Page 140 of The Sound Between Us
Vinny listens without interrupting, which might be a first in recorded history. When I finish, he leans back and studies me.
“Right. Here’s what you need to know about being in the spotlight, because whether you like it or not, you’re in it now. First—everyone’s going to have an opinion about your life. Most of them will be wrong, but they’ll be loud about it. Second—the press will twist everything you say, so say as little as possible until you’ve got something worth saying.”
He pauses to light a cigarette, ignoring Flick’s pointed cough. “Third, and this is important—if I know Hailey, and let’s be honest, the whole world knows a little bit too much about Hailey Rogers, Harrison probably didn’t stand a chance against whatever game she was playing.”
I want to argue, to say it doesn’t matter, but the words stick in my throat.
“Look, love,” Vinny continues, his voice gentler. “I’m not saying forgive him. I’m not saying run back. But remember who Harrison was before he met you. Miserable. Going through the motions. That song you wrote together? That was real, whatever else happened.”
My chest tightens. Because underneath all the hurt and humiliation, part of me knows he’s right. But knowing something was real doesn’t make the betrayal hurt less.
“So,” Vinny continues, stubbing out his cigarette on Flick’s saucer whilst she glares at him, “when you’re ready—and only when you’re ready—I know a little recording studio.”
Simon perks up. “Really? Where?”
“Yeah?” I ask, though I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever scheme he’s hatching.
“Abbey Road Studios. Studio Two, specifically. Where the Beatles recorded. Where your mum recorded her only album, actually, though she probably never told you that.” He pauses. “And I’ve arranged to fly Mark in from LA. I know you trust him.”
The café falls silent except for the hiss of the espresso machine and the distant chatter of photographers outside. Abbey Road. Where legends are made. And Mark, who helped me find my voice in that first session with Elementary.
My throat goes tight. “Vinny, I can’t. Not yet. I can’t even think about music right now without...”
“Without thinking about him,” he finishes gently. “I know, love. But Mark’s not him. Mark’s yours. And when you’re ready to take back what’s yours—your voice, your songs, your story—we’ll be waiting.”
He slides a business card across the table. “Studio’s booked for next month. No pressure. But Seren? Don’t let Harrison Carter or anyone else make you forget who you are. You’re Faith Jones’ daughter, and you’ve got music in your blood that has nothing to do with any man.”
I stare at the card, my hands shaking slightly. Abbey Road. Where Mum recorded. Where I could maybe find my voice again, separate from everything that’s happened.
“Define ready,” I say quietly.
His grin becomes gentle, understanding. “Ready is when you can sing without crying. Ready is when you’re making music for you, not against anyone else.”
I’m not there yet. Not even close.
