The Summer Island Festival Page 7

  ‘Hi,’ he said, thinking about answering that call in Skye’s kitchen, kicking himself for saying the word “sweetheart”. He’d noticed how their eyebrows had shot up, how Willow had tried to leave as quickly as possible afterwards and how awkward it had felt when he’d spoken to her about the festival licences. He shouldn’t have lied about Annelise but there were some things he couldn’t talk about, some things that had to remain a secret.

  ‘Luc,’ his agent’s voice bounced off a satellite somewhere, loud in his ear. ‘What have you got for me?’

  Luc took a breath. ‘Nothing,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘We haven’t spoken for three weeks and you’ve got nothing?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ Luc said quietly as he stood up and started to walk back along the beach. ‘I still can’t write anything. I’m still getting panic attacks. Christ knows how I’m going to get on a stage in two months’ time.’

  ‘You need help, Luc. I’m an agent, not a shrink. I think this is beyond my remit, but you need to do something. If you don’t come back in September with enough material to fill an album, you’re in breach of contract.’

  ‘Can’t you get me an extension?’ Luc asked. ‘Isn’t that what I pay you for?’

  ‘I can try, but it would mean telling the record company the truth. How comfortable are you with that?’

  Not comfortable at all.

  ‘Give me a couple of weeks,’ Luc said. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘I can do that,’ his agent replied ending the call. Luc carried on walking, not really knowing where he was going.

  The panic attacks had started the day he’d left for America. He’d spent the summer after his A levels in a kind of limbo trying to work out what to do with his life. He’d known Willow and Skye were leaving the Island, off to university, and he had resigned himself to stay, to work on his music, to get a job in one of the pubs and to be here when Willow came home for the holidays. He had thought everything would stay the same and he was comfortable with that – he’d never liked change or instability. He knew his mother had been planning to go to America for a long time, of course, but he’d never really thought about going with her until she’d told him she’d sorted out his visas as well.

  ‘I’m not the only one who’ll have a lot more opportunities over there,’ she’d said.

  Luc had been eighteen, he could have done anything he wanted but he could see only two choices in front of him – leaving with Krystal or staying on his own, knowing Willow would be away for weeks at a time. Neither choice had felt like the right one.

  He’d been on the beach when he had his first panic attack. It had been early in the morning, too early to meet Willow at the beach hut as he’d promised, but he’d been too excited about seeing her, about the fact that she loved him too, to sleep. He’d got up and gone for a walk, writing songs in his head as he strolled along the shore, dreaming of the life that he and Willow could make together once she’d got her degree.

  Out of nowhere he felt as though someone had tightened a vice around his chest. He’d thought he was dying. There hadn’t been anyone else around, nobody to call on for help as he’d felt the breath being squeezed from his body and his heart feeling as though it was going to explode. His arms had hurt and his ribs had hurt and he could hear himself gasping for breath. He’d doubled over, his hands on his knees, and he’d closed his eyes but all he’d been able to see were red dots, which had frightened him even more.

  He’d wanted to feel safe, to hide away. There had been fishing boats on the beach that morning and he had crawled into one of them and curled up into a ball. He had still been lying there hugging his knees to his chest like a small child when Don found him. Don had known exactly what was wrong and had sat in the boat with Luc, telling him everything was OK, that he wasn’t going to die, until his breathing had slowed down and his vision had cleared and the pain in his arms had disappeared.

  ‘It’s a panic attack,’ Don had said. ‘It used to happen to me years ago before I went on stage. It’s why I stopped playing solo.’

  ‘You played solo?’ Luc hadn’t known that.

  He’d smiled. ‘Yeah, not for long though. I got a lot less anxious when I was in a group, that’s why I formed The Laurels.’

  Luc had nodded slowly; he’d understood. But he hadn’t understood why it was happening to him right then. It made sense to feel like this before going on stage, although Luc never had, but why would it happen standing alone on a quiet beach on a day when he’d felt so happy?

  ‘What happened earlier today or yesterday?’ Don had asked. ‘Anything out of the ordinary?’

  He’d shaken his head. He could hardly have told Willow’s father about the previous night.

  ‘I’m just scared about…’ he’d begun, but he’d had to stop talking as the tight feeling around his heart had returned at the thought of going to America, of not seeing Willow for months or even years.

  ‘About America?’ Don had asked and Luc had nodded.

  ‘Well you know I’m going to be coming with you,’ Don had continued. ‘I’m not going to stay in Nashville for long but I am going to go with your mum, help her settle in. You don’t have to worry, Luc; everything will be OK.’

  But it hadn’t been OK. It had taken hours for Don to calm him down and by the time he’d got to the beach hut it was locked up, Willow had long gone. He hadn’t been able to find her until she came to say goodbye that evening and by then it was too late. He’d always wondered what would have happened if he had been brave enough to tell her the truth about that day. Instead he’d let her think that he didn’t care, that he’d slept with her and then discarded her the next day.

  And he’d never forgiven himself for that.

  When Luc put his phone back into his pocket, his agent’s voice still echoing in his ears, he realised he was on the same stretch of beach that he had been on when he had that first panic attack. The fishing boats weren’t there anymore and there was a new café on the promenade, but this was the place where it had all begun. Those panic attacks had plagued him for years and he’d only ever told a handful of people about them.

  This was where it had begun. Perhaps this was where it needed to end.

  9

  February 1984

  ‘You’ve done what?’ Brian Cole shouted at his daughter as she sat on the sofa in the living room of her parents’ house.

  ‘I’ve left the Academy,’ Cathy repeated as calmly as she could. ‘I’ve quit my degree course.’

  ‘But why?’ Cathy’s father was pale, his tone clipped. ‘Why on earth would you give up on your dreams like that?’

  ‘I have other dreams now,’ Cathy said. ‘Besides, I won’t be here.’

  ‘Won’t be here,’ Brian repeated, standing up. ‘What nonsense. Where will you be?’

  ‘On tour with Storm Tyler,’ Cathy said, her voice soft.

  ‘Storm Tyler!’ Brian shouted. ‘Over my dead body you will. You’ll sit there, and you won’t move and if you’re not going to finish your degree then you’ll get a job.’

  As her father walked out of the room, slamming the door in his wake, Cathy thought of all sorts of things she could shout back at him. Like how was she supposed to get a job if she wasn’t allowed to move off the sofa? But she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t do that, she’d promised herself that if she was going to live her dream then she was going to do it like an adult. She was nearly nineteen now and she could do anything she wanted.

  Everything had happened so quickly from that day in December when she had met Storm again in his dressing room at the Astoria. He had got in touch with her at the Academy the week afterwards and taken her out for dinner at a small, dark Moroccan restaurant in Soho. Cathy had never really been into the labyrinth of streets behind Leicester Square at night before and had felt a mix of fascination and embarrassment as she walked past the neon signs that advertised the strip clubs. She’d noticed Storm smiling to himself as he walked nex
t to her and she’d felt naïve and hopeless.

  ‘I want to hear you play,’ he’d said, cutting to the chase as they ate their couscous. Cathy had never eaten anything like it before and wasn’t sure she was enjoying the different spices and the apricots and sultanas that were mixed in. She’d thought it was probably an acquired taste. She wasn’t sure she enjoyed eating while sitting on a cushion on the floor either, or the unmistakable smell of marijuana that drifted from the room at the back of the restaurant. She knew that if she wanted to inhabit the world Storm lived in, she had a lot to learn.

  ‘You do?’ she’d replied surprised, fork frozen halfway to her mouth.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he’d said, grinning at her. ‘There’s something about you, Cathy Cole, and I want to help you find what you’re looking for, because I don’t believe for a moment that you’re going to find it at The Royal Academy.’ He’d said those last words with a hint of a sneer as though he had no time for the formalities of music training, as though true art came from the soul – and Cathy agreed with him. Only a few months into her course and she was bored already; bored of the violin, bored of the piano, bored of the theory and the tediously dry lectures. All she wanted was to be on a stage, playing her music, feeling the rhythm.

  Storm hadn’t said anything else about it, hadn’t told her when he wanted to hear her play or where – instead, as they ate, he’d told her about his life on the road, the music he was writing and the solo album he was planning.

  ‘King Silver are important to me, but I think it’s time I did something new to get the creative juices flowing, you know?’

  Cathy had nodded but she didn’t know. How could she know?

  But what she did know was that she was ready for something else, something more exciting than anything the Academy could offer her. She had a feeling she was sitting on a cushion opposite her destiny and she had made sure she’d come prepared. Since she had last seen Storm the previous autumn, Cathy had been working hard – not on her college work, much to the consternation of her tutors, but on her own songs. If Storm wanted to hear her play, at least she had something to play for him now.

  ‘You’re not really enjoying that are you?’ Storm had asked, nodding at the plate of couscous Cathy had hardy touched. She’d looked away blushing with embarrassment.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Shall we go and get some chips?’

  They’d eaten hot chips soaked in vinegar out of paper bags as they’d walked through the freezing cold streets of London at night, as drunken revellers fell into them and men in business suits hurried past.

  ‘How can I contact you?’ Storm had asked as Cathy crumpled up her chip wrappers.

  ‘We have a payphone,’ Cathy had replied thinking about the bedsit she shared with Pip. ‘But it’s down the hall and anyone can answer it.’

  ‘Not ideal. What are you doing next Thursday?’

  ‘Nothing I guess,’ Cathy had said with a shrug. She was desperately trying to sound nonchalant while fate took control of her destiny.

  ‘Play for me then. I’ll get a message to you.’

  He’d flagged down a black cab for her then, much to her disappointment, signalling the evening to be over. As she’d got in he bent to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Until Thursday,’ he’d said.

  *

  Cathy had spent almost the whole week practising the two songs she knew were her strongest – one was a Ballad Book song and the other was one she’d written herself. She’d skipped lectures and tutorials to stay at home and practise, only going into the Academy to check her pigeonhole for the longed-for note from Storm. By the time it had arrived on Wednesday morning she’d all but given up, assuming Storm had changed his mind and was preparing herself to go back to her course with a sufficient excuse to explain her absence that week. She’d felt sick with relief when the note finally came.

  Storm had an apartment in an unassuming building near Green Park station. He’d buzzed Cathy up when she’d arrived and had told her to come to the top floor. The lift was an art deco design from the 1920s with a wrought-iron gate that made a precarious ascent. Cathy had clutched the case of her mandolin and hoped she’d practised enough.

  Storm’s flat was a melting pot of styles, painted white with modern art covering the walls and cushions and throws that looked as though they came from Africa and the Middle East scattered about. The flat had smelled of spices and something else that Cathy hadn’t been able to put her finger on. He’d made her herbal tea and told her to take her time, but she had needed to get it over with. Storm had a small room at the back of the apartment where he practised – his acoustic guitars and mandolins lined the walls and every surface was littered with empty coffee cups, beer bottles and screwed-up balls of paper.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he’d said, his green eyes glinting. ‘This is where I’ve been writing and I didn’t really think about anybody else being here. We can use the living room if you prefer.’

  ‘Here’s fine,’ Cathy had replied, sitting down on a stool and beginning to tune her mandolin.

  She’d played both pieces back to back with barely a pause in between. She hadn’t looked at Storm while she played but she’d felt his eyes on her, watching her every move. When she’d finished she finally looked at him.

  ‘That second piece,’ he’d said. ‘Where’s that from?’

  ‘I wrote it,’ she’d replied quietly.

  ‘I like it,’ he’d said thoughtfully, scratching the stubble on his chin and still not taking his eyes off her. ‘And I like you. Do you have more material?’

  She’d nodded and Storm had continued to look quietly at her. She’d felt as though he was undressing her somehow, trying to see what lay underneath.

  ‘Let’s have a beer,’ he’d said eventually.

  One beer had led to several, to a Chinese takeaway followed by a spliff. When he’d kissed her Cathy had known that she wouldn’t be going home that night and when he’d inevitably taken her to bed she hadn’t told him that it was her first time.

  ‘You’re my muse, Cathy Cole,’ he’d whispered later that night. ‘You have been for a long time.’

  The next morning Storm had told her about the solo tour he was doing in the summer and he’d asked her to come with him. This was the big break Cathy had been waiting for since that day at the Reading Festival over two years before and there was nothing her father could do to stop her.

  10

  Willow

  It was early when Willow opened up The Music Shop on Saturday morning and, despite it being nearly midsummer, the sun was still low in the sky. She’d woken just before dawn to the sounds of seagulls squawking from the beach behind the house and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep for thinking about Charlie, wondering where he was and who he was with. Just a week ago she’d been unable to sleep because it had been her wedding day.

  She turned on the lights and unlocked the display cabinets and walked to the back of the shop to unlock the door to Cathy’s workshop where the safe with the day’s petty cash was. Willow had always loved her mother’s workshop. It smelled of wood and glue and potential. This was where Cathy did the work she was so extraordinary at, the work Willow couldn’t possibly emulate – Willow might be able to string a guitar or mandolin but this was where her mother made them by hand. She looked at the beautifully curved pieces of wood that lay on the countertop and wondered whose hands they would end up in and what music they would help to create.

  She set up the cash register, anticipating a busy day ahead. The Big Festival started in less than a week and that usually meant a lot of business for The Music Shop. She leant against the shop counter and looked out of the big plate glass window towards the sea. The shop doorbell jangled behind her.

  ‘We’re not open yet,’ she said without turning around. But she already knew who it was.

  ‘Hello, Willow,’ he said, and her stomach flipped over.

  How could Luc Harrison still do this to her after all
these years? A week ago she had been getting ready to marry Charlie and now she couldn’t get Luc out of her head. She shouldn’t be thinking about Luc, or the person who phoned him, the person who he’d called “sweetheart”. She should be thinking about Charlie who hadn’t replied to her email.

  She turned around and Luc handed her a takeaway coffee.

  ‘What are you doing here so early?’ she asked, taking the cup from him.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Luc replied. ‘Would you like a chocolate croissant?’

  She didn’t usually eat carbs – part of the strict regime created for her by the personal trainer that Charlie paid for, but there was nothing usual about her life right now, so she took one anyway, biting into it with relish and savouring the warm chocolatey flavour. It had been a long time since she allowed herself anything like this. She’d been concentrating on fitting into her wedding dress.

  ‘Did you talk to your mum about the festival?’ Luc asked.

  ‘That’s why I’m here looking after the shop,’ she said. ‘So Mum can work out the best course of action with the council.’

  Standing in the shop with Luc reminded Willow so much of her past and of all the things that she had pushed aside to make way for her life with Charlie. She could remember the day Cathy first opened The Music Shop. She’d been ten years old and the party had gone on all day and half of the night, spilling out onto the beach. She’d played the mandolin with her dad and danced with Luc as the moon came up. The memory was as clear as if it had happened yesterday. Willow had never seen her mum as happy as she had been that day.

  It had been Don’s idea that Cathy turn her skill with musical instruments into a business and at first all they were looking for was a workshop space to rent so that Cathy didn’t have to make guitars on the kitchen table. But when they found the shop unit that looked out over the sea and when they discovered that the rent was affordable, The Music Shop became a reality and it had become something of a celebrity in its own right.

  ‘You know who’s behind all these difficulties with the council permissions, don’t you?’ Willow asked bringing herself back to the present.