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

‘It was – heated. I drank too much and told them I thought the choice was over-verbose, pretentious and essentially dull and that they were silly twats if they thought otherwise.’

‘You rebel.’

‘Anyway – I got to pick the next book.’

‘What did you choose?’

‘Maggie O’Farrell.’

‘She’s a genius. I’m phoning – I’m phoning, Peta.’

‘I know you’re phoning me!’

‘I mean – I wanted to –’ Frankie slapped the steering wheel. ‘Peta I was just phoning, really, to tell you something. And actually to ask you something.’ She took the phone off hands-free and pressed it to her ear. ‘Something happened in London.’ Her voice had changed, she liked the sound of it – no awkwardness, just delight. ‘I met someone.’

Nothing from Peta.

‘A man. Called Scott.’

It remained silent in Hampstead.

‘Who?’ Peta finally responded.

‘He’s called Scott.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You know something, I felt exactly that way. Only now I do understand – I truly do.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s – just amazing.’

‘But who is he, Frankie?’

‘He’s called Scott Emerson. And he’s a musician.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Frankie. Not a musician. Oh dear God.’

‘What’s your problem?’

‘My problem? I don’t have a problem, Frankie. You do. A musician? That’s the problem. No more artsy-fartsy fuckwits.’

‘He’s not a fuckwit!’

‘You may well say that now, while he’s serenading you.’

‘You have to trust me on this one.’

‘No Frankie – you have to listen to me. You had musicians and actors and painters and that stupid bloody poet and they all systematically broke your heart and then trod the pieces down hard into piles of shit. Then came Miles. Oh Peta, you said, wait till you meet him. He’s a free soul you said, he’s amazing, you said. He’s someone who can make a difference. He’s an ideas man – you said. He’s so spiritual and real and I never felt this way before.’

‘I’m not the impressionable girl I was then, I’m forty-one,’ Frankie said quietly. ‘And Scott is nothing like Miles.’

‘How so?’

‘Well he’s older, for a start.’

‘Oh great. Frankie! Some waster still tinkling the ivories, or strumming his guitar or playing his fucking fiddle because he’s never knuckled down?’

‘Jesus Peta. He’s a talented musician. He writes soundtracks for movies. He’s won awards. He’s in demand. He’s respected.’

‘I have a respectable man I’ve been trying to introduce you to for months – Chris!’

‘Oh God – not him again.’

‘You could at least meet him.’

‘We have nothing in common – and anyway, you showed me that picture of him.’

‘Christ you’re shallow.’

Peta wanted to retract that. Her sister was not shallow. Her sister’s problem was that she was unable to see trouble even when it was up so close and very personal. She pitied her, really, worried for her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant – it’s been so long, and I have to be your sensible older sister and say please, please don’t go for anyone flaky who’s going to hurt you.’

‘Why should being a musician make him flaky? Maybe he really likes me and has no intention of hurting me – have you thought of that?’

‘You’ve known him for what – forty-eight hours? Please don’t come out with but I feel I’ve known him my whole life.’

‘But it honestly feels like I have.’

Oh Frankie. Peta calmed herself. Soundtracks for films? Well it was better than poems that made no sense and were never published, or that actor who was too arrogant to learn lines or attend auditions, or the artist who didn’t know one end of the paintbrush from the other. Or Miles – bloody Miles with his charm and his bullshit and his gorgeous face and abject disregard for responsibility and total uselessness when it came to anything important, anything that could hurt or endanger those he professed to love.

Peta laughed gently. ‘What do you call a guitarist with no girlfriend?’

‘Is this an actual joke?’ Frankie asked. Peta’s skill lay in neutralizing atmospheres, however bizarre and untimely her tactic.

‘Yes.’

‘OK – what do you call a guitarist with no girlfriend?’

‘Homeless!’

Frankie had to giggle.

‘Is this Scott person homeless? Ask yourself that.’

‘No he’s not homeless, you silly cow.’

‘Well,’ Peta sighed, ‘that’s something, I suppose.’