Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  I feel my lips tilt up in a small smile as I click on the link for the Prague Post, which is conveniently in English. The article is about the Colours of Ostrava festival where Alastair played last night. It’s mostly focused on big-name acts, but Alastair gets a mention, with the reviewer calling his performance ‘soulful and memorable.’ I copy and paste the link for Moira and continue scrolling down the page.

  There are several photos of the festival stage with bright purple and yellow lights. I stop on a close-up of Luanna Parker, looking for Alastair in the background, but he’s not there. There are a few other photos of the stage and then they change to close-ups of the musicians back stage. There’s one of Alastair holding a glass of beer, a big grin on his face, which makes me smile. Then I scroll down and see the next one.

  My hand freezes on the track pad. There’s Alastair with the same big smile and glass of beer, but with a woman hanging on his arm looking up at him like he’s made her day, if not her week/month/year. I can’t see her face very well – it’s mostly her profile – but I can see her long blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders and the tiny straps of a halter top that looks awfully low cut, judging by the amount of golden tan skin on display. She’s wearing long dangly beaded earrings and I imagine the rest of her like she’s standing in my living room – cut-off denim shorts that showcase toned legs and flip-flops she picked up for two dollars from a beach store that show off pale pink toenails. Gag. She’s one of those women who’s effortlessly beautiful, I’m sure of it. Because even without seeing her face, the smile on Alastair’s face is confirmation enough.

  I stare at the picture for another ten seconds before making myself scroll on. But two photos later, I’m back to staring at Alastair and Festival Girl. My stomach lurches as my mind tells me not to be ridiculous. I’ve been in this business for a long time. I know exactly what’s happening here. Fans get handsy, especially if someone’s approachable, and I have no doubt Alastair is. Hell, he’s probably happy to be talking to someone besides Luanna Parker or the crew. Based on what he’s told me, it’s a lot of bro time. Talking to a beautiful woman? Why the hell not?

  Judging by the light in the photo, it’s after his set, which would have been early evening. I spoke to him after that – at about nine – and he was flirty and happy, waiting for Theo. Or was it Thea? He was still at the festival, so there was a lot of background noise. I could have easily misunderstood.

  I close my eyes and shut my laptop. I’m making myself crazy for no reason. Before I saw that photo, I had zero reason to doubt Alastair and now my head is full of questions. I know better, and not only because I’ve seen this happen a hundred times before with clients, but because I know Alastair.

  I pick up my phone and text him before I spend any more time second guessing myself. Hey, saw you in the Prague Post. The writer said you’re soulful and memorable. Pretty great.

  I hit send and get up from my sofa, purposely leaving my phone face down on the cushion as I walk to the kitchen. My house isn’t so big that I wouldn’t hear a text come through, but I’m not sure my ringer is on. And then there’s the fact that I run the water to rinse off a peach in the kitchen. I eat it standing over the sink because it’s so juicy I’d end up wearing half of it otherwise, and on the way back I pop into the bathroom. So by the time I make my way back to the living room, it’s been at least ten minutes. More than long enough for Alastair to have texted me back, especially since he’s got a free day in Prague today.

  I pick up my phone and can’t help noticing that my hands are damp. I blame it on washing them in the bathroom, but that doesn’t jibe very well with the fact that my pulse ratchets up like I’m in spin class as I press the on button. Then crashes just as fast when I see the blank screen. Dammit to hell.

  I scroll back through my text history, which isn’t really necessary. It simply confirms what I already know. Alastair is a text-back-within-minutes kind of guy. Every time. Aside from the texts I’ve sent him when I know he’s onstage, he usually replies within five minutes. Or less.

  Dammit. I’m not some insecure teenager here. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman and I’m anxious about my maybe-boyfriend taking too long to text me back? I don’t even recognize myself right now. I toss my phone down on the cushion and throw open the doors to my patio. It’s raining pretty hard, which is the only thing that stops me from stalking out into my yard to get away from my phone. Because even though it’s silent, it’s mocking me.

  When was the last time I gave a guy a second thought? I don’t have to think about it because there’s been no one since Alastair. No one but Alastair.

  I stare at the rain dripping down from the corner of the roof for a long two minutes before picking up my phone again. I scroll to my contacts and type a message to Paula: Do you want to try that cupcake place in Covent Garden? My treat?

  Unlike Alastair, her response is immediate: Maybe. Why?

  I think back to our talk at Hyde Park the other day. I’ve never told anyone about Alastair, but talking about him – talking about us – was a relief. Talking to women who’ve both had their fair share of good and bad relationships was helpful. I’m hesitant to share the real reason behind my invitation – it makes me feel needy and vulnerable – I stab my fingers at the screen anyway and type: Photo of Alastair with gorgeous woman in Prague Post followed by radio silence. Feels like it might call for a chocolate cupcake.

  Paula says: Say no more. Meet you there? I’m still at the office but leaving in ten.

  This time when my heart lurches it’s because it feels like someone’s lifted a rock off of it. Perfect. Thank you!

  Paula: Don’t be silly. That’s what friends are for!

  I fixate on my screen – on that word - until it goes black. Friends. I have one. Better yet I am one, and that’s pretty damn great.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Alastair texts while Paula and I are sitting at a table at Lola’s Cupcakes, a red velvet and a carrot cake cupcake on the table between us. My intention is to glance at the screen and text back later, which I know is a little passive-aggressive, but I’m feeling one thousand times less neurotic since leaving my too-quiet house and taking my too-quiet phone out into the noise of London. But when I glance at the screen, there’s a photo of Alastair and Sarah. In his kitchen.

  “What the hell?” I mumble.

  “What is it?” Paula asks. I turn the phone towards her and she lets out a low laugh. “Is that the other woman?”

  “That’s his daughter who’s not on tour with him.” I furrow my brow as my fingers fly over the screen.

  Me: Are you home?

  Alastair: Yes. The next date has been canceled because floods washed out the venue, so I got a last-minute flight this afternoon back to see Sarah.

  Me: Wow. That’s great. Not about the floods, obviously, but I know you’ve been missing her.

  Alastair: I have. I’ve been missing you, too. Any chance you can come to a charity show at Oxygen tomorrow night? Moira set it up when she found out my gig was canceled.

  “Oh my God, yes!” I say it aloud and type the same thing, then say to Paula, “Alastair’s playing Oxygen tomorrow night. Do you want to go?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course, I want to go,” Paula says with a grin. “My friends in Newcastle used to invite me to gigs sometimes but none of them ever knew the artist.”

  “My job has some perks after all,” I say with a grin. To Alastair I text back: You can stay at my place and we can catch up properly afterwards.

  Paula’s scooted her chair around and is unashamedly reading over my shoulder at this point and says, “Why don’t you write so we can shag all night? That’s what you mean, right?”

  “Shush.” I roll my eyes and look back at my phone as it buzzes in my hand.

  Alastair: I wish I could, but Sarah and my mum are coming. My mum is bringing Sarah back to Fenchurch so I can fly out from London City on Friday morning to be in Budapest this weekend.

  “Oh.” My
lower lip sticks out in a pout because even though Alastair and I weren’t supposed to be seeing each other at all, I crave the feel of his arms around me. Don’t get me started on his mouth.

  Me: Sure, of course. I’ll see you at the show. Let me know time, etc.

  Alastair: Will do. Xx

  Paula and I both stare at my phone for a minute before I set it face down on the table. She speaks first. “So, the good thing is he was obviously traveling when you messaged him earlier.”

  I nod. “I thought that, too.”

  “The bad thing is that you’re going to get to see him, but you’re not going to get to spend any time together.”

  “Yep, I thought that, too. But,” I pause. “I have the benefit of working in this industry for the past twelve years. I’ve seen so many relationships implode because of the time issue and I won’t be one of those people who argues about time and attention when I understand all too well the demands of a tour schedule.”

  Unfortunately, that’s waaaayy easier said than done. When I’m standing backstage at Oxygen the next night – sans Paula because she called me at four saying she had a migraine and needed to go home to lie in a dark room – I feel like I could become one of those people if I’m not careful. Alastair and I Facetimed for a while last night – and yes, there were orgasms involved on both sides – and today I’ve given him a very satisfying hug – and a less satisfying kiss on the lips – but that’s been the whole of our interaction. He’s being pulled in ten different directions – by the sound guy, Moira, Sarah – and I’m not jealous as much as feeling superfluous.

  Brinley sidles up beside me as Alastair takes Sarah off to get her a bottle of water from the small catering spread on the side. “Sarah’s so thrilled to see him. It’s really lovely.”

  “It is, and it’s obviously mutual.” I’ve never seen Alastair smile so much and it gives me all the warm fuzzies to see so much mutual affection between them.

  “You’re looking well. Have you done something different with your hair?”

  “No.” Although it is down in loose waves tonight instead of in its usual ponytail. “I’ve been eating a lot more sugar lately. Maybe that’s it?”

  I mean it as a joke, but Brinley nods. “Well, whatever you’re doing agrees with you.”

  It does. The cupcakes. The volunteering. Hell, I’ve even been back to a spin class. To Brinley I say, “It’s amazing what a little time off can do for your physical and mental health.”

  “I agree.” Brinley smiles a little, but it fades quickly. “I’m worried about the toll all of this is going to take on Al. Writing music for other people has made a nice life for him and he’s turning it on its head with this tour.”

  “This is a huge opportunity for him.” I furrow my brow because it sounds like Brinley is saying this like it’s a bad thing. “If he didn’t want it, he would have sent me packing.”

  “Remi, darling, do you really think he would refuse you? Of all people?” Brinley smiles again, but it doesn’t look genuine.

  “I think he would, yes.” Given that he wouldn’t speak to me at first, I’m positive he wouldn’t be doing this unless he wanted to.

  “Perhaps.” Brinley shrugs without conviction. “But it will become more and more difficult. He’s already juggling you and Sarah, never mind his agent and all of the hangers-on.”

  My head goes back to the photo in Prague. Hangers-on, indeed.

  “Hey. I’m up,” Alastair runs up with Sarah flushed and smiling at his side. “See you after my set.”

  “Break a leg,” I call after him, but he’s already walking out to the stage, his guitar slung over his shoulder and a hand in the air, waving at the crowd.

  “This is so cool,” Sarah says. “Dad says I can come to Leeds and stay on the tour bus with him.”

  “That’s very cool. Have you ever stayed on a tour bus before?” Sarah shakes her head. “Okay, I’ve got to warn you, guard your snacks and bring ear plugs.”

  Sarah giggles. “Dad says everyone snores, so ear plugs are a good idea.”

  “They also get the midnight munchies, hence the snacks.” Granted half the time it’s from getting stoned, but I don’t need to say that to a ten-year-old.

  “Dad said I’ll be in good hands.” Sarah looks up at me. “Are you going to be there?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” The music crescendos with the chorus and Sarah turns her attention to the stage, which is just as well. Because the truth is, Alastair’s not mentioned the Leeds Festival to me, even though it’s the weekend before Bea and Jasper’s wedding.

  I completely understand him prioritizing time with Sarah. Hell, I admire him for it. But Brinley’s words are like a snake wrapping around my brain and I can’t help thinking, it’s starting already. Followed immediately by the second thought, which is far worse. He knew. He knew that this time it would be his career coming between us.

  I feel guilty the second I think it, but as I see Alastair’s wide grin as he takes a bow out on stage, I know I’m not wrong. This is just the beginning of his success. Even though he warned me – even though I helped him get here – I can’t help wishing we’d had a little more time. Because I know more than anyone – success changes everything.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Once the show ends – with a huge finale by all of the artists performing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which is phenomenal and not only because it’s completely unrehearsed - Sarah and Brinley say their goodbyes and head to their hotel. I linger behind to spend a few minutes alone with Alastair. But Moira needs his attention, there’s a fan meet and greet, then there’s some joking around with the sound guy, so by the time Alastair kisses me on the temple and slings an arm around my shoulder, I’m feeling ignored and grouchy.

  “Thanks for sticking around. I’m sorry it’s been so manic,” Alastair says as he steers me towards the stage door.

  “I know how these things go.” I do, but my thoughts from earlier have taken on a life of their own and I can’t stop the words that follow. “But I’m not sure why you wanted me to come.”

  Alastair is clearly taken aback. “I figured since I was in your neighborhood, it would be a nice opportunity for us to spend some time together?”

  “But we haven’t spent time together.” Ugh. I’m ruining the miniscule amount of time we do have. I know I am, but I don’t stop. “I’ve been waiting for you all night for the chance to spend five minutes with you as we walk to your hotel. That’s not spending time together.”

  “I wish we had more time, too, but I was hoping something would be better than nothing.” Alastair’s voice softens. “Apparently not.”

  Maybe it’s the way his tone makes it sound like he’s giving up. Maybe it’s Brinley’s words still echoing in my head. Maybe it’s the irony of the whole situation. My voice is stiff when I say, “That’s funny. I was hoping for the same thing when it was my career that left us with zero time to spend together, and we all know how that turned out.”

  “Wow.” Alastair stops and turns to face me. “Are you really doing this right now?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Is it any different? You’re consumed with work. I’m an afterthought, but somehow I’m supposed to be better than you were because I’ve already been tried by this jury and found guilty as hell.”

  “I was twenty-one.” Alastair says this like it’s an accusation.

  Which doesn’t help. “I’m old enough to know better, and you’re old enough to do better. Yet here we are arguing about something neither one of us can change right now. You’re exploding into the music scene and I’m…well, I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m more imploding than exploding, I suspect. We’ve had a lovely reunion but maybe we should leave the past where it belongs.”

  “That’s what you want?”

  No!

  The word ricochets through my heart like a bullet and hurts just as much. Not that I’ve ever been shot in the heart by a bullet, but I imagine it to be this sudden searing
pain that takes my breath away. I manage to shake my head and when I speak, my voice sounds breathy. “It’s not what I want, but I don’t want this either. Five minutes of your time. Phone sex via Facetime, which is lovely, but not enough for either of us. A perfunctory text after a set. This is why I’ve never dated anyone in the business. Because I know what the business is like and it sucks you dry.”

  “You know that firsthand.” There’s still an edge of accusation to Alastair’s tone, but now he mostly sounds sad.

  “I do. And it’s taken me twelve years to see it for what it is.” I squeeze Alastair’s jacket-clad forearm and then cross my arms back over my chest. “You’re just getting started and I’m so, so happy for you. It’s going to be amazing.”

  Tears prick my eyes and I do the wide-eyed thing, although it doesn’t help as much as it usually does.

  “It’s going to be amazing, but you’re not going have any part in it. That’s what you’re saying.” Alastair’s tone skids back to the hard edge of rebuke. “We weren’t supposed to see each other this month. You asked for time and I gave it to you. Why won’t you give the same to me?”

  “Because I’ve missed you for twelve years, and I’m standing here a foot away from you and I still miss you. I get it. I do. You have a million things in your head. Logistics. Lyrics. Sarah. Schedules. To-do lists.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I don’t want to be another thing on your to-do list.”

  “Once the festival season is over –”

  “Someone else is going to want you as an opening act and you’ll be on another tour and another tour. You might be in London more, but it will be for meetings and you’ll need to keep it brief because you want to spend as much time with Sarah as you can.” I bite my lip. “I’ve seen it a million times.”

  “Not with me.” Alastair shakes his head. “Your years in the business have given you blinders. You don’t see you and me. You see everyone but, and until you see us – see who we are to each other – I can’t change your mind.”