Page 121 of The Sound Between Us

I lean across the counter and kiss her, my fingers cradling her jaw, tongue hot and seeking against hers, ignoring Simon’s dramatic retching sounds from the Classical section. “Such as having something worth fighting for instead of something worth running from.”

“Christ, you two are going to give me diabetes. This level of sweetness should come with a health warning,” Simon mutters.

“Right.” I straighten my hoodie and run a hand through hair that definitely needs cutting. “I should head off, meet them at the hotel when they land.”

“You don’t need luck. You need honesty.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

Simon makes gagging noises from his corner. “Seriously, I’m going to need therapy. Do either of you know a good therapist? Because this level of emotional stability is deeply unsettling.”

I head for the door, then turn back. “Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for handling those journalists after the photos came out. Could have been a lot worse.”

He grins. “Please. I told them exactly what they deserved to hear, which was nothing useful. Besides, Seren would murder me if I talked to the press. And she knows where I live.”

The black cab ride to Soho House gives me time to think, which is either a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective. I pull my baseball cap down low and slouch in the back seat, watching London blur past through tinted windows. London looks different when you’re not constantly worried about being photographed looking miserable. The tourists with their cameras seem less intrusive, the traffic less of a personal affront to my existence.

Soho House feels appropriately neutral, familiar enough to be comfortable, public enough to keep us civilised if things go sideways. The kind of place where entertainment industry types go to have conversations they don’t want overheard whilst still being seen having them.

The paps are already gathering outside, their telephoto lenses tracking my movement from car to entrance with predatory dedication.

“Harrison! Is Elementary breaking up?”

“What about the abandoned tour?”

“Any comment on your relationship with Serendipity Rogers?”

I give them the polite waves and practised smile that’s become second nature over fourteen years of being photographed against my will, but their attention doesn’t make me feel hunted anymore. There’s something grounding about knowing I have somewhere to go after this, someone waiting who doesn’t give a shit about industry politics or chart positions.

“All good, lads. Just having lunch with my friends.”

Inside, the familiar smell of expensive coffee and leather furniture wraps around me. The host recognises me immediately, probably briefed by management about maintaining discretion for celebrity members, and guides me through the maze of carefully arranged seating areas toward the back corner where privacy actually means something.

I order a whisky sour whilst I wait. Then another. The alcohol burns through some of the nervous energy I’ve been carrying, though it doesn’t touch the certainty of what I need to say.

When Jamie and Dex finally walk in, I feel my shoulders drop with relief. They look tired from the flight but not murderous, which is better than I’d hoped for.

Real hugs, not the camera-ready ones we’ve perfected for public consumption. I can smell the familiar scent of airplane coffee and duty-free cologne that means they’ve been travelling, mixed with Jamie’s perpetual aroma of expensive hair products and whatever cigarettes Dex has been smoking.

Jamie immediately starts rearranging the sugar packets on the table, then moves on to folding and refolding his napkin. Dex settles back in his chair with his usual calm, but his jaw is tight.

“Alright, you bastard,” Jamie settles back into his chair. “Let’s have it then.”

No small talk. We all know why we’re here.

“I want to call it a day. Glastonbury should be our last show.”

“Fucking hell, Harry. Straight in then,” Jamie says, but there’s no surprise in his voice, as if he’s been expecting this conversation for months. “No easing us into it with some bullshit about taking a break?”

“Would it have made it easier?”

“Probably not.”

Dex leans back in his chair, arms crossed, studying me with the intensity he usually reserves for complicated drum patterns. “You know this is mental, right? Walking away from all this?”