The Turning Point Read online

  Frankie turned to face him. He was very close. Aftershave. A neat nose. Bristles dipping into the vertical laughter lines on his cheeks. Eyes the colour of the rock on that mountain outside his home. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Pretty much sums up my life, that picture,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the dog’s name?’ She liked the look of the brown Labrador, he appeared to be grinning.

  ‘Buddy. He’s a Seizure Alert Dog – and his name fits. He’s older now, a little arthritic. It’s our turn to look after him. Actually, he’s English – he came from this incredible center in Sheffield.’

  ‘How does he help?’

  ‘He can sense tiny changes in Jenna’s manner, in her behaviour or mood – sometimes up to fifty minutes before a possible seizure. He’s trained to let her or me know.’

  ‘Where’s Buddy now, though?’

  ‘So he’s with Aaron. Here,’ Scott found a picture of Aaron with Buddy in the cockpit of the Cessna. ‘Aaron’s as close as I have to a brother. We grew up together, went to school together and we still live close by. He’s a First Nations man – a native. Aaron’s people are the Ĺíĺwat – they’ve been living in the territory for over five thousand years.’ He observed how intently Frankie was looking at the photo. ‘He’s a crazy, beautiful guy – he has his own plane and runs a skydiving business. He flies me to Vancouver when I have to go abroad.’

  ‘Does Buddy fly too?’ Frankie hoped he did – there could be a story in that. Buddy Flies to the Rescue, Buddy Takes to the Skies, Buddy and the Eagle’s Nest.

  ‘Oh sure,’ said Scott, ‘he loves it.’

  ‘What about when Jenna goes to college – could she take Buddy?’

  ‘She could – but she won’t. She wants to be seen as normal. She doesn’t like people to know, really. There are still a lot of misconceptions about epilepsy despite the fact that it’s the most common brain disorder worldwide. Unfortunately, we’re still on a bit of an expedition finding the right medication for Jenna. She’s one of the twenty per cent who don’t have much luck on that front.’

  Frankie looked at Scott. ‘When Sam was a toddler we were out in the park and a man started having a fit.’ She paused. ‘It frightened me. Somebody else went to his aid.’

  ‘It is frightening. It still scares the shit out of me and I know how to deal with a seizure.’

  Frankie thought of Sam. Taller than her now, his voice swinging from childlike to croaky; a boy-man in the making sometimes battling with himself to figure out if he was to become a rebel or remain a geek. She thought of Annabel with her button nose that was just the same as when she’d been a toddler; a contrary yet thoughtful child with a vulnerability she kept hidden behind liveliness. She thought of how they loved their bedrooms, their things, the chaos and clatter, the tempers and laughter. She’d never had to worry about their health. On those blessed occasions when all went quiet in their rooms, she always thought thank God for that, a moment’s peace.

  ‘I just can’t begin to imagine,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Well, my theory is you have to live life to the full, whatever is thrown at you. It’s like a ball game really, keep batting, keep playing, keep believing yours is the winning team.’

  ‘I like your philosophy, Scott,’ said Frankie. ‘I ought to pin it up on my fridge. Don’t laugh – I’m serious! Authors can be introverted and overemotional souls.’

  Scott was grinning. ‘I can’t believe you told me you were an accountant.’ Frankie reddened. He nudged her. She nudged him back. She thought, I’ve just smiled coyly, on purpose. She thought, he’s not letting my eyes go.

  But the hotel lobby was emptying. Sharp-suited businessmen, previously lairy, now just dull drunk, slumped around the bar like scrunches of rejected paper at the end of a brainstorm. In a corner, a couple engrossed in a hungry snog, only half-hidden by decorative bamboo. At a neighbouring table, an elderly lady sipping tea as though she’d quite lost sense of what time of day it was. And still Frankie and Scott sat side by side.

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘Another night,’ said Frankie. ‘You?’

  ‘I fly out Sunday afternoon. I’ll have been here a week.’

  ‘Are you working all that time?’ Shall I say something? Shall I try? ‘Are you working tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in the studio. You?’

  ‘I have a couple of meetings. Dinner with my agent.’ Try and make it happen. ‘Where’s your studio?’

  ‘Abbey Road.’

  ‘Well that’s a good address for a studio,’ said Frankie guilelessly. ‘There’s a world-famous one called just that. The Beatles – the zebra crossing.’

  Scott laughed. ‘There’s only one Abbey Road, Frankie.’

  ‘And you’re there?’

  ‘British session musicians are the best in the world when it comes to sight-reading and playing to a “click”. I think it’s down to a lack of funding from your government – they have limited rehearsal opportunity. I love working with them.’

  ‘Do you use the zebra crossing every day?’

  ‘Oh I try to. Barefoot. Like Lennon. But the tourists get in the way. Reality is I’m inside all the time.’

  ‘Recording your soundtrack?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Who’s in your film?’

  ‘Well it isn’t my film – I’ve just written the music. But Jeff Bridges is the lead.’

  ‘Oh I love him,’ said Frankie, thinking Scott’s modesty was beguiling. ‘And anyway, music is often as much a lead character in a film – like setting can be in a book.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Scott but their glasses were empty and the bar was closed. Only the little old lady remained and she’d just asked for her bill. Scott was brought his though he hadn’t requested it.

  They were going to have to go, really.

  Frankie wondered, how do we leave these seats, this table, our little corner in which my world expanded? How can we stay in our bubble?

  And then, in her mind, she heard Ruth saying go for it! and Peta saying don’t be so stupid.

  ‘If you get some time tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and I do too – shall we try and meet? Perhaps I could come to The Abbey Road?’ He was just looking at her, not speaking. ‘Or if not there, somewhere?’

  ‘Anywhere,’ said Scott softly. ‘Why don’t we make it happen, Frankie. Crazy as it sounds.’

  * * *

  As slowly as they walked across the atrium, soon enough they were behind the huge urns and bamboo, back at the lifts. As they stood waiting, Scott looked down on her head and thought how Frankie would tuck just under his chin. And Frankie glanced sideways at his chest and imagined laying her cheek against it. He had his hands in his back pockets and she wanted to link her arm through his.

  Into the elevator, just the two of them. Her mind reeling through a thousand movie scenes of impulsive kisses when the doors slide shut, of fumbling with keys and falling into an anonymous hotel room shedding clothes, broiling with desire.

  But Frankie and Scott just stood side by side.

  Fifth floor.

  ‘This is me,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ said Scott.

  Frankie tapped her watch. ‘Today.’

  And she walked down the corridor on her own aware that, downstairs in the lobby, Kate Moss was still smiling on the magazine table.

  Enormously tired. Stratospherically tired but high as a kite. Running that bath, eating chocolates left on the pillow, flicking on the television and zapping through the channels. One two three four five six seven scatter pillows pedantically rearranged at the foot of the bed. Four plump pillows and a waft of duvet enticingly folded back to reveal the downy comfort of a beautifully made bed. So long since she’d felt this wired, this alert, this sentient. So long since she’d had any of these feelings. Longing and kinship and warmth and attraction and wave after wave of desire. Something deep inside had stirred. Over the last few years, it was as if she’d switched off lights from neces
sity in those rooms within herself that she couldn’t afford to use.

  She eased herself down deep into the bath, bubbles up to her chin, the soothe of a thick warm flannel over her face. The plastic shower cap.

  If anyone could see me now.

  Tomorrow.

  Today.

  Earlier yesterday.

  Later today.

  Frankie, says Alice. Who was that? Who was that man, Frankie? Will you write him into your life like you did me?

  ‘Can we get a rise on the string line?’

  All of this was giving Scott a headache. There’d been too many interruptions and the music he’d written for a particular scene sounded all wrong today, with the full orchestra. Yet on first reading of the script three months ago, melodies had sailed through his mind like drifts of overheard conversation. His best work often germinated this way, subliminally almost. But today, though he’d watched the cut over and again all morning and asked the musicians to play it this way, play it that way, the music just didn’t segue. He felt as clumsy and inept as a child furiously hammering at the wrong piece on a shape-sorting toy. The film’s producers were in the studio today, along with the director, the music editor, the fixer and the technicians. Everyone making encouraging noises at Scott despite the stress clearly legible behind their eyes.

  ‘You’re a perfectionist – it’s why people love working with you,’ one of the producers said. What else could she think of to say? Sometimes she despaired at the amount of soothing flattery and ebullient bullshit her role necessitated when all she wanted to do was shake these creative types – these actors and musicians and directors – and say for fuck’s sake, get over yourselves and do the fucking job we’re paying you a fortune to do. But she’d worked with Scott before and had never known him so discontented. The director himself was concerned too. He’d worked with Scott many times. If previously Scott had struggled and vexed it had always been behind the scenes and out of earshot, before he brought a single sound to the table. He was always so quietly professional and capable, delivering excellent soundtracks on time with no drama whatsoever. Commissioning Scott to score a movie was as easy and satisfying as ordering a takeaway and having it delivered piping hot and utterly delicious exactly when you wanted it.

  ‘It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do,’ Scott said quietly. ‘It sounds shit.’

  The producer looked at her watch and raised her eyebrow at the director, both of them quietly calculating the cost of the studio against the days they had Scott over here for.

  ‘You know what? Take time out, Scott. Get out of here – go for a walk, go to London Zoo, go to Harrods or the Tate Gallery, go have a swim or a sleep. Clear your mind, then come back.’

  He was watching the scene again.

  ‘Go for a burger, go to a strip club,’ she said, ‘I don’t know! Go and have a cuppa with the Queen at the bloody Ritz!’

  It was three o’clock.

  ‘You’re fine,’ she said. ‘Go. Jimmy and the guys will have a play with what we’ve got so far. We just have piano this afternoon – you trust Lexi.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Scott and everyone brushed his apology away, relieved to see the back of him as he left the control room for Studio Two.

  Midway over the legendary zebra crossing, his phone call to Frankie was finally answered.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Fancy a “cuppa”?’ he asked.

  ‘You sound like Dick Van Dyke,’ she said.

  Scott walked straight past Maison Bertaux, reaching the end of Greek Street and having to ask at the minicab rank where it was. With all the previous talk of the Ritz and royalty, he’d been expecting somewhere grand to shout out to him, not a tiny little patisserie tucked behind a simple blue-and-white awning. However, once inside, the opulence of the pastries on display and the complex fragrances – fruit, vanilla, chocolate, baking – elevated the café beyond its modest setting.

  Frankie had said on the phone that she’d find a table, now all he had to do was find her. Up the narrow crookedy stairs he went, wondering whether the café suddenly increased on the first floor, wondering if he’d have to negotiate white-clothed tables and velvet-backed chairs and little old ladies sipping their Darjeeling behind mountains of scones. But no. Just Formica tables and mismatched chairs jigsawed into a confined space. And there, in the corner, Frankie.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hello.’

  If he could have teleported himself to the studio right then, the whole movie could be note-perfect in the time it was taking Frankie to move her bag so that he could sit next to her. He marvelled at the madness of all of this. This place. Her smile. A cuppa. Little over twenty-four hours ago, he had no idea she existed. All these resurfacing feelings swirling and sweet as the cream and fondant on the trays of cakes downstairs.

  ‘You can’t work on an empty stomach,’ she said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a selection of cakes.’ He wasn’t saying much. ‘Did you want coffee? I ordered tea for us. Is this place OK for you?’

  The rickety chair and narrow table, peculiar art-college paintings on the walls, his knee touching hers, their arms a hair’s breadth apart. This place was perfect.

  ‘Tea’s just fine,’ he said.

  ‘Say – a cuppa.’

  ‘A cuppa.’

  ‘Sorry – I shouldn’t laugh.’

  ‘I like it that you do.’

  A pot of tea, milk in a jug, cups and saucers and a plate of cakes in front of them. The two of them took it all in.

  ‘How’s your day been?’ Scott asked, nodding for Frankie to pour.

  She tilted her hand this way, that way. ‘Arduous,’ she said. In each of her meetings, she’d sensed Alice beside her, protesting. You’re fibbing, Frankie – you’re a fibber – you haven’t written me a story at all.

  ‘How so?’

  Scott watched her redden a little as she fumbled in her bag. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘I brought you this.’

  ‘Alice and the Ditch Monster,’ he read before flipping through the pages, lingering over the illustrations, charmed. He looked at Frankie’s author portrait in the back when her hair had been longer and it had been winter, by the looks of her turtleneck sweater. He read the dedication in the front. For Sam who’s braver than brave. Scott felt overwhelmingly proud of her. He turned to her. ‘Wow.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s just what I do,’ she said. ‘I’m not very good at much else.’ Adrenalin suddenly soured the tea.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I can’t write.’ She couldn’t look up either.

  ‘But by the looks of this – you can.’ Scott dipped into the book again. ‘Look at all these reviews. Prizes too.’

  ‘I can’t write just now,’ she whispered. She looked ashamed and it upset him.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Months.’

  He thought about it. ‘Anyone know?’

  ‘The children. My sister.’ She glanced up. ‘You.’

  He speared a glazed raspberry from the tart, scooped crème pâtissièrre over it and handed her the fork.

  ‘I’ve been there, Frankie. I spent six months sitting under my piano, freaking out while everyone thought I was composing. A few years back – but the fear, the shame, is still vivid.’

  She’d slumped a little. Gently, he nudged her. ‘It passes. Talent like yours? It evades you from time to time, for sure – but you’ll always have it.’

  ‘How did you get through it?’ Her eyes had gone glassy. He liked it that he knew exactly what she was feeling.

  ‘I drank a lot of caffeine,’ Scott laughed. ‘Then I gave it up completely. I tried Valium at night and beta blockers during the day. I got angry. I got sad. I broke a guitar. Two, actually.’

  ‘I just chew pencils and stare at nothing in particular.’

  ‘Probably cheaper – but not healthier.’

  ‘I am genuinely scared, not least because of the state of the industry. With all the discoun
ting and cheap or free downloads, publishers are paying their authors less and less. A wonderful writer I know has had her advance cut by half. She feels decimated.’

  ‘I can understand that. It’s been the same in the music industry.’

  ‘But what if I can’t write at all, ever again? I’m the sole provider for my little family. What if that was it – my quota of books?’

  It felt to Scott as if Frankie’s eyes were clinging to his for reassurance. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Not that I can pinpoint.’

  ‘But you’ve had all this upheaval – moving home. Don’t be hard on yourself.’

  ‘It feels utterly self-indulgent to give myself slack.’

  ‘I know. I felt that too.’

  And it struck Frankie that Scott wasn’t saying any of this simply to cajole her into getting on with it, the way she anticipated her publishers might. It seemed he truly understood and more than that, he cared.

  ‘Tell me about Alice,’ he said, pouring more tea, reaching for the milk at the same time as Frankie, their fingers touching, their eyes connecting, time stopping.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Don’t say it like that – like you blame her. Tell me about the Alice you know.’

  Frankie thought about her and suddenly felt a little contrite, as if she’d been impatient with a child who was irritating simply by being a child, just a little kid.

  ‘She’s a monkey,’ she smiled. ‘She lives in the countryside outside a village called Cloddington and, at the bottom of her garden where the hedge grows thatchety and the ditch is dank, He lives.’

  Scott smiled. The colour was starting to come back to her cheeks and her eyes glinted. ‘The ditch dude?’

  Frankie nodded.

  ‘Is he a euphemism? Did you consign your ex to a life in a quagmire?’

  Frankie laughed, she really laughed. ‘Miles? Oh God – I wouldn’t dignify him with life in a ditch! I wouldn’t enlarge his sizeable ego with a character based on him. Actually, Miles is just Miles, a law unto himself. For one so smooth he has a lot of rough edges but he’s just Miles. Frustratingly, maddeningly Miles.’