‘I might just go and get dressed,’ she said.
Locked in the bathroom, Netta leaned on the vanity. So much for her boundaries. She tore off her gown and pyjamas and pulled on her favourite jeans and an oversized knit—sleeves scrunched in an attempt to look effortlessly relaxed. She smoothed on some tinted moisturiser and cream blush and thanked her past self for spending $80 on a mani/pedi before she came instead of paying her stupid phone bill on time. The pillar box red she’d chosen popped against the vintage blue denim of her jeans and the pitch black of her jumper. There was something about having her nails painted that made her feel a little more put together—an especially welcome feeling when she was internally unravelling like a dropped stitch.
She surveyed herself in the mirror. Not bad for a two-minute job. She squirted some perfume at the back of her neck and gave her hair a quick brush, letting it fall loose over her shoulders. She stood back from the mirror and nodded a silent affirmation to herself.Internal fortitude, Netta. Be strong.
She followed the scent of coffee up the stairs to the lounge. A terracotta velvet couch was wedged in the corner next to a little kitchenette, and sliding glass doors opened to a big alfresco terrace with comfy outdoor armchairs and a daybed. The view of Portobello Road was postcard perfect and the rooftops of West London stretched to the horizon. Morrison was sitting on the couch, the plated croissants and two coffees on the low table in front of him.
Netta sat down and accepted the cup he offered, avoiding any finger-to-finger contact lest she spontaneously combust. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, taking a sip and reaching for a pastry. ‘Great coffee.’
He smiled tightly and nodded. ‘Little known fact: I used to be a barista when I first came to London. I have the steam scars to prove it.’ He held up his hand and turned it to reveal silvery patches among the inky details of his tattoos.
Netta scraped a croissant crumb from her lip with her top teeth. Even his scars were beautiful.
‘So, what are you planning on doing, now that you’re here?’ he asked, taking the second croissant from the plate. ‘We weren’t sure how long you’d be staying. Rhona booked the room for two weeks, but it’s yours for longer if you need it.’ He took a bite, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he chewed.
‘That’s really kind of you but I don’t think I’ll be staying that long,’ Netta said, dragging her eyes away. ‘Work doesn’t go back until the end of January but I need to move house, so I’d say it’ll be a quick trip.’
He took a mouthful of coffee and leaned back into the couch, holding the cup against his chest. ‘What do you do for work?’
‘I’m a teacher. Grade three.’
His eyes warmed and he smiled, revealing straight white teeth with one tantalisingly crooked incisor. He really was unfairly beautiful. ‘Teaching is such an important job.’
She laughed. ‘I feel like people say that to make us feel better about the fact we’re overworked and the pay’s a bit shit. But I agree with you—it’s really important. It’s just hard to keep the momentum up sometimes. There’s just so much to do,allthe time.’
‘I bet.’ He nodded. ‘But I probably wouldn’t be a musician if it wasn’t for my primary school music teacher. He was a legend. He knew I needed something, so he gave me a guitar.’
Netta smiled awkwardly past a mouthful of pastry.
‘But, sorry,’ he said, ‘you were going to tell me what you have planned for your stay.’
‘Ah, well, to be honest, I haven’t made a lot of plans. I used to live here, a long time ago, and I really didn’t think I’d ever come back. If it wasn’t for your diary, I don’t think I would’ve. But you know, sometimes the universe has other plans, doesn’t it?’ She was rambling again. ‘Things are a bit of a mess at home so I’ll probably check out the Christmas markets, maybe see if some old friends are still around.’ That last part was a lie. She didn’t want to see anyone she’d known back then ever again. The humiliation still smarted and she didn’t want to face their pity or scorn, depending on which version of events they’d believed. Now that she wasn’t trying to get pregnant anymore, Christmas would be spent finding the bottom of a bottle of wine. And that would be just fine.
Morrison cleared his throat. ‘Right, well, I’d better get going.’ He stood and drained his coffee cup, took Netta’s from the table, and popped them both in the sink. ‘It was nice to meet you, Netta,’ he said, ‘and thanks again for returning the diary to me.’ He patted his back pocket and reached out to shake her hand.
As her palm pressed into the warmth of his, a liquid longing flowed from Netta’s fingers to every cell of her body. She’d felt this exact sensation before, at the beginning of every bad-idea relationship she’d ever attempted, starting with the mothership: Mitch. It was potent, and a guaranteed entree to a stonking great main course of regret.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, removing her hand and corralling her idiot hormones. ‘I hope it brings back happy memories.’
He stifled a snort and smiled wryly. ‘Enjoy your time in London. And go nuts with the room service or whatever. It’s on me.’
And with that, Morrison Maplestone left the building.
Chapter Fourteen
MO
Mo slid in behind the steering wheel and threw the diary onto the front passenger seat, yanking the car door shut behind him. He’d done it. He’d collected the damn diary, and it hadn’t killed him. His head was heavy against the headrest and he closed his eyes, drilling his focus down to the ebb and flow of his breath as it settled back into its normal rhythm.
Mo hadn’t dared look at the diary directly yet. Even having it—this morbid relic from his past—back in his possession was overwhelming. It was a symbol of a life he’d tried so hard to forget. Proof that he really had been that little boy once. That it wasn’t all just some horrible, fucked-up dream.
As he drove to the Play On office for the dreaded interview, his mind drifted from the diary to Netta. He believed her that she hadn’t read it. Rhona had been right, she was great. Smart. Down-to-earth. Looked around his age. She’d seemed a little nervous but she hadn’t made it weird like lots of people he met did. And she was gorgeous, in a beautifully natural way. No puffed-up lips or blindingly veneered teeth. In theory, she was exactly the sort of woman he should take to the gala. But Netta wasn’t just an ‘in theory’ ideal woman to help patch up his career. She was real, and the thought of using her, or anyone like her, felt all sorts of wrong. He couldn’t do it.
He focused on the road and did his best to sweep his head clear of the clutter. He just needed to get this bloody interview and photo shoot over and done with so he could go home and disintegrate in peace.
He pulled into the carpark and let himself in through the side door. It was a small office with a modest warehouse space for storing the instruments and preparing them to be delivered. The walls were covered in photos schools had sent in thanks, showing students performing and learning to play. There was one photo in particular—a long-haired kid hunched over an electric guitar—that reminded Mo so much of himself that it shook him a little every time he looked at it. The guitar his teacher had given him had changed his life. He hoped he could do the same for one of these kids.
‘Hey, bro,’ said Mav, popping his head around the warehouse door. His face was a softer version of Mo’s: his skin a little fairer, his jaw rounder, his eyes a gentler shade of blue. ‘You ready for your big moment?’
