The Turning Point: A gripping love story, keep the tissues close...

She reddened again. He liked that, as if it spoke of honesty.

‘Well, in that case, I’ll go the whole hog and have this.’ She pointed to a dish on the menu. ‘It doesn’t get more daring than ordering a dish I can’t pronounce.’

Suddenly she wanted to text Peta or Ruth to say you’ll never guess what! but her phone was up in the room and, when she thought about it, she liked it that no one had a clue what she was doing at this precise moment. It was liberating and novel. But was he actually chatting her up? Was she flirting back? She wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter. Her drink was delicious, she was hungry, he was handsome, he made her feel lively, effervescent even, and dinner was now served.

‘So what do you do out by the sea that you’re here in London on business?’

Frankie hated that question; it usually led to a barrage of questions she’d had to answer a million times before. And when it was known she was an author of some repute, people changed the way they spoke to her, even looked at her. She became a novelty. She’d never liked that.

‘I’m an accountant,’ she said.

Scott appeared to choke on his drink. ‘Seriously?’

Frankie’s face creased with awkwardness. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I lied.’

‘You lied?’ He tipped his head back and really laughed. ‘Who are you? A spy? Royalty?’

‘I – work in publishing.’

‘What kind of publishing?’

‘Books.’

‘What type of books?’

‘Children’s books.’

‘OK.’ It was the way Scott looked at her, steadily, interested, open. His eyes she’d thought were brown were actually a layered and dark slate-blue. ‘Children’s books,’ he repeated.

‘I write them.’ There you go. That’s me.

He tipped his head to one side. ‘You’re an author?’

‘Yes,’ she shrugged. ‘That’s what I do. What about you?’

Scott appeared to think about this, as if he wasn’t entirely sure. ‘I’m in music.’

‘A musician?’ That was much better than an accountant.

‘Well – I guess.’

‘Are you in a band?’

Scott laughed at the way her face had lit up. ‘No. God no.’

Frankie thought he didn’t really look like a rock star anyway; no piercings, no visible tattoos or rings in the shape of skulls, just a pair of dark jeans, a shirt loose, brown shoes or boots, she couldn’t tell. On looks alone, she’d hazard a guess at university lecturer, or perhaps some outdoorsy career. Close up, there was something rugged and lived in about his face, soft stubble that might be consciously groomed or simply because he had chosen not to shave away from home. The eyes she knew now to be steel-navy; hair in carefree brushstrokes of brown. Well, perhaps once upon a time, he had been in a band. She placed him a little older than her.

‘What do you play?’

‘So – guitar, piano.’ He appeared to be thinking whether he played anything else. ‘Harmonica.’

As he cut into his steak, his reserve struck Frankie. Perhaps her questions were precisely those he tired of too. Perhaps he was wishing he’d told her he was an accountant. She turned to her food. It was just a pasta dish, despite the fancy name. And, on first forkful and to her dismay, speckled with olives.

‘A children’s author,’ he said, chinking his glass against hers.

‘A musician,’ she said, raising her glass to him. ‘What sort of music?’

‘These days, I write for other people mostly.’

He smiled quizzically because she’d balked at that.

‘But isn’t songwriting akin to ghostwriting?’ she asked. ‘Producing work for someone else to claim as theirs and bask in unentitled glory?’

‘Do you only write for the glory?’

And it was then that Frankie experienced an unexpected surge of pure attraction. His sudden bluntness, that he’d challenged her straight, his eyes steady, his smile wry. Actually, she liked it that he wrote music, she liked his face and his hands and that she was here, right now. She liked it that she’d gone ahead and said yes to a drink and to this plate of revolting pasta. She liked his even gaze, that he was focused on her, wanted to know her, wanted her in his evening.

‘No,’ she told him. ‘I don’t write for the glory. In fact, I often feel I’m little more than my characters’ PA. I’m at their mercy, at their beck and call. I take dictation while they tell me their stories.’

He thought about that. ‘I always assumed an author was – I don’t know – like a Master Puppeteer.’

‘Oh blimey no. My characters run rings around me, especially Alice,’ she said darkly.

Scott didn’t know who Alice was. He’d like to know. He’d ask later. It was just that she had a little sauce on her cheek and he was sitting there with an urge to take his finger and wipe it away, to feel how soft her skin was, to touch her. It all felt suddenly a little crazy. He told himself, just eat your steak and talk about books and music. He felt ravenously hungry and yet full.

‘I was in a band,’ he said, ‘in my misspent youth. Nowadays, I hate performing but I love to write music, that’s the sum of it. And you know what, I don’t do so much songwriting these days anyway – I was finding it depressing. The lack of control. I’d put my soul into a song, create something I believed in, something – I don’t know – nourishing. Then the producers change it, fuck with it, manufacture it and before you know it, the stuff the labels churn out is the musical equivalent of fast food. And the kids spend their money on it. It can get a little depressing.’ Scott thought, if Aaron could see me now he wouldn’t believe his eyes or his ears: Scott Emerson actively choosing to be sociable, talking away, engaging with a girl, seeking company and conversation. ‘Mostly these days I write music for movies. That’s why I’m here at the moment – the movie I’m working on has British funding so the music needs to be recorded here for tax breaks.’

Frankie just wanted to listen. ‘You write soundtracks? Wow.’

But Scott just shrugged. ‘And you write books. Double wow.’

‘How many films do you do?’

‘Well, depending on the budget, probably up to four a year.’

‘Do they tell you what they want?’

‘Well, I guess I’m lucky. Mostly I get to work with directors I know, who like my music anyways, who give me the freedom to read the script and interpret it my own way.’

‘You’re really a composer, then,’ said Frankie.

Scott looked a little bashful. ‘Sounds a little grand. I guess so – on paper. But you know there’s a whole department that makes the music happen. The orchestrators, the editors, the producer, the engineers, the music supervisor, the copyist. You know, in a movie if there’s a song you know playing quietly in the background of, say, a scene in a bar – that’s no accident, that’s been sourced very specifically. I’m talking too much.’

‘No you’re not,’ said Frankie quietly.

‘No?’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I spend most of my evenings with people who don’t exist – my characters – so this is welcome. Can I ask you, how do you write, how do you compose?’