Page 36 of The Last Love Song
‘Yeah, and this time don’t forget where, Ian.’
After several attempts to start the van, Ian waved and chugged off down the street. Con and Derek followed him and turned right to walk over Tower Bridge.
‘Smoke?’ Derek offered a packet.
‘Cheers.’ Con took an Embassy out of the packet and both men lit up.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Staying at home with Sorcha. You?’
‘Oh, I have to keep my mum happy and spend it with her,’ said Derek with a shrug. ‘I’m all she has. You know what families are like.’
Con didn’t reply.
‘So, you’ve been with the band almost a month now. What do you think of us?’
‘I think you’re all grand,’ said Con generously.
‘I’m not asking about personnel. I want to know what you think of the sound.’
‘Well now, I think Ian’s a fierce good drummer when he’s not whacked out of his head. Todd can write...interestingsongs, and you’re more than a bit nifty on the rhythm guitar. How’s that?’
‘It’s a cop-out, Con, that’s what it is. I know the problems we have. We don’t have a strong enough identity. We’re like a thousand other groups all trying to be the Beatles or the Stones. Yet the reason those two bands are doing so bloody well is that they aredifferent.’
The pair reached the other side of Tower Bridge.
‘Listen, fancy a bevvy, Con?’ asked Derek.
‘Ah, sure, I’d love to but I can’t. I have to meet Sorcha from work in twenty minutes and Piccadilly’s a fair walk from here, so it is.’
‘Okay.’ Derek shrugged. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Bye.’
Con watched him as he walked off. There was something sad about Derek, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Con turned and began to walk quickly in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.
She was already waiting for him in their usual coffee place in Archer Street.
‘Hello, beautiful.’ He kissed her and sat up at the bar next to her. ‘Good day?’
‘Not bad. It’s fierce busy with all the Christmas shoppers. We’ve had to employ two extra girls to help out. What about you?’
Con took out his tobacco tin and began to roll up a cigarette.
‘Ah, ’tis fine.’
‘Did you play Todd your new song? You said you were going to?’
Con took a drag of his cigarette. ‘I know I did, but I feel like I’m treading on his toes. He writes the songs for the band and that’s the way he wants it to stay.’
Sorcha brushed a piece of lint off Con’s collar. ‘Well, did you at least ask if you could have a number to sing? He couldn’t begrudge you one song, surely?’
‘Thanks,’ Con said as the waitress passed him his cappuccino. ‘Well now, I reckon he might. He has a mighty big ego. Ah, Sorcha, let’s leave it until after the festive season. We have ten gigs in the next two weeks. That’ll mean some extra money to see us through for a while. I don’t want to jeopardise that by stirring things up. Besides’ – he kissed her on the nose – ‘’tis the season of goodwill to all men, and that includes egotistical singers, stoned drummers and short rhythm guitarists.’
‘Fine, I’ll let it be. As a matter of fact, I have some good news of my own.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘One of the girls who works in gloves and handbags knows of a bedsit in her house in Hampstead that’s empty. ’Twould be a fair bit more than we’re paying, but the roof doesn’t leak and Bridget says it’s quite spacious.’
