Chapter 8: Talkback

On Saturday morning the Harcourt ballroom smelled of floor polish and new carpet.

Sixty empty chairs sat in rows facing a long white table.

That was where Beau would sign.

My sound desk stood at the back of the room on a riser, with cables running to the stage.

I had been there since seven, taping down cable and checking the livestream feed.

I had not once looked at the front door.

At nine the band started to load in.

At ten Beau arrived with a travel cup in his hand and a smile for everyone, and he kissed my cheek in front of the crew.

"Morning, babe. You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

"Wrist okay?"

"It's fine."

He squeezed my shoulder and went up to the stage.

The drummer grinned at me over his cymbals, and I grinned back.

August stood near the doors with the hotel manager and a clipboard.

He glanced up once, across all that carpet, and found me.

I looked down at my faders and moved one up an inch that didn't need it.

Tilly came to the desk a little after eleven.

She had a coffee in each hand and her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

She looked younger than she had at the party.

"I brought you a latte," she said. "Oat milk. I remembered."

"Thanks."

"Can I sit?"

There was a folding stool beside my chair. I nodded at it.

She sat and handed me the cup and kept both hands wrapped around her own.

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