Free The Singer by Cathi Unsworth

days, she could start to hear the distant chiming of cash registers, smell a faint, tantalising aroma of success. I could feelher, itching for a bit of fame by association, something to boast about to the other mothers at the Con Club, the ones whose sons had gone on to be surgeons and barristers and were rolling round in cash. Something to make her feel justified at last.
    And seeing me at it, night after night, with my reams of notes and cuttings at least backed up my story to Louise that all my late nights with Grangerhad been for a reason. For the Furtherance of my Career, that noble pursuit that was of as much importance to her as it was to Mother. Louise had probably never seen me work this hard since those far-off days of cramming for A-Levels. I noticed a change in her attitude before she started to speak. She was actually taking note of what I was doing, studying me from behind her books at the otherend of the room.
    ‘So you’re actually serious about this?’ were the first words she spoke to me after Sunday night’s debacle. It was Thursday by now, and I had been at home every night since Monday, diligently tapping away and not drinking either. I’d kept to my place on the sofa at night, kept the kitchen stocked with supplies and hadn’t left a single thing out of place for her to moan about.
    The surprising side effect of this new, responsible sobriety was not just that I’d been putting this synopsis together but that I’d managed to rack up a whole heap of work and freebies from the magazine too. Including tickets for the premiere of the new Coen Brothers film, something I was keeping under my hat, something Louise would be hard-pressed to be able to resist.
    I looked up from my keyboardto see her holding up a newsprint copy of the Vince’n’Sylv wedding picture. She appeared to be examining this artefact with the expression of someone watching a slug emerge from their plate of salad, butthat countenance, coupled with the disdainful voice, was actually pretty much Louise’s full range.
    ‘Yes,’ I said as neutrally as possible. ‘Yes, I really am.’
    Her green eyes flickered from thenewsprint to me and then back again.
    ‘Do you want to know why?’ I asked, pitching it halfway between amiable and pleading.
    Louise did her Roger Moore eyebrow trick and said: ‘Go on then. Amaze me.’
    She sank down into the armchair facing me, crossed her legs and tapped a red fingernail against her temple.
    ‘I realise,’ I began humbly, ‘that my career is not exactly progressing at the speed itwas supposed to. I think journalism is tougher to get into now than it was when I first had my teenage dreams about writing for the
NME
, and I’ve realised that in order to carve a future for myself, I’m gonna have to do a bit more than write articles for a low-circulation men’s lifestyle mag.’
    A half smirk played across her lips.
    I took a deep breath and continued. ‘So, I’m gonna try and takeit to the next level and become a proper author. And it’s not just some silly, adolescent book about dead pop stars, Louise,’ I added imploring Lady Di eyes to this statement. ‘I think I have a story here that’s real dynamite. It could get me up there and it would sell shitloads and if that happened,’ I leaned as forward in my seat as I dared without toppling over at her feet again. ‘If that happened,I could get us out of this shithole and into somewhere better. I know this isn’t ideal any more, this whole place is depressing and dangerous and I want us to have more than that. I know you think I’ve just been wasting my time hanging round with Gavin, and I admit, I have been using some of that time to get more wasted than I should have done. But he’s given me this, this story, and I reallybelieve that this can be our way out. Our future.’
    The smirk disappeared and she regarded me in silent solemnity.
    The seconds on the clock ticked by, louder in the small room than Big Ben.
    ‘You’re