“So what’s the thing with you, Ross Mason?” I asked softly, staring out over the gently swelling silver foam.
“Which particular thing are we talking about?”
“Any thing. The main thing.”
I felt the broad muscles of his shoulder shift under me as he shrugged. “The music, I guess. Not that I’ve got any delusions of hitting the big time. I just… well, I had this idea. Or more of a dream really.”
I looked up at him. “What?”
He laughed, looking sheepish. “Nah, I can’t tell you. It’s daft.”
“Ah, go on. What’s said between two people trashed on tequila slammers stays between them, that’s the rule. It’s like doctors and that hypocritical oath.”
“Hypocritical oath, right,” he said with a grin. “I wouldn’t let your sister hear you call it that.”
“Come on. Promise I won’t laugh.”
He sighed. “Well, it sort of goes back to when we were in sixth form. Me and the lads used to play the pub circuit round town.”
“Yeah, I remember. Went to see you a few times.”
He looked down to where my head was cradled by the arch of his neck and shoulder, gazing dreamily at the lapping tide. “Did you? Didn’t notice you.”
“No, you never noticed me in those days,” I said with a smile. “You were the boy in the band. Enough lasses seemed to go for that to knock me right off the radar.”
He planted a kiss on top of my hair. “Shows what you know. Just because I was working on my aloof and brooding act doesn’t mean I didn’t notice you.”
“Didn’t spot me at the gigs though, did you? Had my rock chick hair on for you and everything.”
“Well, I was concentrating. I’m professional like that.” He laughed. “Terrible, weren’t we?”
“Yeah, you weren’t great,” I admitted. “I mean, you were good. That sausage-fingered keyboard player though… ouch. What was it you called yourselves?”
“Oh God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It used to change pretty regularly, but for most of Year 13 it was… oh God.”
I smirked at him. “Come on, ’fess up.”
“Ok. Nietzsche’s Jockstrap.”
I sputtered into laughter. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Our bassist Chris was a philosophy student. Thought it’d impress lasses.”
“And did it?”
“It did actually. Turns out teenage girls are just as stupid as teenage boys. I was doing alright for myself for a bit.”
I nudged him. “So I recall, slutty. Hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”
“What?” His brow knotted into a booze-muddled frown. “Oh yeah, you asked me about my thing.”
“And what is your thing?” My hand flew to my mouth. “You’re not reforming Hitler’s Y-Fronts, are you?”
“Ha, Nietzsche’s Jockstrap. No, luckily for the pub-goers of Cragport that ship’s sailed.”
“What then?”
“You really promise not to laugh? Because we artistic types are sensitive flowers. And you’ve already been pretty rotten about my band name.”
“Well, that you had coming.” I looked up at him. “Tell me, Ross.”
He sighed. “I just… I had this plan. Or more a castle in the air, something to keep me dreaming when things seemed bleak.” In the glow of neon I could see his eyes glittering. “I want to set up a music charity for kids. Something to encourage young acts who want to fight the X-Factor clone wars, help them to everything they need to get a start – rehearsal space, workshops, open-mics, all that. Everything we wished we’d had.” He looked down at his trainers with an embarrassed smile. “Like I said, it’s daft. And probably never going to happen, unless I buy that winning lottery ticket.”
I lifted my head off his shoulder to look at him. “Why is it daft? Sounds a brilliant idea.”
“You know how much something like that would cost?”
“No. How much?”
He frowned. “Ok, I don’t know exactly. I just assumed it’d be lots.”
“What, you haven’t even costed it up?”
“Well, no, not properly. Suppose I’ve avoided it. Putting a price on it’d just push the whole thing further away.”
“So you don’t really want to do it then.”
“Yes, I want to, but…” He laughed. “Hey, you’re good at this. What is it you do when you’re not writing?”
“Teacher. Adult education.”
“Ha! Should’ve guessed, bossy.”
“What’s your day job when you’re not playing pubs then? I thought your mum told me you were an artist or something.”
“Nothing quite that glamorous, unfortunately. Freelance graphic designer.” He sighed. “I dunno, Bobbie. There was a time I really thought the music thing might happen. Started putting money away, looking into venues. But I could sense Claire wasn’t keen, so it got pushed to one side.”
“And now that’s not an issue.”
“No.”
“Then stop making excuses and do it. I’ll help, I’m good at planning.”
He flashed me a grateful smile. “Would you?”
“Course, whatever I could do. We need more creative stuff for kids round here.”
“Thanks, love.” He gave my ear an affectionate flick. “You know, you’re pretty cool.”
I didn’t reply. I was staring out to sea, watching the distant lights of a pleasure cruiser making its final trip of the day.
“Bobbie, you ok?” he said, waving a hand in front of my eyes. “I can call us a cab if you need to get home.”
“I bought a lighthouse today.”
He laughed. “I know, crazy girl. What’re you going to do with it?”
I fell silent again, letting my pupils lilt up and down with the shifting silken waves.
“Oh God, you’re not going to do the eccentric writer thing and live in it, are you?” he asked.
“No…” I turned to face him. “I’ve got a lighthouse, Ross.”
His eyes flickered over my face and I saw his expression change. “Oh no, Bobbie. No. That’s just… it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Give over, there’s about two foot of floor space. You could barely fit a cymbal in.”
“I bet it’s bigger than you think. Anyway, there’s plenty of room. You know, vertically.”
“What good’s that? I can’t push it over.”
“You could install platforms though. Then the music would sort of… drift up.” I stood. “Let’s stumble along a bit. Feel like I need to walk off some booze.”
He curled an arm around my shoulders as we continued our meandering way along the seafront.
“So?” I said. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s