Page 22 of Days You Were Mine

‘He’s exaggerating. Wildly.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Rick says.

Jake has swooped upon a table littered with empty fag packets and scrunched-up bags of crisps, which he sweeps to one side. Tom brings over a tray of drinks, including a couple of pints for me and Rick. Jake, I notice, has switched to whisky, which he drinks neat without ice.

He says, ‘As you know, Alice is going to be working on our artwork for the album cover. We should probably tell her a bit about the record.’

‘It’s a rock album,’ Eddie says. ‘But with more ballads than the last one. So we need the artwork to reflect that.’

‘And the love songs are sorrowful and melancholic,’ Tom says. ‘That’s the mood we want to convey.’

‘Can we see the drawing you did the other day? The expression on that guy’s face is exactly what we’re talking about. She’s unfazed by nudity, by the way. We could all take our kit off andAlice would be there with her pencil measuring the distance between our eyes.’

Everyone laughs, including me, I feel myself beginning to relax. I’m not at all self-conscious flipping the pages of my sketchbook, until we come to the latest drawing of Josef.

‘Wow, he’s beautiful,’ Tom says, and there’s a wistfulness in his voice. ‘What a face.’

‘Jake is right. This is incredible work,’ Eddie says, and his approval, coming after a coolness I do not understand, gives me a little rush of satisfaction.

‘Are you sure you want a charcoal sketch? You don’t want to try oils?’

‘Definitely black and white and sort of sketchy,’ Jake says. ‘I liked your idea of us posing as if we were the life models.’

‘We could try out very classical poses so you look like statues but you’re on a stage and you have your instruments around you. Almost as if you’ve been turned to stone.’

‘See? I told you she was good. Robin is going to love this artwork.’

‘Who’s Robin? Your manager?’ Rick asks.

‘He’s an art dealer, kind of our patron really. He spends a lot of time with musicians and actors and writers. He has a whole scene going on.’

‘Please don’t tell me you’re talking about Robin Armstrong?’

‘Yeah, that’s him. He likes to support new talent. He did a lot for the Stones at the beginning.’

Rick clutches a hand to his chest, miming cardiac arrest.

‘The man is a god. And here you are just casually dropping his name into the conversation.’

Jake says, ‘You can meet him if you want. We’ll introduce you.’

And I know Rick feels exactly as I do, that this chance meeting with Jacob Earl, lead singer of Disciples, is causing ripples and repercussions in our lives, his and mine, that seem miraculous.

I marvel at Jake’s confidence when he kiboshes a suggestion for the five of us to go out for a curry.

‘Alice and I might make other plans,’ he says, standing up from the table and holding out a hand to me. And though Rick whistles and Eddie rolls his eyes and Tom laughs, no one seems to care.

The moment the door to his flat closes behind us, things turn frantic. Grabbing each other, kissing, wrenching off clothes. I am torn between the urgent desire to feel Jake on top of me, our skin melding together, his ribs pressing painfully into mine, and wanting to slow down, like he did, wanting to make him wait. He puts his arms around my waist as if to carry me to bed, and I say, ‘Hold on, not yet.’ I begin to kiss a pathway down his chest and hear his sharp intake of breath as I fall to my knees and move closer and closer to his groin.

And so it will be a game of control between us, I realise, as I reach his erection and take him tentatively in my mouth.

Jake says, ‘Oh God,’ and the tortured tone of his voice is a shot of aphrodisiac. After a few seconds I return to the slow exploration of his body, first my lips, then my tongue, and this time he gives a long, low moan and grips hold of my head with his hands, his fingers laced into my hair.

‘Fucking hell, Alice,’ is what he says.

Afterwards, we lie on his sofa, wrapped up together, the room lit only by the lamps outside. Soho is in full night-time swing,the rattle of cabs in the street below, the drunken laughter of strangers.

Inside, though, we are silent, as if it is impossible to put into words what is happening between us.

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