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Authors: Vina Jackson
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know or speak any foreign languages.
Two of the men were thin and tall like beanpoles, while the third was of medium height, a bit stocky, built like a swimmer with powerful shoulders. They all seemed to be wearing our regulation customer outer wear: black leather jackets, T-shirts and jeans. The swarthier one addressed me, fortunately in English.
‘My friends here would like to have a look at the Gibsons you might have in stock.’ His accent had something of the Scandinavian about it, harmonious but guttural.
‘New instruments or second-hand ones?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ he confirmed after conferring with his friends.
And, seeing me intrigued by the language they were speaking in, he said, ‘They’re from Iceland.’
‘Ah,’ I remarked, my curiosity satisfied.
‘Me too,’ he went on. ‘But I left the island ages ago. Been in England nearly ten years now.’
I nodded.
‘I’m with another band now, but I used to play with these two back home when we were younger. I’m Dagur Sigur-darsson. But you can just call me Dagur.’ He extended his hand and we shook a hello.
‘Lily.’
He had a lovely smile, with pearl-white teeth.
I busied myself with his friends while Dagur wandered around the shop examining our varied stock. One of the Icelandic musicians took an immediate liking to a Dobro and asked me to take it down from the far wall. I’d connected the instrument to a practice amplifier we kept permanently plugged in for tests and demonstrations, and a ripple of melodious notes tinged with country-and-western rhythms rang out through the store.
Ever since I’d been working at the music store I knew there was no need for any kind of salesmanship or words of encouragement. Musicians know their own mind and personal opinions wouldn’t be taken into account. At any rate, the guitar player quickly agreed to acquire the instrument and gave me his credit card while I passed the heavy Dobro to Jonno to reunite it with its case and pack it.
I handed over the till and credit-card receipts to the buyer whom Dagur had rejoined.
‘Anything I might interest you in?’ I brazenly asked Dagur, feeling as if I were on a roll.
‘I’m a drummer,’ he pointed out.
I blushed, though of course I had no way of knowing what instrument he played. The store did not stock percussion. In the world of music, that was a specialist area which other stores catered for.
He theatrically blew me a kiss as he walked out of the door.
‘You didn’t know who he was, did you?’ Jonno said to me. He was smirking from ear to ear.
‘The drummer? Should I?’
‘He’s from the Holy Criminals.’
‘Viggo Franck’s band?’
‘Yeah. That one. Not really my thing, but most girls go crazy for them.’
Not having gone crazy for them seemed to have raised me in Jonno’s estimation.
I shrugged, playing up my nonchalance to impress him, though secretly I was chuffed to have sold a guitar to a bona fide rock star, or his friends at least.
But the thrill of Dagur passed quickly, and I returned to my thoughts of Paris. And Leonard.
A full day of work on my feet in the music shop had left me worn out, so by the time I arrived for my shift at the fetish club I was frazzled, light-headed and jittery from consuming too many energy drinks to push myself through.
I tried not to double up as it was just too exhausting, but I’d had to make some sacrifices in order to keep my dates with Leonard as well as keep my employers happy, and one of those sacrifices was losing sleep having to work for whole days and nights on the hop. I’d started in Denmark Street atten a.m. and wouldn’t be home from the fetish club until six a.m. the following morning.
The underground club felt surreal at the best of times, but tonight it was practically a dream world. Thursday nights were always quieter than Saturdays and so we tended to get more of the couples who came out purely to make use of the equipment and the anonymity that the club provided. The
Two of the men were thin and tall like beanpoles, while the third was of medium height, a bit stocky, built like a swimmer with powerful shoulders. They all seemed to be wearing our regulation customer outer wear: black leather jackets, T-shirts and jeans. The swarthier one addressed me, fortunately in English.
‘My friends here would like to have a look at the Gibsons you might have in stock.’ His accent had something of the Scandinavian about it, harmonious but guttural.
‘New instruments or second-hand ones?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ he confirmed after conferring with his friends.
And, seeing me intrigued by the language they were speaking in, he said, ‘They’re from Iceland.’
‘Ah,’ I remarked, my curiosity satisfied.
‘Me too,’ he went on. ‘But I left the island ages ago. Been in England nearly ten years now.’
I nodded.
‘I’m with another band now, but I used to play with these two back home when we were younger. I’m Dagur Sigur-darsson. But you can just call me Dagur.’ He extended his hand and we shook a hello.
‘Lily.’
He had a lovely smile, with pearl-white teeth.
I busied myself with his friends while Dagur wandered around the shop examining our varied stock. One of the Icelandic musicians took an immediate liking to a Dobro and asked me to take it down from the far wall. I’d connected the instrument to a practice amplifier we kept permanently plugged in for tests and demonstrations, and a ripple of melodious notes tinged with country-and-western rhythms rang out through the store.
Ever since I’d been working at the music store I knew there was no need for any kind of salesmanship or words of encouragement. Musicians know their own mind and personal opinions wouldn’t be taken into account. At any rate, the guitar player quickly agreed to acquire the instrument and gave me his credit card while I passed the heavy Dobro to Jonno to reunite it with its case and pack it.
I handed over the till and credit-card receipts to the buyer whom Dagur had rejoined.
‘Anything I might interest you in?’ I brazenly asked Dagur, feeling as if I were on a roll.
‘I’m a drummer,’ he pointed out.
I blushed, though of course I had no way of knowing what instrument he played. The store did not stock percussion. In the world of music, that was a specialist area which other stores catered for.
He theatrically blew me a kiss as he walked out of the door.
‘You didn’t know who he was, did you?’ Jonno said to me. He was smirking from ear to ear.
‘The drummer? Should I?’
‘He’s from the Holy Criminals.’
‘Viggo Franck’s band?’
‘Yeah. That one. Not really my thing, but most girls go crazy for them.’
Not having gone crazy for them seemed to have raised me in Jonno’s estimation.
I shrugged, playing up my nonchalance to impress him, though secretly I was chuffed to have sold a guitar to a bona fide rock star, or his friends at least.
But the thrill of Dagur passed quickly, and I returned to my thoughts of Paris. And Leonard.
A full day of work on my feet in the music shop had left me worn out, so by the time I arrived for my shift at the fetish club I was frazzled, light-headed and jittery from consuming too many energy drinks to push myself through.
I tried not to double up as it was just too exhausting, but I’d had to make some sacrifices in order to keep my dates with Leonard as well as keep my employers happy, and one of those sacrifices was losing sleep having to work for whole days and nights on the hop. I’d started in Denmark Street atten a.m. and wouldn’t be home from the fetish club until six a.m. the following morning.
The underground club felt surreal at the best of times, but tonight it was practically a dream world. Thursday nights were always quieter than Saturdays and so we tended to get more of the couples who came out purely to make use of the equipment and the anonymity that the club provided. The
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