Jessica had told me that Marcie and fidelity hadn’t been closely acquainted – I guess she’d been right about that, too.
‘You need to forgive yourself. You might sing like an angel pickled in whisky, but you’re still human.’
‘What did you just call me?’
Oops. Maybe that was a step too far.
‘Sorry, I just meant you’re larger than life.’
‘I’m nothing. I haven’t written a single song since I lost that necklace.’
It was like she was stuck in a loop – she’d told herself that lie so many times, she was starting to believe it. ‘But you didn’t lose it, Marcie. He chose to give it to someone else. I know that hurts, but frankly, it was a bit tacky of him.’
Her eyes widened in shock.
Oh God, I was dissing the love of her life – not a clever move. But dammit, she was holding him up like he was blameless.
‘How dare you talk to me like that in my own home.’ She got up and stumbled to the door. ‘Ronan! Ronan! Get this woman out of here!’
I didn’t need to be told again. Ronan might have seemed like a nice guy, but if he was forced to defend Marcie I didn’t doubt he’d be happy to use his fists.
I edged to the hallway, my fingers grasping at the front door. The damn thing had seven locks on it. Which one did I need to turn?
Footsteps were pattering upstairs. I only had a few seconds.
‘It’s not the missing necklace that’s been holding you back, Marcie, you’ve deified Benedict and now you can’t move on.’
‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ she screamed, her voice breaking on every word.
The locks finally twisted free. I yanked the door open and ran.
The door slammed shut as I reached the end of her path. I chanced a quick glance behind me to check no one had followed.
I was safe, but in my hurry to look back, I didn’t see what was in front of me and stubbed my toe on the base of a concrete urn.
I landed heavily on my hands and knees.
The pain was sharp enough to make me gasp. Blood was slowly oozing from my palms where I’d grazed them and a telltale wetness was forming around my knees under my jeans.
I slowly turned myself till I was sitting. The urn housed thick topiary which hid me from the kitchen window.
Movement from it made me catch my breath.
A shirtless man with his back to me was opening the fridge. He was tall and broad-shouldered with shower-wet hair.
The fridge door closed and he turned round.
Nick.
My heart almost stopped.
He was pouring a glass of orange juice. A sobbing Marcie appeared by his side. He slid the glass towards her but she shook her head. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head.
I ducked down.
I couldn’t breathe.
Marcie and Nick. He was her midnight booty call. Just as I’d always suspected.
He’d resigned as her publicist, but he’d found another position pretty sharpish. Or had they been together all along?
I swallowed hard. Where did I fit in? Was anything he said to me the night of the ball true? I’d rejected him. I had no reason to feel jealous. But still, it hurt.
I crawled the rest of the way to the gate.
And then ran.
*
I was numb as I sat on the train heading to my office. My palms and knees were burning, but they felt like someone else’s body parts. Two images were seared behind my eyelids: Marcie, white as a statue, screaming at me, and Nick with his golden torso locked in an embrace with her.
All day, I tried not to think about Marcie. But that night, after I’d had my dinner, I couldn’t stop myself from unpicking what I’d seen. The Nick thing didn’t matter. He was free to spend the night with whomever he pleased. The fact that he’d told me he loved me twenty-four hours ago didn’t matter. I’d rejected him, hadn’t I? And I didn’t regret it. I regretted the way I’d rejected him, but that was a different thing altogether.
But that kiss in the karaoke booth . . .
Damn. Here I was again, letting Nick hog all my attention when there was so much more to be worrying about.
Poor Marcie. What the hell had I been thinking? Who was I to tell her how to feel?
An icy shiver ran up my spine. She’d tried to kill herself once. What if I’d given her the impetus to try again? How irresponsible I’d been.
It was a blessing Nick was there. He’d make sure she stayed away from razor blades or whatever else she might try to hurt herself with. If anything happened to Marcie I would never forgive myself.
There was that word again. Forgive.
But what did I know about forgiveness? How much of it had I shown Simon? Even when he was lying half comatose in a hospital bed?
I needed to ring him. I’d been a coward not to answer his calls.
‘I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you,’ I told him. ‘I was with Pete and Alice helping with their wedding prep.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back. He didn’t need to know that I’d spent half my evening crying at episodes of Queer Eye.
‘Don’t sweat it. I’m sorry for putting you through last night. I was scared you wouldn’t want to see me.’ He sounded exhausted.
‘Never think that again. I’ll always be here for you.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘I know I’ve been shitty, Frixie. I still hate myself. What can I do to make it up to you? You’re the most important person in the world to me.’
I found myself swallowing back tears and couldn’t speak.
‘Maybe I could come round tomorrow night. Cook you another moussaka?’
‘I’ve got Alice and her friends coming round for a girly pre-wedding get-together. Sorry.’
‘What about in the afternoon? I could help you set up?’
He sounded so sincere and so desperate to see me – how could I refuse?
30
This Ain’t a Love Song
In the end, Simon came round at five to help me prepare for my Greek night with Alice and the girls. I put him in charge of food and he happily emptied the shelves of my local Waitrose of anything resembling Greek food. His overzealousness had resulted in some samosas sneaking into his basket, but they were delicious so I couldn’t complain. He even made an extra trip to Tesco, because he knew I preferred their taramasalata.
It was such a sweet gesture, but my feelings for him, which had once run so hot, could barely reach lukewarm levels.
Give it time, I told myself. I just needed a bit of fun to lift myself out of this slumped mood and then everything would be back to normal.
*
Alice and co. arrived exactly on time and Annette made a beeline for the dining table, where Simon had laid out the finger buffet.
‘I’m starved,’ she announced. ‘I skipped lunch so I could stuff myself tonight.’ She turned to Alice. ‘I love you, but hate dieting for your wedding.’
‘We should have ordered the fourteen – you never looked overweight to me.’
‘Nah, size-twelve Annette will be unstoppable. I’m planning to pull at your wedding, Alice. Lock up your menfolk, Zoë!’ I thought of my cousins coming over from Cyprus. Annette was going to terrorise them.
When we’d all piled our plates high, Alice came over to sit next to me on the sofa.
‘How are things with you, Zoë? Any more men fistfighting over you?’
‘A couple of duels and a sword-fight, but no fisticuffs.’
She smiled. ‘Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to talk about it?’
Her perceptiveness disarmed me. I hadn’t even realised I’d dodged her question; I fell back on humour so often, I’d forgotten how not to.
‘I will talk about it with you. But not tonight. Tonight is about you.’
Annette, who was sitting nearby, and who’d clearly been earwigging, made a face. ‘Less talk and more prosecco!�
�� She got up to refill our glasses. ‘Now, are we going to bust some Greek moves, or what?’
I’d decided to teach them two dances: a fast one and a more sedate number that the bride’s female friends performed together.
‘It’s called Kalamatiano,’ I explained. ‘And before anyone asks, yes, it’s related to Kalamata olives – it means “from Kalamata”, a place in Greece. You see them dancing it at the end of My Big Fat Greek Wedding.’
We pushed the furniture to one side till we’d cleared a decent-sized space on the carpeted lounge floor. Then we all held hands in a circle and I walked them through the steps, which basically involved, well, walking in a twelve-step pattern.
We ran through it a couple of times and then I put the music on, which was way faster than we’d practised and had us all bumping into each other.
Helen, who’d done a lot of ballet and tap in her not-so-distant youth was a natural, and I let her lead so I could stand between Alice and Annette and help guide their wobbly legs.
‘No, the back step is on the two and six,’ Helen admonished on our third attempt with the music.
I let the girls practise while I scrolled through my playlists to find a slower version and came across a classic tune from my childhood.
‘Okay, let’s try it to this,’ I said. ‘The lyrics are a bit bonkers – it’s called “Maria in Yellow”, and it’s about a woman who wishes her husband would turn to stone because she’s in love with her neighbour.’
The bonkers Maria song turned out to be much catchier, and on only our second attempt we danced the whole way without anyone putting a step wrong.
‘That was brilliant!’ said Alice, collapsing to the floor in a tired and happy heap.
We popped open another bottle of wine and once we’d been suitably refreshed, I walked them through the steps of a second dance.
‘This one’s called Sousta, which means “spring” or “bounce”. It’s a traditional dance, but you can do it to ‘Zorba the Greek’, which will get everyone going. I have to warn you, though – it’s fast and jumpy.’
‘Ooh, lucky I’ve got my sensible M&S bra on, then,’ said Annette.
When I’d walked them through the steps, which were, again, just a series of forward steps with some back steps to keep everyone on their toes, I put the music on.
‘Blimey, that is fast,’ said Annette, then she grinned wolfishly. ‘Gonna be interesting in heels and a strapless dress.’
She had a point. ‘I’ll make sure we get a slower version.’
It was quite a cardio workout, and probably one that was best attempted without quite so much lubrication, but we were having fun. And it was exactly what I needed. I was going to make sure I kept up my friendship with the girls even after the wedding. Hell, I might even suggest another ukulele night.
By ten, we decided that we were as good as we were ever going to be and too tired to keep going. I was also concerned that all the bouncing on my floor would keep my downstairs neighbour Mrs Hargreaves from sleeping. So, we opened another bottle and flopped down on the sofa to watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding – Annette’s idea. I kept sneaking glances at Alice, worried that the movie might spook her. But she seemed fine.
We all cried during the wedding scene, which proved just how drunk we were.
The girls left at midnight and I shuffled around the flat putting things away and humming to myself.
I was loading the last plate into the dishwasher when the doorbell rang.
Odd.
Had one of them forgotten something? Or had Simon decided to come back? If it was the latter, my first urge was to ignore it.
But I’d promised myself to cut him some slack, so I bounded down the stairs and opened the door.
Standing on the step was Marcie. With a large guitar case.
Oh. My. God.
For a second I thought I was imagining things. But I wasn’t that drunk.
‘Good, you’re in,’ she said. ‘I knocked earlier, but no one answered.’
I gulped. ‘Marcie, how did you know where I live?’
‘We know plenty of people in common. And really, is that your most pressing question?’
She had a point. ‘What . . . what are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to give you your interview.’
She pushed past me and headed up the stairs, her guitar case banging against the bannister as she climbed up to my flat. This was surreal. What was weirder than having Marcie Tyler arrive at your flat at midnight? Having her arrive with a guitar.
She burst into the living room.
Oh God, it probably smelt of fish. I’d accidentally smudged a bit of taramasalata on the dining table earlier and hadn’t wiped it off properly.
‘Erm, can I get you a drink or something?’ Shit. She was off alcohol. ‘I mean, I’ve just put the kettle on if you want a tea or coffee.’
If someone had told my younger self that at the age of thirty-four I would have Marcie Tyler sitting on my Ikea sofa, drinking instant coffee out of a chipped University of Exeter mug, I would have laughed.
But here she was, larger than life. Nerves were getting to me and I thought I was going to erupt into manic laughter any minute.
I pinched the soft flesh under my arm. Get a grip, Zoë.
‘So, are you serious? You’re here for the interview?’
‘It depends.’
I let out a slow breath. Another catch? I was so close it was killing me.
‘On what?’
She opened her guitar case. Inside was a 1970 Zemaitis acoustic. Only around three were ever made. It was scratched and scuffed, but that only added to its value. In fact, just having it in the flat probably voided my contents insurance.
‘I wrote a song.’
I swallowed. ‘Really?’
‘Some of what you said got through to me. Maybe I didn’t need that damn necklace, maybe it was a copout I gave myself whenever I tried to write and nothing came out.’
Pure pleasure spread throughout my body. Something I’d said had broken through ten years of writer’s block for one of the most famous singers in the world. I could die happy; tombstone engraving sorted.
She put her mug down. She’d barely drunk it and I didn’t blame her. God knows how long that jar of Nescafé had been open.
‘I’m going to play that song for you now. And if you think it’s any good, you can have your interview. But if you don’t like it, I will leave.’
This was getting crazier by the minute. Of course I was going to love Marcie’s song. She’d never recorded anything I hadn’t immediately loved, including an ill-advised album of duets with Val Doonican.
She fixed me with her blue-green eyes. ‘You have to tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.’
She picked up the honey-coloured guitar, passed the strap over her head and placed her left hand on the fretboard, her index finger resting on a heart-shaped mother-of-pearl inlay.
She started to strum, her fingers picking out a haunting melody that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Then she started to sing.
Her voice was crisp and clear on one phrase, then raspy and raw on the next. She sang about letting go. She was saying goodbye to a lover because she knew her future was without him. And at the end of the song, her lover was wishing her love and luck on her journey. She was letting go and he was giving her his benediction.
The song ended and my ears buzzed in the silence.
Marcie reached forward with her hand outstretched. Her thumb slowly wiped my wet cheek; I hadn’t realised I’d been crying.
She smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
She put her guitar back in its case. ‘Now, let’s start this interview.’
*
It was light when Marcie left. We had talked till four in the morning and then she’d rung Ronan to come and pick her up. I’d waved her off like an old friend as they rattled down my road in a surprisingly battered old Mini. I knew I wouldn’t be able
to sleep, so I powered up my laptop, sat down at my dining room table – mercifully free of taramasalata – and began typing up the interview.
When I was done, I emailed it to Mike and closed my laptop.
I was exhausted but happy. But as I sat dazed on my sofa, not quite able to bring myself to wash the mug Marcie had used – it had her lipstick on it! – I knew there was something I had to do.
Something that had been niggling at me, which I’d pushed down and tried to ignore. But Marcie’s song had pulled everything into razor-sharp focus.
I needed to talk to Simon.
I showered and changed, and got ready for work. It was still barely seven o’clock, but I knew Simon would be up.
As I passed Mrs Hargreaves’s flat, I stopped to stroke Snowy, but all of a sudden her door swung open.
‘Morning, Zoë. It’s going to be a hot day.’
I’d chosen to wear a summer dress because for once I’d checked the weather app on my phone.
‘Can’t wait,’ I said.
‘Was that Marcella Taglioni who came round last night? She knocked on my door when you didn’t answer.’
I frowned because the name was familiar. Shit, it was Marcie’s birth name. ‘Tyler’ was a stage-name.
‘I hope we didn’t keep you up, Mrs H.’
‘She was a naughty one,’ she continued. ‘Never used to eat her greens and insisted on playing the wireless all night.’
What was Mrs H talking about? ‘Are you sure you’re thinking of the same person?’
‘Oh yes, my memory’s still pin-sharp. I used to babysit her.’
I wanted to stick a finger in my ear to make sure there wasn’t a giant lump of wax blocking it. ‘You . . . you used to babysit her?’
‘Yes, back when I was a student living in Hampstead.’ She picked up Snowy who’d been mewling by our feet. ‘Let’s get you fed, madam.’ She turned to leave. ‘Imagine seeing Marcella Taglioni here,’ she said. ‘I wonder what she’s up to these days.’
Her ignorance seemed absolutely genuine. ‘I’ll fill you in another time, Mrs H.’
I laughed. Mrs H and Marcie had known each other all this time? It was preposterous, but given the surreal night I’d had, it somehow all seemed perfectly plausible.
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 30
