‘You can be as politically correct as you want, Netta Phillips. When you’re a giraffe like me,’ Freya said, referring to her almost six-foot frame, ‘heightisimportant. Half the male population writes you off because they don’t want a woman who’s taller. You don’t know how lucky you are. Shortness greatly expands one’s dating pool.’
‘And yet you’re the one with the great husband and I’m still swimming around solo.’ Netta picked up her pace a little to combat the cold, her breath making clouds of icy mist with every exhale.
‘Maybe you and Morrison will hook up,’ said Freya, an audible smile in her voice. ‘You two would make beautiful babies, you know. Beautiful little tattooed angels with gorgeous voices and dimples.’
Netta laughed. ‘Would my DNA be present in our children at all?’
‘Yes, of course. They would have your weirdly perfect feet.’
‘Well, we don’t need to be worrying too much about that,’ said Netta, slowing to a stop. ‘That whole world is toxic, so it’s a no thanks from me on having his mutant celebrity babies.’ She rested her palm against the mighty trunk of an ancient oak tree and tipped her face to marvel at its web of branches, juxtaposed against the sky’s silvery softness. There was something comforting about its solidity and size, the way it dwarfed her. It had been here long before the Mitch situation and would remain long after Netta—and everyone who knew anything about it—was dead and buried. A morbid thought, but weirdly reassuring all the same.
‘And aside from the very obvious fact that Morrison Maplestone would never even look twice at me,’ Netta continued, ‘I’ve decided to initiate an iron-clad man ban.’ She started walking again, the Round Pond and the palace coming into view.
‘Netta, listen to me,’ said Freya. ‘You willneverbe as young and attractive as you are right now. Don’t waste yourself just because Pete’s a prick. You should be out there having rebound sex like it’s 1999.’
‘My point, exactly,’ agreed Netta. ‘Not about the rebound sex, but I’m not going to waste myself on men anymore. The whole Pete fiasco has proven that when it comes to me, it doesn’t work with the bad boys and it doesn’t work with the good ones either. I’m better off on my own for a bit. Maybe forever.’
‘Alone forever sounds pretty bleak, if you ask me,’ said Freya. ‘And what about the whole baby thing? You kinda need a man for that.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t, actually. I’ve been reading up about assisted conception and there’s no reason I can’t just try that. One day. If I can afford it.’ Netta stopped at a park bench and perched on a narrow patch clear of bird poo. ‘And anyway, if I can’t make it work with someone who seemed as safe as Pete, then whocanI make it work with?’
‘Hang on. What happened with Pete wasn’t your fault.’
‘I guess,’ said Netta, ‘but there has to be a reason why this always happens to me, doesn’t there? I’m the only common denominator in all of my failed relationships. It must be me.’
‘No, honey,’ said Freya. ‘It’s just that relationships are never right until you get the one thatis. Otherwise, we’d all still be with the spotty little hornbags we pashed in high school.’
Netta couldn’t help laughing. ‘My high school boyfriend ate my entire pot of raspberry lip balm in maths once. He gave me the empty container back at the end of the lesson.’
‘And aren’t you glad that relationship didn’t work out now?’
‘Very.’
‘Well,’ said Freya, clearly about to impart some wisdom, ‘one day you’ll be glad that you and Pete didn’t work out because you’ll be with someone so much better, and you’ll see that it was never you that was the issue. It was the combination of flavours. Like how chocolate and beer are fine separately but not together, whereas you pair that chocolate with a nice glass of red wine and—BOOM! Match made in heaven. And then you find out the beer has hooked up with a packet of chips and the world makes sense.’ She stopped for breath. ‘You are a fine wine, my love. You just have to find your chocolate.’
‘You really do have a way with words, my friend,’ said Netta, smiling. ‘But I’m still not planning on finding my chocolate any time soon. This fine wine is going solo for the foreseeable.’
‘Fair enough.’ Freya sighed. ‘It’s late here, so I best head off to bed for my seven minutes of uninterrupted sleep before Jed wakes up for a feed. What are you up to for the rest of the day?’
‘Not sure. Every time I think of something I’d like to do, I talk myself out of it straight away because it’ll remind me of what happened with Mitch somehow.’ Netta stood and continued her stroll towards the Round Pond. ‘It’s so strange being here again. I feel really exposed, like in one of those dreams where you’re walking down the street and look down and realise you’re starkers. But nobody’s even looked twice at me yet—I must’ve aged beyond recognition. Maybe I’ll be brave and have a wander around town, maybe hit up my old favourite pub for lunch. Shop for some souvenirs for your little people.’
‘No dinner with a rock star planned then?’
‘No! Can you believe he didn’t even ask for my number?’ Netta’s voice was laden with jokey indignation but in truth, she was relieved she had no reason to have to see Morrison again. Despite the attraction she’d felt to him—she was only human after all—she’d been glad to see the back of him. The transaction was complete. The diary was back in his hands. The money was in her account. It was done and dusted.
‘Well then, if you ask me, he must be another stupid packet of chips,’ said Freya. ‘Even if heissmoking hot and not a secret shortarse.’
As Netta slid her phone back into her coat pocket, she cast her gaze around the park. It was beautiful—even in the freezing cold— not out to get her, as it had seemed to be before. Joggers shuffled by in beanies and gloves and mothers pushed bundled-up babies in expensive-looking prams. The chestnut trees stretched gracefully towards the sky and the grass glistened with a light dusting of frost, sparkling in the winter sun. Kids played and a tai chi group had just finished, the members chatting happily, calm and refreshed from their exercise. So far, it seemed, absolutely nobody was walking around with eyes peeled, hoping for a sighting of a nanny who’d broken up a celebrity marriage twenty years ago. Maybe being back here wouldn’t be as bad as she’d imagined.
Netta stopped and closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the sounds of the park, allowing herself two slow breaths. She was back in London and so far, she was okay. She was surviving the break-up with Pete despite the searing disappointment and heartbreaking betrayal. She’d protected herself against future pain with a watertight man ban that not even the likes of Morrison Maplestone would be able to breach. And maybe solo motherhood would be the answer to her longing for a baby.
Chapter Sixteen
MO
Gravel crunched under the Jeep’s tyres as Mo pulled into his driveway. The heavy gates closed automatically behind him, thunking solidly together in a way that made him instantly more relaxed. Like he was finally off duty. Invisible.He cruised through the guard of sentinel trees and pulled up near the back door, the absence of Mav’s car announcing he had the house to himself.
He entered through the mudroom, then walked through the spotless kitchen and into the lounge. It was his favourite room in the house, stuffed with worn-in couches and armchairs arranged around an oversized timber coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling windows hung with sheer drapes let in muted winter light from the garden beyond, and a huge fireplace flanked by neatly stacked firewood sat empty and cold. Mo arranged some wood in the grate and soon had the beginnings of a fire, flames gingerly licking at kindling sticks, urged on by his gentle blowing. As the fire took, he sat down on his favourite couch—an outrageously comfortable green velvet monster of a thing—and shucked his shoes off. He slid the diary from his back pocket, turned it over in his hands two, three times, then gently tossed it onto the coffee table. Sinking back into the deep cushions, he closed his eyes and focused on the comforting smell of the woodsmoke. The staccato crackle of the fire. The gentle tap of rain on the windows. His breath, deliberately even.
