Page 10 of Christmas in Mistletoe
“Maybe you need to re-jig your priorities.” Ruby gave Fran a pointed stare. Music execs were all the same: money, money, money. Fran probably didn’t even listen to Christmas music.
“Maybe you should open yourself up to new possibilities that might further your career,” Fran countered.
Beside Ruby, her mum sat up a little straighter.
Ruby’s vision flared red. “My priority at Christmas is to come home and help my family business.” She wasn’t going to be wound up by Fran. She glared at her.
“Even if I could give you some fantastic exposure in the weeks leading up to Christmas?”
“Even then.” Fran really didn’t take no for an answer, did she?
The whole bar took a collective intake of breath.
Victoria clutched her half of lager and lime.
“Twiglet?” Michael held up the bowl between them, signalling a time-out.
Ruby shook her head.
Fran did the same.
Honestly, who worked through Christmas? Ruby hoped Fran stayed in London, if only so Ruby could have Mistletoe all to herself. Her home town was Ruby’s refuge, the place where everyone knew her from old. When she was here, she wasn’t a struggling musician. She was just Ruby.
She certainly didn’t need to be pestered by the likes of Fran Bell.
Chapter 5
Fran hadn’t been kiddingwhen she said she was busy in the run-up to Christmas: it was now a little over six weeks to the big day. One of her many gigs was this independent artist showcase that Damian had dragged her to in Hackney. He wanted to approach the headliner, Tom Darby, and he wanted Fran’s opinion.
The smell of weed hit her nostrils as she walked through the front bar. Damian stopped to say hi to a couple of friends. This was his manor, after all. Fran lived a bit further out in Stratford, where the Olympics had been held. Hackney Wick was more her local hangout, or Greenwich if she was being fancy. Damian, however, was in his element.
When an artist had a label behind them, a showcase — where the artist performed a handful of songs for press and invited fans — was normally held in a private members club or swanky Soho bar, with free drinks a prerequisite. Fran was intrigued to see how it worked without a label. The location was different, for a start: a pub in Hackney.
“Did you listen to the link I sent you for this artist tonight?” Damian’s eyes lit up when he spoke about music. It was one of the reasons Fran had taken him on. That, and the fact he made her laugh with his random facts in the interview. If she was going to work closely with someone, the ability to make her laugh was high on Fran’s list of wants.
She nodded. “I did. He sounds immense.” The music was a crossover of country and folk, and Fran had loved the artist’s depth on his vocal, as well as the fiddles. She was a sucker for a fiddle. Fran was keen to see if his voice was the same live.
They walked through to the back bar, where a healthy crowd was already gathered. The stage was on the far side of the room, with a drum kit and three mics set up. A double-bass loitered to the rear, and a bushy-bearded man was testing the guitars.
“You know who this bloke tonight would sound great with?”
Fran shook her head.
“Ruby O’Connell. Imagine his timbred voice with her smoky vocals. The folk world would go mad for it. It’d be like The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl, but with Tom and Ruby, both of the leads can sing like angels.”
“Careful, people love those artists.” But Fran had to agree. Ruby and Tom Darby would be a dream ticket.
“So do I.” Damian leaned into her ear so she could hear him above the music, which had just been turned up. “But I have it on good authority they know each other, so it could happen.”
Fran gulped, then let her gaze wander the room. Ruby O’Connell might be here? That was just what she needed. Although, if they were destined to be neighbours of sorts, perhaps she could try to talk to her. Smooth things out. Fran’s parents would be pleased, at least.
Damian leaned in once more. “Your dads really moved to a village where Ruby O’Connell’s parents are their neighbours?”
Fran winced at the memory. “Uh-huh. And I had a coughing fit in their kitchen, and spat her mum’s delicious sausage roll onto Ruby’s slippers.”
“I can’t believe the super-cool Ruby wears slippers.” He paused. “Tell me at least they were ruby slippers, like in the Wizard of Oz.”
Fran shook her head. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings. They were snowmen. Or snowwomen, I didn’t stop to look too hard.” Fran grabbed two Heinekens from the ice buckets set up on the bar. It was that or wine. Wine was dangerous on an empty stomach, so beer it was. She opened two bottles and gave one to Damian.
