It was all very well for those who didn’t mind taking the risks, he explained over coffee, but when the baby had come along - ten months ago, at eight and a half pounds and with a shock of white-blonde hair that made her look like a dandelion puff - he had been forced to face up to his responsibilities. Teaching might not be as much fun as singing, but he was good at it, it paid the mortgage and the family wouldn’t starve. Every now and again he was able to take his guitar down to the local pub and let off a little gentle steam, and in his spare time he still indulged in the odd bit of song-writing . . .
‘And this, of course, is where you come in,’ he said, refilling her coffee cup before settling back down in his chair and lighting a cigarette. ‘So, come on, tell me exactly what kind of help it is you need.’
‘You must think I have a terrible nerve,’ said Izzy, ‘contacting you out of the blue. I’m still singing but I’m not . . . getting anywhere. And I’m not rich,’ she added with a brief smile. ‘Benny, if I’m ever going to achieve anything, I have to learn how to
write
songs, and I haven’t the least idea how to go about it. Is it something anyone can do? Which comes first, the melody or the lyrics? And is it possible to teach a complete nincompoop,’ she concluded shamefacedly, ‘who’s totally . . . musically . . . illiterate?’
Benny threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You aren’t serious . . . you really can’t read music?’
‘Can’t read it, can’t write it, can’t play any musical instruments,’ confessed Izzy. ‘I know, I’m nothing but a fraud with a great memory. And if there’s any way you think you
can
teach me, I’d better warn you now that I wouldn’t even be able to pay you because I’m so broke.’ She paused, then gave him a hopeful, beguiling smile. ‘But I could promise you years of free babysitting . . .’
Great teacher that he was, Benny enjoyed nothing more than a real, honest-to-goodness challenge. Izzy had a great voice and more enthusiasm than an entire classful of fifth formers . . . just sitting opposite him now she positively radiated energy and eagerness to learn.
‘I can do songs in my head,’ she continued anxiously, terribly afraid that he was on the verge of turning her down. ‘I make them up all the time, but I just can’t write them down . . . I even sang into a cassette recorder once, but it sounded so silly afterwards . . . I’m sure I
could
do it properly, though, if only I could get the songs
out
. . .’
‘In that case, maybe we’d better give it a go. How could I ever forgive myself, after all,’ he added drily as Izzy let out a shriek of delight, ‘if I missed out on the opportunity of teaching the songwriter of the century?’
‘Just call me McCartney.’ Izzy, tossing back her tangled curls, gave him her breeziest smile.
‘My pleasure,’ said Benny, imitating the gesture and running his fingers through his thinning, short blond hair. ‘Just call me Mr Twenty Per Cent of the Profits. What
is
twenty per cent of eighty-seven million pounds?’
‘You’re the maths teacher, I’m the genius songwriter,’ Izzy scolded. ‘
You
work it out.’
If Vivienne Bresnick wasn’t embarrassed to open the front door wearing only a small towel, Izzy wasn’t going to let it put her off her stride either.
‘Hi,’ she said, removing her sunglasses and envying the girl her tan. ‘Lucky I’m not the man who’s come to read the meter.’
‘Lucky for who?’ countered Vivienne, appraising Izzy in turn. ‘You might have been gorgeous.’ Then she paused and burst out laughing. ‘No offence intended. What I meant was, you might have been a gorgeous man, whereas in fact you’re Izzy Van Asch. Am I right?’
‘Brilliant.’ Izzy was impressed, both by the accuracy of the guess and the fact that the girl appeared to have a sense of humour, which was something she hadn’t expected. ‘I know who you are too.’
‘Great, so now we don’t need to bother with all those boring introductions. Nice to meet you, anyway,’ said Vivienne, stepping back and waving Izzy into the apartment. ‘Sam isn’t here, he had to go to some meeting, but he should be back soon. Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting?’
‘Just coffee, thanks.’ Izzy’s admiration increased further when she saw the state of the sitting room. Evidence of female occupation - in the form of stray shoes, a discarded négligé, scattered glossy magazines and a variety of earrings and cosmetics littering the mantelpiece beneath the mirror - abounded. The girl was untidy, and defiantly so. It must, she thought with the kind of comradely cheerfulness which could only come from a fellow sufferer, be driving Sam wild.
‘I know, I know.’ Vivienne, observing the look on her face, gave an unrepentant smile. ‘The place is kind of a mess. I don’t understand how it happens . . .’
‘It’s the same with me,’ Izzy told her reassuringly. ‘My daughter says I have a primaeval need to mark out my territory.’ Then, in case Vivienne thought it was some kind of sly dig, said, ‘So, how did you know I was me?’
The kettle was taking its time. Picking up the ivory satin négligé and pulling it on, Vivienne allowed the towel to slide to the floor and stepped away from it. Then, tilting her head to one side and considering Izzy for a thoughtful second, she replied, ‘Sam told me. An up-front lady with crazy hair, he said . . . or words to that effect. You have a neat daughter, no money and a pretty good singing voice, right?’
‘Right,’ said Izzy with a grin. It seemed a fair enough resumé, after all. ‘Except that I’d have preferred “great” for the voice. And my daughter,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘isn’t just neat. She’s brilliant.’
‘I can’t sing for toffee,’ said Vivienne comfortably. ‘Go on, it’s your turn now. What did Sam say about me?’
‘Rich. Blonde. And rich.’ Izzy burst out laughing. Was this really her rival in love? ‘I can’t think what’s wrong with him . . . I’d marry you tomorrow!’
Having finally remembered to make the coffee,Vivienne handed her one of the cups and dropped gracefully on to the sofa. ‘Something he didn’t tell me . . . excuse me if this is a rude question . . . were you and he having a fling when I turned up? Did I put a kind of spoke in the old wheel?’
‘No,’ Izzy replied truthfully, to the first part of the question.
Vivienne nodded. ‘Well, good. That makes things less complicated, I guess.’ Then she shrugged and grinned. ‘It’s just that something else Sam didn’t mention was how pretty you are.’
A compliment for a compliment, thought Izzy. She sipped her coffee and said slowly, ‘Well, I saw you on the night you turned up at The Steps. And I can’t tell you how much I admired your . . . luggage.’
You couldn’t help warming to the kind of girl, Izzy decided fifteen minutes later, who, when she heard Sam’s key turning in the front door, appeared to notice for the first time the damp towel crumpled in a heap in the centre of the carpet and who, instead of picking it up, kicked it vaguely in the direction of the coffee table. Much to her own surprise she found herself liking Vivienne more and more. She was also mightily intrigued to see the two of them together. Whatever Sam might have said that night at The Steps, Izzy found it hard to believe that he could be sharing his apartment with Vivienne and not sleeping with her.
‘Look, darling . . . Izzy’s here,’ announced Vivienne delightedly, and Izzy had to force herself not to fluff up her hair because the last time she’d seen him she’d been looking diabolical and she didn’t want him to think she was turning into a frump. Quite suddenly, next to Vivienne, she felt small, dark and decidedly insignificant. How, after all, could jeans and a floppy black sweatshirt compare with ivory satin, miles of deeply tanned leg and a staggering amount of cleavage?
Sam’s expression, however, gave absolutely nothing away. The habitual lazy grin, when it appeared a second later, was unchanged. Izzy wondered if he was ever really taken by surprise.
‘We’ve been getting along just fine,’Vivienne continued, her Texan drawl deepening as she stretched like a cat and patted the seat next to her. Then, with a wink in Izzy’s direction, she added, ‘Talking all about you.’
‘No, we weren’t,’ put in Izzy hastily. Beaming at Sam, who hadn’t taken up Vivienne’s unspoken offer - he was leaning against the window-sill instead - she said, ‘As a matter of fact we were talking about someone far more interesting. Me.’
‘Far more interesting, of course,’ he agreed, attempting to keep a straight face.
‘Of course,’ she echoed, unperturbed. This was, after all, why she had come here. ‘I was just telling Vivienne, I’m going to write songs. This brilliant friend of mine is going to help me . . . before you know it we’ll be out-Garfunkeling Simon and Garfunkel . . .’
‘The last time Izzy got this excited about something,’ Sam informed Vivienne drily, ‘it was peanut-butter ice-cream. ’
‘This time I’m serious,’ she insisted with pride.
‘But you said you can’t read music.’
‘Ah, but Benny can. I have all the ideas,’ Izzy explained, tapping her forehead, ‘and he has the know-how. It was what Gina said the other night that made me realise. I had to
do
something . . . and now it’s going to happen!’
‘And you never thought of doing this before?’ enquired Vivienne looking genuinely puzzled.
‘I didn’t think it was physically possible,’ Izzy confessed. ‘What with me not being able to play any kind of musical instrument, I suppose I just thought it was one of those things which can’t happen, like waking up in the morning and suddenly being able to speak Russian, or looking in the mirror and realizing that your eyes have turned green.’
Vivienne burst out laughing. ‘Honey, all you had to do was ask. I would have lent you my tinted contacts.’
Chapter 20
It was certainly an odd situation to find oneself in, Izzy mused as she got herself ready for work that evening. Until this afternoon, Vivienne Bresnick had been nothing more than an untimely intrusion. Now, having met her, she found herself liking the girl immeasurably and almost wishing her and Sam well. They were such a striking couple . . . in many ways so perfectly matched . . . that it was impossible to imagine them not being happy together.
As far as Izzy herself was concerned, she didn’t know whether it was sad or funny. And even more frustrating was the fact that she
still
didn’t know whether or not Sam and Vivienne were once again sleeping together.
Putting the finishing touches to her mascara, then stepping back and idly wondering how she’d look with long, white-blonde hair and Bahama-blue eyes, Izzy said aloud for the second time in twenty minutes, ‘She really is a nice person, you know.’
Gina, who was kneeling on the sitting-room floor sifting through a carton of tattered files, glanced up at Izzy’s reflection in the mirror.
‘Of course she is,’ she replied evenly. ‘She’s Sam’s girlfriend, isn’t she? Whyever would he want to waste his time with some brainless bimbo?’
Izzy shrugged. ‘Men have no taste; it’s a common failing.’ She considered holding up Andrew as a case in point, then decided against it. Since starting work at the agency, Gina had seemed so much happier. If the old wounds were beginning to heal, she wasn’t going to be the one to reopen them.
‘Not Sam,’ replied Gina flatly, leaning back on her heels and flexing her aching shoulders. Really, she sometimes wondered whether Doug even knew the meaning of the words ‘alphabetical order’. Given this box, a chimpanzee could have produced more organised chaos. ‘But aren’t you glad that
you
didn’t get involved with him?’ she continued in cheerful tones. ‘You can see now that it would never have worked . . . you aren’t Sam’s type at all.’
Katerina was working in her room, attempting to concertina a week’s homework into one evening and trying to banish all thoughts of Andrew from her mind while she concentrated instead on the less exciting prospect of her forthcoming exams. Love and essays didn’t go together - she knew it, but she didn’t care - and, although she was shamefully behind with her revision, she couldn’t even summon up the energy to panic.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when she heard Izzy letting herself into the house. Clipping her felt-tipped pen to the top of her writing pad, Katerina wriggled into a sitting position and hoped her mother would arrive bearing prawn crackers.
‘Hi, sweetie.’ Pushing open the door to her daughter’s bedroom, Izzy wondered whether it was possible physically to burst with pride. How could a seventeen-year-old girl - the miraculous product of her own disorganised and undeserving body - be so beautiful, so brilliant . . . and so good?