July 5th, 1967
Chris,
I know we said I'd come and live with you in London, but there's no way it's do-able. I can't afford the move, and I can't afford to pay my half of the rent. I'm so sorry, I really want to, I just can't. I've headed back to Newcastle, it's cheaper and I know some people there so I can get a job. I miss you so much, I hate that I have to be apart from you now I'm free.
I'm so glad to graduate though, but it's bittersweet. I miss you so much. Please forgive me for this.
Indigo.
Tears slipped down Christine's cheeks as she read the tiny note Indigo had sent; it didn't surprise her. She supposed that she had known all along that it wasn't an option, but she wanted to fool herself into thinking they could be together again. She sat down on the steps leading up to the house, which she rented the top floor of, like so many others on her street, catching the last hour of sunlight. She missed Indigo, longing for her like someone gasping for air. But what stung the most was that Indigo wanted forgiveness for something outside her control. She imagined her crying as she wrote it, and it broke her heart.
As she wrote her response to the new address, she wondered if she should give Indigo the news that she too, had bad luck and had taken up a job as a window dresser in a big department store, realising she didn't have enough money to launch herself into the art world when she met with the gallery director. He had assumed that because she afforded art school, without knowing about the loans and help from her parents, that she could buy out space in the gallery. She'd also reminded him of the fact that the north had barely rebuilt in twenty years, that they did not have a surplus of money, but he laughed it off. She hated him from that moment on. It would be better not to worry Indigo, she was surviving. She added her phone number at the end- it was a shared phone with the old lady who lived below her, but it was something.
July 16th, 1967
"Christine?"
She shot up from where she had been slacking off, reading in the tea room, pretending to make tea for everyone.
"Yeah!"
"Don't worry, it's me," her co-worker, Mandy, said, "I know you're not making tea."
"Am I that obvious?"
"Very, anyway, someone's asking for you, specifically."
"Who is?"
"I don't know, some guy, called Andy Silvester, said he saw you in the window the other day and wanted to talk, said he knew you in school," she spoke rapidly, "Is he your boyfriend? He's hot."
"No, of course not," she laughed, "We haven't seen each other in a few years though, did he say what he wanted?"
"Something about a shack?"
"What the hell is he on about now?" she laughed as Mandy grinned, confused.
"I'll take on the tea-making duties, then."
"Don't lose my place- I'm absolutely waiting to see if she's gonna end up going on the date."
"Sounds gripping."
"Oh, it absolutely is," her voice was dripping with sarcasm as she walked back out, putting her customer face on to approach Andy at the desk, "What can I do for you?"
"Join my band," he turned and smirked, "Unless someone else has already snapped up such a good pianist."
"What was Mandy telling me about a shack?"
"It's called Chicken Shack."
"Sounds dumb."
"Easily recognisable though."
"And why do you want me? Asides from my musical prowess, are you looking for a hot girl?"
"Maybe," he raised an eyebrow, "There's none better than the one in front of me, Miss Perfect."
"Flirt," she laughed, "Okay, I'll think about it."
"You wouldn't have to work here any longer either, we're doing a studio album soon, and we make a lot."
"How should I let you know, once I've mulled it over?"
"Come to Park Street Cafe, tomorrow at six, you'll see us."
"Christine!" she heard her manager shout, "Get back to work, we don't all have time for you chatting up men."
"Oh-" Andy jumped, "Please, Miss, she was just giving me directions to Park Street, it's my fault."
"Fine."
"Thanks," she whispered.
"Boss from hell?"
"Yeah."
"Think about it, hey? This could all be over right now, you could join us."
