Chapter Five

A strange thing happens once the band kicks into gear: I find myself having fun.

It doesn’t happen all at once, or even particularly quickly; in fact, until Jackson Robichaux has trumpeted his way through two of the longer examples of the Louis Armstrong playbook, I’m still quietly grumbling to myself about the way he took my phone off me. Like I was some sort of goddamn child, I think. Well, I’ll show him who’s addicted. It sits there, taunting me in its glass prison, forcing me to look at the stage.

But before long – around about halfway through Almost Blue, when the band has slowed their performance to a crawl, trusting the audience to come right along with them – I end up feeling it. The music runs up my arms and down my spine. My phone never so much as chirps. My drink is finished before I remember it’s there, and the combination of jazz and vodka makes all my problems seem a little bit further away than they had an hour ago.

‘We’re going to take a little break,’ he says as he pulls his lips from the mouthpiece after something that I think I recognise as Miles Davis, and then revels in the smattering of applause he’s earned – even from me. ‘So if you want to get another drink, and I’m sure you do, y’all be my guest. After that we’ll see if we can spice things up a little, what do you say?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, nor does he have to; his words have all the form of a stage magician’s patter, delivered the same way every night. He strides off the bandstand, his long legs carrying him over to me in half the number of steps it would have taken me. I couldn’t see it from a distance, but his forehead is covered in sweat, partly from the bright lights and partly from the exertion of it all. It’s soaked into the collar of his shirt. Even if the music wasn’t to my taste – which, surprisingly, it was – it would have been hard to deny the effort he put into it, despite the thin crowd.

‘So,’ he says once he arrives at the bar. ‘You’re still here.’

‘I am. Surprised?’

He shakes his head and grins. ‘No how, no way. Right from the first look, I figured you for a woman of exceptional taste.’

‘So modest.’

He spreads his hands wide. ‘Calls ‘em like I sees ‘em,’ he says. ‘Enjoying the show?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I mean, “best band in New Orleans” might be selling it a little hard, but definitely top fifty. No doubt.’

Jack smiles. ‘You’re funny,’ he says. ‘You’re mean, but you’re funny. Anyone ever tell you that before?’

‘It’s been remarked upon.’

‘Well, Captain Sass: you’ve got me at a bit of a disadvantage.’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘You know my name, and I don’t have the faintest idea about yours.’

The drink answers for me. ‘Ella,’ it says.

He lets out a little snort.

‘Something funny?’ I ask.

‘Your name’s Ella, and you don’t like jazz?’

‘Who said I don’t like jazz?’

‘Well, do you?’

I shrug. ‘I mean, no, not really. But that’s not the point.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re mocking me?’

‘Couldn’t rightly say,’ he grins. ‘I don’t mean nothin’ by it. Just making conversation, is all.’

‘My name’s Eleanor,’ I say. ‘After Eleanor Roosevelt. My mother was a fan.’

He nods approvingly. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘We had a girl named Ella in the band for a while. She always figured it was after one of the two, you know. Eventually got around to asking her Momma which one when she was… maybe thirty-six, thirty-seven years old?’

‘And?’

‘And it turned out it was because she was conceived in the elevator at the Atlanta Hilton. Her folks got a real kick out of that one.’

And now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘For real?’ I ask.

‘Sure as I’m telling you. Why would I lie?’

Why indeed.

He takes a big swill of a soda water that Eddie had managed to slide in front of him. ‘I’m going to have to get back up there in a minute or two,’ he says. ‘You going to stick around?’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Still not admitting you’re having a good time, huh?’

‘That’s not it.’

‘Then what is it? Your shore leave all used up?’

‘I should get going. My friend will be worried.’

‘Friend?’ he says. ‘Or, you know, friend?’ Jack draws his fingers up into quotation marks.

‘Friend. She’s getting married on Friday. That’s why I’m down here.’

‘Not just your love of music, then?’

I shrug. ‘Little of both, maybe.’

‘Well, if you and your friend ever find your way down this end of Bourbon Street again, maybe you should call in. Bring the whole damn wedding party, if you like.’

‘Trying to pad your audience numbers?’

‘Gotta spread the good word somehow.’

‘And fill your tip jar?’

‘Little of both, maybe.’ Behind him, the rest of the band are starting to reassemble; apparently, break time is over. ‘It’s been real nice meeting you,’ he says as he stands, his hand out to be shaken. I’m surprised at how soft his palms are, how firm his grip is without being remotely burdensome. ‘Real nice.’

‘You too, Jack.’

I slide a couple of dollars across the bar as a tip, gather up my purse and jacket, and make a move for the door. My head is weirdly light, but I’m not sure it’s from the booze. The whole experience of the last twenty-four hours has been an almost unremitting shitshow, and while the Coeur de Vie was a welcome break, that’s all it could ever be. Soon I’ll be back at the hotel, having to deal with a full-on wedding assault from all sides. It’s almost tempting to stay here for a little while longer, to chat to strangers and forget everything that’s going on with me right now.

I know it’s not really an option, but God, is it tempting.

Nope, I say internally, steeling myself to head back into the real world. Time to go.

‘Hey, lady,’ Eddie the bartender calls out as I head past him.

‘Yeah?’

He points to the glass upturned on the bar with my phone underneath it. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

And sure enough, he’s right.

I haven’t thought about my phone in at least an hour.