Chapter Four

Well, I think once I see the inside of the club, at least I’m not going to have to wait long to be served.

It doesn’t hurt that it’s only a little after six o’clock in the evening, but compared to the hustle and bustle of what I’ve seen of the rest of New Orleans so far, the Coeur de Vie feels like a ghost town. A middle-aged couple are snuggled up close in one of the booths, and there’s a bored-looking man sipping a beer at one of the far tables who looks like he’s somehow having an even worse day than I am, but other than the band tuning up and the bartender, that’s just about everyone.

Just what I’m looking for. A little peace and quiet. Not where I expected to find it, perhaps, but I’ll take what I can get.

‘Vodka and cranberry?’ I say to the man behind the bar, and he gives me a soft little nod in acknowledgement. I watch him pour a slug of liquor that could sedate an elephant into an ice-filled glass and top it off with a splash of red juice, before he slides it along the bar towards me, and then wince when he tells me the price. Despite the shakedown, it’s worth it; the drink is cool, tart and refreshing, a perfect antidote to the rest of the past twenty-four hours.

A tinkle of notes on the high end of a piano catches my ear and I swivel myself towards the stage. An older man, fifty if he’s a day and with an enormous grey mess of a beard, is running deceptively nimble fingers along the ivories. He plays a quick, easy few progressions before the bass player joins in; she’s dwarfed by her instrument, but her hands walk up and down the strings, providing a steady baseline for the pianist to dance around. It’s soft, easy, heartfelt music – good for the soul, perhaps, but rich with sadness. It feels right, somehow, as if it had been written just for me, just for this moment. The bassist leans over to the drummer at her and whispers something in his ear, something that’s enough to make him laugh and lose his beat, and I realise that this isn’t even the main act: it’s the warm up. This is music at play.

I’m halfway down the glass before I realise I should probably let people know where I am. I pull out my phone and cycle through my contacts – still no call or text from Carter, obviously no call or text from Carter – and as I find Lauren’s name I feel my finger anxiously stroking the spot on my ring finger where the silver band used to be. It’s been six months since I was last without it, back when Carter had proposed in the first place and had found that it needed to be resized, and I feel naked in its absence. Part of me wishes I’d brought it with me, but instead I decided – in either a last-minute fit of pique or moment of clarity; I’m not quite sure which – to leave it behind. It’s resting on the table for next to my bed, waiting to either be given back to Carter or… what, exactly? Sold? Given away? Thrown into Lake Michigan? What do you even do with an engagement ring when there’s no engagement to go along with it?

Best not to think about it now. There’ll be plenty of time to focus on that later. My eyes drift back into focus and I realise that I’ve been staring at my phone for at least five minutes, unmoving, just waiting for him to get in touch.

And really, how pathetic is that?

All checked in but I left the hotel, I text Lauren. Went for a walk, don’t worry. Just trying to clear my head after the flight. Everything OK? x

The three dots that signify my message is being sent start their march across the screen, but where normally they would have transformed into a tick mark almost immediately, instead they just carry on: whatever measly signal I might be getting here, it’s not enough for my text to send.

Maybe that’s why I’ve got no message from Carter, I think. It’s a long shot, but… well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Stranger things have happened? He could have messaged me just as soon as I sat down. That’s ten whole minutes it might have been waiting on my phone, ten whole minutes where my life could have been right back on track.

I choose to ignore the little voice urging me not to give in, and stand up just in time to collide with the man standing behind me. The Old Fashioned he’s drinking – or was drinking, or perhaps was just about to start drinking – sloshes over the rim and right the way down my arm. I can feel it soaking into my dress, ice-cold and wet and let out a little yelp of discomfort. Apparently I’m not having the best luck recently when it comes to keeping my clothing free of stains.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ I yelp. Once I’ve pulled myself off the stool, I only come up to the man’s chest; I have to look up to see his expression. I’m not expecting him to be too happy.

‘Easy there, sugar,’ the man says. His voice is rich and mellow, smooth as caramel; even though he’s just had his drink upended all over his hand, he doesn’t seem remotely perturbed by the situation. There’s a wry, easygoing smile on his face as he reaches for a stack of napkins. ‘Why the hurry?’

‘Sorry,’ I say as he hands half of the stack to me. I wipe as much of the drink off as I can, but the sugar syrup still leaves my skin feeling sticky. ‘I’ll get you another one.’

‘There’s no need,’ he says. ‘Really. My man Eddie’s got me covered. Ain’t that right, Eddie?’ The barman – Eddie, I presume – rolls his eyes a little, but he’s already halfway through mixing the man a second drink. Whoever the stranger is, he’s got at least enough connections that he doesn’t pay for his alcohol.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, good. Sorry, again.’ I reach for my purse, all the better for beating a hasty retreat.

‘You leaving already?’ he asks. ‘Band’s about to start up. Hear they’re really quite something.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Eddie hands him another drink, and he takes an appreciative sip. ‘In case you’re wondering,’ he says to me, ‘Eddie makes just about the finest Old Fashioned in town. Cheers?’

He tilts his glass, and I clink what’s left of my vodka and cranberry juice against the rim of his, downing the rest of it in one. Well, I think, I was heading out anyway. Not like I’m going to let it go to waste.

The man is looking at me the way he might look at a python who just unhinged its jaw to swallow a whole wild boar. ‘Ouch,’ he says. ‘Bad day?’

‘Something like that.’

He smiles, and points over to the stage. ‘You’re in the right place for it,’ he says. ‘No one does music for a sad soul like New Orleans, and nowhere in New Orleans does it quite like the Coeur de Vie.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Mm-hmm. Best live music in the state, believe it or not. I’d trouble to say it was the best in the country, but my mama raised me humble and she wouldn’t like to hear me boast.’

‘You’re in the band?’

He nods. ‘You bet. Got any requests?’

‘None that you can help me with, I’m sure.’

The man grins. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Give us enough of a listen and you might find we cure all your ills.’ He nods down at my drink, now almost empty. ‘Well, between me and Eddie, anyway.’

‘I’m not here for the music,’ I say, a little more harshly than I perhaps intended.

He places a hand on his heart and staggers backwards against the bar. ‘Ouch,’ he says, mock-wounded. ‘You really know how to cut a man deep, don’t you?’

‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘Well, whatever you are here for, you’re still here, and the music’s going to be here too. Maybe you’ll find it works for you. Maybe not. Ain’t a harm in trying, right?’ He pauses for a second. ‘Unless you’ve got someplace else to be, of course? Wouldn’t want to keep you from your phone or anything.’

The way he says it, phone seems like a dirty word. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘You won’t.’

‘You having fun with that thing?’

‘Not so much.’

‘Let me guess: no signal?’

I sigh. ‘Yeah.’

The man smiles. ‘Yeah, that’ll do it. Complete dead zone. Not that we mind much, of course. Keeps people focused where their attention should be, you know?’ I follow the line of his finger, pointing towards the bandstand. ‘I hope you stick around for it. We put on a hell of a show.’

‘I… I really should find somewhere I can check my messages.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why the rush?’ he asks. ‘Something urgent?’

‘That’s a little personal, don’t you think?’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to stop on any toes. It’s just that the way you’re looking at that thing, a person could believe you had some family member out in the hospital, and that I could understand. You’ve got I’m waiting for bad news written all over your face.’

‘It’s nothing like that. Nothing so serious.’

‘Oh,’ the man says. ‘Well in that case…’

He reaches over the bar and pulls down a pint glass. Eddie, serving a new customer, doesn’t even flinch. ‘May I?’ he says, gesturing towards my phone. I give him a short, confused nod and he takes it from my fingers, puts it into the empty glass, and upends it on the bar, trapping my phone in its own private forcefield.

‘What are you doing?’

‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Safe and sound. Now you keep your hands off it for a little while, you hear?’

‘I’m waiting for a call.’

‘And if it manages to come through, you’ll see it. But until then, maybe you try living in the moment for a little while, OK? Listen to the music. Have a drink. Feel the room. Look up once in a while. Work will wait.’

‘What makes you so sure it’s work?’

He smiles at me, bright white teeth against caramel skin. ‘Let’s just say you look like someone who has a little trouble leaving the office at the office. Think you can manage that? Just for a little while?’

What the hell gives you the right…?

The words spring to my lips almost before I can stop them, my defensiveness instinctive; it takes everything I have in me not to shut this stranger down, to pinch off his attempt at charm as unwelcome, to grab my phone and head out of his poxy little bar and back to the hotel, where there’s a hot shower waiting for me before a night of drunken amnesia and a chance to forget the last two days ever existed.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘Mr.…’

‘Jackson,’ he says.

‘Mr. Jackson.’

He shakes his head. ‘No, no. Jackson. Jackson Robichaux. Jack, to my friends.’

‘Jackson,’ I say pointedly. ‘I get what you’re trying to do here. Really, I do. But I’m not interested.’

‘And what am I trying to do, exactly? Hit on you?’

‘No. Just keep me drinking. I know how bars work. I’m guessing you get free drinks in exchange for keeping rubes like me ordering?’

‘Is that what you think this is? A shakedown?’

‘Maybe. You’re really giving me the hard sell on sticking around. Why else, if not to milk the poor, work-happy tourist for all her drinks money?’

He grins as if to say that he could think of several more reasons, but doesn’t follow it up. ‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Ain’t nothing like that. Just saw a stranger looking down and figured I’d check in, that’s all. No unhappy customers at the Coeur de Vie. We try and keep the blues up on the stage as far as is possible.’

‘We?’

He shrugs. ‘The band. The bar. The city. Take your pick. Have I managed to convince you to stick around yet?’

I know it shouldn’t, but his persistence is oddly endearing. ‘Getting there,’ I say.

‘Eddie!’ he yells across the bar. ‘Whatever the lady wants. This one’s on me, OK?’ Eddie gives him a silent thumbs-up in response and then Jack – Jackson – turns back to me. ‘You see? Now you’ve got no reason to hurry off. All your earthly wishes solved – at least for the length of my set, anyroad. So what do you say?’

Well, what do I say?

What’s one more drink? I think to myself. I could stay for one more drink. Lauren and the girls will do fine without me. I can always meet up with them later, if it comes down to it. And if they call me… well, I’ll see that too.

‘It’s your call,’ he says. ‘I’m up. Maybe you should stick around and listen to a few songs. Might even find you enjoy yourself a little.’

‘Just a little?’

Jack picks up his jacket from the stool next to him, gives me a small salute goodbye, and then heads off to the bandstand. ‘Honey,’ he says over his shoulder as he goes. ‘The kind of songs I play, if you’re enjoying yourself too much, I’m not doing my job.’