Page 40 of Crazy Love
“He can’t come. He has food poisoning.” How glibly the lie rolls off my tongue. There’s a talent I totally knew I had, getting an unexpected airing. I haven’t had much cause to lie since I left school. “He’s spent the last four hours heaving. We can’t even get him out of the bathroom, let alone down here and on stage. Sorry,” I apologise, lifting my shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Threaded with truth, that’s the way to make it plausible.
“What do we do?” One of Callahan’s assistants asks.
“What’s the policy?” enquires the second.
“They’ve made the effort.”
“He can’t help it if he’s sick.”
“And what was it that caused this sudden affliction?” Callahan silences them both. I’m sure he’s heard a thousand million excuses in his time. “Too much booze, perhaps?”
“A prawn cocktail, we think.” I look to the boys for back-up, and they nod. Knox loves seafood. He’s always on the beach, eating vinegar soaked muscles out of a paper cup, or else trying to force feed the rest of us calamari curry, so it’s not too far-fetched that he might have happened upon a few dodgy shrimps and got a bellyache. We’ve all done it, just like everyone’s had burning ring after a take-away madras.
“I see. And when do you envisage Mr. Knox being well again?”
“I’m not sure. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, maybe?”
Callahan purses his lips and sighs through his nose. He turns his head away from us. I really hope that’s not a dismissal.
“Ladies, perhaps you can start us off.”
OK, relief unknots a few of my majorly tensed muscles. It sounds as if we’re expected to stick around a bit longer at least.
Jessie leers at us as Bitch Slap climbs onto the stage.
“What have you got for me?” Callahan asks.
“Our crowd pleaser from last night.” Jessie takes the central mic, relegating the band’s real talent to the wings. I’m astonished and unsurprised all at once. Jess has some serious ego on her. Loveday ought to be the one singing. Her voice is far more arresting. I watch her ready her instrument. A Fender not too dissimilar the one Knox favours, but with Jazz pickups in place of a humbucker. She’s looking pretty today—hair a shiny mass of buttery gold strands—for all that she’s being forced into the shadows to make way for Jessie’s sour-grapes ranting. That’s what this song is, even with its catchy tune and thundering chorus. It’s essentially a two-fingered salute at my brother.
It’s a stupid, stupid choice.
Callahan stops listening half-way through and starts shaking his head. At least he allows them to finish rather than bellowing “Stop!”
“Interesting,” he says at the close, which we all know is a polite way of saying it was shite. “But I don’t think it’s quite what I’m looking for.”
“Why not?” Jessie demands, anyone else would just accept his word as gospel, but she’s got to prove she’s tough and doesn’t take shit lying down.
“It’s not a commercial sound, Ms. Lyn.”
“Yeah, but we have other songs.”
“That you chose not to present.”
A tremor of rage rolls through her angular frame. “We could do another one. It’s not a problem.”
“No. I’ve heard enough.” It’s impressive how placid and calm, Callahan keeps his voice.
“Well, they haven’t got anything at all,” Jessie barks, failing to realise that she’s doing more harm than good with her shouting.
Callahan turns back to us. “Is that right boys? You don’t have anything?”
“We’ve plenty,” Joel replies, stepping forward. “But we need Knox for it to sound right. We’re sorry we can’t play for you this morning, Mr. Callahan. Truly sorry. If he was here, then…yeah…absolutely.”
Joel lays it on a little thick, but it does the job. Both assistants produce Filofaxes, and start meticulously scouring through dates for an empty time slot.
“There’s Thursday at the studio,” the dark-haired one says. “It’d mean sending a boat to collect them though.”
Callahan shakes his head. “We’re going to need the place on lock down. That’s not a good time.”
