Page 31 of Love You Like That (Excess All Areas 4)

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“Zoe, love. Well, isn’t this posh?” her mum said two days later as she sat down on the brown leather sofas placed in front of the old stone fireplace of the hotel they were staying at in Stoke.

“Built in 1845 apparently. Nearly two hundred years old,” Zoe replied. It felt old, as if the whispers of the history the room had seen were etched into the intricate wood panelling and heavy red drapes. A little boy sat across the room at a round table with his parents. His feet swung back and forth in a steady tempo. He’d make a good musician. Drums given the steady adagietto pace. Or a percussionist like her.

The dad placed his hand on his son’s knee beneath the table to stop him.

A pity.

Because there was a certain amount of joy to his expression until he was stopped. Then his shoulders slumped a little.

Why did parents not see the musicality of their children? The country had an unnatural obsession with maths, English, and science. As if arts weren’t the single thing people turned to when they needed comfort. Literature to transport, art to inspire, and music to dream to.

“They certainly do a cracking lunch,” her dad said, rubbing a hand over his slightly protruding stomach. “It was lovely Cerys could join us.”

Zoe smiled thinly but ran her fingertips along her left temple where the headache hurt most. “Yeah. It’s been nice to experience this together.”

“You could be doing this in your own right, you know.” Her mum sat forward.

You. Own right.

“If you are trying to tell me this could be me, you’re wrong. Even if I was performing, it would be for a specific performance and here and there. Or permanently in one spot. Orchestras don’t go on multi-month-long world tours.”

“Stop being pedantic, Zoe. You know what I mean.”

“Anyway,” Zoe said, prolonging the word to make it clear the conversation was done. “Yes, it was lovely of the band to invite me along while the kitchen and bathroom get fixed. The landlord hasn’t even found a contractor yet. Nine days, and all he’s done is turn the water off to stop the leak and secured the rest of the ceiling himself. Glad I’m not there trying to get work done.”

“Tell me how your assistant work is going?” her dad said.

“It’s fun. And growing. Oh, and it’s mobile, obviously. I’m helping authors with all kinds of things. Making graphics, proofreading, making these things called series bibles where you write down all the important details from each book…dates, eye colour, names et cetera. Whatever they need. And my first author recommended me to two of the women in her close circle, so now I’ve got quite a bit to do.”

“It’s great you’ve got work,” her mum said. “But it’s a waste of your talent. I’m sure if you called your uni lecturers and went back to college, you’d…”

Zoe tuned the rest out. She’d heard it all before.

You dropped out with only half a year left.

Still paying for your college loans without a degree to show for it.

All those sacrifices we made.

Blah. Fucking blah.

As if she didn’t already feel uncomfortable enough in her own skin. Nothing felt right.

Maybe good sex really was all she needed to escape the thoughts pounding through her brain every day.

She caught Alex’s eyes at the reception desk. Concern for her suddenly etching his features.

“Are you okay?” he signed, and she’d never been more relieved he’d started to learn and use the basic BSL signs.

Ever so slightly, she shook her head, and no sooner had she started the gesture, then he was walking towards her. “What’s wrong?” he signed as he approached the back of the sofa her parents sat on.

“Mum, Dad, this is Alex, he plays drums and percussion for Sad Fridays.”

“Nice to meet you both,” he said, taking a seat next to Zoe.

“Did Zoe tell you she used to be an incredible percussionist?” her mum asked.

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