Audrey rested her hand on Fletcher’s head. ‘Ah, well, that’s a shame. I know he’s young enough to be my grandson but, by Christ, that man is sex on legs!’
Netta snorted. ‘Heispretty easy on the eyes,’ she admitted. ‘But celebrities are a whole other breed, if you ask me.’
‘Some, but not all,’ said Audrey. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you. I’m off to sneak this little fellow back into the hotel. Maybe I’ll see you around the traps!’
Netta’s stomach rumbled as she watched Audrey set off, slowly, elegantly, down the path. She checked her watch. Her hunger was right on cue for lunch. She made her way out of the park to Bayswater Road, headed towards Notting Hill and turned left into Kensington Church Street. London was well and truly decked out for Christmas. Trees were strung with twinkling lights that would sparkle through the night, shopfronts and cafés were splashed in red and green, and, not too far away, Netta knew her old favourite pub, The Churchill Arms, was waiting to serve up a big dose of nostalgia. It was one of the parts of her London life she actually missed, and not just for its room-temperature beer and cosily cluttered decor. In spring and summer, the pub was covered from top to bottom in an avalanche of colour, a rainbow patchwork cloak of flowers spilling from hanging baskets, window boxes and pots arranged in a stunning cascade to give the impression, from a distance, that the blooms were growing out of the walls themselves. But at this time of year—Netta looked up—the pub was dressed in a winter coat of Christmas trees, at least a hundred, somehow fixed to the exterior walls, leaving just the timber window frames of the lower level and patches of the creamy paint of the upper levels visible. She picked up her pace and, as she got closer, the fairy lights hidden in the branches came into view and gave Netta a thrill. Even now, in broad daylight, it was spectacular, but the sight of the trees lit up at night time was truly magical—a happy London memory that had never left her. For the first time since she’d arrived, Netta felt something close to gladness that she’d come back. Her time living in London hadn’t been all bad; there had been plenty of good times before everything went wrong, and many of them had happened right here, in this pub, going round for round with her friends. And if there was anything that might get her out of her post break-up funk and into the Christmas spirit, it was a Christmas tree–covered building full of booze. Surely.
She came to a stop at the entrance, taking in the polished brass lettering of the sign above the windows, the illuminated ‘Merry Christmas’ above the corner door, and the laughter and clink of glasses coming from inside. Netta felt a warmth in her stomach, like a hug from her twenty-year-old self—a precious moment of reconnection to the girl she’d buried under a pile of shame and regret. She wasn’t ready to forgive her just yet, but being here again was reminding Netta just how young she’d been. Young and appropriately naïve.
She went inside the pub, allowing herself to be enveloped by the happy crowd, the air heavy with the intoxicating scent of beer and Thai food. As she waited at the bar, her phone buzzed inside her bag, announcing a text message.
Hi Netta. Rhona here. Would love to have you over for dinner tomorrow night if you’re free? You won’t get a table anywhere decent this time of year and my husband, Don, is a great cook! Let me know.
Surprised, Netta read the message again. It was a kind offer and she had no other plans. What was she going to do? Sit in the hotel suite by herself?
Hi Rhona—lovely to hear from you. Dinner sounds great. Let me know details.
Netta smiled to herself. She was doing so well. She was at her favourite pub. She was having dinner with Rhona, who she felt sure would be endlessly interesting to talk to—if you could judge someone’s personality by the clothes they wore—and not one single person had recognised her. Things were going much better than she’d feared.
Rhona’s reply was quickly followed by her address: Marylebone. She must be loaded.Netta was about to reply when another message flew in.
And just a heads up that Mo’s coming too. Should be a fun night!
Fuuuuuck.Netta had only just survived her first meeting with Morrison Maplestone. She’d thought that was it. Done and dusted. Sayonara. Diary handed over, blundering behaviour kept to a minimum. She wasn’t sure she could do it again. She wished she were stronger, but this wasMorrison MaplestoneRhona was waving under her nose. Once voted sexiest man alive byPeoplemagazine. There was no way she’d be able to keep her cool around him for an extended period of time. And throw a wine or two into the mix and the chances she wouldn’t embarrass herself were less promising than those of the proverbial snowflake. Cringey memories of her behaviour at this dinner party would keep her awake at night for the rest of her life.
Netta read the message again. She couldn’t cancel now. That would be rude.
‘What can I get for you? Something to eat?’
Netta’s attention snapped from the phone screen to the young woman behind the bar.
‘I think I just need the wine list for now, thanks,’ said Netta, dropping her phone back into her bag. ‘I need a big old drink.’
Chapter Eighteen
MO
Mo woke groggy, still on the couch, his mind still hemmed in by the shadows that had invaded before he nodded off. The fire had dulled but its warmth lingered, the morning sun muted through heavy clouds. His head felt heavy as he pulled himself up to sit, the diary tucked safely under the cushion he’d been resting on. He slid it out of the bag, his fingers instantly familiar with the texture of the cover as he turned it over in his hands, unable yet to open it but immediately transported back to the time when it had changed his life.
They’d called it an overdose. Nobody had mentioned the word ‘suicide’ to him—he’d only been a kid, after all—but he wasn’t stupid. He’d known that taking too many drugs was something some people did deliberately, because his mum’s friend had done it—and she’d died too.On purpose.His mum had told him her friend had felt like nobody loved her. That nobody would miss her anyway. And then he’d gone and made his own mum, and Mav’s mum, feel exactly the same way. All because of this stupid diary.
After the ambulance arrived, the police turned up. Mo had haphazardly packed a bag of his things and another for Mav, and they’d followed a policewoman out of their house, not yet understanding that it would be the last time they would ever be there.
At the police station, they were guided through the reception area, down a hallway to a quiet room where they’d been given hot chocolate neither of them had felt able to drink. They had no idea what was about to happen but Morrison had wrapped his arms around his little brother and told him they would be okay. He didn’t know that, not for sure, but he knew that Mav needed him to make him feel safe. And after what he’d done, it was the absolute least he could do.
An eternity later, a woman had arrived. A policeman told Mo she was from DHS and that she would arrange somewhere for them to stay until they could locate next of kin to care for them. ‘There’s nobody,’ he’d said. ‘It’s always just been us and Mum.’
Mav, wide-eyed and wobbly lipped, had moulded himself around his brother’s frame, clinging to Mo like a koala to a branch. In that moment, Mo had felt simultaneously indestructible and completely and utterly shit-scared. His heart had bounced between the anguish of losing his mother and the terrifying possibility of being separated from his brother too. But he’d also known, with absolute clarity, that he was Mav’s only protector now—it was his job—and that responsibility had filled him with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed.
‘We have to stay together,’ he’d said to the woman, puffing his chest out and raising his chin. ‘I’m not going anywhere without him.’
The desolation of that day sat just as heavily on Mo now, thirty years later, as it had then. The free fall of having no control was something he remembered acutely. The fear of it. The anger and frustration of having no real say in what happened, just because he was a kid. The sinking realisation that no extended family meant there was no other option than foster care.
Mo took a deep breath and pushed himself off the couch. He took the diary to his bedroom and stuffed it in the back of a drawer, hidden again. He couldn’t get stuck down that burrow today. He had to prepare himself for the meeting with the record company and turn up strong. He was Morrison Maplestone, for fuck’s sake. He’d won a Grammy! And he needed this contract. Play On needed it. He wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.
***
The meeting wasn’t going well. Mo had been told, in no uncertain terms, that the new album had to be on time or earlier and that it had better be the best fucking thing he’d ever made in his life or the contract was off. The words ‘losing relevance’ had been thrown around by a snotty kid practically young enough to be his son. Photos of him and that pap had been shown on a screen (‘it doesn’t matter what really happened, Mo—all that matters are the optics’) and the kid had made a point of the viral stats for the ‘Mo-deliser’ article. It was excruciating. And to make it worse, he had nothing to show them. The album he was working on was nothing but smoke and broken mirrors so far. He had to come up with something concrete or he was screwed. It seemed being Morrison Maplestone wasn’t quite enough anymore.
