Morrison Maplestone had a motherfucking crush.
Chapter Thirty-Two
NETTA
Netta and Mo emerged bleary-eyed from the cinema into the late, grey morning, Netta brushing rogue pieces of popcorn from the front of her jumper.
‘I can’t believe you hadn’t seenMiracle on 34th Streetbefore.’ Mo plucked a piece of popcorn from Netta’s hair and flicked it into a bin. ‘It’s one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time.’
‘It’s noDie Hardthough, is it?’ she said, straight-faced, before breaking into a grin. ‘But seriously, thanks for inviting me. I absolutely loved it.’ She stepped out from the cinema’s empty lobby onto the equally empty footpath and looked left and right. ‘All clear.’
Mo joined her, pulling his jacket collar up to block the icy wind and tugging his beanie down to his sunglasses. ‘We’ve got a little time until I need to call Jac to get to the suit fitting,’ he said. ‘Come with me, there’s something cool nearby you might like.’
They walked briskly around the corner and down a couple of blocks to find a tall stone fence. Mo reached the wrought-iron gate first and held it open for Netta—another little act of chivalry to add to the list. She went through the gate, taking in the beautiful park spread out before her. Bluestone paths weaved their way through towering trees and garden beds, all arranged around a huge stone fountain at the centre.
‘Oh, wow,’ she gasped. ‘It’s like a secret garden!’
‘It’s better in the warmer weather,’ said Mo, jamming his hands into his pockets. ‘The fountain is running then and obviously there are more, you know,leavesand stuff.’
‘I don’t know, I kind of like it like this.’ The frost had settled on bare branches and hardy evergreens stood defiant against the chill. ‘Look over there,’ Netta said, pointing. ‘Someone’s decorated it for Christmas!’ She jogged over to a tiny fir tree strung with tinsel and handmade decorations. ‘Oh, this is gorgeous. I love this time of year so much.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever decorated a Christmas tree,’ Mo said.
Netta straightened. ‘What? Why?’
He rubbed the back of his neck, a move Netta was beginning to recognise as a sign he was uncomfortable. ‘I mean, maybe I did when I was really little, but if I did, I can’t remember it. My mum wasn’t really into Christmas.’
‘Religious reasons?’
‘No, she was just—’ Mo paused. ‘I don’t know. She just wasn’t your average mum, I guess.’
Netta clocked the veil of melancholy settling over Mo’s face. ‘Wasn’t?’
‘Yeah. She, ah, passed away when I was a kid.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mo.’
He broke her gaze and pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said, reading a text message waiting on the screen. ‘Jac can’t come until after the fitting and all the other cars are booked. We’ll have to cab it.’ Mo’s face clouded as looked from his phone to Netta. ‘Actually, I’ve just realised … the designer’s studio is in Chelsea. You probably don’t want to go there, do you? Seeing as it’s where Mitch lived?’
Netta was silent for a moment, drawing a deep breath of icy air. He was right, Chelsea wouldn’t be her first choice of destination. It was the scene of her undoing, her greatest humiliation—under any other circumstances she’d rather a trip to a sewage treatment facility. But these weren’t ‘other circumstances’—this was the chance to see Mo trying on a designer suit. Mitch had stolen years from her. He’d stolenLondonfrom her. But there was no way Netta was going to let him steal this from her too.
She looked up at Mo, touched that he’d considered her feelings but determined not to give them—or Mitch—the satisfaction. ‘I’ll be fine.’
***
Twenty minutes later, after several failed attempts to flag down a taxi and numerous unanswered calls to Mav, Netta suggested they catch the train.
‘I don’t know, Netta,’ Mo said haltingly. ‘I haven’t been on the Tube in years. There’s nowhere to go if someone recognises me.’
‘It’s only a few stops to South Kensington Station and then a short walk from there into Chelsea.’
Mo tapped his hand against the side of his thigh and frowned.
Netta reached up and tugged his beanie down a little further, her thumbs igniting as her knuckles dragged down to his stubbled jaw. Collecting herself, she unwound her scarf and pressed it to his chest. ‘If you wear this and pull it up over your chin a bit, I don’t think anyone will be able to recognise you.’
Mo looped the scarf around his neck. ‘Okay. Fuck. Let’s do it, I guess.’
***
