He felt stirred up. Like someone had cracked his head open and taken to its contents with a whisk. Years ofstuffpushed down and confined to the faraway corners was suddenly free to whiz around his consciousness again, and all because of the fucking diary. And Netta, too, if he was being honest with himself. He’d felt weirdly exposed in her company, like his guarding walls weren’t quite tall enough and the crocodiles in the moat were on lunch. He’d never talked about any part of his childhood before, and yet the story about his music teacher had leapt from his mouth like a cartoon lemming off a cliff. And then, of course, just to fuck him up even more, there’d been the pink-haired photographer. He let his eyes close briefly, then jumped at the sound of his phone ringing.
‘Rhona,’ he answered.
‘Mission accomplished?’
‘Tom Cruise would be proud,’ he said, eyeing the book on the coffee table, still wrapped in the zip-lock bag Netta had put it in. ‘And the interview and photo shoot went well, I think. They said it’d be in the paper in a day or two.’
‘It was the right thing to do,’ Rhona said. ‘It’s about time the world knew you’re more than just a pretty voice and a bad mood. What did you think of Netta?’
‘She seemed nice. And I believe her that she hasn’t read the diary.’
‘Yeah, but what did you think ofher? Is she someone you’d consider, I don’t know, going on a date with?’
‘I thought you said I wasn’t to be looking at the ladies at the moment.’ Mo crossed his ankles on the coffee table and stared into the growing fire, the fledgling flames sending flecks of gold up the chimney. ‘I was led to believe it would be bad for business.’
‘I was just thinking she’d be ideal as your date for the gala, don’t you think?’ Rhona asked. ‘She’s your age, intelligent, attractive—but not in a plastic, walking-filter kind of way—and as far as I could tell, she doesn’t have plans for Christmas Eve. It’s almost like the solution has fallen in your lap, Mo.’
Mo tipped his head back to rest it against the couch. ‘I thought that too,’ he said. ‘But my conclusion is a big no. Capital N.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to use her like that,’ he said, truthfully. ‘She’s not a PR stunt.’
‘But Mo, what if shewantedto go? I mean, she’d get the whole designer dress and hair and make-up experience. She’d be mixing with famous people—’
‘Many of whom are arseholes,’ Mo interrupted.
‘Many of whom are arseholes,’ Rhona agreed, ‘but many of whom are not. And it’ll be a great show. I bet she’d love it.’
‘I don’t know, Rhona, it doesn’t feel right.’
Rhona sighed impatiently. ‘Netta is perfect. She wouldn’t have to do the red carpet or anything if she doesn’t want to. Although it’d be much better if she did …’
‘CanInot do the red carpet if I don’t want to?’ asked Mo, his mouth curling into a smile.
‘Oh, bugger off, darling. You know you have to do it. You’re kind of a big deal.’
The smile in her voice softened Mo’s resolve a touch. ‘I’ll think about it, okay?’
‘Mo …’
Mo braced himself at the change in Rhona’s tone.
‘The record company have called us in for a meeting tomorrow morning. I think it’s fair to say the ice you’re contracted on is getting very thin. Image matters, and yours needs some serious massaging. That magazine article has gone viral, and the pushing over of the photographer really wasn’t helpful.’
Mo sighed. ‘I didn’t fucking push him, Rhona. He threw himself back onto the footpath to make it look like I had.’
‘I know, Mo. But perception is reality, and right now you’re not being perceived in the rosiest of lights. They’re ready to pull the contract. It’s a shitload of money to miss out on, and I know you had plans to use a lot of it for Play On.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘This is all such a load—’
‘Of shit. I know, I know.’
Mo rubbed his knuckles into his jaw.
‘I think taking your brother to the gala would solidify the impression that you don’t take women seriously,’ Rhona continued. ‘I know Netta’s only here for a short time and you’re not about to fall head over heels in love with her and get married and make lots of lovely babies—’
‘Definitely not,’ he interjected. ‘Not with anyone.’
