Love Songs for Sceptics

by Christina Pishiris

  I was breathing hard, trying to contain my feelings.

  Simon nodded slowly and stood up. ‘Well, thanks for putting me in my place.’

  He walked out and I was too dazed to stop him.

  How the fuck had this conversation spiralled out of control? Alice had been so sure Simon would understand.

  He was wrong about Marcie having ulterior motives. I knew it in my bones. And I’d been right to stand up for her. It wasn’t because I was some obsessed fan defending the saintly image of Marcie Tyler.

  But my feelings had run higher for another reason: Simon had been so quick to side with Jess instead of hearing me out. His blind loyalty to her clawed at me. It wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on.

  I stood up and downed the last of my coffee. I was fed up of going round in circles. I may have said a couple of things he didn’t deserve, but Simon had given as good as he’d got.

  15

  I Hate Myself for Loving You

  When I got home I made another attempt to google Marcie’s tour from 2009. But like last time, I found references to Jess’s band supporting Marcie and nothing about the band being dropped. Supporting artists didn’t always do full tours – they did legs, and then other bands took over. Nothing untoward was hinted at.

  As a last resort I went to a trashy rumour site that kept changing addresses to stave off libel action, but even there the only story I found was about Marcie having had the secret love child of a long-dead, black-and-white movie star with the help of alien technology.

  Whatever the facts about that particular tour, they weren’t easily available on the net. You needed to have been there.

  I was due at Patrick and Justin’s for dinner that night and I was itching to ask Pat, but I knew I had to restrain myself. We had a rule about not talking shop in each other’s homes, and that was probably a good thing because, in all honesty, I didn’t really care about Jess and Marcie. I cared that their ten-year-old ghosts had caused friction between me and Simon.

  Would he still want to come to Georgia’s party tomorrow night? Going without him would be horrible, especially after we’d had such a lovely time choosing costumes.

  ‘Zoë my dear, you made it! And laden with gifts, I see.’ Patrick smiled and enveloped me in a hug. On the way to their Hampstead flat I’d stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of red wine and a huge box of Bendicks chocolate mints – Pat’s particular weakness.

  ‘Let’s not tell Justin about the chocolates,’ said Patrick conspiratorially. ‘Sugar’s as deadly as nicotine, or so he keeps telling me. I’ve kicked the smoking habit – how boring would it be to cut out chocolate too?’

  Something divine and garlicky was being concocted in the kitchen. Justin was a great cook who loved to make mouthwatering pasta dishes from scratch.

  ‘You caught us in the middle of a domestic,’ said Patrick, ushering me through to the kitchen, where Justin was presiding over two sizzling pans. ‘We’re having a ding-dong about olive oil. But now you’re here, you can put the whole matter to rest as an impartial observer.’

  Justin turned from the stove to kiss me on each cheek. ‘Zoë, you know I love you, but you’re hardly impartial.’

  I sat down at the solid wood kitchen table. ‘What’s this all about?’

  Pat sat down next to me and poured me a glass of wine without me having to ask. ‘Justin’s annoyed that I only bought Greek olive oil this week, and he wanted Italian for his dish. I told him the damn pasta will only be improved by this marvellous Cretan oil I found.’

  I took a sip of wine, trying to weigh up my words. ‘Well, it’s Justin’s recipe and if he thinks Italian olive oil is better, that’s his call.’

  Justin humphed in satisfaction.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s not what I’m asking.’ He turned to me. ‘In your opinion, my dear Zoë, which olive oil tastes better – Italian or Greek?’

  I laughed. ‘I’m afraid Justin is right, I can’t be objective about this. Growing up you get it drummed into you – the Greek version of everything is better.’

  *

  Two hours later, with Graeco-Italian rivalries put to one side, we were relaxing in the living room, a second bottle of red wine open and congratulating Justin on his delicious penne all’Arrabbiata. Although in Patrick’s case, the wine had been swapped for his customary Gordon’s and tonic.

  ‘The trick is to get fresh Scotch bonnet,’ said Justin, and I nodded, pretending to know what he was talking about.

  ‘It’s a type of chilli,’ whispered Patrick, noticing my blank stare.

  The pair of them thought it was hilarious that my parents were in the restaurant business, but I was so terrible in the kitchen. But that’s the thing about having great cooks in the family – you never have to learn for yourself.

  ‘You seem out of sorts, my dear. Is everything okay?’ Patrick was too perceptive not to notice that my quietness wasn’t all down to not keeping up with Justin’s culinary tips.

  ‘Boy trouble,’ I murmured.

  Justin winked. ‘That’s the best kind.’

  ‘Too many to choose from?’ said Patrick.

  ‘There’s only ever been one boy for me,’ I said, surprising myself.

  Wow. Was that the wine talking or how I really felt?

  Patrick smiled. ‘You never seem that bothered about relationships and dating. I should have guessed it was because you’d already lost your heart to someone.’

  Hot tears welled and I blinked them away. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said. ‘He accused me of being too wrapped up in work to care about other people and we got into an argument.’

  Patrick came to sit beside me and patted my knee. ‘I know that magazine is everything to you, but sometimes you have to sit back and look at the bigger picture. There’s a world out there beyond work.’

  Justin chuckled. ‘It’s taken me years to make him see that.’

  Pat nodded. ‘You’re an amazing girl, full of spirit and passion, and the right boy will see that. It will all turn out well in the end. Just give it time.’

  *

  Pat’s pep talk helped – they always did – and I felt better on the tube home. But instead of going straight to my flat, I detoured to Soho. When I’d been in the off-licence earlier, I’d added another item to my basket along with the wine and chocolates: a postcard. It was a naff tourist one, bigger than normal, featuring red phone boxes and Big Ben, but my options had been limited.

  I sat in the reception of Simon’s hotel to write it. I kept looking up, paranoid that Simon would randomly appear. I needed to put this down in writing; if we tried to talk it through again, we’d only get into another argument.

  After half an hour, I was finally happy with it. I dropped it off at the front desk and went home.

  Dear Member,

  It’s tough being a rock star, sometimes. The record label argues every expense (the magic just wasn’t happening until we repainted the studio in cerulean blue), that idiot session drummer is convinced that his sticks are cursed, and I need to practise throwing TVs out of windows. (I really did my back in with that last 50-inch flat screen.)

  When you’ve got all of that to contend with, you forget about the important things in life. Like friendship.

  I’m sorry we argued.

  You’re the last person I’d ever want to hurt. You mean the world to me, and I feel like I’ve been living life in mono without you.

  I hope you can bring me back to stereo one day. I’ll sign off now. That TV isn’t going to throw itself out of the window.

  Keep doing the Fandango,

  Zak x

  I woke early the next day, even though it was Saturday. I’d slept fitfully and any slumber I did manage had been full of dreams of Simon and Jess laughing at me.

  My thumb ached from checking my phone. I was hoping that I’d hear something from Simon, but by lunchtime he was still incommunicado. I guess Zak hadn’t worked his magic this time.

  I to
yed with phoning Georgia and faking a cold so I wouldn’t have to go to her party tonight, but in the end my conscience wouldn’t let me. Besides, a party was probably exactly what I needed to take my mind off Simon. I’d have to rustle up a costume myself, but that wasn’t the end of the world.

  By three o’clock, I’d vacuumed the living room, scrubbed the bath and pulled an alarming amount of hair out of my shower cubicle, but I still hadn’t worked off my restlessness, so I decided to go for a run. Hitting the pavement was my last resort when I felt antsy; I always found it so boring. But armed with my iPod, earphones and Metallica playlist, running seemed to help.

  I headed for the local park and settled into a satisfying rhythm. My breaths came hard, but each step calmed me. The sun was hidden behind clouds, so it wasn’t too hot. But I was still slick with sweat by the time I got back almost an hour later. I opened a couple of windows and was just untying my trainers, when the doorbell rang. I tried not to get my hopes up. It was probably a delivery – my online clothes-shopping habit had grown worse – or Mrs Hargreaves from downstairs needing help with her router again.

  I swung open the door. It was Simon, holding two enormous bags.

  I took a step back, suddenly wrong-footed. Was he still upset? His face seemed a bit red, but more from exertion rather than irritation. Then he smiled and a smidgeon of hope bloomed in my chest.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, Frixie. Give me a hand with these costumes. I’ve been carrying them around since this morning.’

  I took one of the bags and we climbed back up to my flat. I felt self-conscious; my hair was a mess and my sweaty Ramones T-shirt was sticking to my back.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ I said, keeping my tone light.

  ‘I’m good, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent the last two hours with estate agents looking for a place to rent.’

  I did a double-take. ‘You’re serious about staying?’

  He nodded and I poured myself a glass of water to give myself something to do.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Holland Park.’

  ‘That’s just up the road.’

  He nodded. ‘I even saw a couple this side of the roundabout.’

  ‘You mean you’d stoop so low as to have a W12 postcode?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d be roughing it. But Shepherd’s Bush has its upsides.’

  ‘The shopping’s good and it’s easy to get into town.’

  He held my eye and I knew he wasn’t talking about Westfield or the transport links.

  ‘I’m sorry about lying to you, Si.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry for losing my temper. You didn’t deserve it.’

  It was like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. ‘Let’s not argue again.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Simon. He pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll give Jess a call.’

  I froze. Did he want me to apologise to her too? I slumped onto the counter. ‘Why do you need to ring her?’

  ‘To arrange that get-together with us and Nick.’

  Relief flooded through me. This was more than I’d dared hope for. ‘You’re okay with that?’

  He walked over to me and clasped my hand. ‘I want to help you, Zoë. It’s the least I can do after being a jackass.’

  I squeezed his hand back. ‘Thanks, Si. I appreciate it.’ I’d been leaning against the counter, but now I stood up taller. ‘I need to take a shower. Can you amuse yourself for a while?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. As long as you trust me with that open window and your TV.’

  The postcard had worked after all. I should never have doubted Zak.

  I’d showered, blow-dried my hair and was eating a cheese and pickle sandwich that Simon had rustled up from the contents of my fridge. It gave me a warm glow that he was so comfortable in my flat.

  By the time we were ready to leave for Georgia’s, everything was back to normal between us. Simon looked amazing in his Indiana Jones get-up. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his stubble added an extra layer of authenticity, not to mention sexiness.

  His hotness contrasted with my sexless Dorothy costume. A baby-blue and white gingham pinafore – honestly, could I have chosen a more virginal outfit? So not the image I wanted to project tonight. I’d planned to style my hair into two plaits but – with apologies to Judy Garland – sod that. I’d wear my hair loose and wavy.

  The sparkly ruby slippers did their bit to vamp up my anaemic costume, but only just. I added a layer of gloss to my MAC Red lipstick, just to jazz things up a bit.

  ‘You’re looking mighty fine, Frixie,’ said Simon when he saw me frowning.

  ‘Really? I feel a bit frumpy.’

  ‘Mother of God, you must be kidding. You’re prompting a rather uncomfortable adult reaction to a favourite childhood character. And these pants are tight.’

  I felt my cheeks colour instantly. He was joking, right?

  Don’t look at his crotch.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  I looked.

  Inconclusive. But I could only peek for a split second.

  *

  When Georgia opened her door to us twenty minutes later, she looked resplendent, and very pissed, in her Good Witch of the North outfit, complete with wand and tiara.

  ‘Twinsies!’ she yelled after she took in my costume.

  I grinned. ‘Same film, different characters, but close enough.’

  She pulled me in to her pale pink satin. ‘It’s so good to see you, Zo.’

  When we’d disentangled ourselves, she gave Simon the once-over.

  ‘George, this is Simon,’ I said.

  ‘Well hello, Doctor Jones,’ she cooed. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  Simon smiled. ‘It’s great to meet you.’ He held up two bottles of wine. ‘Where shall I put these?’

  ‘Kitchen table – straight through to the back. Thanks, guys!’

  Simon and I headed to the back of the house and added our two bottles to the alarming arsenal of alcohol on the kitchen table.

  Dean appeared from a side door, carrying a bag of ice. ‘Hey Zoë, great to see you. Who’s your friend?’ He obviously hadn’t been briefed on who Simon was, thank God, because tact was not his forte.

  ‘This is Simon.’

  Simon stepped forward. ‘Can I give you a hand?’

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Dean, ‘Help me dump it into that ice box.’

  ‘Great outfit, Dean,’ I said, as they poured the ice into the box, with only a few cubes going astray. His military whites made him look pretty dashing. If Georgia wasn’t careful, they’d be welcoming another bundle of joy into their lives nine months from now.

  ‘Itchy as fuck, pardon my French,’ he said. ‘And George won’t let me take the hat off. She says she pushed two babies out of her fanny, so the least I could do is put up with a bit of hat-hair.’

  ‘You look very handsome,’ I told him. ‘Every inch an officer and a gentleman.’

  ‘Thanks, love. Help yourself to drinks, guys.’

  Dean flitted out of the room, scratching the nape of his neck.

  ‘Red or white?’ said Simon, picking up two plastic flutes.

  ‘Better stick to white,’ I replied. ‘If I get red wine on the dress, we’ll lose our deposit.’

  Twenty-odd people were crammed into the lounge. I scanned the room, taking in a couple of cowboys; an Al Capone, complete with violin case; a Sleeping Beauty and as a foil to Georgia, her sister, Fliss, had come as the Wicked Witch of the West. ‘I’ll get you, my pretty,’ she said to me in a crowing voice. Her green skin only added to the menace. Props to her for commitment.

  Simon was a hit with everyone, including Georgia. I don’t know why I’d been worried about her meeting him. One of the cowboys, Matthew, a credit controller at Dean’s firm, challenged Simon to a shoot-out, and Simon had us in stitches when he used his whip to knock the gun from Matthew’s hand in a reversal of the classic scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  ‘Th
is wine is excellent,’ said Georgia, dropping to the floor beside me.

  ‘Paint stripper would probably taste good after your pregnancy dry spell.’

  ‘This is only my third glass and the room is already spinning. Is that normal?’

  How the mighty had fallen. Georgia used to be able to drink pint after pint at uni. The rugby boys had made her an honorary member of their team.

  Simon was on the opposite side of the room, talking to Al Capone. Our eyes met for a moment, and he raised his glass in a toast to us.

  Georgia grinned, first at me and then him.

  The music, which despite my best efforts had slipped into middle-class thirty-something dinner party mode – who else could have rocketed Ed Sheeran to number one? – suddenly changed. Someone had put on some Bruno Mars and people had got up to dance, blocking my view of Simon.

  ‘So, will you be shagging Doctor Jones tonight?’

  I turned round to Georgia. ‘Keep your voice down. He might hear!’

  ‘Believe me, he’s thinking exactly the same thing. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you got here.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anyone else, so of course he’d stay close to me,’ I said, trying not to jump the gun as quickly as Georgia had. But she was right, I’d noticed too.

  Georgia’s words had lit a spark I’d been trying to keep matches away from all night. His Indiana Jones outfit was proving lethal – I’d never fancied anyone so much in my whole life. I’d been trying not to drink a lot because that only fuelled my libido, but Dean had been far too attentive as host and whenever my glass was less than full, he’d topped it up. Technically, I hadn’t got to the bottom of my first glass yet.

  Simon came over and dropped onto the floor next to me.

  ‘Is it me or did it suddenly get hot in here?’ said Georgia, theatrically. ‘I’d better go and check on the heating.’ She left, but not without first giving me a cheeky wink that I’m sure Simon saw.