A Fall from Grace (Part One)

The short walk from the station to the record company, through the beautiful oval shaped park, had lifted Sam’s soul. But now, in the tiny cluttered back office, the only defence against the oppressive July heat was a small open window, and, without a noticeable breeze, the warm stale air weighed heavily.    

Not for the first time he wondered if the dizzying glamour of the music industry was nothing more than an illusion as he bumped knees and stared into the fierce eyes of his inquisitor.

“Shall we get started?” Kirsty asked, tapping her phone.

“Let’s do it,” he said, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

“So, here I am at last,” she began. “With Sam Clutterbuck, the ‘Poet Postie’ himself.”

He grimaced and shook his head.

“’Poet Postie’! I’m not sure about that.”

“No? I thought it was rather good.”

“It’s not. It’s lazy journalism, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Well, I think it’s a great line and yours is a great story and it needs to be told.”

A couple of months into this thing and he was already tiring of the endless retelling of the story. At the start he’d enjoyed the attention, but his patience for everything that swirled around it was wearing thin, and, for the first time, he didn’t have Callum – who loved to talk about all of this - to hide behind.

“Hasn’t it already been told?”

“Yes, a version of it has. A well-scrubbed version the label has carefully put out there – I’m not interested in that.” Her face was unaccustomed to hosting the smile she attempted, and it quickly slipped away. “Look, Sam, we all know the story, and who am I to cast a shadow over it? The royalty cheques are rolling in, Callum’s star is shining brighter than the sun, and everyone wants to hear about the legend of the twenty year old lyrics in the attic and the postman who penned them. Happy days!”

Sam shrugged. “And yet you seem to have a problem with it.”

“I suppose I find it all a little disingenuous,” she said. “You’ve spoken previously about the lyrics being pure works of imagination; nobody special in your life at that time - is that right?”

“Right,” he answered, warily.

“I don’t believe you.”

He raised his eyebrows. This was new. “I’m sorry to hear that, but the truth is they are just words - lyrics I wrote for a mate, as a favour, two decades ago. It was nothing serious at the time and I had no idea they’d turn up all these years later and be lifted off the page and given life by a talented young kid.”

It sounded hollow, even to Sam’s ears, and Kirsty wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Come on, Sam, don’t insult me. These songs” - she prodded him forcefully with the lyric sheet - “tell the story of a real relationship, from giddy beginning to bitter end. They’re all about a real woman; a woman you gave everything of yourself to; a woman who left you shattered and broken. Tell me I’m wrong.” She glared hard, daring him to disagree.

He was naturally lazy, and all his instincts were telling him to shrug and say, ‘Whatever.’ But he’d promised Callum he’d do this, so he ought to put up some sort of defence.

“Listen, without wishing to completely trash my own part in the success of this record, we all know the music is everything. As far as the lyrics are concerned you can knock out the most inane and vacuous drivel, but if the music has a hook, a convincing melody, it’ll be a hit. Nobody really cares about the words, it’s -”

“BOLLOCKS!”

He hadn’t realised being made to jump out of your seat was an actual thing. The options for his next move were pinballing around his mind when the door to the office opened and Callum stuck his tousled head inside.

“Oh, Sam, it’s you. Everything ok in here? We heard shouting.” He was smiling broadly, enjoying the scene.

After a moments irritation Kirsty quickly regained her composure and had another stab at a smile.

“We’re fine, just a healthy exchange of views,” she reassured Cal.

He looked at Sam, who gave an almost imperceptible, if weary, nod of confirmation.

“Ok, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it then.” He winked, like an old drunk on the pull, and left.

Kirsty pinned Sam to the chair with her fierce gaze.

“I came here expecting, at the very least, complete honesty. It’s so disappointing when you meet somebody whose work you admire, and of whom you expect so much, and they turn out to be so ….” she paused to consider him closely, “so mealy-mouthed, so ordinary, so completely lacking in any hint of the extraordinary.”

This was surely not how any professional journalist would behave.

“Which magazine did you say you were from?”

Her rapidly reddening face and deep, whiny breaths told of her struggle to retain control. She pushed the chair back suddenly and rose with surprising speed and agility. Looming over him she waved the lyrics in his face again.

“Listen … listen …” She struggled for the right words.

“I’m listening,” Sam said, surprising himself with his calmness.

She stood firm, mouth clamped shut and nostrils flaring, for what, to Sam, felt like an age, before the air seemed to go out of her, and she slunk back onto the chair. In an effort to calm herself she sat quite still, taking deep breaths and staring at her feet, before raising her head.

“I’m so sorry, I really don’t know what to say, it’s just that … well, I’m so passionate about these songs and I know they’re about somebody real. Look,” she said, nodding at the sheets. “Look at these songs - Thirst for You, Not Ready for This, Wash the Day Away; come on, Sam, the passion and humanity in these songs - they couldn’t possibly be a cold exercise in lyric writing. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me about her, please.”

She wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t about to confirm that. Let her carry on fishing, if she must.

Her breathing was returning to normal - the storm seemed to have blown through. He badly needed the sort of support that only came in a bottle.

“Listen, I’m going to get a drink, can I get you anything?”

“Ok, maybe a coffee, if you have it?”

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with anything stronger?” He thought coffee was the last thing she needed. She shook her head solemnly. Nodding, he said, “No, probably wise. Well, I’ll be right back.”

 

He made for the kitchen-cum-social area, where fresh coffee was always available, as was a nice bottle of single malt. The independent label was small, intimate, he liked that, it felt comfortable. Being a mere lyric writer for one of their artists he wasn’t officially signed to the label, but Callum, whose manager rented an office on the floor above, had wanted him around occasionally, wanted him to feel part of this thing. Sam knew he was hoping for more lyrics at some point but didn’t have the heart to tell him he hadn’t written anything for twenty years and doubted he had it in him anymore.

He found the whisky, poured himself a generous shot and downed it in one.

“Jesus Jones!” he grimaced before feeling its warm embrace.

Drink had always been something he could take or leave, but, of late, the prospect of any day without its soothing touch was unthinkable.

He filled two mugs with hot coffee and made his way back to Kirsty.

 

Back in the office Sam put the two mugs on an upturned cardboard box.

“Here we go.”

“I’m sorry again,” Kirsty said. “Sometimes I get carried away. I’m always being dragged into the editor’s office and told to be more detached, less emotional and instinctive. Quite often, though, my instincts are right, and I think they’re right about you.”

“Look Kirsty, I know you want to believe this one special girl theory, but it wasn’t like that. Honestly, the truth is I – “

“Would you really recognise the truth?” she interrupted. “If it stared you in the face and formally introduced itself, I mean. Would you really?”

“Oh, God,” he said. “More of this. Perhaps we should wind this up now. What do you think?”

Why so passive? Asking what she thought, suggesting winding it up. Why couldn’t he find it within himself to tell her the interview was over - her time was up?

“No, not quite yet.” Something in her tone had changed. “You don’t recognise me, do you?”

He looked quizzically at her.

“Well, no … I … don’t think I do. Should I?”

“I’m not surprised, the last time you saw me I was six years old and as round as a dough ball. Grace said you used to call me her porky princess.”

At the mention of Grace’s name Sam’s insides fell away and he felt a burning heat move up his back and on to his neck. Christ! Grace’s little sister - although back then there was nothing little about her. She was completely unrecognisable now.

“You should close your mouth, Sam. The gaping goldfish look doesn’t suit you.”

He was shocked and confused - unsure which way to go.

“I … er … I think you must be mistaken, I …”

“Oh, come on, Samuel. You’re not really going to play it like that are you? Not a good move. You only came around a few times, I grant you, but I’d know you anywhere, you look pretty much the same as you did twenty years ago – a bit more jowly and with less hair – but unmistakably Sam Clutterbuck.”

Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. Why was she here? Did she know the full story of what happened all those years ago?