She took hold of his hand and shook it. Steven appreciated this small touch.
‘Come in, we’re just having breakfast. We were waiting for you, but it got so late we’ve already started.’
Her face was like a punch, a slap. She was so perfect that it set his teeth on edge. Like a madonna, a princess. Radiating something – an inexplicable serenity – from her black hair and her black eyes. Everything about her just so. A terrifying neatness, a rightness. Her lips, a cupid’s bow; her lashes, so long that he could have plucked them and used them to string a viola.
He forgot to say anything. He could have apologized for his lateness, but he found it impossible to contain anything else in his mind during that instant but her face – the glow of her. Words melted and turned into honey.
She led him through the flat. He followed, still numbed by her. If you had a relationship with a girl like this, he thought, you’d spend all your time trying to find some one thing wrong with her, and when you found it you’d be devastated.
Sam turned to say something to Steven as she led him along the corridor, and caught him staring at her bottom. She forgave him his indiscretion immediately, expecting no better than this from your average man. Steven blushed and continued to stumble down the corridor behind her, keeping his eyes to himself.
The flat was bright, clean and well decorated, but it stank. Steven couldn’t understand the smell. He was momentarily worried that the smell might be his fault, and furtively checked the base of his shoes before following Sam into the kitchen.
The kitchen was painted a meticulous white and filled with red utensils. Sitting at a large red table in the centre of the room was Sam’s mother, Brera, who was thirty-eight, had long auburn hair, fine features and slightly jutting teeth. She beckoned Steven towards the table without standing up. He found her grandly matriarchal.
The table was set with butter, jam, percolated coffee and a half-eaten plate of hot croissants. Steven noticed four settings and hesitated over where to sit. ‘You’ve not gone to all this trouble on my account?’
Sam sat down on the chair to his left. ‘Of course we have.’
She picked up a croissant and ripped it in two with her fingers. Steven sat down and nervously unfolded his napkin.
Brera poured him a cup of coffee. ‘You’re over an hour late, which is hardly an auspicious start.’
Sam grinned. ‘Ignore her, she’s only trying to frighten you.’
Steven felt daunted by these two women, both so vibrant and voracious. So different. A black daughter, a white mother. Could you get more different than that? He picked up his coffee and placed it close to his nose so that its steamy aroma would cut out the smell of the flat which was starting to make him feel nauseous. He looked at Brera over the rim of his cup and said, ‘I’m very pleased you agreed to meet up with me like this. When I saw the two of you last week at the Bull and Gate I was bowled over. It’s not often you see two such attractive women on stage together who can actually sing, I mean really sing, let alone write their own music’
Neither woman seemed especially impressed by this. Sam reached over for the coffee jug, scattering bits of pastry across the table in the process. She said, ‘We’ve got lots of ideas, if that’s what you mean.’
She poured her coffee and then licked her fingers clean. Steven watched her small pink tongue darting in and out of her mouth. It reminded him of a lizard’s tongue or a hamster’s. That’s odd, he thought. I’ve never even seen a hamster’s tongue before. He wondered why she had to talk, why she couldn’t just sit. Just sit.
Brera said, ‘Sam’s in charge of this venture. She imagines everything, how we should be and so forth. She’s fussy.’
Sam nodded. ‘I am.’
Steven laced his fingers together. ‘I can deal with that.’
‘We’ve got a fairly pure vision. It’s complex, but we can discuss all the details later.’ Brera picked up a croissant and then spooned on some jam. ‘We’re bullies. We don’t like being told what to do.’
Sam added, ‘We’ve already decided that we won’t put up with too many changes musically. We like doing some of our own stuff, well, my sister’s stuff. We know it’s eccentric …’
Steven began to look sceptical, but he kept in mind the fact that his latest client, a snooker player, had recently thrown in the towel to go back to his day job. He said, ‘Obviously, the fact that you don’t just do cover versions stands in your favour. Although my ideal image of the two of you is more as a mother-and-daughter soul and country duo. I prefer the country songs to the new-wave stuff.’
Sam mouthed the words ‘new wave’ at Brera and smiled. Steven was insulted. He thought, five years ago the term new wave was perfectly respectable.
Brera frowned at Sam and then said, ‘Of course we’d be willing to consider some new songs for the act, so long as we don’t lose all our own stuff.’
Sam leaned towards him and whispered, ‘You think our own songs are crap, don’t you?’
Before he could think how to respond she added, ‘Well, that’s OK, we think so too, sometimes. The problem is that they aren’t written according to the standard musical scale.’
Brera interrupted. ‘It’s complicated, that’s all.’ Then she added, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of us.’
Steven was struggling to keep up. He said, ‘So you both want me to manage you?’ They nodded.
He felt as though he was missing out on something crucial, was bemused, but threw caution to the wind and said, ‘Then I’d be delighted to.’
He held out his hand to Brera. Brera hesitated for a moment before taking it. She had the strong yellow nails of a long-time guitar plucker. After pressing his fingers for a second she let go and picked up the plate of croissants. ‘Take one. They’re nearly cold.’
Sam laughed. ‘They are cold.’
Steven was secretly irritated that this courteous gesture on Brera’s part had deprived him of the opportunity of shaking Sam’s hand again. Sam didn’t seem to care though. She was sipping her coffee and looking over at Brera as though they were sharing some kind of private joke. He hoped emphatically that he wasn’t it.
Sylvia had been asked by both Sam and Brera to attend the breakfast meeting. She had agreed to go. ‘After all,’ they’d said, ‘whatever the outcome, it’s bound to affect you.’
She had agreed to go but had never had any real intention of attending, although this didn’t dissuade her from standing outside the kitchen and listening to the on-going conversation inside. Occasionally she was forced to scamper back to her room to stifle her coughing, which was dry, hacking, and came in short bursts every few minutes.
She had watched Steven get out of his car and walk towards their block of flats from her window, and had disliked him, on principle, instantaneously. What she overheard from outside the kitchen didn’t improve this opinion.
She was glad that she had kept out of the way. She was sure that her presence at the breakfast table would have spoilt the success of any joint venture.
Why should I care anyway? she thought furiously. I have my own bloody life.
She sat down on her bed and stared blankly at the carpet. She felt constricted. Things kept changing. Things always changed.
A sparrow flew in and landed on her shoulder. The pigeons cooed.
‘How long have you