Chapter Thirteen

‘So this is where your jazzman lives, eh?’ Lauren says, giving me a sly little jab in the ribs as she slides her way into a booth, and suddenly I’m not sure bringing the four of them to the Coeur de Vie was such a great idea.

‘First of all,’ I say, ‘he’s not my jazzman. Secondly, I’m pretty sure “jazzman” isn’t an actual term. And thirdly, he works here. He doesn’t live here.’ I think. I mean, he can’t, right? Who lives in a bar?

‘But other than that?’

‘Sure. A hundred percent.’

Lauren taps the side of her head knowledgeably, and I wonder how hard that shot of tequila hit her; it might be a long night.

‘Drinks?’ Danielle asks. ‘I don’t see a menu.’

‘I’ll ask at the bar,’ I say.

‘No need,’ she says. ‘Just get us all what’s good. I mean, if you’re a regular here, now…’

I choose to ignore the tone; it’s not my fault her choice of bar turned out to be such a dud, and that I was forced to swoop in and save the day. After the way the trip to the psychic played out, I could use a win. Danielle can be as frosty as she likes.

Speaking of which…

That bartender is the same guy who was serving yesterday afternoon. Teddy? Eddie? Yeah, that sounds right. Eddie. He’s cute, in a clean-cut kind of way: high-and-tight hair, a stubbled jawline, deep blue eyes and shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms; I can see the tendons against the skin as he pours bag after bag of ice into a container beneath the bar. I barely noticed him last night, but…

Stop it, I tell myself. Think of Carter.

And I am thinking of Carter – I am, I promise.

But it doesn’t hurt to look, surely? What’s the harm in that? I’m sure he’s looking, wherever he is right now.

Suddenly Eddie spins around, his eyes on mine, and the moment is gone. Time for business. ‘I know you,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’re the girl who was here with Jack yesterday, right?’

‘I wasn’t with…’ I begin, but I can tell that Eddie doesn’t really care all that much. ‘Sure,’ I say. It’s easier that way.

‘Well, sorry, but he ain’t here yet.’ He checks the clock behind the bar; it’s just turned ten o’clock. ‘Soon, though. If you’re looking to stick around.’

‘Oh, I’m not here to see him. I’m here with friends.’ Yeah, that’s right, I think to myself. I have friends. I’m not just the tourist who comes to a jazz club and drinks alone.

‘Mmhmm,’ he says. ‘So, what can I get you?’

‘Got a menu?’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘No menus.’ He points to the wall above him, where all of the drinks the bar is famous for are listed. It seems Eddie is capable of a lot more than merely mixing vodka with cranberry juice. The rundown is almost exhaustively extensive: from martinis, margaritas, mojitos and Manhattans right the way through to things using a variety of exotic liquors I’ve never even heard of before.

If I had to go through them one by one, I’d never get my order in.

‘What do you recommend?’ I ask.

‘You girls like whiskey?’

I shrug. ‘As much as anything.’

‘Well, you can’t come to New Orleans without trying a real Sazerac. That’d be my call. And I’m not just saying that because they’re a pain in the ass to make and I make my living off of tips.’

‘What’s in it?’

He lists off the ingredients on his fingers. ‘Rye whiskey, bitters, a little sugar, a little absinthe. Twist of lemon peel.’

‘So basically an Old Fashioned with extra steps?’

He grins. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t. It’s a local thing. What do you say?’

‘Five Sazeracs, I guess.’

‘Coming right up. I’ll get someone to bring them over to your table.’

‘Sure,’ I say, but my ass stays glued to the barstool. My eyes have caught a couple of words on the chalkboard that I missed the last time I was in here.

FREE WI-FI.

I mean, I’ve barely looked at my phone all day… it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for me to check in on my real life, right? Just my emails, that’s all. Maybe work has been trying to get in touch, or…

Or nothing. Just work, that’s all. Certainly not Carter.

‘I think I’ll just wait here, if that’s OK. You guys have WiFi, right?’

Eddie nods, but he’s barely paying attention to me; he’s already apportioning out sugar cubes into five round tumblers with a look of artisanal concentration on his face. ‘Password’s Armstrong123,’ he says. ‘Capital A.’

‘Louis, Lance or Neil?’

‘Funny.’

A couple of seconds later and I’m logged in, and… nothing. Not a single message. Not even the faintest digital whiff of an email. Every inbox I have is as neat and organised as it was when I left Chicago.

Well, shit.

Then again, what was I expecting? A long, rambling email from Carter, telling me all about what a horrible mistake he’d made? That wasn’t exactly his style. He wasn’t much of a wordsmith at the best of times, let alone when there were actual emotions on the line.

He’s probably just waiting until I get home, I think. So we can talk it out in person. He probably doesn’t want our stuff to get in the way of Lauren’s wedding. He knows how important it is to her.

But of course, if that were true, why would he have picked the night before to break up with me? Surely he could have struggled through another week with me? And if he really did think we had problems, maybe a week away would have helped a little bit? A change is as good as a rest, as they say. A nice hotel, a queen-sized bed for the two of us… the whole damn place seemed to be built on the principle of helping people to spice up their love lives. Why couldn’t we –?

‘Do I have to take that off you again?’ a voice comes from behind me. I recognise it immediately, even before I spin around: it’s as much a part of the Coeur de Vie experience as the drinks and the music.

‘You’re not even playing!’ I point out, gesturing to the stage; it’s bare, and the night’s music is being piped through a stereo system.

‘Disappointed?’ Jack grins.

‘Oh, more than I can put into words. I could barely concentrate on my emails.’

‘How terrible that must have been for you,’ he says. ‘A whole five minutes away from work. It’s a wonder you managed to get through it all.’

‘Who said it was work?’

‘I don’t see a drink in front of you. Trying to keep a clear head?’

I gesture to Eddie, who’s putting the finishing touches on the last of our cocktails. ‘Actually, we just arrived.’

‘We?’ he asks, and I can see him doing a quick mental scan of the drinks on the tray, one-two-three-four-five. ‘Is this the infamous wedding party?’

‘I told you I have friends. Is that so hard to believe?’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ he says, but his eyes aren’t on me. It takes me a second to realise what he’s got planned before the raw panic sets in: just long enough for him to look around and find the only group of four women about my age in the club. The second Eddie puts the last lemon twist on top of the last glass, Jack picks up the tray and begins walking purposefully out towards our table. ‘What do you say we go and say hello, eh?’

I rummage around in my purse and practically throw sixty dollars at Eddie, but I’m still not fast enough to intercept Jack; with his long legs, he’s across the floor in two or three giant strides, and no amount of skittering after him in my heels is going to be enough to let me catch up.

‘Evening, ladies,’ he says as I slide up beside him. ‘I hear y’all are friends of Ella?’

He sets the drinks down on the table in front of them, and the girls dive in: after the last bar, an attractive man bearing cocktails – and intrigue – is just about as welcome as ice water in the desert. Over the top of her glass, Lauren gives me a knowing look.

I shake my head furiously.

Don’t do it, I think. Don’t you do it. Don’t you dare.

‘I’m Lauren,’ she says with her sweetest smile, and then counts off the others one by one with a pointed finger, resulting in a cavalcade of smiles and waves.

‘Charmed,’ he says, in that casual barfly way that makes it seem that yes, he really is happy to see us all, that a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. ‘I’m –’

‘Leaving.’

‘Ella!’ Lauren chides in her best schoolmarm voice. ‘Don’t be rude. Your friend here was just introducing himself.’

‘Jack Robichaux,’ he says, sticking out a hand to each of the girls one by one before finally ending on Lauren. ‘You must be the lucky bride?’

She smiles. ‘What gave me away?’

Jack tilts his hand towards her and gestures to his ring finger. ‘Oh, you know,’ he says. ‘Just a guess.’

‘Don’t you have a set to play?’ I ask. Or someone else to harass?

He nods. ‘I do, I do. I only came here to deliver you lovely ladies your drinks – and to deliver some bad news.’

‘Bad news?’ Paige asks.

‘Mmhmm,’ he says. ‘See, we have a strict rule here at the Coeur de Vie. We’re very much believers in the idea of kicking back and relaxing, you know? Good music, good booze, good company… leave your worries at the door, that sort of thing. But somebody – and obviously, I’m naming no names here – somebody is still stuck in work mode. So I ask you, ladies… how are you supposed to relax if you’re checking your damn phone every five minutes?’

Lauren shakes her head in mock disapproval. ‘I don’t think that would even be possible, Jack,’ she says. ‘I really don’t.’

Judas, I think.

‘So if, for example, that person was real lax about picking up her phone from a bar,’ he continues, magicking it out from one of his jacket pockets, ‘and if that person was equally lax about making sure her phone wasn’t password protected…?’

I make a dive for the phone, but he effortlessly pulls it away, keeping the dance just playful enough to keep Lauren charmed.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘in that case I’d say that she probably needs to have her phone taken off her.’

‘Just what I had in mind. May I?’

‘No!’ I call out, but Lauren gives a nod of assent anyway, and it looks like that’s all it takes: I’m with a bride on her bachelorette party, and she has officially pulled rank.

‘It’s for your own good, El,’ she says as Jack taps a fresh new password onto my phone, and I curse myself for being dumb enough not to set one up myself.

Jack hands me the phone, and sure enough there’s an unfamiliar lock screen facing me: whatever messages Carter might have sent or be planning on sending me, they’re currently locked behind a four-digit firewall. ‘And just to make sure there’s no funny business,’ he says, scribbling down a note on a napkin and handing it to Lauren, ‘here you go. There’s the password. I’m sure I can trust you with this?’

She grins again. ‘I’ll guard it with my life.’

‘Lauren,’ I hiss. ‘Come on.’

‘Hey, you heard the man,’ she says. ‘Club rules. You don’t want to get us kicked out, do you?’

‘Yeah, Ellie,’ Danielle says. Her eyes haven’t left Jack since he sidled up to the table; based on the look she’s giving him, I’m surprised he hasn’t burst into flame. ‘Seems like this might be a fun place to hang out. Maybe you were right after all.’

So that settles it, apparently; whatever complaints I might have, they’re destined to be ground down by the night’s party spirit. ‘Why do you even have WiFi here if you don’t want people to use it?’ I ask.

Jack shrugs. ‘Wasn’t my idea. I’m just the talent.’

‘So modest. And with so much to be modest about.’

‘Hey, don’t blame me. I calls ‘em—’

‘… Like you sees ‘em. Yeah, I remember.’

Behind us, a cymbal crashes; up on the stage, the band from last night are waiting for Jack to join them. ‘Looks like that’s my cue,’ he says to the group. ‘You ladies have yourselves a great night – and if you need anything, you just check in with my man Eddie at the bar. He’ll see you right.’

‘We’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he says. ‘A pleasure, ladies. I hope you enjoy the show.’

By the time he’s turned back towards the stage, Lauren is giving me an enormous double thumbs-up and is grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat. He’s cute!, she mouths, as though cute means anything.

As far as I’m concerned, she’s enjoying herself far too much already.