They settled into a booth in the corner of a quiet old man’s pub.
‘Here,’ said Emma, licking her thumb and gently wiping it across his cheek. ‘Spot of dirt or something,’ she said. ‘You never know who’s going to be watching tonight.’
‘There ain’t going to be any record company scouts in Bath,’ said Alex wearily.
‘Well, journalists then. Even if you only get something in the local paper, it all counts, doesn’t it?’
Alex looked at her. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘For, you know,’ he said clumsily. ‘For being here.’
‘Who would want to miss another performance by the great Alex Doyle?’ she teased. ‘Anyway, I think Jemma has ulterior motives letting you lot stay tonight.’
Alex raised his eyebrows. ‘Not Jez?’
Emma gave a wry smile. ‘Who else?’
‘Well tell her not to get too attached,’ said Alex, taking a sip of his pint.
‘Is he that bad?’
‘He’s not good, put it that way.’
‘How many women has he slept with?’ said Emma, running a finger around the rim of her glass.
‘Dunno. A lot.’
‘And how many women have you slept with?’
‘This year? One,’ said Alex. ‘But she wasn’t much cop.’
‘Hey!’ cried Emma, swatting him on the arm.
A sweep of affection for her caught him by surprise. She was easy to talk to and she made him laugh, but she was clever, too. She’d just missed out on getting a first and had ambitions to work in television. Life with Emma had settled into a comfortable routine. She had moved out of the big house in Fallowfield, and when Alex wasn’t on the road, they stayed in her bedsit in Withington, venturing out to a gig or to see a foreign film at the Cornerhouse, which – with her fluent French and working Italian – she seemed to enjoy more than he did. And she was always interested in his music, coming to every gig and listening to his demos.
‘Come on, let’s go and be tourists,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her out of the pub and down towards the river they’d seen on the way in. Hand in hand they strolled along the banks of the River Avon, the weak sun warming the backs of their necks.
‘If you get a record deal, are you going to move to London?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Maybe. But only if you agreed to come down to the big, bad smoke with me.’
‘Really?’ she said, unable to hide her delight. ‘I didn’t think you were the settling-down type.’
‘Don’t take the piss, this isn’t easy for me.’
‘I’d jump at the chance,’ she said, her mouth closing in a determined line. ‘When I said I wanted to work in TV, I didn’t think I’d end up as a guide at Granada Studios Tours.’
‘Come on. You get to walk up and down Coronation Street every day.’
‘We’re bigger than all this, Alex. You and me. Why shouldn’t we be telly producers or rock stars just ’cos we’re not rich or privileged?’
He grabbed her hand in solidarity.
For all his bitching about Jez, Alex was about ten times as happy as he had been before he had joined the band; in fact that black cloud which had been following around in the dark months earlier on in the year seemed to have completely gone. Now happy was a constant state: he was happy writing music, happy going to gigs, happy on stage, although sharing anything with Jez was increasingly hard work. But for the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, Alex realised he was happy just being with another person
. He kissed her, hard, sliding his hands inside her T-shirt, stroking her back, slipping his fingers into the waistband of her jeans.