‘I’m sure…’
‘Stop saying I’m sure.’ She paused, shocked at her own snappiness, before altering her tone with, ‘A bunch of old fogies celebrating some dude’s ninetieth and all they wanted from me was endless Gershwin and Fats Waller. I had to play “Ain’t Misbehavin’” six times.’ She paused again. ‘I hadn’t realised how drunk octogenarians can get or how flirtatious. It was creepy.’
‘Still…’
‘There is no still.’
The force of her remark surprised her. She sounded snappy and uptight, but her mother’s platitudes were maddening as ever they were. Yes, she was grateful for the work, but she couldn’t exorcise from her being the gnawing frustration that she had screwed her musical career; that Garth had wiped her presence clean off the billboard. Three years and her connections and her hopes go
