Page 34 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

band of brothers

Harrison

There’s something deeply satisfying about flipping through vinyl in Vespa Records rather than being Harrison Carter, whose face appears on magazine covers and whose voice fills stadiums. The morning light filters through grimy Camden windows, casting everything in that particular London glow that makes even dust motes look romantic.

The shop smells of dust and possibility and the faintest hint of Simon’s morning coffee, which appears to be some horrific energy drink masquerading as caffeine.

Every few minutes I drift over to steal a kiss, pulling her close despite her half-hearted protests about maintaining professional standards.

“I have customers,” she mutters against my mouth, though we both know the shop’s been empty for the past hour except for Simon, who’s providing running commentary from behind a stack of returns.

“What customers?” I glance around the demonstrably empty shop. “Unless you count Simon, and I’m pretty sure he works here.”

“I definitely work here,” Simon confirms, emerging from behind his vinyl fortress wearing what appears to be three different band t-shirts layered on top of each other. “And this display of affection is creating a hostile work environment. Get a room, you’re ruining my workspace ambiance.”

I’m holding a first pressing of Dark Side of the Moon when he finally glances over, and his eyes go wide.

“Do you know how much that’s worth?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Three hundred quid. Minimum. If it’s mint condition, closer to five.”

Seren looks up from her laptop with the expression of someone watching a car crash in slow motion. “Don’t tell him exact figures, Si. He’ll think we’re trying to fleece him.”

“Or he’ll buy the whole shop,” Simon adds hopefully, his eyes lighting up. “Which, for the record, I wouldn’t be opposed to. I have ideas about expansion.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“Well,” he begins, settling in for what’s obviously a prepared pitch, “we could do listening parties. Vinyl and wine nights. Maybe some acoustic sessions in the back room...”

“The back room is full of broken heating equipment and boxes of records from the eighties that no one wants,” Seren interrupts .

“That’s why it’s called renovation, Seren. Vision. You have to see the potential.”

The domesticity of it all hits me. This morning I woke up in Seren’s bed to the sound of London traffic and her terrible singing in the shower.

Made coffee in her kitchen using a cafetière that looked ancient.

And now I’m browsing vinyl whilst she works and Simon plans his retail empire, and it feels completely normal.

This is just Tuesday, not some impossible fantasy I’ve stumbled into.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I glance at the screen. Landing in twenty from Jamie, followed immediately by another from Dex: Bringing emotional support cigarettes.

“They’re almost here,” I tell Seren, not sure why I’m announcing this since she already knows, except that talking to her has become automatic.

She looks up from her laptop, her eyes searching my face. There’s concern there, the kind that makes my chest warm.

“You nervous?”

“I’m more than okay. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

It’s the truth. For the first time in years, I’m not dreading band meetings or conversations about creative direction or any of the usual politics that come with managing three egos and a multinational entertainment empire.

I know what I want to say, and I know they’ll understand.

Or they won’t, and I’ll deal with that too.

“That’s suspiciously healthy of you,” Seren closes her laptop with a decisive click. “Do you need to stress-eat chocolate with me before you go? I’ve got some expensive stuff upstairs.”

“I’m learning there are better ways to deal with anxiety.”

“Such as?”

I lean across the counter and kiss her, my fingers cradling her jaw, tongue hot and seeking against hers, ignoring Simon’s dramatic retching sounds from the Classical section. “ Such as having something worth fighting for instead of something worth running from.”

“Christ, you two are going to give me diabetes. This level of sweetness should come with a health warning,” Simon mutters.

“Right.” I straighten my hoodie and run a hand through hair that definitely needs cutting. “I should head off, meet them at the hotel when they land.”

“You don’t need luck. You need honesty.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

Simon makes gagging noises from his corner. “Seriously, I’m going to need therapy. Do either of you know a good therapist? Because this level of emotional stability is deeply unsettling.”

I head for the door, then turn back. “Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for handling those journalists after the photos came out. Could have been a lot worse.”

He grins. “Please. I told them exactly what they deserved to hear, which was nothing useful. Besides, Seren would murder me if I talked to the press. And she knows where I live.”

The black cab ride to Soho House gives me time to think, which is either a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective.

I pull my baseball cap down low and slouch in the back seat, watching London blur past through tinted windows.

London looks different when you’re not constantly worried about being photographed looking miserable.

The tourists with their cameras seem less intrusive, the traffic less of a personal affront to my existence.

Soho House feels appropriately neutral, familiar enough to be comfortable, public enough to keep us civilised if things go sideways. The kind of place where entertainment industry types go to have conversations they don’t want overheard whilst still being seen having them.

The paps are already gathering outside, their telephoto lenses tracking my movement from car to entrance with predatory dedication.

“Harrison! Is Elementary breaking up?”

“What about the abandoned tour?”

“Any comment on your relationship with Serendipity Rogers?”

I give them the polite waves and practised smile that’s become second nature over fourteen years of being photographed against my will, but their attention doesn’t make me feel hunted anymore.

There’s something grounding about knowing I have somewhere to go after this, someone waiting who doesn’t give a shit about industry politics or chart positions.

“All good, lads. Just having lunch with my friends.”

Inside, the familiar smell of expensive coffee and leather furniture wraps around me.

The host recognises me immediately, probably briefed by management about maintaining discretion for celebrity members, and guides me through the maze of carefully arranged seating areas toward the back corner where privacy actually means something.

I order a whisky sour whilst I wait. Then another. The alcohol burns through some of the nervous energy I’ve been carrying, though it doesn’t touch the certainty of what I need to say.

When Jamie and Dex finally walk in, I feel my shoulders drop with relief. They look tired from the flight but not murderous, which is better than I’d hoped for.

Real hugs, not the camera-ready ones we’ve perfected for public consumption. I can smell the familiar scent of airplane coffee and duty-free cologne that means they’ve been travelling, mixed with Jamie’s perpetual aroma of expensive hair products and whatever cigarettes Dex has been smoking .

Jamie immediately starts rearranging the sugar packets on the table, then moves on to folding and refolding his napkin. Dex settles back in his chair with his usual calm, but his jaw is tight.

“Alright, you bastard,” Jamie settles back into his chair. “Let’s have it then.”

No small talk. We all know why we’re here.

“I want to call it a day. Glastonbury should be our last show.”

“Fucking hell, Harry. Straight in then,” Jamie says, but there’s no surprise in his voice, as if he’s been expecting this conversation for months. “No easing us into it with some bullshit about taking a break?”

“Would it have made it easier?”

“Probably not.”

Dex leans back in his chair, arms crossed, studying me with the intensity he usually reserves for complicated drum patterns. “You know this is mental, right? Walking away from all this?”

I gesture around the expensive room, at the whole edifice of success we’ve built around three kids from working-class backgrounds who just wanted to make music that mattered.

“Bit bigger than we started, hey?”

“That’s an understatement,” Jamie mutters. “Remember when we thought selling out the Camden Roundhouse would make us proper rock stars?”

“And now we’re headlining festivals and you want to pack it in,” Dex shakes his head. “Are you sure about this? Really sure? Because once we do this, there’s no going back.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The waiter appears with practised discretion, and we order coffee. Jamie immediately starts dismantling his napkin into precise geometric shapes, which means he’s thinking hard about something he doesn’t want to say .

“Maybe you should wait before making your mind up. Take some time. See how you feel after we finish the tour.”

“I’ve had months of time. I know what I want.”

“Which is?”

“To finish this properly. I’ll fly back with you. We finish the tour, we give the fans what they paid for. Then we do one final album, exclusive for Glastonbury. Drop it on the day, say it’s our goodbye.”

The plan feels right as I say it. No bitter breakup, no public feuds, no burning bridges. Just three friends who achieved more than they ever dreamed possible, choosing to end on their own terms.

“The new album,” Dex repeats slowly. “The one you wrote about her?”

“It’s good, Dex. Better than anything we’ve done in years.”

“It’s fucking brilliant. We all know it.”

Jamie looks up from his napkin destruction. “But one song doesn’t make an album.”

“There are others. I’ve been writing again. Properly writing, not just churning out radio-friendly garbage.”

“About her?”