Page 54 of The Sound Between Us

There’s a single bar in the second verse that felt off while we were writing, slightly clunky. Harrison didn’t notice, or if he did he didn’t say. But I see it now.

I change a note. Then another.

The harmony falls into place with a sigh of inevitability. It had just been waiting for me to stop being a coward.

I stare at the finished page. It feels... different now, more finished, more whole.

And still I hate it.

I grab the sheet and fold it in half, then again. I press the crease hard with the heel of my hand until the paper fibres groan in protest.

He can have it.

Let Harrison Carter sing it to stadiums full of screaming girls with tears on their cheeks and lyrics on their tongues.

Let him take it, own it.

Because I don’t want it.

Not if it reminds me of how I felt in his arms; not if it makes me wish for things I can’t afford to want.

I tuck the folded sheet under a book and walk away, trying not to look back.

Trying harder not to care.

Upstairs smells of money and lavender polish. That specific combination of wealth and effortlessness that comes from never having to hoover your own carpets.

I climb the stairs two at a time, mostly for dramatic flair, but partly because if I pause too long, I might turn back and fake appendicitis. But I had that already.

The big house is already buzzing. A house full of people who don’t work, not that I can comment on that. Vinny insists that Monday should be hangover day, so the shop is closed.

I can hear laughter from the kitchen—Mrs Martin’s unmistakable cackle—and a blender being murdered violently. God help us, someone’s attempting a smoothie.

The sitting room is a cathedral of tasteful neutrals. Cashmere throws artfully draped over cream sofas; art on the walls I’m fairly sure was bought for the frame. And there, perched on the edge of a chaise as though she’s in a lifestyle shoot for Tatler, is Kimberly. Kimba, if you’re brave or stupid.

“Darling!” she sings, arms extended as though I’m returning from war rather than the basement.

I let myself be air-kissed within an inch of my life. She smells of fig and bank accounts.

“You look pale.” She coos, brushing my cheek with manicured fingers. “Have you been underground again?”

“I live underground, Kimba. A mole; or a mid-2000s emo.”

She laughs, delighted. “Oh, you are so funny.”

Felix is by the fireplace, flipping through a copy of Monocle. He looks as though a GQ editorial got lost and set up camp in our living room.

“Sister mine.” He drawls, eyes twinkling above his absurdly symmetrical cheekbones. “To what do we owe the honour?”

“It’s Monday.” I plop into a chair that probably cost more than my car. “Family Day, remember?”

He shudders. “I try not to.”

The kitchen door swings open and Mrs Martin bustles in, cheeks flushed, apron dusted with flour, carrying what looks suspiciously actual food.

“There she is.” I beam. “The only reason I show up.”

Mrs Martin winks. “That’s because you know I’m hiding the good potatoes.”