Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's note:
Before I introduce 'Music Doesn't Heal All Wounds' let me start by thanking alice-in-vunderland who has beta'd this chapter for me and has definitely made it a lot more understandable for you guys - any errors that remain are my doing :)
In addition to this I just want to tell everyone that is reading my other two stories 'Deception . . .' and 'It can't . . .' I have written a few chapters for these which are going through the beta process and I will most likely publish them together so although it is taking me a little longer than expected to update hopefully it will be worth the wait.
Anyway onto this story.
Music Doesn't Heal All Words is set in the modern day and focuses on Elizabeth who walked out on a husband and her family after suffering some serious heartbreak. The story is set 5 years after she left, starting with Elizabeth's homecoming tour - taking place in London, UK. Why did Elizabeth her husband? Why couldn't she face her sister? Does she still love him (who is him :))? Will everything work out?
The story contains all our pride and prejudice favourites and I promise although there will be a little bit of angst, drama, heartbreak etc. there will be lots of romance (because I'm a soppy git at heart).
If you read this please, please, please review and tell me what you think - I won't be updating this unless I get lots of reviews because it seems kind of pointless so tell me what you think and if you like it I'll update it sooner because happy writers are faster writers :)
Anyway, please give it a chance and I hope you enjoy it.
If you would like me to add anything/want me to elaborate drop me a message and I will fill you in on where this is going.
Happy Monday :)
Kx
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness. ~Maya Angelou, Gather Together in My Name
August 26th
"Nerve wracking, terrifying, frightening, nauseating, petrifying . . . these are all feelings I associate with performing, but in spite of all of them, when I perform I feel," she paused, "alive."
Elizabeth curled her legs in underneath herself, intently stirring her empty coffee cup with a wooden stirrer. To those that knew her it was an obvious sign that she was uncomfortable; interviews made her nervous, journalists didn't care how she felt about "music & performing." They wanted to sell magazines, newspapers etc. In her opinion, they were cynical and always looking for a way to sell more of their publications.
From the minute Elizabeth had entered the Honey Pot, a low-level buzz had permeated the cafe, the other patrons kept taking their eyes off their coffees and pastries and were sneakily darting looks at the laid-back musician, and some of them had even been daring enough to snap indiscreet photos of her on their camera phones. Elizabeth remained oblivious to everything that was going on around her, but none of it escaped the journalist's scrupulous attention. She scribbled down every detail of their dalliance from what Elizabeth wore to the colour of the wallpaper and the beverages they both ordered.
Meeting at the Honey Pot had been Elizabeth's idea; it used to be one of her regular haunts when she lived in the UK. Since her last visit the cafe had changed hands but it was still charming; the walls were a faded yellow and there were still the old brown chesterfield sofas, but gone was the old oak bar that used to occupy the left hand side of the cafe, and in its place was a black marble counter with chrome appliances: it was definitely an upgrade. Elizabeth vividly remembered the last time she had been in there, it was April 24th, it had been unseasonably warm, but she had been wrapped up in a large grey cardigan. The world had been passing her by, but she had just sat in a world of her own, staring at her caramel latte. She had just been released from hospital.
"So how does music fit into your life?" The journalist ticked off another question on her notepad without taking her eyes off Elizabeth. It was like she was studying her, willing double entendres to slip out of her mouth.
Elizabeth took a few moments to answer to make sure there could be no misunderstanding.
"Music is me; music has been there for me when everyone else has left the building. I laugh with it, cry with it, smile with it, love with it . . . and I hope that when people hear my songs they understand that."
The journalist steadied the Dictaphone on the table as she scribbled down notes, giving Elizabeth time to survey the woman in front of her; she looked like she was in her mid-20's probably fresh out of university and desperately trying to climb to the top of the professional ladder. She kept brushing an unruly auburn curl that had fallen from her pony tail out of her eyes and as if sensing that Elizabeth was staring at her she self consciously flicked her hair and narrowed her hazel eyes back onto our heroine - the woman's hazel eyes stood out against her pale complexion and although she was by no means unattractive there was something hard and clipped about her demeanour that Elizabeth, didn't trust, but as Caitlyn said, she didn't have to trust them, just talk to them.
"I see. So is there anyone in particular you're singing your latest album to?" The journalist said with the hint of a smile tracing her lips.
"Everyone?" Elizabeth ventured tentatively, shrugging her shoulders and running her hand back through her hair.
"No one in particular . . .?" The journalist raised a knowing eyebrow at Elizabeth. Here it comes, Elizabeth thought. "Not even say . . . Adam Holborn?"
The face changes but the question remains the same, reflected Elizabeth, before calmly replying, "Adam and I were always just friends, nothing more."
"Even with all the photographs circulating showing the two of you holding hands and occasionally hugging. You were on tour together for six months and nothing happened?" The journalist placed a copy of one of the photos on the table pushing it under Elizabeth's nose.
Elizabeth put her hand to the photo, smiling to herself, "he was a rock, when I needed one. We were on tour buses, in hotel rooms, in and off of airplanes for 6 months together and we bonded. He's someone I respect and love but not romantically."
"So if your new album isn't about Adam, what is 'Fragile' about?"
"It's about heartbreak, depression, survival, moving on, love, family, it's about living in a world without your soul mate," the journalist noted that in the moment Elizabeth mentioned heartbreak she looked 10 years older. How could someone so young know such heartache?
"When was it written?"
"At the beginning of this year, in January, I had some downtime in Whistler and it was a perfect opportunity to write; I've planned to write this album for five years, it's the most intimate collection of songs I have ever written." Elizabeth finished softly – an unshed tear welling up in the corner of her eye.
"Five years? That's a long time. The album is beautiful, the piano is so intricate, and I have to tell you that I cried when I listened to the song 'Leigh Hunt.' Why did you wait to write something that perfect?" The journalist put her hand to her chest and looked on Elizabeth with an expression akin to adoration.
"Music, to me, is the most intimate thing to share with somebody," Elizabeth drew a shaky breath, trying to keep her tone even, "everyone's taste is different, and when I play it comes from the heart: I wasn't ready to feel so exposed, the emotions were too raw and I couldn't face the truth of my past for a long time," she didn't make eye contact with the journalist hoping they could move onto something else.
"When you say your past, are you talking about your divorce?" The journalist asked searchingly.
Every time someone bought up her divorce Elizabeth inwardly winced. Talking about her divorce through music made tragedy ironically beautiful, but to talk about it here and now seemed so vulgar and dirty; He deserved more respect than that.
Elizabeth was procrastinating, opening and closing her mouth, lost for words. She hated being under the leering scrutiny of the journalist - her mind was whirring as she tried to remember how Caitlyn had told her to deflect questions like this. Just as she was about to give up and answer the question honestly a buxom waitress swept over to the table and pulled out her notepad in the nick of time, "Can you I get you anything else?" Elizabeth let out a deep breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding and practically beamed at the waitress; Elizabeth felt the urge to give the waitress a big hug to thank her for interrupting them, but she figured that might be a bit suspect and settled with just leaving her a big tip later.
"A hazelnut latte would be great, would you like anything else?" Elizabeth offered with a radiant smile, letting the waitress take away her empty cup: it had lipstick marks on it and would probably end up on ebay tomorrow. Much to Elizabeth's satisfaction the journalist just shook her head, she had deadlines to meet and was slightly put out that there time together was nearly at an end.
Elizabeth's divorce was one of the best kept secrets in Hollywood and if she could get a sound bite about it, it would go a long way to getting her a much needed promotion. After all she had bills to pay, a scrounging boyfriend to support and a university loan to pay off.
"So Elizabeth, what's it like being back in the UK? You famously said that there's no place like home, but you haven't played a live gig here in five years.
"It feels good." It did not feel good; getting on the plane was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Elizabeth shrugged. She didn't know what else to say; being back here was a painful reminder of everything she had left behind.
"So are you looking forward to your show at the O2 Arena tonight?" Bored with Elizabeth's answer the journalist swiftly moved on. "Your show sold out in less than 10 minutes, that's impressive."
A smile lit up Elizabeth's face, bringing her green eyes to life.
"I'm really excited" I'm scared witless.
"It's a chance for me to say thank you to all my fans in the UK" It's a chance for me to show them I'm sorry I've been a coward.
"It means a lot to me that so many people wanted to come and see me" It made me cry.
"I hope I don't disappoint them" I hope they don't boo me off the stage.
"Next it's the Royal Albert Hall isn't it?" The journalist inserted with little enthusiasm.
"Yes and that will be amazing because the royal family are coming: it's a real honour to play at the Royal Albert Hall because some of the greatest musicians of all times have played there and it's a dream come true to think that I'm next." Elizabeth finished quietly. Thinking of the people she wished she could share this with.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at the journalist that was sitting across from her as she checked her watch; it was a god send when she announced that their time was up.
"Thank god!" It came out of Elizabeth's mouth before she had a chance to stop it; automatically she clapped her hand over her mouth, covering the smile that was turning up the corners of her lips.
The journalist didn't say anything, she simply shoved the recorder into her bag, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and stalked out of the cafe obviously affronted at the audacity of the woman she'd just interviewed.
As soon as Elizabeth saw that the woman had gone she burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter causing the other patrons of the coffeehouse to turn and stare at her, at least it gave them an opportunity to openly stare at her instead of doing it on the sly.
It was Friday afternoon—the streets of London were packed after the bank holiday and Elizabeth was sat cross legged in a quiet London cafe, sipping her vanilla latte relaxing before the show. Tonight she would be performing in front of 23,000 strangers, and that felt good because in front of strangers she was safe. It would be too overwhelming to come home, relive everything and see her family all in one day: there would be too many painful reminders, life hadn't waited for her to catch-up it had moved on without her.
Elizabeth had spent five years living under a cloud of guilt and remorse. So much had changed since she'd left. Her elder sister Jane and her husband Charles had had a baby boy called Ryan, who Elizabeth was godmother too, her middle sister Mary had gotten engaged and was working for the local council, campaigning to become an MP, her second youngest sister Kitty had moved to Paris to pursue her fashion dreams and her youngest sister Lydia had just given birth to a baby girl that was the result of a disastrous one night stand. Over the past five years Elizabeth had been selfish and self-centred, but she had left nursing a broken heart and a hatred towards a most beloved sister.
Luckily before the depression took too much of a hold, her iPhone vibrated on the coffee table in front of her and a picture of a strawberry haired blonde trying to wrestle a camera off a photographer flashed up on the screen: it made Elizabeth laugh every time she saw it. "Caitlyn, I don't think you want to know." and I don't particularly want to tell you.
Caitlyn snorted on the other end of the phone, "That bad, ey!"
"Remember I'm a pianist first and foremost, not a media monkey."
"No but as I keep reminding you the harsh reality of the matter is that to continue to write the music you love, you have to please the record bosses that pay," Caitlyn shot back with blunt honesty.
"You just wait till I own my own record label," interjected Elizabeth with dogged determination.
"When you own your own record label you'll get a taste of your own medicine; then you'll be the one bugging reclusive musicians to drum up hype around their music so they can make you money."
"I'll have you to do that for me besides it should all be about the music, it's insulting to - "
"I've heard the sermon before, Lizzie, corporate bosses, bad, musicians playing for the joy of it, good. Now we've digressed, how bad are we talking?" Caitlyn was business as ever.
"Let's just say I'd be surprised if she writes a favourable article about me anytime soon," Elizabeth said with reserved happiness.
"Lizzie. . ." Caitlyn's tone was disapproving, as if she were chiding a child.
"KitKat, I was tired, okay? She mentioned the divorce, and I panicked." KitKat was Caitlyn's nickname, she'd come about it when Lizzie found her asleep on the tour bus a few years ago smothered in chocolate because she'd fallen asleep mid-munch on a KitKat.
"Don't sweat it, we just need to get you a twin that's had some media training, and we'll be fine." It wasn't even an exaggeration, in every single interview Elizabeth had ever done the minute they brought up her past she panicked and put her foot in it. On more than one occasion she had landed herself in big trouble with everyone from her mum to the President; it was always unintentional and never malicious but unfortunately what popped into her head came out of her mouth with no way to stop it.
"I have a serious case of verbal diarrhoea," Elizabeth said with utter seriousness, as if verbal diarrhoea was a medically recognised diagnosis.
"I know. I've heard your songs."
"Piss off!" Elizabeth couldn't keep the smile out of her voice even as she cursed.
"Ha! Don't say things you don't mean; they might come true one day and then who would calm down the media storm? Besides saying 'Thank god' at the end of an interview isn't too much of a PR nightmare."
"I never told you what I said. . ." Pinning her phone between her shoulder and ear Elizabeth put two hands on the side of her chair and raised herself up, swishing her mahogany hair as she scanned the cafe for the mole: tucked behind a terrible hat, a Stephen King novel and hideous scarf her agent, Caitlyn Lucas, was spying on her.
Caitlyn slowly lowered the book and flashed an impish smile at Elizabeth; she was nothing if not predicable. She had probably even contacted a PR advisor to make sure Lizzie didn't cock-up on an interview again:
Dear PR advisor, I want to make sure my Client, Elizabeth Bennett doesn't make a total tit out of herself in public again – how do I go about doing it inconspicuously?
To which a PR advisor would have replied:
Dear Glutton for Punishment, on hearing who your Client is perhaps subtlety isn't the best policy; it might be time to consider a career change.
Taking the dregs of her coffee with her, Caitlyn moved over to Elizabeth's table and crumpled into the seat opposite. Elizabeth scrunched up her button nose as she took in Caitlyn's latest makeover, gone were her platinum blonde locks and in their place was a harsh dark brown bob that finished just below her angular jaw; it hardened her features, made her appear more businesslike and didn't suit her at all, but Caitlyn probably didn't care.
Caitlyn was an only child, a born and raised New Yorker, and by her own admission she was incredibly plain so made the best of it by remodelling herself every few weeks: Elizabeth had seen her take inspiration from everyone from Courtney Love to Madonna, although the midnight black bob inspired by Cleopatra was probably the worst.
It was just coincidence that Elizabeth and Caitlyn first met on the plane from England to New York 5 years ago; Elizabeth had been fleeing from her problems and was in a terrible state when Caitlyn sat down next to her in first class. Seeing Elizabeth in such distress and hating the thought of an 8 hour plane ride sat next to a hysterical woman, Caitlyn did the only thing she felt was appropriate: ordered two vodkas, two sleeping pills and offered Elizabeth a place to stay when they got to New York.
"Between getting here and following me when did you have time to visit the hairdressers?" Elizabeth said incredulously.
"Oh, do you like it?" Caitlyn pouted, and preened her hair giving it more volume.
"Honestly?"
"I'm not going to care either way."
"No then." Elizabeth said bluntly as only real friends can.
"Okay now that's out the way shall we move on?"
"Why the covert operation?" Elizabeth flicked the large floppy hat that still rested on top of Caitlyn's head.
"Lizzie, I'm desperate; going James Bond on you seemed our only hope – I thought at least this way I could step in if it got too bad . . ."
"It got bad Caitlyn, where were you . . .?"
Caitlyn looked away sheepishly, and Elizabeth followed her eye line to the 6ft tall blonde haired waiter who was steaming the milk behind the counter.
Elizabeth leaned in and whispered, "KitKat, he's like 18."
"So what? It's legal!" The girls erupted in laughter, catching the eye of the barista who returned there smiles and gave a shy wave to Lizzie.
Elizabeth raised her hand to give a shy wave back but Caitlyn caught her hand mid-air and stopped it. "Don't you dare, they always fancy you."
A look of indignation spread across Elizabeth's face as her ex-husbands face flashed into her mind; he used to say that to her all the time. Elizabeth had always known what to say to him then, but now after all this time she didn't have the fortitude to fight with Caitlyn, "That's a little melodramatic, I was just waving. There's nothing in a wave – you may be a cradle snatcher but I'm not really interested. Go get him if you want him, invite him to the show tonight."
"You sure? You weren't so happy when I invited someone to the show in Tennessee."
"That was because you ended up screwing him in my dressing room, on top of my next set change dress."
"Fair do's . . ." Caitlyn didn't need to be asked twice, she waltzed up to the counter and flipped her hair at the barista, confidently asking him to the show tonight.
In the silence following Caitlyn's departure Elizabeth began eavesdropping on a conversation between two women that were sat behind her.
" . . . No No that's not his best book you have to read 'D'accord' it's amazing.He's been following the French president for a year and it's like a biography of him.It's all about international relations, his marriage, family . . . I wouldn't normally read it but Tony bought it home and it's amazing."
"Does it include a picture of him?" the woman's voice sounded hopeful.
"Mmmhmm! Why else do you think I agreed to read it in the first place?"
"God, did you see him on GMTV this morning . . . he's gorgeous, I had to physically restrain myself from licking the television screen."
Elizabeth inadvertently snorted at the comment, causing the two women to look across at her and cast a disapproving look in her direction: Elizabeth blushed, she knew who they were talking about and it was just so nice to hear praise for him, he truly was an amazing author and one of the best people in the world, he deserved this.
The two women eventually went back to their conversation but it was much quieter than last time; Elizabeth strained back over her chair to try to hear more but there was only so far she could lean back without falling backwards.
"His name's Andrew, he's 20 and he's coming tonight." Caitlyn plonked back down in her seat oblivious to the change in Elizabeth's mood. "We better get going soon, the O2 have called three times reminding me you need to do another sound check and dress rehearsals before curtains up at 20:00 hours."
Elizabeth wasn't listening; she was lost in her own thoughts: this cafe, London, hazelnut lattes, it all reminded her of him. A solitary tear slowly descended Elizabeth's cheek as she swilled the last of her coffee around the mug, his face was everywhere, even now. She had never forgotten him, just buried him deep inside where only the memories could haunt her.
A/N: Remember what I said about reviews? It's true they do make the world go round :)