Page 120 of The Sound Between Us

30

band of brothers

Harrison

There’s something deeply satisfying about flipping through vinyl in Vespa Records rather than being Harrison Carter, whose face appears on magazine covers and whose voice fills stadiums. The morning light filters through grimy Camden windows, casting everything in that particular London glow that makes even dust motes look romantic. The shop smells of dust and possibility and the faintest hint of Simon’s morning coffee, which appears to be some horrific energy drink masquerading as caffeine.

I’m standing here in yesterday’s jeans and a hoodie that’s seen better decades, completely anonymous except for Simon’s occasional nervous glances and the way he keeps dropping things whenever I move. Seren’s behind the counter doing actual work, updating their database or organising receipts or whatever arcane rituals keep independent record shops from complete financial collapse. She’s wearing my Elementary tour shirt from 2019, the irony of which isn’t lost on either of us, and her hair is twisted up with what appears to be a pencil stolen from the till.

Every few minutes I drift over to steal a kiss, pulling her close despite her half-hearted protests about maintaining professional standards.

“I have customers,” she mutters against my mouth, though we both know the shop’s been empty for the past hour except for Simon, who’s providing running commentary from behind a stack of returns.

“What customers?” I glance around the demonstrably empty shop. “Unless you count Simon, and I’m pretty sure he works here.”

“I definitely work here,” Simon confirms, emerging from behind his vinyl fortress wearing what appears to be three different band t-shirts layered on top of each other. “And this display of affection is creating a hostile work environment. Get a room, you’re ruining my workspace ambiance.”

I’m holding a first pressing of Dark Side of the Moon when he finally glances over, and his eyes go wide.

“Do you know how much that’s worth?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Three hundred quid. Minimum. If it’s mint condition, closer to five.”

Seren looks up from her laptop with the expression of someone watching a car crash in slow motion. “Don’t tell him exact figures, Si. He’ll think we’re trying to fleece him.”

“Or he’ll buy the whole shop,” Simon adds hopefully, his eyes lighting up. “Which, for the record, I wouldn’t be opposed to. I have ideas about expansion.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“Well,” he begins, settling in for what’s obviously a prepared pitch, “we could do listening parties. Vinyl and wine nights. Maybe some acoustic sessions in the back room...”

“The back room is full of broken heating equipment and boxes of records from the eighties that no one wants,” Seren interrupts.

“That’s why it’s called renovation, Seren. Vision. You have to see the potential.”

The domesticity of it all hits me. This morning I woke up in Seren’s bed to the sound of London traffic and her terrible singing in the shower. Made coffee in her kitchen using a cafetière that looked ancient. And now I’m browsing vinyl whilst she works and Simon plans his retail empire, and it feels completely normal.

This is just Tuesday, not some impossible fantasy I’ve stumbled into.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I glance at the screen. Landing in twenty from Jamie, followed immediately by another from Dex: Bringing emotional support cigarettes.

“They’re almost here,” I tell Seren, not sure why I’m announcing this since she already knows, except that talking to her has become automatic.

She looks up from her laptop, her eyes searching my face. There’s concern there, the kind that makes my chest warm.

“You nervous?”

“I’m more than okay. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

It’s the truth. For the first time in years, I’m not dreading band meetings or conversations about creative direction or any of the usual politics that come with managing three egos and a multinational entertainment empire. I know what I want to say, and I know they’ll understand. Or they won’t, and I’ll deal with that too.

“That’s suspiciously healthy of you,” Seren closes her laptop with a decisive click. “Do you need to stress-eat chocolate with me before you go? I’ve got some expensive stuff upstairs.”

“I’m learning there are better ways to deal with anxiety.”

“Such as?”