Page 23 of Best Mistake Ever
Even though I’m not performing any more, the fact I’m my father’s son means people are always interested in what I’m up to, even when it’s totally banal and ordinary. I can’t even go out for a meal without people staring and whispering about me, let alone get naked in a hot tub.
Just as I’m thinking this, I hear someone say loudly, ‘So has anyone spotted Jonah yet? Do you think he’ll grace us with his presence?’
‘I can’t imagine him just hanging out with the rest of us, can you?’ a woman in the same hot tub says. ‘Shame though. I’d love to chat to him about why he disappeared from the music scene. I always liked his band’s music.’
Hearing this gives me an unexpectedly warm feeling in my chest. Until another voice pipes up and says, ‘That dross? The guy’s not a patch on his old man.’
The warmth disappears.
This is exactly why I made the decision to lay low in the first place. When you’re as famous as I am, every fucker has an opinion on everything you do.
I slink off back to my office, cursing the accident of being born into the family I was once again.
I don’t see Dee for a few hours as I determinedly stay at my desk, working through a backlog of emails, trying to push away my feelings of FOMO. When she talked me through what would be happening during the festival, she made it clear she’d be on site and on hand till late into the evening each night in case anything was required from the hotel, so I wouldn’t need to get involved. But once again, I’m itching to see what’s going on now. I can hear the happy hubbub of festivities floating in through my office window. There’s live music being played somewhere in the house, a violin I think, and earlier I caught the sound of the piano coming from the library.
It made me yearn to go in there and sit and listen to it. Though I was also aware I was actually feeling the urge to go and get my guitar and play along. It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced that. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like towantto play music.
The judgement I’ve increasingly been subjected to about my musical talent has wrecked my enjoyment in performing though and I’m not exactly keen to invite it here in front of all these strangers.
As I’m finishing up for the day, ready to head next door to the small, one-bedroom ex-gamekeeper’s cottage in the grounds that Tessa and I turned into our home while the hotel was being renovated, I decide to have one last walk around the site.
Not that I’m checking up on Dee. I think I can trust her to do a good job here.
But it’s my hotel so I really should do a quick check-in, even if that means facing the stares and whispers of the festival attendees. It’s ridiculous to think I have to hide away from all this in case I hear someone criticising me. I need to grow a thicker skin and this could be the perfect event to start doing that. The ethos of this festival is all about fostering a sense of community and kindness to every individual, no matter their background or circumstances, after all.
The hotel is thronged with cheerful, friendly looking people, who all seem to know each other. As I walk by them, I feel some of them turn to look at me, but there are no shouts or direct approaches and people let me pass by without bothering me, which I’m relieved about.
After checking upstairs, then walking into the kitchens, which are busy with caterers, then the ballroom and offices, finding everything is being looked after and is running as it should, I’m about to wander back out into the gardens, feeling a renewed sense of composure, when I hear the sound of a female voice singing a cover of a classic jazz and blues number accompanied by the piano, coming from deep within the house. I stop in my tracks to listen. It’s beautiful. Heartfelt, haunting and full of emotion. So much so, it makes all the hairs on my arms stand up.
I walk towards the library, intending just to poke my head in and check it out for a moment before I head off home, but I’m completely floored when I see that it’s Dee standing next to the piano, with the soft light from the low, end-of-the-day sun pouring in through the large picture windows, highlighting her silhouette and making her golden hair shine.
She looks like an angel.
The small audience in the library is as rapt by her singing as I am and I stand rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the beauty of her voice.
I can’t tear my eyes away from her.
There’s something so evocative in the musicality of her voice. As if she’s actually feeling all the emotions she’s singing about. It makes me want to know where that’s coming from. What’s happened to her to make her feel those things.
The song comes to a close and she smiles coyly as the whole room erupts into applause and whistles of appreciation. Turning to gesture towards the piano player that accompanied her, she claps her hands in gratitude and the whole crowd copies her, adding in more whistles.
The atmosphere in the room is electric. And uplifting. My skin rushes with a kind of excitement I’ve not felt in ages and the FOMO intensifies.
The piano player holds open his arms and Dee steps into them, bending down to receive a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Even though it’s probably only meant in a friendly way, an unexpected arrow of envy shoots through me, so that when she pulls away from the embrace and turns to see me lurking at the back of the room, I realise with a shot of regret that I have a scowl on my face.
Her warm smile is replaced with a frown of her own and worry flashes across her features.
I try to clear my expression as she makes her way towards me through the crowd of people, who are now chatting among themselves whilst the pianist noodles around with some background music.
‘Jonah, hey,’ she says as she makes it to where I’m standing by the door. ‘Sorry. I promise you, I’m keeping an eye on things. Jay asked me to fill in for someone who was supposed to sing now. Apparently, my friend, Pete – who I lived with during our second year at uni – told him I loved singing after the pub when we were all drunk and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ The stricken look on her face makes me realise she thinks I’m mad ather for showcasing her amazing voice, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
‘No need to apologise,’ I tell her. ‘I was just surprised to discover you’re such a talented singer.’
Colour rises in her cheeks. ‘Hardly talented.’
‘Your voice is beautiful,’ I reassure her.
