Free Resurgence by M. M. Mayle

don’t want to hear it. You did what you had to do. It’s done with. Now look at the fucking scenery. That’s the dome of St. Paul’s over there, and in the other direction’s Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.”
    To get past the bad patch, he calls out landmarks like a frenzied tour guide till they near Curzon Street and the converted Mayfair mansion housing the London offices of Clark, Sebastian & Associates. They’re almost there when he realizes Laurel hasn’t interrupted him because she’s been holding her breath for great shuddering intervals.
    When they arrive, Amanda is in the vestibule to greet them. She’s done up in a smart business suit and high-heeled shoes that lessen her girlishness. Her natural exuberance is in check when she says how sorry she is for their loss and embraces them each in turn. “I only wish I could think of an appropriate way to say how—”
    “Save it, sweet pea,” Colin says. “We know what you mean. We were havin’ the same struggle on the way here, feelin’ guilty about being happy in midst of a shit storm.”
    Laurel concurs and lights up a little when Amanda goggles at the engagement ring and works a saucy “I told you so” into the exchange.
    “We’re in the back conference room,” Amanda says and leads them along a corridor where a steady buzz of activity emits from the offices along its length. When she opens the double doors of a chamber he vaguely recalls from some long-ago gathering, he’s ready for almost anything but what he sees.
    If there were more than two people in the room he’d be making comparisons to the otherwise disastrous New York meeting that yielded him Laurel. But even though there are only two here to contend with, he can’t shake the feeling he’s vastly outnumbered.
    For several ticks he just stares at them, at his former bandmates, Lane and Jesse. They’re each done up like chartered accountants in pinstripes, fine worsteds, and pricey cravats; wolves in sheep’s clothing, they are, because their studied rock star nonchalance is very much in evidence and giving nothing away.
    “Dude,” Lane says, getting to his feet. “Been too long, it has.”
    They exchange an awkward embrace and retreat as though to neutral corners.
    “Lookin’ good, lookin’ good,” Jesse says, rising from his chair to offer an abbreviated handshake and clumsy clap on the back.
    “Your other component couldn’t be here today,” Amanda says. “Chris Thorne’s away for the Easter weekend, but I’m authorized to let you know he’s on board if the rest of you agree. Please, everyone, make yourselves comfortable and I’ll fill you in as quickly as possible.”
    After they’re settled at a large round table, she gives them each a bound presentation. “This is a proposal for an all-star concert to memorialize Rayce Vaughn. I’ve prepared a summary of progress to date and you’ll see that the Hammersmith Odeon and Royal Albert Hall are the venues currently under consideration and the list of possible participants is growing as we speak. Once we’ve locked in a date and secured the necessary clearances, more and better decisions can be made regarding the actual implementation.”
    Colin glances first at Laurel, who’s got on her unreadable face, then at Amanda, who’s ingenuousness in action, and finally at the pages listing the major draws of the music world who have volunteered to perform, schedules permitting. He reads that three high-ranking record labels are willing to lend their clout, and Britain’s premiere concert promoters are already vying for the job. Absolute top drawer, the lot, with all of them having in common a former relationship with the recently deceased—with all of them owing something to the recently deceased.
    He rethinks his criticism of Laurel’s tradeoff of hiccoughs for tears as his throat closes before he can make any sort of comment.
    Amanda takes advantage of the lull to introduce Laurel to Lane and