Coming Home to Winter Island Read online

  The smell of the dry ice sets my adrenalin racing as I breathe in . . . and out, focusing on the finish line, like a long-distance runner. I’ve spent years putting in the hours, the training and the small events. This is my race today, and I’m going to do it with everything I’ve trained for. I’m going to sing my heart out. My buttocks clench and release in time with my breathing as the smoke curls around my ankles. I’m totally focused on the job I’ve got to do here. There’s an A&R person in that audience with a contract ready for signing, and a producer at a record company already interested in us. This is it. Our time: the band’s; mine and Jess’s, mine and Joe’s. Finally. And I’m ready.

  I look at Jess on lead guitar. She holds my gaze, steady and reassuring, telling me she won’t let me fall, and I return it. We’re there for each other. We know each other so well; we understand exactly how the other works and how to support them. Then she nods and turns to Moira, who stops fiddling with her spiky hair and lifts her sticks, suddenly very focused as she waits for Jess to give the signal. Jess does one last check around the band. All eyes are on her. I clench my buttocks as tightly as I can beneath my Spandex pants. She nods to Moira, and the band fall into step behind her as she clicks her sticks together. One, two, three . . .

  The music starts; the curtain rises. I follow it with my eyes, and the bright lights suddenly shut out all other sights and sounds. I focus really hard on the finish line, right at the back of the auditorium. Somewhere out in that audience is the person who is going to change our lives forever, finally giving us the break we’ve been working towards all these years: slaving away in cafés and bars, scraping together the money for rent and singing lessons whilst holding on to the dream of finally signing a recording contract. Rushing from shifts to rehearsals with the band and sacrificing everything else for paid gigs. It’s Joe who’s helped me hang on to that dream. Finally the record industry are interested in us. All those years of working and promoting the band has paid off. This is it.

  The intro builds to a crescendo. I lift my head, drop my shoulders and relax my buttocks, ready to let my voice do the work. I smile as I slip into my comfort zone. This is what I do. This is what I’ve always been able to do. And now it’s time to make it my everything. Briefly, a light flashes, from a camera or phone, and suddenly, without warning, my brain flicks up an image of my dad, the blue lights, the hospital sign. Not now! I can’t think about that now! I shove it as hard as I can from my mind and clench my buttocks really tight, blowing out a big breath, letting the bluesy, jazzy sound wash over me.

  Fully focused again, I go to slip into the first note. But though my mouth widens, nothing comes out. No sound. I falter. I dig deeper, and then recoil when something in my throat pops and all that comes out is a croak. I’m suddenly gripped with fear, tight fingers around my throat strangling me. I turn to Jess, who looks at me wide-eyed. She doesn’t need to say what she’s thinking. I’m thinking it too! What the hell is going on? Where’s my voice gone?!

  As the band plays on, I slowly step back into the smoke, into the shadows of backstage, silent, hot tears rolling down my cheeks, my moment in the spotlight gone, disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

  Chapter One

  ‘Rest!’ the doctor orders the next morning in her surgery. ‘Your voice needs rest.’

  And then what? I scribble furiously on the pad in front of me, making an indentation on the page with my question mark. I look frantically between Joe and the doctor. The smell of cleaning fluids in the shiny consulting room turns my stomach. I hate doctors’ surgeries, just like I hate hospitals. Too many bad memories. The smell brings it all back.

  ‘Like I say, try not to talk too much. No singing.’

  ‘No s—’ My voice cracks again and cuts me off mid word. No singing? I scribble.

  ‘None. Not for a couple of weeks. And then we’ll see,’ says the doctor, her Christmas earrings swinging cheerfully.

  See what? I write. She doesn’t reply, but looks up from the page straight at me.

  When will I sing again? I write quickly. Is it nodules?

  ‘When will her voice come back? How long?’ Joe says rather more abruptly than I would have liked, but I know he’s as anxious as me. He reaches over and places his hand on mine, squeezing it tightly, reassuring. Taking control of the situation as my whole life feels like it’s about to spiral out of control.

  ‘Vocal lesions – nodules – are fairly common,’ the doctor says, looking between us. ‘But it doesn’t appear to be that. There are no obvious signs.’

  ‘Then what?’ Joe demands.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Vocal cord stress can come about if you’ve overused your voice or been under stress yourself.’

  I frown and go to answer; she holds up a hand to stop me and points to the pencil and paper.

  ‘Try not to speak too much. Drink plenty of water, get lots of sleep; relax, maybe do some yoga and then some voice therapy. Don’t strain your voice by trying to cough to clear it. Your speaking voice should be fine after some rest.’

  ‘And her singing voice?’ Joe frowns deeply. ‘This is her livelihood. She’s on the verge of making it big, y’know.’

  The doctor smiles and nods patiently. ‘Your singing voice?’ She looks at me and then shakes her head slightly. ‘I can’t say, sorry. It may come back, or . . .’ She lifts her shoulders, knowing how painful her words are. ‘Only time will tell.’

  ‘You don’t know?!’ Joe lets go of my hand and runs his fingers through his hair, showing his widow’s peak. ‘But this is everything! This could be disastrous!’

  I feel myself sliding deeper and deeper into a dark hole.

  ‘Like I say, only time will tell,’ she repeats.

  Time is the one thing I don’t have. We have gigs booked all over Christmas and New Year. And an A&R person who needs to see what we can do!

  ‘Get some rest,’ she tells me, letting me know our ten-minute slot is up. ‘Enjoy your Christmas and try to relax.’

  Easy enough for her to say, I think, standing and feeling dazed. Joe doesn’t thank the doctor, but marches out. I’d like to apologise for him. He’s not usually rude; in fact he’s the opposite, quite the charmer usually. All the band love Joe. He’s funny, and even flirtatious. But I can’t explain all that on this little notepad he’s bought me from the newsagent’s, and so instead I nod my thanks and she smiles a tired smile, like she’s seen it all before.

  ‘Try not to worry,’ she says as I leave the room. But worrying is exactly what I’m doing. My whole life is in the balance here. Mine and the band’s, mine and Joe’s. We had it all planned. A quiet Christmas Day to celebrate our engagement, fitted in around gigs, and then a party once the busy Christmas and New Year party season is out of the way, when there’s nothing else going on. Make a big splash and tell the world.

  I walk out of the surgery, tinsel and cheap baubles hanging from every available space and on a tree outside, blowing in the damp, grey December day. I look down at my phone, thoughts crashing through my mind. Get some rest, she said. Enjoy your Christmas.

  ‘I’ll message Jess,’ says Joe, who’s standing in the entrance with his coat collar turned up. He pulls out his phone, once again taking control, while I stand there numbly listening to the Christmas tunes on the radio in the waiting room and staring at the soggy tinsel on the tree. There is a draught every time someone comes in or leaves and the double doors whoosh open and close. Despite the heater blowing warm air from above, it’s freezing and I’m shivering. I’m not sure if it’s shock or cold.

  We had a stack of gigs lined up over Christmas that Jess is now going to have to cancel – unless she can find a stand-in singer. And I can’t even bring myself to ask about the A&R woman.

  I look down at my phone, but can’t think who I should text apart from Jess, and Joe is already doing that. She’ll tell the band. I just feel I’ve let them all
down.

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ Joe turns to me and takes hold of my shoulders. I look up at him and just wish I felt as convinced as he sounds. ‘Look, the doctor’s right,’ he says firmly. ‘You need to rest your voice. Do exactly as she says. Jess’ll keep things going with the band.’ He looks back down at his phone. ‘I’ll talk to Lulu about taking your place while you’re away. Here, let me grab her number.’

  He takes my phone and scrolls through my contacts. I feel a bubble of panic rise up in me, like I’m trying to hold on to everything I’ve worked for. I don’t want someone else stepping into my shoes.

  He looks up. ‘She’s just keeping your seat warm,’ he says, as if reading my mind. He knows me so well. ‘We’ll keep it low profile,’ he adds, ever the PR consultant.

  A message pings through on his phone. ‘Jess thinks the band can still hold on to the gigs,’ he says. He attempts a smile. ‘I think she’s right to carry on. The band can’t let people down this close to Christmas by cancelling gigs at the last minute.’

  I go to argue that I might be fine in a couple of days. ‘I could . . .’ I croak.

  ‘Shh . . .’ He pulls me close and silences me. ‘Remember what the doctor said.’ He nods down to the notepad in my hand. I’m already beginning to resent it. It stands between me and everything I have known nearly all my life: singing. I pull back.

  I could mime, with backing tracks, I write.

  ‘It’s a thought,’ Joe says. ‘But if the A&R woman comes back, she’d know.’ He shakes his head. ‘We need your voice to come back. The doctor said to rest. Take Christmas off. The band will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.’ He smiles and kisses me. ‘I’ll keep an eye on everything until your voice is back,’ he adds, with only the merest glimmer of panic on his face.

  I look at him. Handsome Joe. I love that he’s as invested in my career as I am.

  ‘And then, when you’re well . . . let’s hope there’s still a shot at that recording contract.’ His disappointment is creeping in. He lifts my chin with his finger. ‘Then maybe we can start celebrating being us. We could still get engaged y’know, if you want. We don’t have to wait.’

  But I want to wait. I want us to have a contract, to feel we have some sort of solid foundation to build the rest of our lives on. I shake my head and I know he understands.

  ‘I agree. It will be wonderful to get the recording contract and then really celebrate. So, okay, get yourself booked somewhere nice. Maybe go and stay with your mother . . . or perhaps that’s not such a good idea.’ He smiles. ‘You need to get away, somewhere you can rest. Away from the band so you’re not feeling you’ve got to go back before you’re ready. I’ve told you I’ll keep an eye on things here.’ He kisses me again. ‘It’ll be fine, Rubes. You’re destined for great things. This is just a little hiccup. We’ll get engaged next year. You’ll be right back on form.’

  But will it really be fine? I slowly let go of his hands and we walk in separate directions to our parked vehicles. Joe’s right. I can’t just sit in the flat doing nothing; it would drive me mad. I could go and stay with my mother in Spain like he suggested. At least I think that’s where she still is. My mother likes to live in the moment and goes to visit friends old and new with amazing frequency. It’s always been the same. She’s never liked staying put for long.

  I push the key into the lock of the van door – yes, I still have a vehicle that needs you to actually put the key in to unlock it – then climb up and sit in the driver’s seat. The damp drizzle gathers on the windscreen, almost obliterating the view. I look down at my phone. At least it would be hot and sunny if I went to visit my mum. But on the other hand, it wouldn’t really be a rest. Mum doesn’t do resting. She loves to socialise. It would be back-to-back drinks parties and introducing me to new friends. Really not restful at all.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, but instead of texting my mum, I find myself googling warm and relaxing getaways . . . and avoid the word Christmas! In no time at all, I’ve found it. A three-week winter special, a vocal retreat with yoga in Tenerife. Sun, silence, relaxation. Just what the doctor ordered, I think. When I see the price, though, I gasp. It would use up all the savings I’ve put aside for the engagement party. But if I don’t get my voice back to where it was, then none of the rest of the stuff will happen anyway.

  I chew my lip. I need this, I think, then quickly, before I have a chance to change my mind, I enter my personal information and card details and press send. I watch as the circle whizzes round, processing my credit card, and then, finally, the screen tells me that my transaction is complete. Phew! I breathe a sigh of relief. Thankfully I don’t have many Christmas presents to buy: just Joe, something to send to my mum, usually a bottle of something, and then Jess and the rest of the band. I’ll get them all something really lovely from Tenerife, I decide, and text Jess to tell her my plans.

  When an email confirmation comes in from the vocal retreat, I can actually feel my spirits lifting. I imagine the warmth of the sun on my face, the sea air opening my chest as I join in the early-morning stretches. This is exactly what I need to escape a Christmas at home, where I’d be trapped with a pile of selection boxes and the whole of The Bodyguard and Killing Eve to catch up on, stressing about not being able to perform.

  I turn the key in the ignition and the radio comes on. It’s the soon-to-be Christmas number one, this year’s X Factor winner. I quickly switch the radio off. It’s not that I don’t wish them all the luck in the world. I do. And they’ll need a lot of luck. But it’s about hard work too. And somehow that song reminds me of everything I’ve just missed out on, how my luck has run out on me. I open my mouth and try and let out a note, just to see if my voice really has gone and isn’t simply playing tricks on me . . . Nothing. Yup, it’s gone. Let’s hope it’s just on a little winter break and the Tenerife retreat is all it needs to bring it back to life.

  I text Joe and Jess and tell them my plan.

  Go! Jess replies. Go and relax. You never relax any more!

  She could be right. I don’t have time to relax, what with juggling two part-time jobs, my evening gigs with the band and my solo night at the piano bar. I text both my bosses and tell them I’m away. Neither is happy, to say the least.

  Do it! Joe insists. Doctor’s orders!

  You have to, types Jess. For the band’s sake as well as yours!

  She’s right. This isn’t just about me. I blew last night for all of us. I need to put this right. Tenerife, here I come!

  I send a sad-face emoji to the band group chat and tell them I’ll be back soon, then scroll through all their messages hoping I’m okay and sending their love. Even Moira tells me that they’re missing me already, and to get well soon and get back to where I belong on the stage with them, part of the family, which is way too mushy for her and makes me smile in a teary way.

  As I go to put my phone on the seat next to me and start the van, the screen comes to life with another message. It’s going to be either Joe or Jess, I think. I could leave it until I get home. On the other hand, it could be the voice retreat, wanting to confirm my arrival times. I feel a little spring of excitement in my tummy. Maybe this could all be fine after all.

  I pick the phone up and read the message, then reread it just to check I’ve got it right. What on earth . . . ?!

  Chapter Two

  Forty-eight hours later, I’m about as far away from an expensive vocal retreat in sunny Tenerife as I could get. The wind is throwing itself at the sides of the boat and I’m swaying around as though I’m in a tub on the ocean . . . Oh, wait! I am in a tub on the ocean and have been for an hour and forty minutes, having flown in to Glasgow airport from Bristol first thing this morning. I came as soon as I could. The sooner I get this sorted out, the better. According to the skipper, Gordan, we still have another half an hour to go, although it could be longer with the weather like this. We’ve already been
delayed leaving, and at this rate, it’ll be dark by the time I arrive. A wave slaps itself against the side of the boat and I clutch my sick bag even tighter, hoping, really hoping, I won’t have to use it.

  ‘Would you like some tea or cake? There’s some shortbread, made on the island,’ says the red-haired, pale-faced young woman clutching the back of the seat where I’m sitting, on my own. No one else is making this trip today, and looking out of the window at the dark sky and sea, I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t be if I didn’t have to. I try to shake my head, but any movement is tricky at the moment. She smiles, almost gratefully, I think. ‘Give me a shout if you do,’ she says, and moves slowly away, bending her knees, moving with the sway of the boat and back to the galley behind the serving hatch.

  I look back out of the window as we dip and roll and wonder what on earth I’m doing here. I try and text Joe to let him know I’m on the ferry, but my message won’t send. I know he’ll be worried. He’s been texting me since I left this morning. He’s as baffled as I am about why I’m here.