Chapter 22
BY THE time I was on to my third beer, my warm mellow had deepened to melancholy. After brushing the dust off my guitar, I sat on my deck, serenading the seagulls squawking overhead. I’d hardly touched my guitar over the last few years – the creative part of me had shrivelled up and died, and the sales of my album had dribbled away to nothing, due to lack of promotion. Now a torrent of phrases, riffs and notes spewed out of me – some full of pathos, others explosive with rage, some so tender they were merely a whisper. I should be writing these down, I told myself. But I didn’t want to break the spell.
I looked up. Sarah was standing at the sliding door watching me. I hadn’t heard her arrive home from work. I looked at my watch. Five-thirty. I had come home straight after my m
