Mo groaned. ‘Don’t. You know how much I hate having to do this. This place was never meant to be a publicity opportunity.’
Mav’s cheeky grin softened. ‘I know, man. But I think this is a really good thing. It’ll be good for your rep and it’ll be good for Play On too. Having you officially attached to it might mean donations, and more moolah means we can buy more instruments.’
For the most part, despite being in his thirties, Mav was still an immature kid, but when it came to Play On, he took things very seriously. At first, he’d been out to prove he deserved the job and hadn’t only been employed because he was Mo’s brother. But it had quickly become a genuine passion for him. Visiting the schools and seeing the difference their donations made had given him direction and he’d put a ton of work into planning the expansion. Mo couldn’t let his own flailing career take that away from him.
‘You don’t think having me attached will be bad for the brand?’ said Mo.
‘Nah. You’re a rock star, dude.’ Mav grinned. ‘You can do seedy shit and then do a couple of good things and you’ll be sweet. And you do way more than a couple of good things. You just have to start letting people see them.’
‘I’m not that seedy.’
‘Not as much now that you’re borderline elderly, mate, but there’s still an element of seed … you modelising, pap-pushing, eternal bachelor.’ Mav winked and gave Mo a gentle shove. ‘Come on, the photographer’s set up already.’
Mo followed Mav out to the warehouse, where lights were set up in front of a stool and a fully loaded drum kit, a trio of guitars and a selection of woodwind instruments.
‘Mo, this is Dillon,’ said Mav, introducing him to a young guy clutching a notepad. ‘He’ll be interviewing us about Play On and—’ A woman with vivid pink hair piled on top of her head emerged from behind the white backdrop. ‘Trina here will be taking your photo. God knows how she’s going to make you look even halfway palatable, you ugly git.’
‘Hi!’ Trina grinned and held out her hand and Mo shook it in a daze, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. Trina’s hair felt like a spectacularly timedfuck youfrom the universe so soon after being reunited with the diary. His mum’s hair had been the exact same shade.
Mo shook the image of his mother away. He faked a smile and nodded hello to Trina and Dillon, trying hard to anchor himself in the present and not get submerged by the memory of his mum.
‘Right, Mo, let’s get you on the stool,’ said Trina. ‘Are you wanting to leave the beanie on?’
She snapped away, Mo in various positions and poses: wandering through the warehouse; with and without Mav. Mo did his best to look as enthusiastic as possible despite the sickening nostalgia sitting in his gut. Dillon asked all the right questions and, surprisingly, Mo actually enjoyed talking about the great work Play On did and his big plans for its future. It felt good to own it.
‘You okay, man?’ asked Mav once Trina and Dillon had left. ‘You seemed nervous.’
‘Trina—she reminded me of Mum. Threw me a bit, that’s all,’ said Mo. ‘I think it went okay, though. You’re doing an amazing job here, Mav. I’m so lucky to have you running the show. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure my shit doesn’t ruin the expansion plans.’
Mav pulled his brother into a rough hug. He’d been there through every second of Mo’s rise and descent; he got it more than anyone else did. ‘It’s all going to work out, Mo,’ he said. ‘The new album will be a smash and you’ll be back on top of the world before you know it.’
Mo drove home with the stereo off, marinating in the memories that had assailed him during the shoot. It had been his mum’s pink hair he’d been searching for the day before she died as he’d stood on the stage in front of the whole school at assembly, eleven years old, hugging his guitar to quell the nervous shakes. He’d searched the audience, not wanting to start until he found her. She’d promised him she’d be there. But there’d been no pink heads, and eventually, as the prep kids had started to get fidgety, Mr Hammond, the music teacher, had said the show would have to go on. Mo had performed his solo perfectly and the principal had slapped him on the back and told him that he ‘really had something there, son’ and everyone had clapped and cheered, but it had felt like nothing without his mum there. He’d wanted to show her how good he was, for her to be proud of him, saying to people ‘That’s my son!’ He’d wanted her to hear everyone clapping for him. He’d wanted her tocare.
Mo shook his head to release the memory. Dust. It was all just dust now. And so was she.
Chapter Fifteen
NETTA
Netta stared up at the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. Seeing it again somehow made being back in London real. This wasn’t some crazy dream she might wake up from at any second. After Morrison had left, she’d decided to rip the band aid off and get out of the hotel. The park was only a short walk away and had seemed a safer place to begin her reintroduction to London than the hubbub of Portobello Market. It had been one of her favourite spots to escape to when she’d lived here—a serenely ordered oasis in the middle of the city’s hustle and bustle. But today, as she chatted to Freya on the phone, it felt less serene and more sinister, like the trees might be watching her and anyone walking past might recognise her as Annie the Nanny. The Long Water was as grey as the sky and the cold breeze swept a shiver through the bare oak and chestnut trees. She pulled her coat around her body with one hand and pressed the phone to her ear with the other.
‘IwishI was kidding, Freya,’ she said, choosing a path to follow. ‘I looked like a cadaver, except jetlagged as well as dead, so probably even a bit worse than your average corpse.’
‘Okay, so you looked like shit, got it,’ said Freya impatiently. ‘But tell me again about the part where you opened the door and Morrison Maplestone was standing there holding up a bag of croissants. Was it the best moment of your entire life? Because I can tell you right now, it’s up in my top five and I wasn’t even there.’
Netta laughed. ‘I mean, when you put it like that, yeah—it was pretty amazing. And he’ssogorgeous, Freya. Even better in real life, if you can believe it. Plus he makes a mean coffee.’
There was a moment of reverential silence as Freya digested this irresistible detail. ‘Was he …’ Freya hesitated, as though frightened of what the answer might be. ‘Was he a secret shortarse?’
‘No! He’s tall. Tallish, anyway. I reckon I was up to his shoulder.’
‘Did you check for sneaky platform shoes?’
‘Converse. Flat as a tack.’
Freya’s sigh conveyed her relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘I felt exactly the same,’ said Netta, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Height is hands-down the single most important asset a man can possess.’
