Page 14 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

bad ideas

Seren

It’s laughable. Actually, genuinely absurd. LA? With him ?

I stare at my dad’s text. It might combust if I so much as blink at it wrong. Think about it x —as if the little kiss at the end makes it anything other than what it is: a trap. In organic leather shoes and good lighting.

I’m in the shop pretending to alphabetise the vinyls, which is rich, really, because I’ve been holding the same sleeve for twenty minutes and couldn’t tell you what band it was if you offered me eternal peace and a Xanax.

The place smells of dust and old cardboard and the kind of wood polish that only ever masks the scent of decay.

Sunlight filters through the grimy front windows, trying to stage a soft-focus intervention.

But it’s not romantic today; it’s oppressive.

I feel claustrophobic in my own favourite hiding place.

“You need to go.” Flick’s perched behind the counter. A Grecian statue with a superiority complex, dunking a digestive into her tea. The mug clinks against the wood, ceramic and oak making that rhythmic, passive-aggressive percussion only best friends can really perfect.

“I don’t. ”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I’d rather self-immolate.”

She raises an eyebrow, her expression a mix of you’re exhausting and I love you anyway . “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic.”

Flick dunks again, harder this time—bits of biscuit swirling on the surface. The wreckage of a sunken ship. “You work in a dusty record shop owned by a man who hasn’t updated the till since Thatcher and wears socks to bed. Maybe a bit of California sun wouldn’t be the death of you.”

The aforementioned till makes a sad wheeze beside her.

It knows we’re talking about it. Through the window, the Camden sky hangs low and grey, the kind that makes everything feel apocalyptic even when it’s not.

Somewhere below, the Tube rumbles—proof there’s still movement in the world even if I’ve stopped participating.

“You just want me to go so you don’t have to make me ten lattes a day.”

She doesn’t even try to deny it. “Do you know how much oat milk costs? You’re single-handedly bankrupting me.”

“I pay for my coffee.”

“You pay cost price. And you sit there looking tragic while I foam milk. It’s bad for business.”

That’s when the bell above the door gives its usual mortifying clang—not so much a chime as a declaration—and in sweeps Uncle Vinny.

A time traveller from a 1970s cocaine party.

Three-piece tweed; sunglasses indoors. Loafers that cost more than my therapy sessions and smell of Italian leather and unapologetic mistakes.

He saunters in, because of course he does, and suddenly the air in the shop feels thicker.

“Alright, my little misanthrope.” He sweeps me into a scratchy one-armed hug that smells of expensive tobacco, mint, and very specific regrets. The cologne is the same one he’s worn forever; woodsy, cinematic. Makes me feel twelve and devastated.

“You look as though you’ve been chewing on your own resentment.”

“Did he send you?” Against his shoulder.

Vinny raises his hands, the very picture of innocence—if innocence wore vintage Rolexes and had stories it legally couldn’t tell. “I was just in the neighbourhood.”

“You live in Brighton.”

“And yet—here I am.” He plucks Pet Sounds from the rack and studies it. A lost relic, even though he’s got an original pressing mounted on his wall as a war trophy.

“Hi, Vinny.” Flick hops down from her stool with a thud of Doc Martens on old wood.

“Flick-a-dee!” He beams, kissing her cheek with such theatrical flourish I feel embarrassed by association. “Still terrifying?”

“Always.”

I retreat behind the counter. A trench in emotional warfare. Vinny leans against the Bowie display, which creaks in protest because it wasn’t built to support egos that large.

“I’m not going.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

He smiles. The devil on a Sunday. “It’s just a trip, sweetheart. A bit of sun; a bit of studio time. Maybe an overpriced green juice. You might even tan.”

“Or die.”

The door clatters again. Simon drags himself in, allergic to effort, hoodie up, eyes bleary. The scent of rain, cigarettes, and urban decay trails after him. Cologne for disillusioned youth.

“Are we open?” He blinks at the dim lighting. A house cat who accidentally got outside.

“Tragically. ”

Vinny sizes him up. A particularly baffling museum piece. “Who’s this?”

“Our Saturday boy. Simon. You met him last month.” But Vinny’s face remains blank, the way only truly rich people can manage.

Simon stares. “I live upstairs.”

Vinny pulls out his wallet—thick, battered, obnoxiously cash-heavy—and peels off a neat stack of fifties. Dealing blackjack in a Bond film.

“Take the week off.”

Simon stares. It’s a trick. “Are you mugging me?”

Vinny flashes white teeth. “Do I look as though I need to mug a teenager in a Joy Division hoodie?”

Simon concedes with a silent nod, pockets the notes with the quiet efficiency of a boy who’s used to strange luck, and exits without another word. The bell tinkles behind him. A full stop.

I turn on Vinny, arms crossed, rage quiet but brewing.

“That was unnecessary.”

“Effective.” He adjusts his sunglasses. He’s not indoors.

“I am not going to LA.”

He shrugs, maddeningly. “Sure you’re not. And I’m not coming with you.”

I nearly hurl the barcode scanner at him—mostly for the drama, not the damage.

“You are not coming.”

“Rogers’ jet. Minibar. I absolutely am.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Flick props her chin on her hand, all dreamy-eyed mischief, her tea cooling beside her, forgotten—too busy romanticising my life. It’s hers to narrate. “You’d look hot in LA. We could bleach your ends again, wear linen. Live the dream.”

I glance at her sidelong. The shop’s lighting bathes her in gold and nostalgia—makes her look as though she’s starring in a vintage Polaroid someone found in a shoebox labelled the best summer of our lives . “Do you hear yourself?”

“Loud and clear.” She sips her tea, the sound delicate, ladylike—totally incongruent with the way the shop’s ancient heating system rattles to life behind her. It’s dying in stages. “Seriously though, why not go?”

Because Harrison’s there. Because I’m still humming the song we wrote. It lives in my bloodstream. Because I’m not the girl who thrives under palm trees and neon signs; I’m the girl who lives in basements and lies about being fine.

“Because I don’t want to.” The words bone-dry in my mouth, ashy and weightless and entirely untrue.

Vinny swings himself up onto the counter—legs dangling, shoes creaking, expensive leather groaning under the weight of someone who’s always carried too much and never quite learned how to set it down.

“You know what I think?” His voice goes that particular brand of soft he saves for interventions and hangovers.

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“I think you’re scared.”

I snort, but it’s hollow; weak. Someone tried to laugh underwater. “Of what?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Of wanting it.”

And there it is—settling into the shop. Dust. Grief; knowing something you wish you could un-know. Flick looks at me, not pushing but not letting go either, her eyes all quiet curiosity and stubborn loyalty.

I don’t tell them I still see Harrison’s mouth forming the word stay every time I close my eyes. I don’t say the song’s still on my piano, that I rewrote the second verse at 3am and told myself it didn’t mean anything. I don’t say part of me is already packed.

Instead, I reach for sarcasm. Always sarcasm; the first coat of paint I ever learned how to apply. “Yeah. Scared I’ll get a tan and accidentally develop self-worth. ”

Vinny grins, toothy and too fond. “That’s my girl.”

Flick bumps her shoulder into mine—warm, grounding, real. “Just think about it. That’s all we’re saying.”

I sigh, long and dramatic. Maybe the sound alone could carry all this weight. “Thinking about it is how I got into this mess in the first place.”

Vinny puts on his faux-thoughtful face, eyebrows doing Olympic-level gymnastics above his sunglasses. “Nope. That was your dad’s inability to use a condom.”

“Gross.” I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already creeping in—traitorous and soft. Vinny just waggles his brows. The incorrigible bastard he’s always been.

The letter arrives heavy.

Physically, yes—the envelope thick and cream-coloured, the kind of expensive stock that smells of men who drink whisky with ice they cut themselves.

But emotionally too.

It’s addressed to my dad—of course—but Mrs Martin leaves it on the breakfast bar. A planted clue, her lavender hand cream trailing in the air behind her. “Looks official.” Which is her way of saying open it before Kimba sniffs it out and turns it into performance art.

So I do. Obviously.

The kitchen is too white; too quiet. The underfloor heating hisses beneath my bare feet, trying to soothe me into submission. Outside, March is throwing a tantrum—wind slamming at the windows. It’s got something to say.

I slide the paper out; the kind that whispers important in a serif font and formal phrasing.

Faith Jones—my mum—is being honoured at the West Coast Music Archive’s Legacy Awards. Posthumously. Of course.

Lifetime Achievement in Arrangement and Composition.

I blink. Once; twice. Hard enough that the words blur, swimming underwater.

Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes it sneaks up on you in a dream; other times, it slams into you in a too-warm kitchen, wearing your mother’s perfume in memory only.

A small, traitorous voice whispers—She would’ve been proud.

She would’ve rolled her eyes, sure, but worn that silk blouse with the pearl buttons anyway.

She never got recognition when it mattered; not really.

Damon soaked up the spotlight. Oxygen. Took credit for melodies she hummed in bare feet on Tuesday nights with wine-stained lips.

Later, Flick’s on the sofa—barefoot, legs thrown over one of Kimba’s designer cushions. A goddess of chaos and comfort. The light is golden; the universe is conspiring to make everything cinematic.

“You have to go.” Through a mouthful of crisps. It’s that simple. “It’s your mum. LA in March? That’s practically a Lana Del Rey lyric.”

I shake my head, soft and doomed. We both know it’s already too late; I’ve Googled the flights. Checked the weather. Fantasised about the in-flight wine and the ache in my chest when the plane descends over LAX.

“I’m not going with my father.”

Flick snorts, nearly chokes on her tea. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not going with him; you’re going despite him.”

Then—the knock.

Sharp; authoritative. Un-ignorable. The door owes them.

She freezes mid-crunch. “You expecting someone?”

I don’t even need to answer. “Probably the bloody welcoming committee.”

And yes. Of course. It’s Vinny; holding a Waitrose bag of pastries and all my emotional leverage .

He kisses Flick on the cheek—old Hollywood co-stars—then drops into the armchair that I reckon was built to hold his ego. “Afternoon, gorgeous.”

“Dad sent you.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “He might’ve mentioned a drop-in.”

Flick’s laughing again, soft and bright.

Vinny unveils the pastries. Treasure: two almond croissants and a toddler-sized pain au chocolat, all golden flake and butter-soaked guilt. “Everyone needs a holiday. And you, my girl, need to leave Camden before it eats you alive.”

“Seren, please.” Flick begs, pastry crumbs falling as confetti. “I’ll water your plants; feed your Spotify. Lie to your exes. Just go.”

I rub my eyes; feel the ache. The pressure.

“Vinny, I’m not going to LA.” My arms cross; my chest cracks. Because this isn’t about Dad. Or Kimba. Or Harrison, even.

It’s about Mum.

And how—for one night—her name will mean something in a room full of men who once ignored her genius. And I’ll be there; to make sure no one forgets who the music belonged to.

And Harrison? Well. LA is massive; eight million people massive. He’s probably in a gated compound somewhere, too rich and too busy to even exist in my airspace.

I let my head fall back against the cushion. Exhale.

“Fine.”

The word lands. Thunder in a quiet field.

Flick and Vinny erupt—cheers echoing off white walls and pastry flakes. But deeper, under it all, stirs a pull. A whisper; oceanic and inevitable.

God, I hope it’s not him.