theatre needed reliable people and Bowie’s unpredictable fatigue meant he couldn’t be relied upon. One evening, as they’d lain side by side on the sofa, she’d asked him if he missed being able to work and he’d almost burst into tears.

“Yes. More than anything. I have stuff in my head that I want to write down all the time, but it’s so painful to work on ideas I know I’ll never be here to see.”

“You should do it,” Autumn said encouragingly. “It’s your art and art should be expressed. Let other people feel it. Imagine if Freddie Mercury hadn’t written ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ because he had AIDS.”

That made him smile.

“Freddie Mercury wrote ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in 1975 and wasn’t diagnosed with AIDS until 1987.”

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