Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

Pushing himself away from both the sink and the fear, he dried his face and looked at his watch. It would soon be time for him to collect Jacob from school. He didn’t want to have Sarah’s clothes lying about in piles when he got home.

He went back upstairs to finish packing them away.

He’d met Sarah through Colin. It was part of the folklore of their relationship that they might have been in the same room on several occasions before they finally spoke, but if they had neither of them could remember it. They didn’t become aware of each other until they were thrown together, at a party to celebrate the signing of one of Colin’s fledgling bands. Colin had negotiated the contract with a major record label and seemed to regard the deal as a personal coup. At times Ben thought he was more like a frustrated manager than a solicitor, and, like a convert to a new religion, he seemed to regard it as his duty to involve Ben in the heady world of the music industry.

“You’ve got to come, it’ll be great!” he’d enthused. “The record company’s really pushing the boat out on this one. Should be a good night.”

Ben wasn’t convinced. He’d been to signing parties before and not enjoyed them. Most of the bands he never heard of again, and he found their habitual mixture of naivete and arrogance irritating. The whole idea bored him. But there had been nothing boring that night. Not after he’d broken his camera on the lead singer’s head.

He’d been in a bad mood to begin with. He had recently split up with a girl he’d been seeing for the past six months, a model he had met on an advertising agency shoot. He was still smarting over the acrimonious end, which was probably why Colin had asked him along. And why, perhaps, he had accepted.

He had regretted it as soon as he walked into the club and felt the hammering music hit him. He had seen it all before, from the bottles of free champagne, tequila, imported beers and Jack Daniels, to the burning car suspended on chains from the ceiling. He would have turned around and left if Colin hadn’t seen him and waved him over.

In his dark lawyer’s suit his friend stood out from the clubbers like a crow among budgerigars. They’d shared a flat at university. The posing first-year fine art undergraduate and the ironed-jeaned third-year law student had regarded each other suspiciously to begin with, both convinced of a mistake by the accommodation department, but a mutual love of football and beer had soon overcome the less-important differences. After university they had kept in touch, despite Colin marrying Maggie against Ben’s advice when she became pregnant, and the differences between them becoming more apparent. Ben’s hair grew longer and Colin’s suits more expensive. Maggie had once referred to them as the Odd Couple. Ben thought that was probably the closest to a joke she had ever come.

He sometimes wondered if Colin’s decision to go into entertainment law, dealing with musicians and actors, was a reaction against the confines of his home life. He’d never risked their friendship by asking, though. He made himself smile as he reached Colin’s table and was introduced to solicitors and sharkish executives from the record company.

They acknowledged Ben with polite lack of interest, which mirrored the way he felt about them. He excused himself as soon as he could and wandered off to get a beer.

That was his first mistake. With no one to talk to, he drank more quickly than he should have done. The camera dragged around his neck. Against his better judgment he had taken it with him, at Colin’s insistence.

“If you get some good shots of the night, you know, just snapping people, you might be able to get more work from the label,” Colin had said, despite the fact that Ben had repeatedly told him that he had no interest in working with bands. He liked working with either professional models or people who weren’t aware they were being photographed, not four or five usually unphotogenic individuals, one of whom could always be guaranteed to blink as the shutter came down. Photographing live gigs was even worse. Ben had tried it for a while when he was scrabbling to find his feet after graduating, but soon gave up. When it came down to it, he wasn’t interested enough in music for it to be worth the grind.

He was on his fourth or fifth beer when Colin materialised at his elbow. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the band,” he shouted, leaning closer to be heard above the thumping beat.

Doing his best to look enthusiastic, Ben followed him through the crush of people. Empty glasses and bottles were spilled over a pair of tables pushed together in a booth, where twice as many people as it could comfortably hold were clustered around the four budding celebrities at one end.

Colin greeted them familiarly. If he was aware of the condescending looks he received he gave no sign. He was still a few months shy of thirty, but his suit and neatly cut, already thinning sandy hair made him seem middle-aged even in comparison to Ben, who was only two years his junior.

He reeled off their names, which Ben made no attempt to remember. “They’re going to be massive,” he enthused, aiming the comment at the band.

There were self-congratulatory smirks. “Yeah, that’s right,” one of the band said. “Massive.”

Colin seemed not to notice the parody, or the sniggers it provoked. He clapped Ben on the shoulder. “Ben’s a photographer. He’s here to take a few pictures.”

Ben was uncomfortably aware of becoming the focus of attention. He felt his anger rise as the patronising looks were switched to him. You arrogant little pricks, he thought, staring back with his own fuck-you smile. Then Colin said, “I’ll see you in a bit, Ben,” and with an encouraging squeeze on his arm left him standing there.

Ben silently cursed him. And himself, for not guessing that Colin would think he was doing him a favour. He would have left as well, but before he could one of the band spoke.

“So you want to take our pictures, then?” It was the same one who had ridiculed Colin. He had been introduced as the singer. Even slouched back in his seat he was obviously tall, good-looking in a gangly sort of way, with a tight black T-shirt and mop of thick, dark hair. Despite the club’s dim lighting his pupils were shrunk to pinpricks, a sign that he had been celebrating with more than alcohol.

“Not really,” Ben answered.

The singer pointed at the camera hanging on its strap.

“So why the fuck have you got that round your neck? Is it a necklace, or what?” There were laughs from around the table.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben said, turning to go.

“Hey, come on, man, you’re here to take some photos, aren’t you? How about this?” The singer sprawled back in an exaggerated model’s pose, pursing his lips.

Ordinarily Ben would have grinned and walked away. But the beers he had drunk had added to his already bad temper. And he had drunk them on an empty stomach. “Get fucked,” he said.

The mood around the table instantly changed. The singer sat up, no longer smiling. “Don’t tell me to get fucked, arsehole. Who the fuck invited you, anyway? You just come here to scrounge free drinks, or what?”

Ben carefully placed his beer on the table. “Fuck you, and fuck your drinks,” he said, which would have been a fine exit line if the singer hadn’t picked up a glass and thrown its contents in his face before he could move.

The table erupted with laughter, but his first concern was for his camera. It wasn’t in a case, and liquid was dripping from it. Whatever had been in the glass smelled of blackcurrant, and if there was one thing worse than getting a camera wet, it was getting it wet with something sweet and sticky.