Page 23 of Second Song

Like getting to see which notes come next in a piece of music?

“Yes.”

But what about improvising? That’s always the best fun.

“Er... No?”

I close my eyes. At least this is unambiguous. “I’m a little bit stressed that us having a chat may actually mean you aren’t going to interview me.” I swallow. “Or that you’ve already spoken with my last teaching placement.”

His clipped tone softens. “I imagine telling you not to worry is pointless, so let me be clear about this. Can you hear me, Rowan?”

I move away from an open window where seagulls cry like I want to. I’m such a bad-news baby. “Yes.”

“Good,” he repeats. “Because I’ve spoken with the last person you taught alongside and yes, I’m still very much looking forward to talking with you. You already sailed through the practical part of the interview process. Today we’ll talk about whether my school suits you.”

He also sends me a pin to a location that takes me along the same winding coast road as yesterday, and like yesterday, that’s where I slam on the brakes one more time. Not because another lamb is in danger—the one I glimpse this morning is safe and sound, bouncing around a redheaded teen who sits on a quad bike. A farmer is with him, inspecting a fence, and there’s no need for me to stick my beak in, but here I go, Mr. Impulsive, getting out of my car to jog over the road to poke my nose in because I have to know this.

“Is it okay?” I point at the lamb through the fence wire. “After yesterday?”

The farmer straightens. “That was you?” He gestures for his son to join us. “Noah? Come here.” At least, I guess it’s his son until the boy speaks.

“What? Why? I didn’t do nothin’.” His accent isn’t local. If anything, it spits familiar, rapid-fire bullets like that older student who’d helped Charles. It’s also another reminder of Mum, right where I don’t expect to get one. She didn’t only teach music lessons at posh schools like the one where I ended up. She taught plenty of kids from London sink schools. Hard lives, hard faces, and hard eyes, she’d said, and this kid’s eyes narrow in the same way theirs had until music helped to thaw them.

The farmer lets out an equally soft sigh. “No, you didn’t do anything, Noah. No one’s making accusations, okay?” He adds a quieter, “This is who saved your lamb.”

The boy’s tone makes an abrupt shift, almost breaking. “That was you? You really went over the cliff for her?”

“Not only me.” I can’t take all this credit. Both that lamb and I would still be on that ledge without Liam. Or we’d both be fish food. “But yes, I saw her go over and I got to her before she could fall the rest of the way down.” Here’s what has kept niggling at me. “I had to hold her tightly. Really tightly.” Now isn’t a good time to feel Liam’s arms around me. His snug hold had felt amazing. So incredibly safe. This lamb can’t have felt half as happy about me crushing its ribs. “Did I hurt her?”

The farmer does the same as Glynn Harber’s headmaster, telling me not to worry. “You didn’t do her any harm. And thanks. She’s the first lamb Noah delivered. All by yourself, right?” He says that with enough pride that the boy blushes, that bright pink clashing with his hair as he thanks me.

“It was no problem.” That’s such an understatement, but all’s well that ends well, right? And last night more than made up for lamb shit on my suit and a scuffed pair of glasses.

I can feel Liam again then, as if he still won’t let me go, even though it’s the farmer who reaches over the fence to grasp my hand and shake it. “Seriously, thank you. It means a lot to him. I appreciate it. You need anything, call in.” He points to a farmhouse set between a headland and rugged moorland. “Just follow the signs for Love-Land Weddings.”

Pride is a weird emotion. I don’t know what to do with it, but it’s a good dampener for the anxious prickle that travels with me all the way to my next destination. Pink roses at the entrance to this open garden remind me of that boy’s flush. I park my car, and more realisation dawns.

I had one more bit of unfinished business in Cornwall—someone who’s been on my mind forever. Two people, if I’m honest, and Luke Lawson’s brought me directly to them.

10

ROWAN

The entrance to these gardens is a blast from the past. One that is flanked not only by roses, but by the same statues I remember from video clips of a contest rival visiting his family.

This is where one of my opponents grew up and where he fell in love with someone else I bad-mouthed in front of millions. Neither of them could have known why, and I won’t blame them if they don’t want to hear what I know will sound like weak excuses. And that’s how I feel at the entrance kiosk—weak—especially now that I face someone who has to know Ed Britten and his partner, Pasha. Only…

Only I have to wipe this stain from my soul and conscience.

I have to.

It turns out that I won’t get to.

“You want to see Ed and Pasha?” The woman at the entrance kiosk shakes her head. She also studies my face like Charles did, and I wonder if she recognises me from back when the men she mentions and I were portrayed as enemies.

Portrayed? I acted like a real one. I fought them both, and I fought so dirty.

My hair isn’t bottle-blond these days. I’m wearing glasses, not bright blue contacts, and I’m nowhere near young enough to be a boy band member. Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t make that years-old connection, thank fuck. She can’t do—her smile is sweetly apologetic. “Sorry, love. You’ve come to the right place, only they won’t be back for a while.”

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