‘No, no. It was … Well, it was a lot of things, I guess,’ said Netta. ‘Ultimately, we just weren’t right for each other.’
Mo raised an eyebrow at her. ‘That sounds very diplomatic.’
‘Well, that and he turned out to be a … Oh, I don’t even know what to say,’ she said. ‘It all just turned out to be a huge mess.’
They were silent for a while as Marylebone slid into Paddington, the streetlights smeared like watercolours on the wet road as they made their way to Notting Hill.
‘Dinner was nice,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Rhona and Don are great.’
‘They are, aren’t they?’ he said with a grin of affection for his friends. ‘They loved you, too, you know. You were a big hit. They’ll probably try to adopt you if you’re not careful.’
He caught her smiling to herself out of the corner of his eye. She was so cute in that hat. She was cute full stop. He cleared his throat as though doing so would clear the thought from his mind too, and turned into Portobello Road, void of its daytime colour and throngs of people. A few windows remained lit, glowing signs of life on the otherwise sleeping road. The Royal Crown came into view and Mo pulled over, stopping near the front door.
Netta turned to him as she unclicked her seatbelt. ‘I’ll think about the gala.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, studying her face. ‘As the record company said to me this morning, I need to manage my “optics”.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I know it must seem ridiculous, but having you by my side might help change the narrative, or at least give the media something else to talk about, and I really need this record to go through.’
‘Look, to be honest, I think the whole thing sounds nuts and the thought of me being there making any difference at all seems like a very big stretch,’ Netta said, bluntly. ‘But there’s something I could use the money for, and it’s time sensitive, so if I wait until I can afford it myself, then it might be too late. It’s just … I’m not sure I’d cope with being in the spotlight.’
Mo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and nodded in understanding. ‘There’ll be cameras in your face and a lot of wankery to be honest. We’ll probably end up in the paper the next day—’
Netta nodded. ‘I know.’
‘It’s a whole machine, this career. Lots of moving parts.’ As the words left him, it struck him how tired he sounded. Hewastired. Of it all. ‘I need to at least try and keep the ship afloat a bit longer. The fans are expecting another album. I don’t want to let them down. And Rhona’s worked so hard for me. I don’t want to let her down, either. Plus there’s this other thing, something really important, that relies on my financial support. I can’t let it die just because of optics.’
He rested his head back and turned to look at Netta. Her brow was creased in thought. Or worry. Or very possibly a bottomless well of disdain for him and his stupid celebrity problems. Her hand hovered on the door handle, ready to eject.
‘And you really think taking me to the gala would help?’
‘I do. It’d be the first time I’ve taken a woman to anything. And you’re … perfect.’ He felt heat rise in his cheeks. ‘You’d make me look pretty bloody good.’
Netta hesitated, her frown deepening. ‘The thing is, I might not be the best choice if the whole point is to make you look wholesome.’
Mo raised his eyebrows in question.
‘There’s something I need to tell you first.’ Her face was pinched, as though the words were painful to get out. ‘Once you hear it, you might change your mind.’
Mo’s curiosity was an itch he had no choice but to scratch. ‘Is there a bar in there or something?’ He tipped his head towards the hotel entrance. ‘I’ve got time if you want to talk now.’
‘No. No bar.’ She levelled her gaze at him like she was conducting a risk assessment. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes gave them an unnerving quality—like she could see straight into him.
‘You can come up to the suite,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s too cold out here.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
NETTA
Netta climbed the stairs to her suite, silently justifying her snap decision to tell Mo the truth about why she couldn’t go to the gala with him. He was different to how she’d had him pegged; there was a vulnerability about him she hadn’t been expecting, an endearing awkwardness she definitely hadn’t seen coming. He was funny. And seeing him with Rhona and her family had shown him as a real person, not just a handsome fame-bot with a silver spoon shoved in every orifice. She felt she could be real with him. And anyway, all that aside, once he heard about Mitch, he’d retract his request and she wouldn’t have to have that awkward ‘no thanks’ conversation at all. It would be Mo’s decision instead. She wouldn’t have to ruminate on how she’d passed on enough money to fund assisted conception—she could just pin it on Mo’s retraction and move forward with her life, regret-free. Theoretically, anyway. And if he told Rhona about Mitch, well—so what? She’d be back in Australia before she knew it and this whole thing would be just another life experience to file in the archives.
While pondering this, Netta was also acutely aware that Mo, who was two steps behind her on the stairs, had a very close-range view of her rear end. She didn’t know whether to sway her hips a little or keep her climb militantly unsexy. She settled for swinging her bag to the back of her body to conceal her bum as much as possible, just on the off chance he might be looking. Not that he would be. From all reports his taste leaned far more towards the Victoria’s Secret variety.
Reaching the top of the narrow staircase was a relief, her butt cheeks instantly released from their involuntary clench. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, inhaling the lingering scent of cinnamon and vanilla. She was going to miss this place and its lovely smells when she went home.
She turned to see Mo hesitating by the door. ‘Come in,’ she said, sliding her boots off. ‘Let’s go up and sit. I’ll make us some tea.’
Mo closed the door behind him and went upstairs to the lounge, closely followed by Netta. The view was beautiful at night. Lit windows and streetlights sparkled through the frosted air, the rooftops backlit by the soft glow of the winter moon.
