Read Online House of Sticks by Peggy Frew - Free Book Online

people?’
    â€˜Yeah. I think I’m with you on that one.’ Mel spread her hands and smiled a rueful smile. ‘What can you do? You can’t win.’
    Bonnie wandered up and down the rows of shelves in the bookshop, Jess strapped to her in the sling. She lingered by the art section, sliding out the heavy books, turning the glossy pages. There was one about twentieth-century furniture: big, hard cover, with full-colour illustrations. She looked at the price sticker and bit her lip. It was beautiful though. Pete would love it. And he had the new job coming. Maybe she could put it on lay-by, save up and pay for it before Christmas.
    â€˜Excuse me?’
    She jumped, pushed the book back into the shelf.
    â€˜Sorry.’ It was a man — a boy, almost — younger than her. Glasses and a cool haircut. ‘Um, are you — did I see you playing guitar in Mickey Meyers’ band? It would’ve been a while ago now. Start of last year?’ He was nervous; his eyes flicked on and off her face. ‘At the Forum?’
    Bonnie felt her ears go hot. She wished she was wearing better clothes. She felt bulky and squat in her flat boots, Jess bound to her like a clumsy extra layer. ‘Yeah,’ she said, trying to smile that modest-yet-assured smile she’d seen Mickey do so many times. ‘That sounds right.’
    â€˜I just wanted to say I love your playing,’ said the boy. ‘I think you’re a really amazing guitarist.’
    â€˜Oh, well, thanks.’ She shifted her weight and looked down at his narrow shoes.
    â€˜So do you still play with Mickey?’
    â€˜I’ve been on a bit of a break. You know, maternity leave.’ She indicated the sling.
    â€˜Right. Yeah.’ The boy didn’t even glance at Jess. ‘She always seems to have a new band, every time I see her play. What’s the story? Is she, like, hard to get along with or something?’
    Bonnie pushed her hair back off her face. ‘Oh, no. She’s very easy to get along with. I think that’s just the way she works. She likes to change things around — you know, keep herself interested.’
    â€˜You’re a bit of a regular though.’
    She shrugged. ‘Yeah … she does get other guitarists though, sometimes.’
    â€˜Right.’ There was a pause. He kept looking down at his hands and then back up again. ‘So. You playing any music at all?’
    â€˜Not really, no. But I think Mickey’s working on a new album. So, who knows?’
    â€˜New album? Great.’ He adjusted the bag on his shoulder. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be on it.’ He dipped his head and swivelled on his toes, ducking away. ‘See you.’
    â€˜Bye.’ Bonnie went back to the books, bumping her fingers over the spines, angling her head to read the titles, but she wasn’t concentrating. She waited an appropriate amount of time and then, trying not to be obvious, scanned the shop. There was no sign of him.
    Acting casual, but feeling like a clunking robot, she went over to the music section. Hovered along to the ‘M’s. Flipped through and pulled out a CD. The photo on the back showed the inside of a tour van. Soft, warm colours. Maybe they put some sort of effect on it: it looked like an old photo, those faded, seventies tones. Mickey leaning back in the middle of the seat, arms around Bonnie and that drummer — what was his name? She squinted down at his face. She couldn’t remember. The photographer, whoever it was, must have used a special lens because Mickey’s legs looked incredibly long, stretching from the centre-point at her crotch out to either side of the camera, where each blue-jeaned knee provided a frame. Guitar cases sticking up in the background. The schedule in thick black texta on three A4 pieces of paper gaffer-taped above the window on the non-door side. Krefeld, Berlin, Dresden.
    She smiled. It didn’t matter