But what if I didn’t want to feel my feelings?
I attempted a smile. ‘Or there’s always alcohol.’
Gav didn’t smile back; he looked pensive. Why had he gone all serious? I didn’t need pity. My muscles were straining, but I widened my smile. Feelings safely boxed away; nothing to see here.
He awkwardly patted my knee. ‘You’re always here for us, you need to know that we’re here for you too.’
Why wasn’t he letting this go? ‘You’re overreacting, Gav. It’s nothing I can’t handle.’ If I could convince him, maybe I could convince myself.
‘Bullseye!’ came a shout from the corner. Snooker Man had moved on to imaginary darts. He spun in a circle, pumping his fist. The fool looked so happy in his little dream world.
Any chance there was space in there for two?
24
Don’t Speak
Too soon it was Sunday, and at 4 p.m. I found myself, wine bottle in hand, ringing the doorbell of Jess’s Clapham flat. Things with Simon had gone pear-shaped, but at least I could try to salvage the Marcie interview. All I had to do was convince Jess to see her, even though for ten years she’d steadfastly refused.
Simple.
Jess answered the door holding a wooden mallet wrapped in plastic. Christ. Had she deduced my true intentions and come to chase me down the street?
I must have looked startled because she pulled me into a hug with her free arm. ‘I was just tenderising the veal. It’s great to see you, Zoë.’
I followed her through the corridor, along a warm current of rosemary and into the kitchen, where all the appliances were German and the worktops granite.
‘Do you want to pop the wine in the fridge, or open it now? I’ve made punch if you prefer.’
She nodded at a ruby-red pitcher. Segments of peeled orange floated on its surface. It seemed like a lot for two people. Come to think of it, there seemed to be a lot of everything: two pans on the hob, a couple in the sink and something in the oven. She either had my mother’s tendency for overfeeding, or she was expecting more people.
Like Simon.
Balls. As if this wasn’t going to be hard enough, I now had to do it pretending I was peachy that Simon and Jess had paired up.
‘Can I help with anything?’ I asked. Normally, I’d hope for a ‘no’, but I felt antsy and a task would give me something to do other than scan the place for evidence of a recent male presence, like a pair of scuffed trainers or a rogue black sock.
The idea of them as a couple made my breath catch. Had he stood in this kitchen in his boxers, making her breakfast in bed . . .?
Stop it! Concentrate on why you’re here, Zoë.
‘I’m all good, thanks,’ said Jess. ‘I’d hate for you to get your dress dirty. It’s so pretty, and violet is a great colour on you.’
It was brighter than what I usually wore. Girlier, too – sleeveless with a V-neck and a full skirt. Nothing to do with trying to compete with Jess. Nope. She was wearing skinny black jeans, a black tank top and heels. Effortlessly sexy, basically. No jewellery. I’d held out a vague hope that she’d be wearing the seahorse necklace so I could ask her about it naturally.
Oh well. I was sure I could slot it – and Marcie – into the conversation suavely.
I poured myself some punch. ‘You were wearing a really pretty necklace a couple of weeks back.’
‘Which one is that, then?’
‘I think it was a little shell or something.’
She turned her back to me to start chopping parsley. ‘I don’t have a shell necklace.’
I took a breath. ‘I think it might actually have been a seahorse.’
Smooth, Zoë, really smooth.
‘Oh, that old thing.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It was a present.’
‘Who from?’
Her chopping arm stilled. ‘I don’t remember.’
She was definitely uneasy.
I took a step closer to her. ‘Is that really true?’
She spun round, the knife glinting against the kitchen spotlights. ‘I know exactly where these questions are going, Zoë.’
‘Why the big secrecy around this necklace?’
‘I’m not being secretive. Benedict Bailey gave it to me. Though what it’s got to do with you I have no idea.’
‘Marcie thinks you stole it.’
Jess let out a hollow laugh. ‘Right, and whatever Saint Marcie says is gospel, is it?’
It had been a mistake to start with the necklace. I was here to try to build bridges between her and Marcie, not accuse her of anything. I hated going in cold, but I had to get this done fast. When Simon arrived he was bound to put the kibosh on this conversation.
‘I know what Marcie did to your career all those years ago.’
She ran the tap to rinse her knife. ‘Ancient history now.’
‘She feels terrible about it and she’d really like to make it up to you.’
Jess turned to face me. ‘She feels terrible? How fucking rich is that? Does she have any idea how I might feel about it?’
This was going from bad to worse. ‘She wants to make it up to you, Jess.’
She laughed, bitterly. ‘Can she turn back time? I’m thirty-five in a couple of months. Do you think there’s much demand for a female singer heading towards forty? I was twenty-five on that tour, it was my one chance. I wasn’t perfect, I made mistakes. I was young and foolish and flattered by Benedict’s attention. And yes, somehow you know that Benedict gave me that necklace. But that’s got nothing to do with Marcie. Do you know how many other people Marcie was sleeping with when she was supposedly being faithful to Ben?’
‘I’m not defending her. But she genuinely wants to make amends.’
‘Why is this so important to you? You’re acting like you’ve got something to lose.’
I reached for my glass to avoid her eyes. Had Simon told her? The idea stung, but I couldn’t stand here feeling indignant; it wasn’t altruism that had brought me to her door.
I tried a different tack: ‘Marcie has so much clout. Why not let her help you now?’
‘Help me? She hates me. She wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.’ She let out a breath and smoothed down her tank top, trying to calm her temper. ‘Let’s not fall out over this, Zoë. I don’t know what sob story she’s spun you, but there’s nothing she could do to ever make me forgive her and if you think I would, then she hasn’t told you the full story of what happened on that tour.’
She held my eye and I suddenly glimpsed the full depth of her pain. She was hurting about more than her career. Marcie’s sins had sounded so grave that it had never occurred to me that I’d been told the cleaned-up version.
Jessica was shaking. I poured her a glass of her punch and she took it with a wobbly hand.
‘I’m sorry. It was none of my business.’
After a couple of sips of her punch, she smiled. ‘It’s okay. Your heart was in the right place. But no more talk of Marcie – I’d like us to have a nice evening.’
The doorbell chimed, startling her. Was this Simon? She pointed to a peeled cucumber on the counter. ‘Could you chop this while I get the door?’
The knife handle was warm in my hand and the cucumber ice-cold under my fingers. I’d made a pig’s ear of this. Sticking my size eights into things wasn’t going to get Marcie her longed-for closure from Jess.
As I sliced I tried to make out the bits of conversation floating from the front door. It didn’t sound like Simon. Whoever had arrived seemed to be arguing with Jess.
Should I go and help?
Before I could move, a red-faced Jess burst into the kitchen. ‘I need my purse and keys.’
She didn’t make eye contact, and instead grabbed her bag from the back of a kitchen chair. ‘I have to go to the cashpoint. I’ll be ten minutes max.’
She barrelled out again and I was left to gape in her wake. After a stunned couple of seconds, I hustled to the front door and o
pened it. Jess was already revving her ancient Renault Clio, the exhaust rattling as she pulled away.
What the hell was going on?
A white BMW was parked across the road. It was newer and shinier than all the other cars on the street. Its engine was idling and the driver had a tattooed arm hanging out of the window.
Was that her drug dealer?
I knew she liked to party, but was she really about to go and replenish her stash on a Sunday evening in the middle of preparing dinner?
I went back to the kitchen and finished my glass of punch. As I was refilling it, the door opened again and a male voice shouted, ‘Hello!’
This time, it was Simon and he had a key to Jess’s flat. My already low mood sank further. It was a bit soon, wasn’t it? He still hadn’t given me back my key yet.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said. ‘Jess told me you were coming over to interview her for the magazine. How exciting.’
I wasn’t in the mood to correct him, so I just nodded.
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone to get cash for her drug dealer.’
I waited for Simon to laugh or ask if I was kidding. But evidently, a Sunday-afternoon drug deal was not an unusual occurrence in the Baxter-Honeywell household.
‘Something smells good,’ he said, nodding at the oven.
‘Yes,’ I replied, lamely.
‘Look, I know you meant well, Frixie, but Jess mentioned that you’d brought up the whole Marcie Tyler thing again.’
That was barely ten minutes ago. Did they speak to each other every thirty seconds?
‘This is turning into an obsession,’ he said. ‘You’re like a scratched record.’
His choice of words stung. ‘You know how important it is for the magazine.’
‘But you know it upsets Jess. Why keep bringing it up? It’s like you’ve got some weird fetish about it.’
Why was he suddenly acting like this – implying my interest in Marcie was unhealthy? I’d grown up listening to her, and Simon had been there hitting the repeat button on the CD with me. He should understand better than anyone.
Stupid, ridiculous, humiliating tears threatened to fall. I turned towards the counter, determined not to let him see how much his words hurt.
Simon poured himself a drink without asking if I wanted a refill. It was like I was invisible and I was actually relieved when Jess’s rattling car came to a halt outside.
‘I’m back!’ she sing-songed from the hallway, banging the door behind her. She had a big – and possibly chemically induced – smile on her face. ‘Who’s up for some grub?’
*
The rest of the evening was pretty lousy. I had to feign a headache to account for my quietness, and Jess’s famed cookery skills proved hugely lacking. I don’t know whether she’d taken a couple of pills or lines of coke, but she was too far gone to care that the veal was rubbery or that the rice was soggy.
Even the apple pie in the oven hadn’t defrosted properly and turned out to be shop-bought – its Waitrose wrapping tossed carelessly on a counter.
It’s not that I was being a massive snob, but Simon praised every fucking dish. His assessment of her culinary skills was tainted either by his feelings for her, or his own lack of sobriety. His eyes were ringed red, which led me to believe that he’d partaken in whatever goods Jess had procured from her earlier gentleman caller.
In fairness, Jess had asked me if I fancied a little ‘help’ too, but I politely declined and she didn’t push it.
Around the time when normal guests would have readily agreed to coffees, I got up. ‘I’d better get home.’
No one tried to talk me out of it.
We said our lukewarm goodbyes and then I was out, the door closing before I’d even made it to the pavement.
I looked up and down the street, trying to remember which way the train station was, but it was still early and I didn’t want to go home.
When I pulled my phone out, searching for someone to recount my horrible evening to, my fingers scrolled to ‘N’ without any help from my brain.
Was it weird to ring Nick on a Sunday?
A couple of rings before it went to voicemail, he picked up.
‘Zoë? Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s great,’ I replied automatically.
He paused. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
He’d obviously heard something in my voice, because his had a note of concern.
I suddenly felt overwhelmed. ‘I’m in Clapham. I’ve just left Jessica’s flat.’
‘Do you want me to come and get you?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. I just wondered if you were around to talk.’
‘That train comes into Waterloo, doesn’t it?’
I nodded, then realised he couldn’t see me. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Okay, I’ll meet you at Waterloo in half an hour. Then we can go somewhere to talk – I promise it won’t be on the London Eye.’
‘I appreciate this, Nick. Thank you.’
*
My train took about ten minutes to get to Waterloo, so I sat in the station coffee shop and sent Nick a text to let him know where I was.
I drank my tea staring into space. What a bloody disaster. It was bad enough that Simon was so oblivious to how hard it was for me to see him with Jess. But then he’d told me I was acting crazy about Marcie, and that still smarted.
He’d sounded so callous, and that was hard to forgive. Had he spoken in frustration and now regretted it? I didn’t know because we’d barely spoken for the rest of dinner.
I was lost in thought when Nick walked in and I almost didn’t recognise him. ‘You’re wearing jeans,’ I said, as if this fact had somehow escaped him.
‘You didn’t mention a dress code.’ On top he was wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt with buttons. The first couple were undone. ‘Can I get you anything?’
I shook my head and he went to the counter to order.
It was so odd to see him out of a suit, but it was a welcome distraction from my ruminations about Simon. Nick’s blue jeans were faded and well-worn; I bet if I stroked them they’d be impossibly soft. Although why I was thinking about stroking Nick’s legs I had no idea. The young woman serving him giggled nervously as she took his order. Nick flashed a wide smile of thanks and her giggles got louder, making the other baristas shake their heads. Nick’s hair was different, too. Wilder; he must use gel to tame it during the working week, but I’d never noticed before.
He sat down opposite me with his lovingly made double espresso, his admiring barista no doubt disappointed that she could only see the back of his head.
‘What have you been up to today?’ I said, suddenly curious.
He shrugged. ‘I got up, went for a run, did some laundry.’
‘Are all your suits at the dry-cleaners?’
‘Contrary to what you might think, I don’t live my job twenty-four-seven. Sometimes I can go a whole hour without thinking about it.’
It was a bit mean to accuse him of never clocking off. He was here now for work because of me, wasn’t he?
‘You don’t play football on Sunday mornings, or veg out on video games with a buddy?’ Why had I picked those two things? Not all blokes were as lame as my brother.
‘Playing football is a British thing.’
‘So what did you do at school for sport?’
‘Athletics, mainly. And a bit of badminton and tennis.’
‘Have you ever done any dancing? Like ballet or something?’
I don’t know where all these questions were coming from. Probably because I’d never really thought about what he was like away from work. Or more likely, I was avoiding talking about my failure with Jess today.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Something about the way you move.’
‘I do a bit of yoga.’
That made much more sense. Why had I said ballet? And now I had an image of him and his muscular legs in tights and a codp
iece. What was wrong with me?
‘So what happened with Jessica today?’ he said, deftly changing the subject. He really didn’t like talking about himself. ‘I take it she isn’t winging her way to Marcie’s place with a bunch of flowers and her most profuse apologies.’
‘No, unfortunately.’
‘Go on.’
‘I rushed it – I dived in and was shocked by her reaction. She implied that there’s more to the story than Marcie has told us. Or rather, more to it than I know.’
I paused, checking if this rattled him. His face remained impassive, but didn’t it always?
‘I’ve told you what Marcie has told me.’ He sounded genuine, but what did I know? ‘Why did you have to rush? Did she have to go somewhere?’
I squirmed. ‘No, I wanted to get it out of the way before Simon arrived. He doesn’t approve of me raking all this stuff up. Especially now that he and Jess are seeing each other.’
Nick nodded. ‘How do you feel about that?’
I smiled tightly. ‘They’re two consenting adults, what difference does it make what I think?’
‘Because you’re in love with him.’
Heat scorched my cheeks. I took a sip of my tea, hoping the mug would hide my reddening face. ‘No I’m not. We’re best friends, that’s all.’
Most of that sentence was true.
He finished his espresso and stared into the distance.
If he was going to impart some romantic wisdom he could piss off.
‘I’ve been thinking these last couple of days,’ he said. ‘Reflecting, really.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m quitting as Marcie’s publicist.’
25
Somethin’ Stupid
I slammed down my mug. ‘Are you serious? You arrive out of nowhere, land this dream job working for Marcie and you want to walk away?’
A flash of irritation passed across Nick’s features. ‘Dream job? The reason I was lumbered with Marcie is because no one else would go near her. They knew too well what the position would entail.’
I didn’t like hearing that Marcie was a nightmare. She was an icon.
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 24
