‘You’re not nearly as bad as I might have thought,’ Poppy said.

Norah raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve had better compliments.’

Poppy decided to try again. ‘I didn’t think this wouldn’t be your thing. But you have a natural dexterity with your fingers.’ Then she added quickly. ‘Probably from the... art.’

‘Well, it helps that I got a guitar lesson from a globally multi-platinum-selling artist. Great day for the diary,’ Norah snarked.

‘It was one platinum. One time,’ Poppy groaned.

‘Was it for “Noah”?’ Norah asked hesitantly.

Poppy nodded, but she didn’t say anything.

‘Hey, crazy question, totally random... Was “Noah” originally “Norah’s song”?’ Norah found herself asking.

Poppy looked stunned. ‘You recognised it?’

‘You played it a lot back in the day. I only heard it once with lyrics, but... when I saw you on TV, I recognised the tune,’ Norah explained. She hoped she sounded casual about it.

‘It wasn’t really “Norah’s Song”, of course,’ Poppy said quickly. ‘The arrangement changed it. It was sped up significantly, and the lyrics were unrecognisable by the end.’

‘I still knew it,’ Norah confessed.

‘Even though they broke it? Must have played it around you more than I thought,’ Poppy said, rubbing the back of her neck.

‘They broke it?’ Norah asked.

Poppy sighed. ‘Totally.’

‘It was a hit, though, right?’ Norah said, trying to keep her voice light.

‘Our biggest one,’ Poppy admitted.

‘People liked it. So that seems like a good thing.’

‘But it was personal, and I let them pressure me into handing it over so they could chew it up and spit out money,’ Poppy said bitterly. ‘I’ll always regret that.’

Norah felt oddly breathless, and she took a second to collect herself. ‘It was personal?’

Poppy gave her an intense look. ‘Obviously.’

‘But...’ Norah started. But then stopped. What the hell did she think she was doing? This was the no-no zone.

‘What?’ Poppy pressed.

Norah didn’t want to say more. She didn’t know why she’d started in this direction. She wanted to put the guitar down and run out.

But unfortunately, she wasn’t Freddie’s age. She was a grown-up, and she was supposed to act like one, annoyingly. ‘I guess I thought maybe it was just... not that meaningful,’ Norah admitted.

Poppy frowned. ‘I told you it was. Don’t you remember that?’

‘I remember. But then...’ Norah let the sentence hang.

‘I ended things,’ Poppy completed.

Norah shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Poppy looked at Norah, making her feel see-through. Norah's eyes darted away, her fingers nervously tapping on the glass in her hand. The air between them felt charged.

‘I'm sorry,’ Norah finally blurted out, her voice slightly shaky. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

Poppy swallowed, her fingers absently playing with the rim of her glass. ‘The song or...’

‘The song, yeah. The song,’ Norah said quickly.

‘I don’t think that’s what you meant,’ Poppy said.

Norah found the will to look Poppy in the eye. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘OK, but you should know... That song was for you. And it was real,’ Poppy said.

Norah said something then that she later attributed to a mini-stroke. There was no other explanation. ‘Would you play it for me? The original?’

She was sure that Poppy was gonna say no. But Poppy picked up the guitar. ‘I think I can probably remember how to play it. But I can’t look at you while I do it,’ she said, closing her eyes.

Poppy's fingers began to dance across the strings of her old acoustic guitar, picking out a familiar tune. Across from her on the couch, Norah reclined, a half-empty glass of wine cradled in her hand.

‘She finds solace in the stroke of a pen,’ Poppy sang quietly.

Her voice was different than it had been in her pop years. It was worn smoother from use, its sound richer from a life lived. Norah was entranced as she continued.

‘In the colours that bleed, she finds a friend.

Through the sadness that clouds her gaze,

Her drawings weave through the darkest maze.’

The song was like a time machine, transporting Norah across the years, back to the nights they used to spend together as teens.

‘In the silence of her room, where shadows play,

Norah's drawings come alive in their own way.

With tears like ink, she paints the night,

Sketching her sorrows in the fading light.’

Poppy strummed a little bridge, her eyes still squeezed shut. She looked a little scared, Norah thought.