"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.

On Thursday, she decided to go for songs that matched her mood; kind of mopey, kind of wistful. She worked her way though her favourite Passenger songs, and then when she'd finished, moved on to Coldplay.

"Look at the stars," she sang, "look how they shine for you, and all the things you do...and it was all yellow. I came along, I wrote a song for you, and all the things..."

Abruptly, she became aware of someone's presence: the stair creaked, or she heard a breath, or perhaps it was that sudden chill you start to feel when someone is watching. Regardless, Fran felt her fingers falter of their own accord; her voice petered out. She twisted to see if anyone was behind her; it was equally likely she'd got randomly paranoid. But no: as she turned she caught sight of a guy leaning on the bannister, watching her.

"Oh – don't mind me," he said, straightening up a little. He spoke slowly, carefully. "I was just listening. Don't stop playing. It's a good song."

"Yeah," Fran said airily. "I was just, y'know, stretching..."

Which meant she had to wiggle her fingers unnecessarily, to back up her statement, while getting a better look at him. Pale skin, ginger-brown hair that fell in loose curls over his forehead. He was tall, really tall, in such a way that his figure, draped over the railings of the stairs, seemed awkward and gangly. But he carried himself with a kind of gentle self-assuredness. Fran couldn't pin it down – perhaps his easy stance, or his expression: the slight upward curl at the edge of the mouth, the crinkle of amusement around his eyes; the subtle undertones of a smile.

She wasn't sure whether to invite him up, explain what was going on. He had a bag from the store, which meant he'd come there to buy, not to join in. And she'd been met with so much disappointment lately, it was becoming like a constant haze.

Hello, darkness, my old friend...she thought to herself, snorted an ungainly laugh, and then realised the boy was still there and disguised it with a cough. Back to the song, she told herself sternly. Don't let this onlooker faze you. She hummed a little under her breath, stalling for time whilst she tried to remember where she'd left off. Somewhere around the bridge, she decided finally, took a loud breath in, and continued:

"So then I took my turn, oh what a thing to have done – and it was all yellow..."

And then, as she hit the chorus, she heard him join in.

For a second she was so startled she nearly stopped playing again, but something about the way his voice arced over hers, blending perfectly with her melody, caught her and held her, transfixed. So she played on, not focusing on what she was playing or what she was singing, just listening to his voice. He sang in a dusky, mellow swell, even though he was singing higher than she was, full of low emotion and a tender lilt that sent little shivers skidding across her skin. His voice was incredible. Fran wanted to look at him, to see the feeling in the words on his face, watch his body move with the music, but she was frightened that if she moved she would break it – that invisible thread that held them together as they sang, that made her forgot to breathe, to think, only to play on and feel. 

And so she did, her fingers tracing out the chords of the song and her awkward, gravelly voice mixing with his fluid tones, until finally the song dissolved out into silence. Fran let her hands fall away from the guitar, tense with that shivery feeling, that thrill of being, for a short time, something beautiful, something beyond her.

"You, uh...have a good voice," she said.

That made him laugh a little. "Thanks. Nice playing."

She smiled – she loved when people complimented her guitar skills because it was the only thing she was good at. "Are you here for the jam club?" she asked hopefully.

"Not really," he replied, and then perhaps seeing the disappointed look on her face, added: "I just came to buy some headphones, when I heard you playing...Coldplay is one of my favourite artists, so I asked the guy downstairs about it."

He was talking about Darren; Darius had Thursdays off. For a second she wondered what Darius would have said to him if he'd been working.

"I thought I'd check it out. And I'm glad I did," he added, unexpectedly, with that same understated smile as before.

"Oh – well," Fran said. "I'm glad you came, so it all works out." She was going to start talking about how lonely she'd been because nobody was coming and 'I'm glad you came' was actually a drastic understatement, but stopped herself just in time. "I'm Fran," she said instead. "Don't hang around on the staircase, come on up. I've been told by people who ought to know that I'm very friendly."

Everything about him was slow; from the smile that spread across his face to the careful way he ascended the rest of the stairs before leaning back against the balcony railing. Deliberate, even. There was something therapeutic about watching him move.

"Nice to meet you. Haven't seen you before, you must be new here."

"Oh yeah, I'm just staying for summer. Do you know everyone our age in town, then?"

He shrugged. "There are only a handful of us," he said. "I'm sure you'll meet them sooner or later."

Fran spread her hands. "That was the plan."

"You should spread the word a little more. I know lots of people who play instruments. I think they'd like this."

"I totally did; I put an ad in the paper and everything."

"We have a paper?" he deadpanned.

"Right. I see."

She played a couple more songs after that: Fix You and In My Place. "I never got your name," Fran said, as she worked her way into the intro of The Scientist.

"People call me Rhodes."

What an odd way to introduce yourself, Fran thought. "Which people?"

"Everyone except my parents, I suppose."

"So it's like a nickname, or something? A reference to The Colossus of Rhodes? Because you're...so tall."

"Ah, tall. I thought you were going to say 'made of bronze' for a second."

"It was a toss-up," Fran said.

Rhodes nodded slowly. "I suppose it's an easy mistake to make."

Between songs they talked: about music, life in Seacombe, what they wanted to do after summer. Rhodes was easy company. He smiled a lot and laughed when she wanted him to. He knew most of the songs she played, and the ones that he didn't he picked up surprisingly quickly. He could harmonise to anything. Fran played him one of the songs she'd written sometime last year to test it and by the end of the first verse he was already picking out a tune just below the lyrics.

"How do you harmonise so well?" she asked, when she'd finished letting him hum along to an improvisation she was running with, chords spread out into clusters of notes, winding up and down.

"I don't really know. I can just hear the other parts in my head and run with it. It's quite instinctive."

"That's so cool."

They were midway through Losing My Religion when she heard Darren beginning his closing shop ritual, starting with checking the shelves and returning everything to its rightful order, and ending with counting the money in the till and locking up. He let them finish, leaning against the wall of the staircase, giving them a gentle round of applause when they finally, reluctantly, brought the song to a close.

"Didn't know you kids still listened to R.E.M.," he said. "I thought you were all about that Justin Beaver guy."

Fran still didn't know if he was using 'Justin Beaver' ironically, or he legitimately didn't know his name, but she'd stopped correcting him on it a couple of years ago. She saw the edge of Rhodes' mouth quirk up into a smile.

"What? R.E.M. will never get old." Fran said, widening her eyes as if she'd been offended.

"Thank God for that," Darren said, and Rhodes nodded. "Anyway, sorry to intrude, but I come bearing bad news. We're actually closing up now..."

"Oh, right," Rhodes straightened up and tucked his hands into his coat pockets. "I'd better head off, then. Was nice meeting you, Fran."

"Yeah, you too," Fran said. She was about to ask him if he would come again tomorrow, but stopped herself. It sounded a little bit desperate in her mind. "See you around."

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