by Mandy Baggot
‘I like him a lot.’ Her mind was telling her there was much more than ‘like’ going on. Why was that so hard to admit, even to herself? ‘I like him,’ she started again, ‘in a way I didn’t think I would ever like anyone again after Simon.’
‘Oh, Em,’ Jonah said.
‘Well, then,’ Allan began forcefully. ‘If you feel like that then I want to know what on earth this “news” you’re going to hear about over the next few hours-slash-days is? I mean, it has to be pretty major for him to message you something like that, out of the blue, with no warning at all.’
‘I don’t know,’ Emily breathed. ‘And… do I really want to know?’
‘Of course you do,’ Allan answered. ‘Tell her, Jonah.’
‘Em, if you feel that strongly about Ray, like you might feel as strongly for him as you did about Simon, then you need to know,’ Jonah told her. ‘I hate to say it but… you don’t think there was some element of truth to the newspaper articles after all?’
Emily shook her head defiantly. ‘No. I’m sure of that. Ray wouldn’t hurt anyone.’ She thought of Mr Jackson. Ray had hurt him, but only to save Jayden. Her eyes went to Idris. ‘He’s saved two hedgehogs in the space of a few of weeks.’ And Ray had cradled them despite their prickly exterior, holding them close, caring, worrying, making sure they were OK. ‘Someone like that wouldn’t do what the press is suggesting.’
‘Despite the Chinese burn incident which we all thought was necessary, I agree,’ Allan said. ‘And I have a natural talent for reading people. I’m like that Patrick Jane from The Mentalist, without the three-piece suit, but with all of the ginger hotness.’
Suddenly three mobile phones all made a noise simultaneously. The BBC News Breaking News alert that sounded like the beginnings of a dramatic action movie. The one Emily still, somehow, couldn’t mute.
Allan was the first to reach for his. ‘Another royal baby announcement? Or Prince Philip getting his driving licence back and getting a job as a cabbie?’
Emily picked her phone up from the coffee table, all fingers and thumbs. She didn’t need to unlock the screen to read the headline.
‘Oh my God!’ Jonah remarked.
‘Why does this thing say there’s breaking news and when you go in to read it there’s no other information!’ Allan screeched. ‘Damn you Huw Edwards and your digital news colleagues. Oh, Emily!’ He leaped over to her, putting his arms around her and squeezing so tight it felt like she was being juiced. But over Allan’s shoulder, her eyes blurry with newly-formed tears, the sparkle refracted from all the timeless ornaments on the Christmas tree she’d decorated with Ray. And in her hand was her phone, still locked, but the headline bold.
Breaking News: Musician Ray Stone makes domestic abuse claim against former partner
Fifty-Nine
Harley Street, Marylebone
‘How soon can you get him in?’
Ray was sitting in his usual chair of choice at Dr Crichton’s office, watching the evil-looking black fish, while Deborah took control. He had seen all sides of his agent over the past few days and he was starting to feel he knew exactly how her less-than-obedient dog, Tucker, probably felt. Deborah might not have asked him to jump through hoops or sit but he would have been more than happy if she’d suggested he begged, all things considered. She had simply made clear that she was now the one in charge of this situation and he was going to have to toe the line if he wanted to come out of it completely intact. He had learned a lot over the past few days: who was going to be there for him, who cared… and the fact that Soot’s demise hadn’t been down to his escape from the cage, but because his mum had accidently filled his water bowl with Smirnoff…
The press had been buzzing around his dad’s flat since the news broke and Gio had called him, hysterically shouting in that Italian way, that the new tenant in Ray’s ex-rental was complaining of photographers trying to scale the main gate. Ray was surprised the journalists had attempted that. He had tried to scale it a couple of times when he’d forgotten the gate code and it absolutely wasn’t a drop you wanted to fall from. It had taken a diversion tactic from Brenda – running screaming down the external corridor shouting that a car was on fire – to get the press away from the front door in order for him to leave for Harley Street without being tailed. And now he was here, feeling as shell-shocked with life as he had ever been.
‘Realistically, if I move a few things around, next Thursday.’
Next Thursday. He was going to have an operation next week. He opened his mouth, ready to say it was an impossibility. Despite everything he had agreed with Deborah, a part of him still wanted that gig at Ronnie Scott’s… And he still really wanted to be playing the piano at a primary school in Islington on the 20th too. He closed his mouth again and said nothing. In truth, all he could think about was Emily and that harder-than-harsh text he had sent her when he thought he was doing the right thing. Why hadn’t he picked up the phone? Or gone to the apartment? He had to go there at some stage to, at least, pick up his things…
‘Ray,’ Deborah said, loudly, close to his ear. ‘Did you hear what the doctor said?’
Had he missed something after talk of ‘next Thursday’? He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I…’
‘Next Thursday,’ Deborah recapped. ‘Dr Crichton can do your operation next week. So, you’ll go into the private wing under the cover of darkness on Wednesday night, then…’
Ray shook his head. ‘I can’t do next Thursday.’ What was coming out of his mouth now? Ida had tried to call him after the news had broken. He’d expected it and he had done what he knew he had to do. He had ignored her. He just hoped the conversation he had had with Victoria, before Deborah had contacted the news agencies, had made her realise the severity of the situation with her daughter. Victoria hadn’t said very much. Ray hadn’t said very much. It was hard enough to talk about everything that had happened without going into the finer details that still very much hurt him. But he had been clear. He wanted Ida to get help. He wasn’t in a position to implement her care. It had to come from somewhere else, someone else. And it was time her mum stepped up before it was too late.
‘Ray, what do you mean you can’t do next Thursday?’ Deborah asked. ‘We talked about this. We made a plan. The current news is going to cover up the fact there’s something wrong with your voice. We can now postpone the gig at Ronnie Scott’s and tell everyone you need a time-out to get over this trauma and then it’s back to the studio in say, six weeks’ time, to complete your new album.’ She took a breath. ‘Then, when we’re absolutely sure you’re recovered, we can do the comeback concert, perhaps at a much bigger venue, and everything will be back on track, including your vocals.’
What wasn’t sitting well with him? Which part of this whole life-altering scenario wasn’t working? He knew this was the right thing to do. He couldn’t avoid this operation. Dr Crichton had made it clear that steam and readjusting his technique was not going to cut it long term. And his dad and Brenda had already been talking about the pros of getting this sorted now compared to the likelihood of throat cancer when he hit his sixties… The irony was, they rattled this out from stories on the web while Len smoked his way through a packet of Marlboro Lights.
‘The 21st,’ Ray suddenly stated.
‘What?’ Deborah said, her thick portfolio almost falling off her knee.
‘Can you do 21st December instead of next Thursday?’ Ray asked Dr Crichton directly.
‘Ray,’ Deborah said. ‘That’s another week away.’
It was the day after the Stretton Park Christmas show. And that was all he could think about. He might not be able to sing, but he could still play. He couldn’t send a session pianist to Emily’s school, to play for those kids he’d got to know, to perform the songs he’d helped them all transform. He had been selfish. He had made this situation entirely about him, when what he really should have done was been braver in those moments before he’d sent the text. The world didn’t revolve for him
alone. Yes, Emily deserved more than him in her personal life. Someone without any of the press attention. Someone strong and sensitive who wasn’t living in such a crazy situation. But what Emily and the children needed on 20th December was confidence. And confidence for them came from familiarity, not change. The kids needed a performance they were going to remember for years to come. And they needed him to help with that.
‘I need to be somewhere on 20th December,’ Ray said firmly.
‘Ray, there is nowhere you need to be any time right now except an operating theatre,’ Deborah insisted.
Ray watched Dr Crichton looking to the screen of his iPad, touching icons, bringing up different views. He had the doctor’s attention at least.
‘Ray,’ Deborah stated again, sounding irritated.
‘This one date isn’t up for discussion, Deborah,’ Ray told her firmly. ‘Please, I promise I’ll do everything you say with everything else, I just need that one day.’
‘What for?’ Deborah asked.
‘I…’ What could he say? He had told Deborah Emily’s name and that he liked her, after the photo of them kissing in the snow, but he hadn’t told her anything about his work with the Stretton Park production. Whether it was a good look or not, whether it might help with his career resurrection, he didn’t want the limelight heading his way with regard to this. It was Emily’s show. It was Year Six’s time to shine. ‘I can’t tell you.’
Deborah closed her eyes tight and seemed to inhale from right down into the soles of her shoes. He didn’t blame her for trying to inject a little meditation into proceedings. She was currently working harder than the Conservative party spin-doctors…
‘I can do the 21st,’ Dr Crichton piped up. He lifted his head from the iPad and looked at them both.
‘Great,’ Ray answered. ‘I mean, as great as it can be to be having an operation.’ He swallowed. And the fear was still there. Simply the thought of gowning up and having pre-meds and lying on a table having his control taken from him was raising his heart rate. Not to mention the thought of the six to eight weeks before he could sing again.
‘I’m not sure that will work,’ Deborah said, flipping pages of her paper diary back and forth and forth and back. ‘That means I have to keep you “anguished” for longer.’ She took a breath. ‘And we have that photo Nigel is still holding back on. It’s going to be really poor timing if that leaks now.’
Ray shook his head, a seed of annoyance starting to ferment. How long had he sat on this? How long had he kept what Ida had done buried so deep? Was his previous – admittedly slightly misguided – determination to protect Ida going to screw things up even more?
‘No more lying,’ Ray said on an outbreath. ‘For once, let’s be straight with everyone.’
‘Ray, I’m telling you now, if you tell the world about this operation now then…’ Deborah started.
‘Then?’ Ray asked, sitting forward on his chair. ‘Then what? The London Eye stops turning? Oxford Street takes down all its festive lights? Jules’s Hootenanny is called off?’ He stood then, picking up Dr Crichton’s glass paperweight from his desk and crushing it into his palm. ‘I want to be honest. This is me. This is Ray Stone going through the shittiest time of his life while everything around this city turns into a fucking grotto.’ He glared at Dr Crichton’s medical skeleton in the corner of the room that was now bedecked with tinsel, its skull covered by a Santa hat. ‘But there’s good news. A chink of light. Because people with issues like Ida get help. People whose vocal cords aren’t doing what they should, they get help too.’ He looked to his doctor. ‘No one’s going to die, right? No one’s going to come close to dying, if we admit I’m having an operation, am I right?’
No one answered him. Deborah looked like she might want to. Either that or she was silently writing her resignation letter in her mind. He thumped the paperweight into his opposing palm just like his doctor did when he was pissed off.
‘I’m not saying we have to set off another breaking news alert with this, but no more sneaking around. No lying. No covering things up. My career. My life,’ Ray told them both. ‘My decision.’
Still the room was eerie quiet until finally Dr Crichton spoke up. ‘So, the 21st, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ Ray answered. ‘The 21st. It’s a date.’ The adrenaline rush at insisting on being the master of his own destiny was starting to fade already. He needed to speak to Emily. And a text he had got from Jonah this morning meant it had to be tonight…
Sixty
Stretton Park Primary School
The scent of Dennis’s liquorice allsorts was turning Emily’s stomach. And why was he here again in the hall while she rehearsed the Christmas show? There couldn’t be another visit from a firefighter surely!
‘Tell me, Emily, do you really think they had a larger-than-life carrot in the stable in Bethlehem?’ Dennis smirked, chewing away like her rehearsal was a much-talked-about blockbuster at the Odeon he was watching and he had got in half-price.
She didn’t bother to disguise her eye-roll. ‘It’s the only costume that Felix likes. His auntie bought it for him. Donkeys eat carrots. A donkey was definitely, undeniably used in the stable in Bethlehem. There. Got it?’
‘You sound a little on edge today,’ Dennis remarked, his eyes not leaving the stage. ‘Nothing wrong is there? No more pilfering from the corner shop or fights over football cards or Santa-slapping weighing on your mind?’
Emily really didn’t have time for Dennis winding her up today. She had been late for this morning’s assembly because she’d got a cab to the wildlife sanctuary and dropped Idris Elba into their care. She’d been slightly worried over the past few days when he/she/they had refused to even sniff the water she’d put out for it, but equally she was glad she, Jonah and Allan hadn’t ever tried to get it to drink raspberry leaf tea to induce birth. And every time she thought about that night and her decided course of action she felt ridiculous. Exactly how old was she? And then the news about Ida had hit and she realised what Ray was really going through and she couldn’t for a second even start to comprehend it. The main lines from those first news articles came back to her now. Years of physical and mental abuse. Ray hopes Ida receives the help she needs. Still, after everything the reports had said he had been through – in very vague detail – Ray (the real victim) was worrying about his abuser. That was the person she had been getting to know. That was the man who had chipped away at the barriers over her heart. And, she still didn’t know what to do. He’d asked for space when all she wanted to do was hold him close. She longed to say he was crazy for thinking she would feel any differently about him now she knew about this. But he had been hurt. He was still hurting. And all she really wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be OK…
‘It was a Chinese burn,’ Emily said with a sigh. ‘Not a slap. And, if you didn’t know already, Jayden’s father has moved out.’
‘Well,’ Dennis said, mid-munch. ‘In case you don’t know already, Penny is pregnant. Twins. She told Linda in the staffroom yesterday, but it isn’t common knowledge so keep it under your shepherd’s headdress,’ Dennis said.
‘Did you eavesdrop on a private conversation?’ Emily asked, astounded.
‘It isn’t my fault,’ Dennis moaned. ‘They all think that microwave is louder than it actually is. Anyway, the main point is, they’re going to have to advertise for the job while she’s on maternity leave and Mother is delighted. She says this opening could be the new lease of life she’s been waiting for.’
Emily closed her eyes, trying to envisage a woman in her eighties dealing with the rather boisterous lunch queue. Never mind the amount of food that seemed to need to be produced to feed the Stretton Park children who had hot dinners.
‘Miss Parker! Miss Parker!’ It was Felix, his bright red face clashing wonderfully with his orange carrot costume.
‘What is it, Felix?’ she asked, stepping towards the stage.
‘Ray! Ray!’
Emily swallowed. The children had already asked when Ray was coming in to play the piano today, several times. She’d managed to tip-toe around the questioning and then she’d linked her phone to the speaker to play YouTube karaoke versions of the Christmas songs for them to sing along to. But it wasn’t anything like the same.
‘Felix means we need to sing the actual song when Jesus is pushed out of Mary that we haven’t got the actual words for yet!’ Cherry shouted, her hands either side of her mouth.
‘Oh dear,’ Dennis said, doffing his head at Emily. ‘I hope there’s not trouble in Palestine.’
‘That isn’t remotely funny, Dennis,’ Emily snapped. ‘None of this is.’ The enormity of everything was suddenly washing over her like she was standing static in a car wash being pushed and pulled by the heavy rollers, soaked with soapy water that was stinging her eyes. ‘Do you know anyone who can play the piano? Except…’
‘Mr Jarvis is the only pianist I know,’ Dennis interjected. ‘Apart from Jamie Cullum. And I’ve heard he’s a bit of a prima donna.’
‘Ray! Ray!’
That had been the only word Felix had said all morning except ‘carrot’ when Emily had tried to get him to change out of the suit for the ‘everyone in their favourite clothes’ scenes at the end of the play that they’d had to practise first because Lucas had had to go for a dentist appointment.
‘OK, well, I’m working on that song. It’s to the tune of “Shallow”. You all know that one, so we’ll just sing the original words and pretend they’re Christmassy so we practise the timing, and then, when I’ve finished the other words, we can do it again.’ She tapped on her phone to call up YouTube again.
‘But we don’t have very many practices left,’ Makenzie called.
‘My mum and dad have been making videos of me practising at home,’ Frema said. ‘They say I’m going to be one of the only girls who celebrates Christmas and Hanukkah and they’re going to send all the clips and the video of the whole play to all their relatives as a gift.’
