The kitchen breakfast table is laid with hunks of wholemeal bread, a bottle of olive oil and roasted mushrooms. Skywalker eats a bowl of chopped-up steak on the slate floor, chewing slowly because his stomach is already full of dog biscuits.
‘So I’m hoping Michael and I can talk after breakfast,’ I say, watching Diane pour coffee.
‘About your mother?’
‘Yes.’ I pour olive oil on fresh bread.
‘Well, I’m sure—’ Diane smiles at the door. ‘Here he is. The great man himself.’
Michael strolls into the kitchen wearing a black V-neck T-shirt, suit jacket and tight jeans. His hair is shower-wet and he’s now clean-shaven.
‘And here she is.’ Michael jogs around the table and hugs me. ‘My little girl. Right here at my breakfast table. Unbelievable. A dream come true.’
‘I’d better get on,’ says Diane, putting gentle hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve got more packing to do.’
‘Sit down at the breakfast table for once in your life,’ says Michael, scanning the breakfast offerings.
‘Michael, I have a day ahead of me you wouldn’t believe,’ says Diane. ‘My flight leaves after lunch. What’s the point of me watching other people eat when I have a million things to do?’
‘Well, you could eat something yourself,’ Michael laughs. ‘For a change.’
Diane puts hands to her skinny waist. ‘There aren’t enough calories in the day for breakfast.’
‘Come on. Our charming guest here wants you to stay. Are there any eggs, Diane?’
‘Michael. Liberty is vegan. I’m not going to put out food she can’t eat.’
‘Right.’ Michael scratches the back of his neck. ‘Uh … well, mushrooms look great.’
‘Hang on.’ Diane ties her apron string tighter. ‘I’ll put some chocolate croissants in for you, Michael. Okay? I know how you are with a hangover.’
Michael laughs. ‘A fussy bastard. Is that what you mean?’
‘You said it. Liberty, does this look all right for you? Is there anything else I can get? What do you usually have for breakfast?’
‘This looks great,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I have a fruit plate. But it’s okay.’ I think of Mum.
Michael seems to read my mind. ‘Do you need someone to drive you home today, Liberty?’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I can catch the bus. I don’t want to put anyone out, and Skywalker is a pain in the back of a car. Paws everywhere.’
‘It’s a long way to go on your own, love.’ Diane tidies napkins. ‘Are you sure we can’t drive you?’
‘Don’t suffocate the girl, Diane,’ says Michael. ‘She’ll have had enough of that from her mother. If she wants to catch the bus, let her catch the bus. Liberty has a good head on her shoulders. And she’s sixteen years old. Practically an adult. She made it here by herself. She can make it back.’ He gives me a clumsy pat on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go for a walk after breakfast, shall we? See the studio? Have a catch-up?’
‘Yes. That would be great.’
‘You’ll love the music studio. It’s this beautiful little cottage out in the woods. You can see all my equipment – it’s a musician’s dream. And we can have a bit of a jam session and chat at the same time.’
‘Sure. Okay. Sounds like a great idea. And we’ll definitely talk today?’
Michael laughs. ‘Yes. Who’s your favourite musician?’
‘Joan Jett.’
‘Joan Jett, Joan Jett … she plays a Gibson Melody Maker, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have one of those out at the studio. You can play it. See how it feels.’
‘Wow.’
‘I have a whole load of stuff out there, Liberty. Some real heirlooms. I’m a bit of a collector. I buy so many instruments. Last month, I bought Gene Simmons’s Axe Punisher bass guitar.’
My eyes widen. ‘From Kiss?’
‘Yep.’
‘Wow.’
‘When you and your band record your single out there, you can play whatever instruments you want. Can I still say single? Or is it track now? Singles are from the good old days of record players.’
‘I have a record player,’ I say.
‘No.’ Michael leans back, eyes widening. ‘Really?’
‘And a cassette player. I’m interested in all sorts of sounds. Every medium has a different feel to it.’
‘Just you wait until you see my stuff,’ says Michael. ‘It’ll be like all your Christmases coming at once.’
‘Do you have a drum machine?’
‘Come now, young Liberty. Of course I have a drum machine. I have five different drum machines – one of which is a cool little number from the Eighties that Scruff took on tour with him.’
‘That’s … wow. Wow.’
‘What’s mine is yours,’ says Michael. ‘I mean that. You can use the studio whenever you like. When I was your age, the band and I put our pennies together to buy an hour in a crappy room with egg boxes and tin foil on the walls. A lot of arguments, trying to get the material right in the time. But it was the first step, you know? Getting the sound down. After that, we conquered the world.’ Michael’s eyes go all teary. ‘Like father, like daughter. Right? Have you ever been in a music studio before?’
‘Never,’ I say. ‘Mum would never let me. It’s like … my dream.’
‘Well, that’s me,’ says Michael. ‘The man who makes dreams come true.’