Page 32 of The Player

“Blimey. Matching your musical instruments to your pants is certainly lucrative,” I observe, breaking the silence that fell a while back.

I tried my best on the drive to fill the usual comfortable silence with chatter, but even I was forced to give up when all Igot was monosyllabic grunts. All my work in the lavender field to get him to relax appears to have been useless, and it’s been like travelling with a grumpy caveman. So, half an hour ago, I gave up and read a book on my phone.

Con looks around and huffs. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

“Neither am I,” I say, finally losing hold of my patience. “But it’s got to be done. Just smile and think of the money, for fuck’s sake.”

“You should have that written on a T-shirt.”

“I will, and if Jimmy wants a guitar to match it, you are going to do what?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m going to make it.”

“Good.”

“For that cultural desert of a man,” he adds.

“I can’t hear you,” I state. “My ears are still ringing from your enthusiastic agreement to my little lecture.”

“Littlelecture? You are to little lectures what Bluebeard was to female emancipation.”

I can’t help my snort of laughter, but it dies as we come out onto a circular drive.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe.

The house is an old manor house that is positioned next to a river. The last rays of the sun caress the old bricks and dance on the windows.

Con switches off the engine, and I grab his sleeve. “If he wants thirty guitars, Con, what are you going to do?”

“I am making thirty guitars,” he says in an obedient voice that is slightly spoiled by the robotic tone of his following comment. “Whatever my lord and master wants, I will obey.”

“Good,” I say. “I’ll charge him accordingly. Our prices just went up for custom stuff.”

“Ruthless,” he says admiringly.

We both watch as the front door swings open, and the figure of Jimmy appears.

He’s an ex-boy band member who went solo and struck a chord with his sunny personality and perfect face. He’s made a series of chirpy upbeat records that you can’t help humming along to and then feel deeply ashamed. I guess they paid for this house. That means I must own a roof tile or two. Not that I have any intention of telling Con.

Jimmy is in his early twenties and has a lithe frame, probably from all his dancing on stage. His blond hair is artfully tousled, and he’s wearing jeans that are so tight they might cut off his circulation and a sleeveless shirt that shows off two sleeves of colourful tattoos that he had done as soon as he walked out of the band. He’s also leaning heavily on a walking stick.

“Do you think we should branch out into making designer crutches?” I say consideringly—Con’s head swings around, displaying a face of thunder. “Okay, maybe not,” I say quickly.

I throw my door open. “Mr Fitch,” I say. “Hello. Hope you’re okay.”

He grins at me, and I blink at the powerful smile displaying teeth that are whiter than Lucy’s geraniums in the village show.

“Frankie,” he says. He looks down at his stick. “Oh, this,” he says carelessly. “I sprained my ankle in rehearsals.” He eyes me. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“We’ve met?” I realise it sounds rude, so I modify my tone. “Oh, of course,” I say vaguely. “Nice to see you again.”

Con comes up next to me and stares as Jimmy gives me the most thorough up and down I’ve had in years. I’m not kidding. He probably knows how many fillings I’ve got.

“It certainly is nice to see you,” Jimmy says, drifting closer to me. I consider hiding behind Con, who has a thunderous look on his face. “Can I just say that the photo on your website doesnot do you justice, Frankie. You look better in real life, which of course, I already knew.”

“Well, I was having a bad hair day,” I say faintly, ignoring the second part because I have no fucking idea of where I’ve met him before. I gesture at Con. “This is Con. He’s the creative artist behind the business and the man who’ll be making your guitars.”

To my consternation, he gives Con a dismissive smile and turns back to me. “I’ve laid on some dinner. Would you like to eat with me, Frankie?”

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