Chapter 4

FOUR

FREDDIE

The first time Freddie met Charlotte, he made a total idiot of himself.

It was only chance that had found him and Dominic in the bar where she was playing. Dom's old man had flatly refused to buy him another car after he'd burnt the gear box out again, and the poor old Fiat had smoked so badly on their way out of Suffolk that he'd made him pull over at the first bar they came across.

Set back from the main road, the bar was one of those old places with thick beams and brick fireplaces that was ripe for someone to buy it and turn it into a gastro pub. The current clientele were more ASBO than gastro, though, and he and Dominic looked like they'd been marooned on a particularly inhospitable island. He wanted to leave immediately.

Dominic, his voice raised above the sound of the music, was blithely unaware of the looks they were getting. ‘You must be joking. I need a drink. We'll get some shots in and then I'll call us an Uber.'

It wasn't worth the energy to argue. ‘What about your car?'

He shrugged. ‘She's dead, mate. We can raise a glass to her. Find us a seat, will you?' In three strides, he was at the bar, squinting at the whiskey on offer behind the stroppy barmaid wiping a glass as if she'd quite like to put it in his face.

After a quick scan of the bar, Freddie spotted a table that was out of the way. Once he was seated, back against the splintered wooden panelled wall, he avoided eye contact with anyone nearby by scrolling on his phone. Places like this made him nervous. Back in sixth form, they used to go out in the local town and there was always trouble. Some local lad who wanted to pick a fight with the ‘posh knobs' from the school. Dominic was his mate, but he didn't help matters with his loud voice and a laugh that brayed louder than a donkey.

Which was why, when the people around him started shifting in their seats to face in the same direction, his heart sank. But it wasn't in the direction of the bar, from which Dominic was wobbling towards him with a tray of vicious shots. No, everyone was turning towards a raised platform at the far end where three girls around his age were slotting themselves behind a keyboard, guitar and microphone respectively. A small cheer greeted the dark-haired singer in a tartan dress as she held up a hand and introduced the first song, looking as if she could hold her own in this room full of men with a sprinkle of their girlfriends.

But it wasn't the singer who stole his attention away from whatever joke Dominic was telling. It was the girl behind the keyboard. Long blonde hair swayed as she moved to the music coming from her fingertips. Open-necked shirt, which was unbuttoned just enough to make you want more. Slim hips in jeans stretched tightly across her thighs.

From that moment, he was lost.

The set lasted for about an hour, but he couldn't stop watching her. The ease at which she played and moved, the red of her beautiful mouth as she added backing vocals to covers of Alanis Morissette, Amy Winehouse, and a rock version of something he was pretty sure might be Madonna. It was the kind of music his mother would ask Alexa to play when she'd had more than two glasses of wine, but they made it sound edgy and different. Two or three times, Dominic jabbed him in the arm, before giving up trying to talk to him and just sliding one drink after another in front of him. Who knew how much he'd had? Enough to make him sound like a total and utter prick the first time he spoke to Charlotte.

Almost the minute she came off stage, Dominic announced that their Uber was outside.

Freddie panicked. ‘You didn't tell me you were booking an Uber?'

Dom drained the final shot glass on the table. ‘What's the problem? You didn't even want to stay here.'

He didn't have time to explain. He had to speak to her before he lost his nerve.

In his defence, Freddie hadn't realised just how drunk he was and his legs almost betrayed him as he launched himself in her direction. Her head turned at the jeering cheers as he knocked into a table. She rolled her eyes and turned to say something that made her friends laugh. Making his way towards her, he was sure one of those friends was warning her of his approach. She didn't turn around.

Freddie knew that he was a good-looking boy. It wasn't arrogance. Just fact. His mother would say it was her Irish heritage that gave him his thick dark hair and translucent blue eyes, but his height and swimmer's shoulders came directly from his father. Among his friends, he was always the one who'd start a conversation with a group of girls. He was good at putting on the charm. At the very least, he always got a smile for his trouble.

Except, this time, he didn't.

His opening gambit made him sound like an extra from an American teen-flick. ‘Hey. You were great up there.'

Her glance was so fleeting it almost cut him. ‘Thanks.'

Why wouldn't his brain feed him the right words? It had never let him down before. ‘Can I buy you a drink?'

She lifted a pint glass. ‘Already have one. But thanks.'

‘What about a shot?' He held out his hand to include her bandmates. ‘For all of you.'

‘We're good, thanks.'

She turned back to the bar. He couldn't ask again without looking like a total creep. And, to make matters worse, Dominic appeared at his elbow. ‘Have you worked your magic yet?'

Freddie wanted the ground to open up beneath him. ‘Let's just go.'

If Freddie was drunk, Dominic was absolutely smashed. Way beyond the ability to read a social cue. He raised his voice. ‘We're going on to a club. Why don't you girls come with us? You won't need to buy a drink. My uncle owns the place.'

Charlotte's eyes narrowed. ‘Of course he does.'

In his inebriated state, Freddie misunderstood her sarcasm. ‘He's not lying. His uncle is?—'

Charlotte held up a bored hand to stop his explanation. ‘I'm sorry if I looked interested. I'm really not. We just want a quiet pint after our set. Have a good night.'

She picked up the jacket on the stool beside her and the three of them disappeared to the corner of the bar.

Dominic shrugged. ‘You're losing your touch, mate. Come on, let's go.'

All the way to the club in the Uber, he wanted to punch himself in the face. Why had he made such a mess of that?

For the next two weeks he couldn't get her out of his mind. When he saw a flyer for her band playing in another bar near Colchester, it felt like fate. He was going to talk to her and, this time, he'd do it sober.