‘Hi,’ he says. ‘It seems that your singer tonight is … a little indisposed.’ Hoots. Whistles. He waits for them to die down. ‘My name is Sam Sage. If you’ll have me, I’m happy to front a couple of covers for you tonight.’
‘I’ll have you!’ a woman calls. There’s more laughter.
Sam Sage smiles. He has a long mouth and a crooked smile. And it adds up fast in my head: that mouth, his accent. He’s the same guy I saw on the boardwalk this morning. I remember the guitar by his feet. He pushes a hand through untidy black hair, and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he nods his head, and clicks his fingers. One. Two. Three. The room falls silent. The band look at each other and shrug, and the keyboard begins, a gentle swell of notes. Sam opens his mouth and launches into a Patti Smith song, ‘Because the Night’. One of my favourites. By the time the drums kick in and his voice blasts into the chorus, the room is singing along with him, and I want them all to shut up, because he’s good. Really good.
Sam Sage sings more covers. When the band stops, there’s a frenzy of relieved high-fives between them. The audience clap and cheer. Sam springs off the stage into the crowd, and I see hands reaching to pat his shoulders, a tall blonde man thrusting a beer towards him.
‘Must be nice being the hero,’ the man next to me says.
‘He was amazing,’ I say.
‘He’s too cocky,’ says a guy to my left. ‘I could have got on that stage and done the same.’
‘But you didn’t,’ I say.
The restroom is full of girls jostling for space at the mirror. As I sit in the stall, disembodied voices float over the door. ‘Cute,’ one of them says.
‘I’m a sucker for the accent,’ sighs another.
‘I’m gonna get his number.’
Out of the cubicle, I wash my hands, bending towards the faucet to take mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid. I straighten up, wiping my lips and chin with the back of my hand. The girl next to me is tilting close to the glass, batting blackened lashes. She straightens up and winks at me, ‘That English dude has started a riot. But I wouldn’t say no.’
I go back into the club, but the band have packed up. I don’t want to stand in this crush, drinking by myself. I catch sight of Sam Sage in the crowd, people grabbing his hand to shake, patting him on the back. He deserves it, I think. He saved the night.
I did it, I tell Frank. Spent an evening in a bar on my own. But now there’s disco music playing and everyone’s hammered. I’m going home to check on Mom.
Way to go! Frank sounds a little surprised. Step in the right direction, sis. Hell, I’m proud of you.
Outside, the lights from the boardwalk trail glitter across the dark sea. The beach between me and the water is a shadowy swathe of empty space. I know that junkies loiter under the pier at night, kids with flick knifes in their back pockets, but I go down onto the sand anyway, slipping off my shoes and socks. I want to walk by the sea and think about Sam Sage, the way he sounded up there on the stage, the way he smiled into the audience, and how, just for a moment, it felt as if he was smiling right at me.
SIX
Sam, March 1983
As soon as the lead singer had fallen into the audience, Levi was poking him in the chest. ‘Get on the stage!’ he insisted. ‘They need you up there, buddy. You can sing, yes?’
He resisted. But as soon as Levi had communicated the fact that Sam was a singer, the three of them lifted him and set him down gently behind the speakers. He blinked in the lights, stunned by the new perspective. Then instinct took over. It felt good to be in front of an audience. There was only a brief moment of dry-mouthed horror before the words came rushing through him. The band, apart from their idiot lead singer, were professionals. Afterwards, the manager stuffed a wad of dollar bills into his palm, asked if he’d sing for the rest of the week, or until the band got themselves sorted.
As the blonde giants batter his shoulders with congratulatory punches, he squints towards the exit at a familiar figure. His heart skips. It’s her. The tall girl from the beach. He catches a glimpse of her face as she stares into the crowd, and remembers her expression from before: her terrible sadness, her stillness. He needs to talk to her. She’s leaving. Panic stirs in his gut.
He makes his way as quickly as he can towards the door, but people are keen to be his best buddy. He pushes on, away from expectant strangers and clutching fingers, words crowding him, questions spilling before him like obstacles.
Dammit, he thinks, breathing hard outside the club. He’s lost her. The avenue is frantic: a crowd of holidaymakers pushes past, features distorted by the electric pulse of casino lights. There’s a stink of fried grease and alcohol. He sniffs, hungry despite himself, and smells something else. The Atlantic Ocean. He follows the scent, his steps merging with the flow of the crowd, and finds himself back on the boardwalk. He dodges drunks, following the smell of brine towards the dark spill of sand and sea and night sky. He leans on the rail of the boardwalk, clutching it like a raft in a storm. Out there is the blackest navy, a glimmer of starlight. Movement catches his attention and he looks down. A figure is moving away, along the beach.
‘Hey!’ He’s blundering after her.
She whips around with shoulders squared, fists clenched, and he realises she’s terrified. ‘Sorry.’ He stops, holding his hands up. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I just …’
She’s staring at him. Her fear has turned to caution, a flicker of curiosity making her frown. ‘You’re the guy from the club.’ She tilts her head to one side, hair sliding across her cheek. ‘Sam Sage.’ She says his name as if to prove that she can remember it.
He feels a tug of shame in his throat.
‘It was cool,’ she says, ‘what you did back there. Took some nerve.’
‘Actually, I didn’t have much choice … but thanks.’ He shrugs. ‘Funny, but I saw you this afternoon.’
‘You saw me? This afternoon?’ Her eyebrows shoot up.
He’s not sure why she’s so surprised. ‘Yeah. You were sitting on a bench a bit further along the boardwalk from here.’ He gestures vaguely in the direction. ‘You went down onto the beach.’
She takes a step backwards, folds her arms. ‘You were watching me?’
‘I noticed you,’ he says quickly. ‘You stood out a bit, you know. I mean, everyone else was all excited and laughing, and there you were in black from head to foot, walking like you were on a mission. And you looked …’
‘What?’
‘Sad,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ It sounds as though all the air has left her with that one sound.
‘Had something … bad happened?’ he asks.
But she says at the same time, ‘That was my bench—’
Their words cross, and it makes her laugh. Him too. Nerves zing in the air between them. She has a nice laugh, he thinks. It’s big and honest and she doesn’t put her hand in front of her mouth as so many people do.
‘Your bench?’
‘Not mine personally, no. But I’ve gotten fond of it. It has a great view. And there’s the inscription …’
‘Inscription?’ He takes a couple of steps closer. She has a gap between her front teeth, and he finds it incredibly endearing.