Page 27 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

london grey skies

Seren

The basement flat feels smaller than I remember, the air thin and stale after three days of California sunshine.

Everything exactly as I left it—tea-stained mug in the sink, piano gathering dust, stack of books I never got round to reading.

But it feels different somehow. Contaminated by memories of Italian coffee machines and golden light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Mrs. Martin left a care package of essentials, and I hate that I needed it more than I should.

The photographers are gone from outside, Dad’s handiwork, no doubt.

I can hear him upstairs now, probably on the phone with his publicist, spinning my breakdown into his comeback narrative.

“Seren’s taking some well-deserved time to focus on her art,” he’ll be saying. “The family is closer than ever.”

A stack of newspapers sits on the kitchen island upstairs, headlines I can see from the stairwell: “Damon Rogers: ‘My Daughter’s Strength Inspires Me’” and “Rogers Family United in Music.” Of course he’s made this about him.

Three days, I tell myself. You were gone for three bloody days .

But three days was apparently long enough to ruin everything I thought I knew about myself.

Flick appears within an hour of my return, letting herself in through the garden entrance and carrying Thai takeaway.

“Right.” She sets containers on my kitchen counter with practiced efficiency. “Tell me everything.”

I hold up my hand whilst death-squeezing a teabag with the other. “Nothing to tell.”

Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. She’s gone from cotton candy beach waves to mystic violet spirals in the time it’s taken for me to go to LA and crawl back home. “Bollocks. You look like you’ve been hit by a very expensive truck.”

I want to argue, but I catch sight of myself in the reflection of my oven door and realise she’s not wrong. I look hollowed out, scooped clean of essential organs and left to figure out how to function without them.

“I slept with him.” I say it because avoiding it will only make Flick more determined to extract the information.

“How was it?”

“Flick.”

“What? I’m asking for clinical details. Scale of one to ten, did Harrison Carter live up to the fantasy?”

It wasn’t Harrison Carter, I want to say. It was Harry, and that’s the problem.

Instead, I grab plates from the cupboard and focus on the mundane task of serving pad thai whilst my chest caves in on itself.

“It was a mistake,” I say finally.

“A good mistake or a bad mistake?”

“The worst kind. The kind that makes you forget why you were being sensible in the first place.”

Flick studies my face whilst she twirls noodles around her fork. “So what happened? Why are you back here looking half-dead instead of living it up in LA with your pop star boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. And his other girlfriend has keys to his house.”

“Ah.” Flick’s expression shifts to something more serious. “The classic ‘famous person’s life is a complicated mess’ situation.”

“Exactly. She walked into his bedroom, looking fresh off a catwalk, making it very clear that I was just the latest in a long line of temporary fascinations. And that she wasn’t at all surprised to find me in his bed.”

“Did he explain?”

“He tried. But what’s the point? It’s his life, Flick.

This is what dating Harrison Carter looks like—other women with keys, paparazzi, industry politics, the constant performance of being someone worth being seen with.

” I pick at my food, appetite non-existent despite not eating properly for days.

“I can’t be that person. I won’t become another woman orbiting around his life, fighting for scraps of attention. ”

“So you ran.”

“I made a strategic retreat.”

“You ran,” Flick repeats, not unkindly. “And now you’re hiding in your flat feeling sorry for yourself.”

By the time we finish eating, I’m curled up on the sofa, and Flick settles beside me, pulling me into a hug that smells of her familiar perfume and the cigarettes she thinks I don’t know she smokes.

“Tomorrow’s a new day.” She strokes my hair.

“Why doesn’t it feel that way?” I whisper into her shoulder.

“Because some days are bastards. But they end eventually.”

She stays until I fall asleep, and when I wake up alone the next morning, the flat feels emptier than ever .

The coffee shop queue moves with its usual sluggish efficiency, and I find myself standing behind Double Shot Latte Man—the one I’ve been half-heartedly building up the courage to speak to for months.

He turns and gives me a smile that used to make my morning marginally brighter, but today it bounces off me without leaving a mark.

The shop smells the same as always—old cardboard, dust motes dancing in weak London light, the particular mustiness that comes from thousands of records that have lived full lives. It should be comforting, but today it feels suffocating.

Simon appears around nine thirty, hoodie up but practically vibrating with barely contained energy.

“Right.” He announces, throwing himself behind the counter with theatrical flair. “Spill. Everything. I want details, emotions, and a full breakdown of Harrison Carter’s morning routine.”

“There’s nothing to spill.”

“Bollocks. You’ve been gone for three days with a pop star, there are still photographers lurking about, and you look emotionally demolished by someone very attractive.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Was he good? Please tell me he was good. My faith in celebrity fantasies depends on this.”

“Simon—”

“Because honestly, Seren, if Harrison Carter is disappointing in bed, what hope do the rest of us have? I’ve been living vicariously through other people’s sex lives since Andrew started that weird cleanse where he won’t even kiss me with tongue.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s something comforting about Simon’s shameless nosiness. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, it’s complicated.” He claps his hands together. “That’s code for ‘incredible but emotionally devastating,’ isn’t it? Did he whisper sweet nothings? Did he make you breakfast? Did he have one of those stupidly expensive coffee machines that makes you feel poor? ”

The observation is uncomfortably accurate, and I busy myself reorganising the Smiths section to avoid his gaze.

“You’re reorganising. That’s stress behaviour.” Simon narrows his eyes. “What happened? And don’t say nothing, because I can literally see the heartbreak radiating off you.”

That’s when the bell jingles and Uncle Vinny appears, wearing his full tartan suit glory but looking unusually serious.

“Let me guess.” I don’t look up from the vinyl. “Dad sent you.”

“Your old man’s too much of a coward to come himself.” Vinny settles into the chair we keep for customers who want to browse the listening booth. “Nice to see you too, love.”

Simon’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, you’re Vincent Shaw.”

“Language, young man.” Vinny says mildly, but he’s already pulling out a pen to sign something. “And yes, I am.”

“He knows he fucked up at the awards.” Vinny continues, addressing me whilst scribbling his signature on the back of a Smiths album. “Badly.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But hiding in here isn’t going to fix anything.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m working. This is my job, remember?”

Vinny takes a long look around the shop—at the organised chaos, the careful displays, the way I’ve made this space mine despite never owning it. “You know what I told him after your mum died? That he’d lost the best part of himself. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re so busy protecting yourself from becoming him, you’re forgetting to become you.”

Simon is listening to every word with the fascination of someone watching a particularly dramatic soap opera. I shoot him a look that suggests he might want to find something else to do, and he reluctantly shuffles toward the back room.

“I saw you,” Vinny continues. “Not this you.” He waves at me. “But the real you. And you know what? You were magnificent, Seren. Your mum would have been proud.”

“It was a disaster.”

“No, love. It was honest. First time I’ve seen you be properly honest in years.”

The words hit harder than they should, probably because there’s truth in them. How much of my life have I spent defining myself by what I’m not rather than what I am?

“You can’t spend your whole life reacting to what your father did wrong,” Vinny says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m not?—”

“You are, though. Every choice you make is about not being him.”

Before I can argue, my phone starts ringing. Unknown number, LA area code. I let it go to voicemail, but Vinny gives me a pointed look.

“I know someone’s been trying to reach you about recording,” he says. “Mark’s a mate, he called when he realised you weren’t going to be heading back in with Elementary. Good producer. Won’t try to turn you into someone you’re not.”

The phone starts ringing again. Same number, same insistent buzz against the shop counter.

“The business doesn’t have to be poison, Seren,” Vinny says gently. “Your mum proved that.”

“And look what happened to her.”

“She chose love over career. That’s not the same as having no choice at all.”

The phone rings for the third time, and this time I pick up before I can change my mind.

“Seren?” The voice is American, warm, professional. “This is Mark, from the studio? I didn’t get a chance to chat with you properly before Elementary finished their session. But I’d love to have you back, on your terms.”

Elementary finished their session. The words sting more than they should .

“Yeah, I’m not—” I start.

“No pressure. Just... if you want to see what you’re capable of. On your own terms.”

From the back room, I can hear Simon trying to pretend he’s not listening to every word.

“I’m scared,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty.

“So we’ll take it slow,” Mark says simply. “And if you hate it, you walk away. No questions asked.”

Vinny nods encouragingly from his chair, and even Simon has reappeared, recognising the weight of the moment.

“Your mum made her choices about music,” Vinny says quietly. “But she’d want you to have the chance to make yours.”

“That’s emotional manipulation.”

“It’s also true.”

I look around the shop—at the carefully organised chaos, the safe little world I’ve built in careful reaction to everything I didn’t want to become. And for the first time, I let myself imagine what it might look like if I stopped running away and started running toward something instead.

“If I do this, it’s on my terms,” I say into the phone.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Mark replies.

“Right.” I take a breath that feels dangerous and necessary. “Let’s see what I’m actually made of.”

After I hang up, Vinny grins at me.

“So you’re going back to LA?” Simon asks, looking genuinely disappointed.

“To make music. Not to chase some fantasy about Harrison Carter, but because maybe Uncle Vinny’s right. Maybe it’s time I stopped being afraid of my own voice.”

The decision sits in my chest, terrifying and essential in equal measure.

And if Harrison happens to be in the same city? Well, LA’s big enough for both of us to exist without colliding.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.