Call Me, Maybe

by Call Me, Maybe (retail) (epub)

  ‘Mostly?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, you know what it’s like when there’s wine involved.’

  ‘Jesus, if this wasn’t so exciting I’d be annoyed that you’ve kept it from me.’

  ‘I just… wanted to keep it for me, Rach, that’s all. It wasn't anything calculated.’

  ‘Lord, can you imagine if you’d known about this happening when we were sixteen? Like, if we’d been able to look into the future and seen that somehow, someday, you’d be chatting up Jesse Franklin over the internet and then he’d travel all this way to shag you.’

  ‘That's not what’s happened here,’ I protest, but she shakes her head slowly and stares off into space and I have to admit she’s right; back then I’d have just about died over this.

  ‘Now, how is that Dutch courage working out for you?’ she asks.

  I nod. It’s working out just fine.

  Before I know it, six thirty has rolled around and I am definitely beginning to feel the effects of the wine. I’ve been to the loo twice and both times I have pouted in the mirror, scrunched my hair, and readjusted my bra. I am gorgeous, really, I am. My bum is magnificent in these jeans. My boobs are exceptional in this bra. The Venus de Milo would be well jel. Rachel and I walk arm in arm back to the tube station.

  ‘Call me the minute you get home,’ she demands, ‘I want details. Unless it’s really really late, in which case, call me tomorrow morning!’

  ‘I will,’ I promise. ‘Be prepared for the mother of all debriefs.’

  ‘I think you really ought to be the one preparing for a debrief.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘God, you’re so jammy. You’re going out on a date with a hot rock star and I get to go home to George.’

  ‘I’m not even sorry,’ I tell her.

  She shoos me off through the barriers. ‘Off with you. Have a great time. Don’t get pregnant. Make him put something on the end of it. Text me updates if you can, but only if it’s not obvious. So maybe when he’s paying for drinks or has nipped off to buy condoms from a machine in the gents.’

  The journey to the hotel feels like it’s going to last forever. My heart pounds the entire time, and I begin to feel sicker and sicker with each passing station. By the time I’ve changed trains and we eventually arrive at Southwark I can barely cope. Outside, the evening is balmy. Traffic is backed up along the road; cars and taxis and buses full of people who look like they’d rather be anywhere else. A cyclist who looks so happy to be out riding in the sun reminds me of the way dogs poke their heads out of car windows.

  I don’t blame him for looking so pleased, because summer in London is the best. Long, hazy evenings, finally giving way to heady darkness, illuminating city lights that make the place seem almost magical. I walk up the road towards the Thames, and then the hotel is on the next block on my left; glass-fronted, with an enormous chandelier and a gold velvet chaise longue in the lobby. There are a couple of people milling about, but on the whole it’s fairly empty and I can’t decide if that’s a good thing (little chance of being interrupted), or not (bar staff who listen to conversations, and then smirk like you’re now staff room gossip fodder when you catch them). I look at my watch – five minutes to seven. Perfect. I push open the door and my heels click-clack noisily over the shiny floor all the way to the front desk. The concierge looks up and smiles and suddenly I feel remarkably self-conscious.

  ‘I’m here to meet –’ I stop abruptly, momentarily annoyed with myself. I’ve planned every single moment of how I’m going to be this evening, apart from, apparently, this one. What is he to me? I clear my throat and carry on, ‘my friend.’

  ‘And is your friend a guest with us?’ She cocks her head to one side and stares.

  ‘He is,’ I say. I stare back. Look, lady, I want to say, this isn’t some kind of Pretty Woman scenario. Girls meet boys at hotels all the time, don’t they? I mean, I haven’t before today, but that doesn’t mean anything.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to need a name and a room number.’

  ‘It’s Jesse Franklin,’ I say, and saying his name to the person who is about to connect us makes him more real than ever. ‘Room 508.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Jesse

  The phone in my room rings just before seven, and I mute the TV before I answer it.

  ‘I have a lady at the front desk. Says you’re expecting her. Her name’s Cassie.’

  ‘Awesome. Yes. Can you tell her I’ll be right down.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Hey, if she waits in the bar can she charge a drink to my room?’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’

  ‘Great, thank you.’

  The line cuts and this is it. I kick my bag under the desk, shut down my laptop, lock my passport in the room safe and give myself a final once-over before leaving.

  There are exactly three people sitting in the bar; an older couple, and a woman who is unmistakably Hot British Cassie. I scan the room quickly, just to make sure no one is lurking, because apparently my insane concerns from earlier haven’t quite dissipated. In any case, there she is, the cute blonde from Facebook, and suddenly she’s not just a few photos and some typed out messages anymore, she’s tangible and very, very real. She’s perched on a bar stool with a glass of white wine on the bar next to her. She’s zipping up her purse and after she places it, carefully, on a hook under the bar, she looks up slowly and stares at me. For a second or two she just stares at me, and then she blinks a couple of times and her face breaks into a smile, wide and pretty. She fidgets in her seat as I weave through the empty tables towards her.

  ‘Cassie?’ I ask, even though I know it’s her. She’s smiling with her eyes again, gray-blue, and clear, framed tonight with heavy make-up.

  ‘Jesse,’ she says, and she’s smiling at me so wide that the corners of her eyes are slightly crinkled. ‘Hi.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Cassie

  Oh god, he’s only absolutely flipping gorgeous isn’t he? Hotter even than in the photos, and I’m the emoji with the hearts for eyes. He’s taller than I remember, too, with quite long, Pantene-shiny dark hair and a strong stubble game. He’s wearing a faded blue and white checked shirt, with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a white t-shirt, and charcoal grey skinny jeans with low top Converse, and I like it more than I thought possible. All of it, right down to the knotted bracelets on his wrists and the grubby laces on his shoes. Suddenly my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool and I can’t shake the feeling that something in the world has shifted fundamentally; as if sitting here at this bar, on this evening, is the very first moment of something life-altering and enormous. Suddenly time doesn’t feel quite so linear.

  ‘Cassie?’ he says. His voice is deep and American and drawly. Him saying my name is the single most amazing thing I’ve ever heard. His eyes are brown with green flecks in them.

  ‘Jesse,’ I say, and I know I’m beaming. ‘Hi.’

  He stands in front of me for a few seconds, and we just look at each other as time slows right down and the whole room sort of mutes. And then, as if he remembers what to do next, he leans in and slings his arm around my shoulders in a quick hug and I swear I can feel a crackle of electricity surging through me. I am tingling everywhere he’s touched me. Sound cranks back up again. Time returns to normal. I pat his back and as we pull away from each other I run my hands down his arms.

  ‘You made it,’ he says, pulling up another bar stool and waving the bartender over and ordering himself a beer. We are sitting so close our knees touch. Black denim against grey. Neither of us move away.

  ‘I did,’ I say. ‘So did you. How mad is this?’ But also, I want to add, how rad is this?

  He runs a hand through his hair and rests it on the back of his neck whilst he looks around the bar, and that little movement does something to me. I crumple a little. In fact, I crumple a lot. I have turned to mush. Inside, I am wet, mulchy papier-mâché, and I have to work hard to keep it together and not whimper. I sip
my wine and force myself to look away.

  ‘Yeah, crazy, huh? When I heard the other guy dropped out I figured why not? I could do with the vacation.’

  Playing two gigs and here for less than a week. Some vacay.

  His drink arrives and we clink our glasses and both take long sips. How is us being here having a drink together like this even remotely possible?

  ‘So, how was your gig?’ I ask. ‘Who were the band? You never told me.’

  ‘Some girl band who call themselves Kitten Tricks,’ he says.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Kitten Tricks. They’re huge here but it’s like he’s never heard of them. It’s funny.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, but they’re only the hottest girl band here right now.’

  ‘Yeah, it was a sell-out show, so I gathered they weren’t exactly unheard of. But they are back home. I mean, after I got the call my sister-in-law and I had to do some research. And I haven’t done anything on that scale for years. It was cool, though, you know?’

  Not having ever played so much as a recorder on stage, I don’t actually, but I nod like I do and he carries on, ‘I’ve done sessions for so long, it made a nice change.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ I say. He gazes at me intently and I begin to feel a little self-conscious.

  ‘You’re staring at me,’ I say, pushing my hair out of my face.

  ‘I was trying to figure out if I recognize you, other than from off the internet. Since… well, you know, the Franko thing.’

  ‘And do you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Because, technically,’ I hold up my index finger to reiterate the point. ‘Technically this is not the first time we’ve met.’

  Sweet days, Cassie, what the bloody hell are you doing? He knows I liked Franko, but coming across as a mega-fan who never grew up is definitely not cool. Rachel would shake me if she saw this. I’d be hauled off to the ladies for stern words.

  He laughs. ‘I did wonder, hence trying to place you.’

  ‘I mean, I didn’t expect that you would be able to. It was years ago. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. And you must have met loads of girls every day. What with being famous and everything.’

  God, first hint of a moment’s silence and I’m running my mouth like there’s a gun to my temple. I’d be a shit spy.

  He looks into his glass, and I think I see his cheeks colour a little.

  ‘Ha, well, there were a few, that’s true enough.’

  But none of them are sitting here now, I think, smugly. Sucks to be them.

  ‘I did get backstage once though.’

  ‘You did? No shit! How did you manage that?’

  He really doesn’t remember. Not even a little bit. We’d had a chat and I’d sat next to him and turned my body towards him and Travis took a photo. It was so important to me, and he doesn’t remember at all. A hairline crack appears in my stupid, irrational heart.

  ‘Erm, I don’t think the security guard gave much of a shit. He just let us through. Probably his last day.’ I shrug in what I hope is a cute and whimsical sort of way and sip more of my wine. Jesse laughs.

  ‘And did it live up to your expectations?’

  I giggle, ‘It made my life. Up to that point at least. So, do you get recognised a lot?’

  He ponders this for a moment. Wrinkles up his nose. Wraps his hand around his glass, disturbing the condensation.

  ‘Literally never. It actually hasn’t happened in years. I mean, outside the industry. And even then, bands starting out now don’t have a clue about Franko… But I like it that way. I like being able to come and go and not have to worry about disguising myself or watching for cameras when I need to run errands. I like normality, always did.’

  ‘Oh, yeah that makes sense,’ I agree.

  ‘I have to tell you, it made me laugh when you asked about me using a different name to check in here,’ he continues, chuckling.

  ‘Well, what do I know about all that?’ I ask, slightly embarrassed. Now that we’re here, it seems so obvious. I’m laughing, but I know I’m blushing a little. He brushes his index finger down my forearm, absentmindedly, as if touching me that way is a normal interaction between the two of us. As if it happens all the time. I stare at the trail of goosebumps on my skin and wonder if he’s noticed.

  ‘I’m just kidding, Cassie,’ he smiles.

  ‘So, I have a little confession to make,’ I say.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He looks a bit worried about what I might be about to say.

  ‘I didn’t realise until this morning that I hadn’t replied to you about this.’

  ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t think of anything coherent to say when I got your message about coming here, so I thought I’d sleep on it, and then I guess I’d forgotten I hadn’t replied.’

  ‘I kinda thought you’d decided not to,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, God, no! No way!’

  ‘Well, I’m glad about that. I feel like this trip is immeasurably better for it.’ And then, before I can reply, or process what he’s just said, he adds, ‘hey, are you hungry?’

  ‘Maybe. What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m going to do nothing to challenge the American stereotype here, but I could really, and I mean really, murder a burger.’ He grins at me again. It’s glorious. Heartbreaking. And somehow breaks any remaining ice there might have been. Melts it away. A burger. Probably with fries. Nothing fancy or starry about a burger at all. Hell, I could probably go for a burger. He picks up a sticky, dogeared menu from the bar and scans down it. ‘Do you want to stay here, or…’

  I look around. There’s still only us and that one other couple. ‘We should definitely go somewhere else,’ I say, getting a flash of inspiration. ‘In fact, it’s your lucky day. I know exactly where to go, and it’s just over the river from here. Fattest burgers ever, with pretty much whatever you like stuffed in there. Even mozzarella sticks. We should probably go soon if we want a table though.’

  ‘Sounds awesome. We’ll go right after we’re done with these,’ he says, nodding at our drinks.

  The air is cooler when we leave. We walk slowly across the bridge to the north bank of the river, dodging a taxi as we cross the road, and cut down an alley which opens out into a wider road lined with restaurants and quirky independent shops. It’s pretty. Festoon lights hang from trees, illuminating the street, and little groups of people are dotted outside pubs, their drinks in hand. I’ve taken us on foot partly because London is perfect at this time of year, and I want to show it off, but mainly because of the way it feels to be with him. We walk closely, and sometimes his rolled up shirt sleeve brushes against my arm. Sometimes the way we look at each other, and the things we say to each other, are flirty. Sometimes, when we touch, our reactions are slightly awkward, and I don’t want to forget a second of it.

  At the far end of the street is the restaurant and he holds the door open for me. How nice, I think. How chivalrous. How nicely brought up. Mum would love him. We’re seated by a window looking out on to the street. The place is dimly lit with framed vintage posters hanging on exposed brick walls, and mismatched tables and chairs. Tiffany lamps hang low from the ceiling giving off a cosy glow. They serve remarkably strong frozen margaritas from a slush ice machine. I’m on my second before the food arrives, alternating between that and water because the edges of everything are becoming a little frilly.

  ‘Is this not the most insane burger ever?’ I say, between bites, amazed I'm able to eat anything at all. A splodge of burger sauce dribbles down my finger and I wipe it off on a napkin, and stuff a chip in my mouth. Mum would be horrified.

  ‘Definitely. Way better than dinner last night. This burger…’ he holds it up for me to see. Melted cheese oozes out between the meat and the bun. A slice of pickle threatens to fall out on to his plate. ‘…is incredible. Everything here is incredible.’

  ‘Everything, hmm?’
I say, without even attempting to stop myself. He looks at me and then away again. He blinks and the way his eyelashes close and open again remind me of butterfly wings. When he looks back the hairs on my neck stand up and I can’t think of any other time that someone has had this effect on me. ‘What was dinner last night?’ I ask, and my voice is hoarse.

  ‘Room service at two in the morning,’ he says, and we don’t break eye contact. In my peripheral vision I see him move his free hand a fraction towards mine, but he stops himself and for a second I wonder if he’d meant to take it. I want him to. I wouldn’t pull it away.

  ‘Can I get you guys anything else?’ The voice is chirpy and cheerful. Our waitress is beaming down at us with an electronic tablet in her hand. Girl! Read the room. Can’t you see I’m trying to make this deeply beautiful man fall in love with me? Can’t you tell I’m wooing him with burgers and eyelash flutters? Are you aware you ruined A Moment?

  ‘Not for me,’ I say, pulling another napkin out of the chrome holder and dabbing my mouth. Jesse shakes his head. Now things are quieter between us, like our momentum is slowing. Like neither of us knows what to say next. I watch a group of people drinking beer outside a pub across the road.

  ‘Hey, it’s such a nice evening,’ he says, when we’ve finished. ‘Do you feel like taking a walk?’

  ‘Love to,’ I reply.

  We head back the way we came, but turn right at the bridge and veer off along the Thames embankment for a while, past an Olympics-themed shindig on a party boat. Across the water, the lights of the Oxo Tower and the South Bank light up the skyline. Further down the river, the London Eye trundles slowly around, the pods lit up bright blue.

  ‘So,’ I say, nudging his arm as we stroll along, ‘how’s London working out for you so far? Glad you came? Think you might come back?’

  He stops suddenly, leaving me walking ahead, but grabs hold of my arm, and I pivot around on my heels until I’m facing him. My huge handbag swings into his legs. He steadies me, and we are close now. So close. My heart is in my mouth; it’s beating in my ears. I can hear my own blood. And I can’t look at him in case he can see exactly how suddenly scared I am.