The Pleasure Quartet (17 page)

But Noah’s gaze strayed away from her revealing blouse and remained fixed on her hair. A thick ball of fuzzy curls in varying shades of orange and red under the club’s somewhat nocturnal lighting. An uneasy feeling began to brew in his stomach.

Had he ever held such a fascination about red-haired women previously? Not that he remembered.

He tried to recall how many he had actually known. As acquaintances, friends or, more rarely, lovers.

He could count them on the fingers of one hand.

Vivacious schoolmates with freckled faces at an age when he was still more interested in his stamp collection than the other sex. The earthy scent of the ambassador’s daughter who, in his teens, had smuggled him into the dormitory where she was sleeping with her class on a study trip to Avignon, who kissed with a savage hunger, aggressively biting his lips, allowing his hand to wander down below and experience the coarse texture and tightness of her pubic hair while she gave him a clumsy handjob. They’d been shopped the following morning by a classmate in a nearby bed and he’d been unceremoniously despatched back home in minor disgrace. Just over twenty years ago now, and he didn’t remember either her name or her face, he uncomfortably realised.

The Scot had excused himself and headed for the toilets. Barbara had casually put her hand on his knee and was leaning forward, the tone in her voice shifting ever so slightly to confidential mode even though she was still singing the praises of her pet project.

His eyes moved closer to the explosion of her hair.

Which had now adopted an unnatural shade of sun under his near scrutiny.

He could smell her breath this close. A whiff of spearmint. The hint of a parting in the close-knit map of her scalp. A variation in colour. A thin line of darker hue.

Her hair was dyed.

Noah had felt a strong sense of deflation. And relief. Noting his lack of response to her less than subtle approach, Barbara had instinctively retreated and the conversation had continued, neither of them openly acknowledging that the moment had passed.

He checked his watch, a black round-faced Tissot model, and raised the small white cup to his lips, draining the last dregs of cold coffee, and waved his credit card at the bar attendant to settle his account. He was soon in the back of a cab travelling to North London. A sparse curtain of rain parted in front of them as the taxi cruised past the British Museum. The London lights flickered as if it was already Christmas, late-evening commuters running like clockwork mice in random directions as the storm opened up, hoods and umbrellas shielding them as best they could. Noah could still smell Barbara’s scent breeze around him. More spearmint than redhead.

And he thought of Summer.

Wherever she was.

Desperate to know more about the woman behind the music and the dazzling, inviting images he had begun to collect in the madness of his obsession.

Mentally assembling a jigsaw of her life from all the often conflicting morsels of information he had succeeded in gathering so far in his casual investigations. His stalking?

He realised how, to any onlooker, his quest might even appear a touch creepy, unhealthy, but it was something he could no longer control. The elusive classical musician had taken over his thoughts by stealth.

He had never believed in love at first sight. Was too much of a realist for that.

But lust at first sight, well, that was a whole different kettle of fish!

His name was on the guest list and he checked what time the group he was keen on watching would be on stage. He still had an hour to spare. He was given a square pink voucher for a free drink but, not a great drinker, elected to pick up a bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water. He noted the presence of a few familiar faces, A&R scouts for other labels grouped around the upstairs bar. He descended into the small, darkened auditorium, the strumming of a guitar luring him in, a rangy mid-length dark-blonde girl in a long peasant skirt, scuffed boots and a grey sweatshirt, straight from folk-singer casting central, the support act, her voice, almost masculine in its bass depths, at strong odds with her appearance. Sitting next to her, an earnest slide guitar player who looked like an under-age college student and was studiously caressing his strings and punctuating the singer’s studied melodies with widescreen soaring notes. A pleasant overall sound but a pity about the repertory: Joan Baez and Buffy St Marie standards, and ‘Greensleeves’ on predictable hand for the finale. But, Noah noted, there was something there, a glimmer of originality, personality; the way her voice swooped in uncommon patterns, treading a delicate line between the melody. Did they also write their own material?

At the end of the opening act’s set, he walked over and introduced himself. The girl’s eyes widened when she realised he was genuinely from a record label and not just a passing bullshitter. Her name was Magdalena, she said, and her accompanist happened to be her younger brother.

‘Do you write anything yourself or just stick to covers?’ Noah asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said hurriedly, hoping to please. ‘But it’s not quite ready to be tried out in public,’ she added.

She was raw but there was a kernel of untrained talent there, Noah felt. He advised her to keep in touch. Maybe in a year or so, if her own songs confirmed his instinct, she would be worth looking at again. In his job, he had to play the long game. Sow seeds. Hope. Wait.

A couple of roadies were now scrambling across the stage, setting up the main act’s equipment, checking connections, plugging the various instruments in, tuning them one final time, adjusting mike and drum stall heights and checking sound levels with the technician situated at the back of the room in charge of the control console.

Noah noticed that one of the sundry instruments they had left out on a chair by the wall of Marshall amps was a violin, a long cord leading from it to a smaller amplifier. He frowned. There had been no violin to be heard on the demo tapes he had been sent. Maybe it was only used on a song or two? From where he stood, the instrument looked battered and cheap, had nothing of the elegant angles and curves and burnished wood colour of the Bailly ‘Christiansen’ of Summer’s he had seen auctioned.

‘You’ve come to see them, I guess?’

It was Magdalena. He hadn’t noticed she was still standing by his side. Her brother was nowhere to be seen.

‘I have.’

‘The bass player, Kristian, is a family friend,’ the young woman said. ‘That’s how I got the support gig,’ she explained.

‘Have you watched them play before? What’s the story about the violin?’ he asked.

‘It’s just a gimmick. The rhythm guitarist plays it briefly during the finale. I saw them rehearse the number at the afternoon soundcheck.’

Noah looked round towards her. She appeared nervous, unsure of herself. On stage, she had appeared composed and serene. The secret life of musicians, he decided. Or actors. The moment they walked onto a stage, they changed, became someone else altogether.

She had a lovely mouth.

And she was, he couldn’t help noticing, almost flat-chested under the shapeless sweatshirt.

‘Is Magdalena your real name? Of Eastern European descent?’

‘No. It’s Tracey. Just a stage name. Tracey’s not much of a folk singer name, is it?’

She grinned. Noah smiled back at her.

‘Drink?’ he suggested.

‘Why not,’ she said, a wry expression spreading across her face, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a decision she had been hesitant about had been taken for her.

He realised she reminded him a lot of Bridget, in both appearance, way of dressing and musically. Although she was patently more ambitious, the sort of musician who would do anything to succeed. She had that steel of determination in her eyes.

Magdalena stuck to him all evening, through the band’s set. They were good but not enough in Noah’s opinion. Would have made a perfectly adequate signing to the label five years earlier, but tastes had changed as had fashion, and he was seeking the next big thing and not an imitation of glories past. If only he knew what the next big thing would be; maybe he would know when he saw it, heard it. A fat chance.

The signs were there for all to see. The way she smiled or laughed just that inch too far when he made a moderately witty remark, moved closer to him in the crowd as if seeking out his heat, her fingers grazing his as the audience filed out of the club and onto the High Street, avoiding being separated from him in the rush for the last Tube.

The rain had stopped, but the pavements were still wet, shining, reflections of the street lights twinkling like will-o’-the-wisps on the surface of the road. Cars rushed by driving northwards.

‘What about your guitar? Are you leaving it behind?’

‘My brother took it home earlier. I didn’t want to be saddled with it.’

An air of anxious expectancy on her face.

It took them a lengthy ten minutes to find a cab, standing in silence in the cold, looking out for a ‘for hire’ sign heading in their direction, unspoken words weighing on them.

Equally silently, Magdalena kissed him the moment he closed the flat’s door behind them and chucked off his jacket and switched on the lights.

Noah wanted to say something but she quickly hushed him.

‘I . . .’ he protested. Yes, sex would be nice, he knew, but he wanted to make it clear it could have no bearing on his work, her career.

‘I like you,’ Magdalena said, to silence him, as if it was the only thing of importance right now. ‘Take me to your bedroom.’

She pulled her sweatshirt off, revealing a diminutive bra that could have fitted a teenager whose buds had only just begun to grow. Her breasts were tiny, nipples dark and sharp. She pulled his hands to them and he abandoned himself to their comforting warmth. Closed his eyes. Magdalena shuddered. His hands were cold as he hadn’t been wearing gloves outside.

He held her tight against him and they tumbled onto the bed. It was messy, the sheets untucked, as he usually left it. His cleaning lady only came twice a week to sort the flat out.

Her lips were cushioned against his, their bodies in close embrace and he could feel her skin shudder against his, every little vibration rushing through her betraying her lust and hunger.

Noah opened his eyes. She lay below him. She was topless, her wisp of a bra cast aside, fingers digging into his shoulders. Their lips separated and he caught his breath.

Looked down at her face.

Noticed, for the first time, the faint bridge of freckles dotted across her nose and the swell of her cheekbones.

The muddy green colour of her questing gaze.

Like a slap across his face, violent, immediate: a memory of a photograph of Summer. The same colour eyes, a similar landscape of freckles.

His throat felt tight.

But this wasn’t Summer.

It was anyone but Summer.

He could feel his erection shrink by the second. Fast. His desire for Magdalena fade.

He pulled away from her.

She looked up at him, surprised. Bereft.

‘I’m sorry,’ Noah blurbed. ‘I can’t do it. Just can’t . . .’

She lowered her eyes. Uncomprehending.

He called a cab for her. She lived in Croydon.

There was a sharp tap on the frosted glass that separated his office from the main suite of work stations occupied by other permanent staff in the lower echelons and freelancers hot-desking.

Rhonda. Everyone else just knocked on the door, but his judicious PA, who carried out even the most insignificant tasks with the utmost efficiency, always rapped sharply on the window-pane when anything out of the ordinary cropped up, to be certain of capturing his full attention, pronto.

As a rule, Noah operated an ‘open office’ policy, getting on with his work while remaining visibly available to interruptions and interactions with other staff. Although he was strictly an operations man and not a creative, he enjoyed being part of the hubbub that perpetually flowed around him. It had become something of a superstition now.

Too much of a realist to have any faith in some kind of ultra-developed second sight or intuition, he believed his instinct for spotting new talent didn’t come from his gut but rather from little titbits of information that he absorbed from witnessing the comings and goings around him, and overhearing the industry gossip spilled by his peers while he carried on with his regular work, apparently oblivious to his surroundings.

Lately, though, he hadn’t so easily been able to retain his focus. A raft of difficult decisions awaited his sign-off. The Holy Criminals, sans Viggo. A new folk duo; sisters who wrote all their own material and were actually from Manchester but had the tall, blonde and robust good looks that typically arose from Scandinavian shores and who had amassed a decent level of popularity on the university pub scene, and who Noah was tempted to take a chance on. Whether or not their sex appeal was enough to carry them from underground clubs full of die-hard fans to commercial success was another question altogether. And that would depend on their readiness to allow the label to mould them into a more saleable band, which naturally meant changing matters of style to appeal to a wider, generic demographic. So many new bands turned down opportunities because they were too hung up on maintaining what they considered their artistic integrity. A handful of other hopefuls, none of whom he was ready to write off yet, but neither did he feel that familiar spark that lit up inside him when he was positive he had discovered a winner.

He looked at the pile of demo tapes in front of him, which he had already listened to half a dozen times each, searching for some nugget of difference, an infinitesimal sign of untapped fire that he had previously missed. The bands’ websites and social media feeds which he had already scoured had proved disappointing – all perfectly competent but nothing that jumped out at him as any different from all of the other struggling musicians in the world, most of whom would never make it past maybe winning a couple of open mic nights in their local boozer, if that, before throwing in the towel to make some decent money in a run-of-the-mill office job.