It was perfect. Too perfect. Half of me wanted to meld with him. The other half flinched away.
‘Look, I don’t play around,’ he said gently. ‘I know you think I do, but I’m not Connor. Not even close.’ His fingers rested against my skin. His lips drew closer. ‘I’ll tell her soon. It’s not fair on her to let her keep thinking we’re still happening, when …’
That ‘when’ was infinite. His fingertips were sending a constant stream of electricity down to my ankles. I wasn’t sure how long I could take it.
And all the time, his lips were getting closer.
I pulled away. He looked surprised.
‘What’s the problem?’
Life is so easy when you’re a rock star. One minute the papers were talking about his wedding to Sigrid. The next, he was here, with me. There were so many problems I hardly knew where to start.
‘You hardly know me,’ I said.
‘I do. Test me.’
‘OK. When’s my birthday?’
He sighed, frustrated. Nul points, rock star. Then he took my face in his hands. ‘I know you have a curious sense of style. You hate the limelight and you get that it’s just a distraction. You can grow tomatoes, and fix an engine, which is more sexy than you know, and quote from my favourite books, and sing from my favourite tracks. You treat Angus like a naughty schoolboy …’
‘He can be very annoying.’
‘He can indeed. You’re best friends with a whippet. I think you love me. You’re the opposite of Sigrid. She’s all show. I watch you all the time and I’m still just starting to get you.’
‘Stop!’ I murmured, putting my hands on his chest to push him away.
I had no idea he felt this way. It was easier when I thought he was just idly flirting. But this wasn’t flirting. This was … more. Too much was going on inside me. Too much.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, for a second time.
I dropped my hands (with difficulty – it felt so good to touch him, even to push him away), and tried again. ‘Look,’ I said, indicating the empty grounds beyond the rain-washed folly window.
He did. ‘I don’t see anything.’
‘Exactly. Right now, I’m practically the only person here. But when we leave, you’ll be surrounded by women, throwing themselves at you. I’ll be a passing line in your biography. But me ... when I fall for someone, it’s like falling off a precipice.’
He frowned at me.
‘You think I have passing lines in my biography?’
‘Yes,’ I muttered. I’d have thought this was obvious. Didn’t he?
‘You think I don’t fall off a precipice?’ He looked hurt. ‘Why do girls always think boys’ hearts don’t get broken? Don’t we write enough love songs?’
‘You do,’ I admitted. I thought back to that night in New York. ‘But in a month you won’t even remember my name, I promise. And that’s OK. As long as I don’t … this.’
Whatever it was he wanted right now. The thing that would break my heart one day. And from a greater height, and with more damage than Jez could ever have dreamt of.
‘Just making sure here …’ he said, frowning. ‘You think I just fell for you because you’re the last girl in the world. Effectively.’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’ Finally, he’d understood.
‘You think so little of me?’ He looked positively wounded.
I was about to tell him that no, it was me I thought so little of, but then I realized that wasn’t true. I knew I could be a great girlfriend for someone – passionate, fascinating, loyal. I just didn’t think a boy like him would ever really notice.
But maybe he had. His eyes caught mine and wouldn’t let me look away.
‘So you admit that this is happening, at least?’
I nodded dumbly. He didn’t exactly have to ask.
He took two steps towards me again, and the backs of his fingers hovered over my tattoo, almost touching it but not quite. ‘I wish you’d trust me. I could make you feel so happy, Nina, if you’d let me. Can I kiss you? Because my kisses are pretty persuasive, I’m told.’
I suppressed a shiver.
‘I’m sure they are. That’s not the problem. That’s so not the problem.’
‘So what do we do?’ He was close, but no part of our skin was touching, and I was acutely aware of this. I knew the heat of it, the smell of it. My skin was obsessed with his skin.
‘Stand on the edge of the precipice, I guess.’
‘Until …?’
I tried to think. ‘Until you’re not super-famous. And engaged. For a start.’
‘OK. I think I’m stuck with the fame part, but I’ll see what I can do about the rest,’ he said gently, stroking my hair and staring deep into my eyes. ‘Meanwhile, if you change your mind, let me know.’
I swallowed. He took it as a ‘yes’.
‘Good.’ He dipped his head again, teasing me with how close his lips were, then turned away.
The urge to change my mind right there was almost irresistible. But I knew what it was like when my heart smashed on the rocks, and it wasn’t pretty. Avoiding that was worth giving up the feeling I’d get if he met my lips with his this minute.
Possibly.
I watch as he saunters back towards the house.
I have just turned down a kiss with Jamie Maldon.
My body thinks I’m crazy. I need to go to a darkened room and lie down.
Jamie’s next song was called ‘Falling Over the Edge’. There was even a line in it about a girl being ‘a footnote in your bio’. This album was turning into a diary. It made me wonder how I’d feel when they came to share it with the world. It was so private to me, so personal. Just like the figures that I was trying to capture on my mural – the combination of concentration and joy that made them more fascinating, to me, than their fans would ever know.
In the four days that followed, they finished four new songs. Ed agreed that they were ready. They invited Windy up to the Hall to hear how they were getting on.
Meanwhile, what was happening with me and Jamie was twisted and bittersweet. It was out in the open now. Not passion, but close. Not falling, but nearly. Teasing, joking. Watching him borrow my jackets and wear them. The scent of his body on them when he gave them back. Pretending not to notice the longing in his voice as he whispered goodnight and traced his initial on my skin with his toughened fingertips.
We talked about stupid things. We made up a fantasy life, where we owned Heatherwick Hall and restored it to its former glory. I became a famous painter and he made cheese. Declan married us in a chapel in Las Vegas. Angus was godfather to our twelve adorable children. We were the only real people, and everyone else was an avatar.
We didn’t touch. We didn’t touch. We wanted to.
It was a mutual obsession and I cursed Rory Windermere because of it. But at least there was the music. Making songs was Jamie’s distraction. Listening to them while I painted was mine.
Issy returned from Scotland the day after Ed made the call to Windy. Angus’s delight on seeing her was infectious.
‘A party!’ he suddenly announced. ‘We must celebrate your arrival properly. Another feast. We’re good at them.’
‘Oh, good, so am I!’ she grinned. ‘I’m a veggie, though. Will that be a problem?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, heading for the kitchen with the others in tow.
Issy and I stood in the doorway and laughed as the boys serenaded Orli in four-part harmony, begging her to create a vegetarian masterpiece.
She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.
‘It’s just gone two. In – what? – six hours, you want me to summon up my finest cooking, with no notice, no decent shops for miles, no help to speak of. On a Saturday? In Northumberland?’
She tried to look annoyed, but it was obvious she was enjoying herself. When the boys asked for cheese on toast for lunch, she always looked depressed. This was much more her style.
‘Well, scram, in that case, all of you. You too, Nin
a. I’m sure you’ve got things to do. Dinner will be at eight. Now leave me alone so I can get on with it.’
Angus spent the afternoon teaching Issy how to play chords on his guitar. This involved him sitting very close behind her, moving her fingers up and down the frets. Neither of them was put off by the rest of us laughing. It was clear proper songwriting was over for the day, so we set about getting the house ready for the party.
‘We’re dressing for dinner, I assume?’ Issy asked, as she watched Jamie and me put the finishing touches to the dining room, hanging fairy lights around the stag’s head antlers, to make up for the fact that most of the wall lights were broken.
‘Of course,’ Angus said, as if we’d all stepped from a story-line in Downton Abbey.
We all went our separate ways to get ready. The plumbing at Heatherwick Hall couldn’t begin to cope with six people bathing at the same time (the Otterburys didn’t seem to have heard of showers), so we went back and forth with kettles of hot water, cursing loudly to each other as we passed.
Later, Issy took me up to the Charity and Chuck room, and begged me to choose something from the rack of expensive-looking clothes that I’d ignored up to now.
‘You’ve got to dress up properly,’ she insisted. ‘Auntie Ven would be so disappointed if you didn’t. Honestly, she’s a stickler for correct procedure.’
I tried on a dark green vintage satin dress, with a deep V neck and spaghetti straps that crossed over my back. I’d never shown this much cleavage before. My tattoo was fully on display.
‘You look stunning,’ Issy said. ‘This is the dress for you, Nina. I won’t let you wear anything else.’
Later, we both stared at my reflection in the long cheval mirror in the master bedroom with its four-poster bed and tattered silk hangings, which she had commandeered for the purpose of getting ready. The dress puddled on the floor because I was wearing it with bare feet. None of Auntie Ven’s shoes would fit me, and I didn’t think wellies, slippers or trainers would do for a night like this. Even so, I looked amazing. At least, I thought so. Smoky eyes – as trained by Tammy. Clear skin, from all the good food and fresh air. A general aura of happiness.
Issy played with my hair. ‘You should wear it up, I think. Like this.’ She twisted it into a loose knot at the nape of my neck and fixed it expertly with a pencil. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll find a clip in a minute.’ Then she teased out tendrils to frame my face.
For herself, she’d picked a red silk Chinese cheong-sam that hugged her whippet-thin dancer’s body.
‘Angus likes me, don’t you think?’ she asked, adding a matching slick of red lipstick from her handbag, and checking herself out in the mirror too.
‘Yeah,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I think he likes you.’
‘Good.’ She nodded quietly to herself, satisfied. ‘I’d hate for you and Jamie to have all the fun.’
I didn’t correct her. I didn’t want to. She was the only person, apart from Orli, Ed and Sam, who would ever see us this way.
When we were ready, we descended the stairs carefully, me in my too-long dress, her in her tight cheongsam. The boys were waiting in the drawing room. They’d clearly spent longer on their hair than we had on ours. They wore elegant evening trousers, T-shirts, and a variety of military waistcoats and jackets that they’d found around the house. They looked like exotic creatures from another age. Punk rockers dressed up for a ball.
Holy Moly, as Issy would say.
Four pairs of eyes turned to us. The effect was almost comic. Four pairs of eyes were saying Holy Moly back.
OK. So this felt good. It wasn’t my normal style, but I must remember to do the spaghetti-strap thing again.
Angus took charge of the record player and we danced to The Cure and Velvet Underground, Talking Heads and David Bowie. We were all serious movers, getting into the rhythm, not caring what anyone else saw or thought. Issy was perhaps the best of us all, throwing her body into weird and twisted shapes, totally unselfconscious. She closed her eyes as she waved her arms above her head, undulating like a swimmer descending through the waves. Angus was transfixed by her. But whenever I looked at Jamie, he was watching me.
After half a dozen songs, Orli announced that dinner was ready. The dining room was already aglow with candlelight and paper lanterns. She brought in dish after dish. Soup, risotto, a tomato tart that looked unbelievably simple and was the most delicious, flavour-packed thing I’d ever eaten, and plates of glossy, jewel-like chargrilled vegetables. A mushroom and spinach concoction had Issy literally dancing on the table in appreciation – and climbing up there in a skin-tight dress wasn’t easy, although the boys all seemed to enjoy watching her try.
Later Issy told us about the house. How the Fluttering Room (she called it ‘Aunt Charlotte’s room’) was created by a long-dead cousin who was sent to the Hall for its fresh air while she recovered from tuberculosis.
‘She got well enough to have an affair with one of the gardeners,’ Issy said, ‘but when it was discovered, he was sacked. They found him later, drowned in the lake. She locked herself in the bedroom for years, and papered it with love poetry. Can you imagine?’
‘Yeah,’ Angus murmured. This was exactly his kind of story.
‘Nobody dared go in the room after she died,’ Issy went on, her voice deep with drama. ‘They felt too guilty about what happened. But as I say, my family is mad. It has dark secrets. We’re good at keeping them.’
She told us about the priest hole, too, created in Elizabethan times at the back of a bedroom fireplace.
‘Two priests were hidden there after the Gunpowder Plot. Both found. Both tortured to death on the rack. I say, I’m telling you the most awful stories. Tell me about you.’
She rested her chin on her hands and stared into Angus’s eyes. So the boys told stories about touring. Not the late, crazy days, but the first tour, when The Point went around America in two vans and nobody could sleep because Angus farted through the night, and in one town only five people showed up to watch them play because the flyers all gave the wrong date, and how they nearly died on hair-raising roads, driving through snow and ice to make a gig in Seattle.
Their eyes glittered in the candlelight. They told her about the first time Windy got their song played on local radio in Chicago, and how the next day they couldn’t fit the crowd inside the club they were playing. That was the first time there was nearly a riot.
Jamie’s face lit up when he talked about his old life. It had got out of control, with all the endless interviews and paparazzi chasing them like a pack, but the music, the fans, the connection … it was what made him who he was. He needed the gigs, but he would have died in Hollywood. Sigrid would have made him so unhappy.
He was sitting opposite me at the table. Underneath it, his shoe brushed against my bare foot. As he talked, his gaze descended to my spaghetti straps, paused on my tattoo, and raised itself again to catch my eye. Each time, that smile caught mine.
‘Weren’t you engaged to someone?’ Issy asked at one point, as if a dim memory had just resurfaced. ‘An actress?’
‘I was,’ he said, without taking his eyes off me. ‘Once.’
Then he changed the subject and went back to talking about the band.
After the meal, we went back to the drawing room, where the fire burned with a steady glow and Orli had thoughtfully laid out coffee on a silver tray.
As they’d so often done before, the boys drifted in with guitars. They played a couple of songs, but unlike me, Issy wasn’t the kind of girl to sit back and listen to other people. She soon challenged anyone who was interested to a game of snooker across the hall.
Angus and Connor got up to join her. Declan seemed undecided. Then he looked at Jamie and me sitting close to the fire, Jamie with his guitar resting on his lap, me with Twiggy’s sleeping head on mine. We didn’t seem to be moving. Tonight, Declan was a gentleman. He decided to leave us alone.
Jamie was still staring at me intently, like he want
ed to map me and explore me. It made me feel dizzy. And it wasn’t just the firelight that was making me hot. He shifted his body closer to mine. The smell of the fire smoke on him, mixed with the woody scent of his aftershave, filled my senses to bursting point.
‘I didn’t know you could …’ He faltered and stopped.
‘What?’
‘… look like that.’
‘Oh, great. You say the nicest things.’
His lips curled into a smile. ‘You know what I mean, Nina. I love the way you look. But tonight … I just …’
He reached out a hand to touch me. Every cell of my body tensed in anticipation.
‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ I admitted, secretly awarding myself the prize for understatement of the century. I wasn’t sure how any of my synapses were still managing to function.
‘We won’t be here much longer,’ he said. ‘Afterwards, when it all goes crazy again, promise me you’ll …’
He seemed to lose his train of thought as his fingers inched further towards me.
Three … two … one …
The door was flung open with a flourish. A sudden gust of air caused the fire to cower and crackle. Issy stood there, gazing down at us imperiously.
‘Come on, lovebirds. Enough of that. Those boys are terrible at snooker. I can’t bear to watch them any longer. We’re going to play a game I used to play with my cousins at Christmas. We called it anchovies when we were little, but it’s sardines really. You know how to play? Angus has gone to hide. Whoever finds him hides with him. The last person to find everyone has to swim in the lake tomorrow, and I assure you it’s freezing, even in summer. One rule: no lights.’
I knew the game. At least, I’d heard of it, but you can’t really play it in a small house in Croydon when the biggest cupboard is the size of a washing machine. In my house, it would last about thirty seconds. In this place … it could last days. Now I understood why Issy was standing there with that smile on her face. She was absolutely the sort of person who would love hiding in the dark.
Jamie sighed, but he was not the kind of person to avoid a game. And besides, we both knew Issy wouldn’t let us.
Love Song Page 22
