Fran has a tried-and-tested solution for dealing with her problems: run away.
And despite what the self-help books say, it's worked pretty well up until now. "Now" referring to her hiding in the seaside town of Seacombe until the end of summer, and...
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"I now declare this jam club...open!"
There was a half-hearted round of applause from the gathered onlookers: Darren, Darius, and one of the townsfolk who had been looking at the records when the opening ceremony had started and kind of got swept up in the action. Fran, brandishing a pair of scissors, cut the line of parcel tape across the doorway.
"What's this about a jam club?" he asked politely, as the crowd started to disperse.
"You can come whenever you like and play the instruments. I'll be here all the time, so there'll always be someone to jam with," Fran said.
"Interesting."
"Tell your friends!" Fran shouted after him as he left.
They had a piece of paper in the window and with the four or five posters (Fran was a firm believer in quality over quantity) she'd placed in strategic locations around town, she was confidently expecting to get a steady flow of people in, at least to ask what it was about. She positioned herself on her bed on the balcony, awaiting the masses.
But the day waned into late afternoon, and the masses failed to show. Aside from the woman who popped in to buy some sheet music just after four, the store stayed quiet.
No matter, she thought. There was always tomorrow, and, in theory, every day until the end of the summer.
The next day she systematically worked her way through every song she'd ever written on her guitar to pass the time. Every time she heard the bell chime she'd jump up excitedly and peer over the edge of the balcony to see who it was.
"Are you here for the jam club?" she would ask, to which some variant of "Um, no?" was the inevitable response, and then Darren closed the store at 6.
"Cheer up," Darren reassured her over dinner: oven potatoes and chicken breast, slightly burned on one side. Darren wasn't really into vegetables; Fran was starting to genuinely worry she'd come down with scurvy over the course of the holiday. "Maybe wait until the weekend. We normally get more traffic then; maybe you'll strike lucky."
"It's not running on weekends," Fran said glumly. Nobody had come in today either, not even friends of the guy who'd been shopping. She felt let down.
"Right, fair enough," Darren said cheerfully. "How about a little after hours session instead? That should put you in better spirits."
Darren retrieved one of the guitars from the display and sat down at the counter, and Fran pulled up a stool to sit opposite. For a while it felt like they were back at home, Darren teaching her a new lesson in guitar every time her mum said or did something that got to her, or every time he got into a fight with Frieda. After a while, their informal lessons became almost synonymous with petty arguments, and the release that came after.
