When we got back to the motel, I said, ‘I was serious about the singalong. Do you want to come in for a while?’
Frankie hesitated. The walk home had sobered her up a bit and her wariness had returned. ‘Okay, but I’m not singing. I’ll just listen to you.’
‘As long as you don’t throw rotten tomatoes.’
Frankie sat on the edge of the second bed while I made us a cup of sawdust each, served up with a cardboard biscuit from a cellophane packet. I took my guitar out of its case and tuned it.
‘Here’s a little ditty I wrote myself and it goes something like this.’
I played her two of the songs from my album in the making, Life’s a Stage.
They were both catchy tunes with a good beat and Frankie was soon tapping her foot.
‘They’re not bad,’ she said. ‘A bit too folksy for my taste, but you cou
