Baxter took a long, slow look at me through narrowed eyes. ‘If you change your mind, don’t bother getting in touch. Mannering?’

And that was that, he whirled around and swaggered off.

‘He forgot his cheque,’ Mum huffed. ‘How can you become so rich if you’re that careless with money?’

‘Baxter Bigwood is never careless about money,’ Henry said, watching as the helicopter veered behind a stretch of distant pine trees. ‘And he’s not about to completely lose face in front of a crowd of people and countless cameras, some of them broadcasting live to the nation.’

‘You don’t mean…?’ Dad asked.

Henry’s face gradually broke into a beaming grin. ‘Looks like we’re getting a new roof.’

33

It was torture leaving the impromptu festivities behind and catching the train back to Nottingham. A few people had already left, having other places to be on New Year’s Eve, but most had stayed. After all, where better to celebrate a new start than at the place where new starts were mandatory three hundred and sixty-five days of the year? Ignoring the remaining answerphone messages and online comments, I spent the journey losing myself in the weather apps, catching up on the morning’s broadcast and cutting everything I wanted to say into the brief two minutes I’d been allocated in the shortened New Year’s Eve news programme. Oh, and I did watch Adam’s video three more times, not caring if the other passengers heard my sniffles.

I’d seen Adam only once since the music room, in a rare breather in between journalists and phone calls. Someone had set the video up on the big screen in the library, and everyone had squashed in to watch. I’d taken a moment to scan the audience, soaking up the joy and excitement shining on their faces. Adam was lounging up against the wall on the far side of the room, and his gaze caught mine, holding me there with a warmth that only someone who’d shared his heart over the past twelve years could fully comprehend. In his battered jacket and ripped jeans, jaw bearing the stubble of a musician’s all-nighter, he looked like a thousand memories, a million dreams. Affection ballooned inside my chest, making it hard to breathe, until the boy beside him nudged his arm, causing him to look away, and I resumed my sweep of the room.

Henry had found a spot on the opposite wall. Arms folded, pinning his burgundy tie to his chest, he stood straight as a flagpole, eyes on the screen in front of him, any emotion that might have been generated by the song carefully hidden behind an air of polite interest.