The Turning Point: A gripping love story, keep the tissues close...

There had been a time, after university and once she’d landed her first job at a greetings-card company, when Frankie aspired to living in Hampstead. It seemed such a perfect place: slightly bohemian, still villagey, up high as if it had cleaner air than the rest of London. She’d gaze at the buildings and imagine herself ensconced in basement flats or up in attics – all bare floorboards and faded kilims, old tub chairs, iron bedsteads and little framed engravings of the same streets in Victorian times. But she’d never been able to afford to rent and, when a decade later a healthy advance on her Alice books could have supported a debilitating mortgage for somewhere tiny around Parliament Hill, Hampstead had changed anyway.

Around that time Peta married and moved there. Frankie had gently envied her until, before long, there was a general exodus of everything unique in the area. Quirky boutiques were seen off by upmarket clothing chains, little delis replaced by pricey generic ones, humble cafés and the occasional corner shop swallowed up by each and every coffee company. But still, above eye level, the windows and chimneys and brickwork and roofs of the beautiful buildings remained unaltered. And, Frankie had to admit, a visit to Whistles or Karen Millen for first time in nine months was attractive. She could stock up on jeans and tops for the kids from Gap and then pop across to Waterstones to check stock levels of her books after which a frappuccino might be in order.

Peta’s house had changed since Frankie had last visited.

‘Grey,’ Peta explained. ‘Actually – greige. It’s all about greige these days.’

‘Where are the menfolk?’

‘Philip’s at bloody work – of course – and the boys are at athletics. They’ll be home soon.’ Peta smiled at Annabel. ‘They’re looking forward to seeing you.’

Annabel rolled her eyes at her mother and, for a moment, Frankie was sure she was going to say bloody thugs. But then again, Peta would probably concur.

‘Take your stuff upstairs and freshen up – I’ve made us a light lunch.’

Frankie poked her head around the door to the smallest spare room to find Annabel staring at the bed.

‘Auntie Peta always puts this doll and this teddy out for me,’ she told her mum.

‘That’s because she’s thoughtful,’ said Frankie. ‘She has a soft spot for you because you’re a gorgeous girl and not a monstrous boy.’

‘I think I’d probably rather have stayed at home though,’ said Annabel. ‘What with you going out and everything.’

Frankie thought about it. ‘But Auntie Peta has planned popcorn and chocolate and a DVD just for the both of you. Also she has much better nail varnishes than me.’

‘Listen!’

The house appeared to shake.

‘It’s only Stan and Josh,’ Frankie said.

‘Do you think they’ll talk to me?’

‘Think of it as a mercy if they don’t,’ Frankie laughed.

‘Do you think Sam’s OK?’

Frankie looked at her watch. ‘The match’ll be under way.’

‘Don’t you think it’s odd – not being the three of us?’

Frankie nodded. ‘It is odd. But it’s also normal for there to be times when we have to do – our own things.’

‘I don’t have my own things to do,’ said Annabel crossly. ‘I just have to follow.’

‘Your time’ll come,’ Frankie said, stroking her daughter’s little face and putting her hand back there even after Annabel had pushed it away.

Later, Annabel watched Frankie get changed.

‘What’s wrong with the clothes you were wearing?’

‘Nothing?’ Frankie said.

‘So why are you getting changed? It’s only teatime.’

‘I felt stuffy in what I was wearing – after the long car journey and everything. Anyway, I’m going out to dinner – and I don’t often wear a frock these days.’

‘A dress – it’s called a dress,’ said Annabel. ‘What time will you be back?’

How many times today had her daughter already asked her this? ‘I don’t know. But lateish.’ Frankie wished Annabel would just rummage around her make-up bag or try on her shoes and stop asking her these questions.

‘The boys are so rude!’ Annabel whispered. ‘Did you hear them? Did you hear what Josh said about Auntie Peta’s food?’

‘I did. Ghastly – but it’s just a phase.’

‘Well, if Sam goes through a phase, we will have to kill him.’

‘He might, you know – but we’ll find a way to deal with it that doesn’t involve death.’

‘They’re so rude!’ Annabel shook her head. ‘When can I have a phone?’

‘A phone?’

‘So you can phone me.’

‘When you’re at secondary school – like Sam.’

‘But you can’t phone me tonight to tell me if you’re going to be later than lateish.’

‘I’ll keep in touch with Peta.’

‘You look – lovely,’ Peta told Frankie sweetly, glancing over at Annabel who was seemingly engrossed in Frozen. ‘Smile?’

Frankie raised her eyebrow at herself. ‘I’m so nervous. It’s crazy.’ She scanned her sister’s face for reassurance. ‘Am I mad?’

Peta sighed. ‘It is nuts – all of it. But if you were me, you wouldn’t be doing it and if I was you – then hell yes, I would!’ She paused. ‘Go. Stop thinking. Don’t worry about Annabel. Go and have fun – or there’s absolutely no point.’

Gazing at her daughter, Frankie suddenly thought perhaps I shouldn’t be doing this, perhaps my place is on a sofa, watching Frozen. She thought of Sam and the unknown Massey family. Did they win the cricket? Was he OK? Did he feel palmed off? It all felt a bit self-centred, slightly dishonest.

‘Go!’ said Peta with a friendly shove.

Frankie looked down at her shoes. Were her feet going to be sore in an hour? Did Scott really want to see her?

‘Will you make it really lovely for Annabel?’

‘I have the best night planned,’ Peta said. ‘Pink fake cocktails in sugar-crusted martini glasses, popcorn, mini-marshmallows and chocs and we’re going to watch Pitch Perfect. I’ve only ever watched it once, secretly on the laptop with headphones on in the top room. My boys would smash the DVD otherwise.’

‘Where will they be? Josh and Stan?’

‘On their phones in their rooms with music on and stinky socks.’

‘So Annabel will be fine?’

‘Yes, Frankie – and so will you. Now – go.’

The further the cab took Frankie from Hampstead, the lighter her nerves became, metamorphosing from a leaden plug of guilt and anxiety in the pit of her stomach, to a feathering of butterflies swirling up against her diaphragm. She loved her dress and it really was a frock, whatever Annabel claimed to the contrary. Petrol blue, scooped neck and back, little cap sleeves – it had something of the 1950s about it. Changing her shoes to trusty ballet pumps at the last minute was a good idea, and she felt a femininity that months of slopping around at home in old jeans and shabby tops had compromised. She checked her phone. No messages at all. The taxi was travelling down Fitzjohn’s Avenue and all the traffic seemed to be going the other way. The lights were green. Nothing, it seemed, was standing in her way.

In Abbey Road, Scott was working. He’d be back again in the morning, for a couple of hours before his flight, but was nearly done for now. The week had been a good one and he was happy with the results. He looked at his watch. Almost six o’clock – a curious in-between time, not quite evening, long since afternoon. He phoned his daughter.

‘Hey Pops.’

‘Hey Jenna.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Oh – good. How’s you?’

‘Fine – I promise! Dad – don’t do the loaded pause. What time do you get in tomorrow – is Aaron picking you up?’

‘I arrive around six. And yes – or I’ll be hitching home.’

‘I saw him driving your truck yesterday – it’s like a totally different vehicle with him. Windows down – music loud.’

Scott laughed. Aaron posing as cooler than cool. ‘What was he playing?’

‘Springsteen or Bryan Adams.’

He laughed again. ‘No daughter of mine can possibly confuse the two.’

‘All I heard was some loud guitar as he flew past. Buddy was riding up front – with a bandana around his neck.’

Scott could envisage it so clearly it sent a pang that coursed right through him. An evening of promise stretched enticingly ahead of him and yet he thought, Godspeed tomorrow. ‘Will I see you next week?’

‘Sure! I have a day off on Thursday.’

‘I’ll come pick you up.’

‘So what are you doing tonight? How’s the work going?’

‘It’s going great.’

‘Did you meet the Royal Queen of England yet?’

‘Nope – she keeps leaving messages though. All the time. Crazy old girl.’

‘How about an English Rose – did you meet one of those yet?’

Jenna thought the connection had gone.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought you’d gone. So call me when you’re home?’

‘Sure.’

‘And see you Thursday?’

‘You bet.’

‘Travel safe, Pops.’

‘Night sweetheart.’

‘Dad – it’s the day.’

‘So save it for later.’

His phone rang.

‘You here?’ he asked.

‘I’m here,’ Frankie said.

Stock-still he stood in the control room while outside, Frankie fidgeted from foot to foot. They thought: any moment now any moment now. Out into the gentle light of early evening, Scott realized how he must have missed a lovely day in London if the warmth and clear sky were anything to go by.

And there she is. There she is.

‘You look disappointed.’

‘I was anticipating something less high-tech, more bohemian – more sixties.’

‘You wanted Paul and John sitting in a corner jamming.’

‘Yes – Ringo and George too.’

‘If you’d have come earlier in the week, I could’ve done you George Clooney – he’s producing a movie and the music was recorded here in Studio One.’

‘I didn’t know you earlier in the week.’

Scott stopped. Really? ‘Next time, I’ll make sure it’s more rock and roll for you.’

‘There will be a next time?’

Thoughts of Jenna weaved through his mind but he halted them, as if he was saying to her hang on honey, I’m just busy here. He looked at Frankie intently for a moment before nodding. ‘Oh I’ll be back for sure,’ he said.

‘Not just for work?’

‘No – not just for work.’

They were standing in a corridor crammed with trolleys heaped high with all manner of gear and gadgetry. People with mugs of coffee, preoccupied expressions and heads full of music had to negotiate Scott and Frankie standing in their way. On the walls, framed photographs looked down on them benevolently, from the Beatles to an Oasis of calm while music filtered out when thick doors opened and muffled away again when they closed, like reveals of other people’s thoughts.

‘Come,’ said Scott, leading on to the control room of Studio Two. ‘I have around twenty minutes of work left to do.’

The control room had a stillness with its soft lighting and dark red soundproofing in long padded runs along the walls. But there was a busyness too; the vast mixing desk, screens running a cut of the film, speakers so huge they reminded Frankie of props for Star Wars, compressors, distressors, amps and limiters, a coffee table with a scatter of cups and a platter of fruit, discarded headphones and sheaves of music marked up in luminous highlighter pen. And people – for some reason she hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. From the leather sofa, a woman and a man turned and nodded; at a desk by the interior window looking down on the studio itself, another woman was leafing through pages of music; at a table next to her a young man was working at a computer.

‘So this is Frankie,’ Scott said introducing her to the director, the producer, the music editor, the music supervisor and a chap called Paul Broucek from Warner Bros. who was working in Studio One but knew Scott well. Jeff Bridges was as good as there too, dominating the three large monitors running scenes from the movie.

‘Scott – we’re ready for you.’

He touched her arm and told her ten, twenty minutes, then he walked to the door at the end of the room and through to the studio itself.

‘Frankie,’ said Paul, motioning her to the table and chair by the interior window that looked down on the studio. ‘Come sit here.’

Below, she saw what looked more like a school gym, a little shabby in comparison with the control room. There were chairs and music stands for at least fifty, but there was only Scott down there, settling himself, putting on headphones, tuning his guitar. She’d only heard him play down the phone at her, just a couple of bars.

‘You see that?’ Paul was pointing to a nondescript upright piano. ‘Circa 1905 Steinway Vertegrand piano,’ he told her. ‘Or – in layman’s terms, the “Lady Madonna” piano that McCartney played.’

And Frankie thought, I really love this place.

‘Ready for you, Scott,’ someone was saying.

‘Sure.’ His voice came through on the speakers.

And then he started to play. Though Paul encouraged her to watch the screens, to see how the cue fitted the scene, her eyes were constantly drawn to Scott, a solitary figure down there in that historic room, playing the music he’d written. A world of his own.

‘He plays so so beautifully,’ Paul said to no one in particular.

‘One of the great guitarists,’ someone else responded.

‘When he plays acoustic, it’s just so complete,’ said Paul. ‘Like four or five voices simultaneously. Just beautiful.’

Watching Scott, hearing him play, something swept through Frankie just then. It wasn’t that he had added another string to his bow in her eyes; it was more profound than that. Another layer, extra depth in a world which, though different from hers in many ways, was a world she understood. To be lost in one’s craft, the need to create, whether with words or music, using a language for expression which was simultaneously intensely personal and yet generous and universal. Writing for yourself yet giving it to an audience. A kindred soul, for sure.

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