The carriage was packed full of Christmas shoppers and festive day drinkers, and despite Mo’s disguise, it only took a few minutes before he was noticed.
‘No, it’s not. It can’t be! Morrison Maplestone’s hardly going to be on the bloody Tube, is he?’ Netta heard someone behind her say.
‘It’s him, I’m telling you. Look at the tattoo on his hand. Go on, ask him. I dare you.’
The woman leaned in, nudging herself between Netta and Mo. ‘Er, ’scuse me, sorry for intruding,’ she said discreetly, ‘but my friend here thinks you’re Morrison Maplestone.’
It wasn’t a question, so Mo didn’t treat it as one. He kept his face turned to the floor, his body visibly tightening. ‘Does she?’
‘Are you?’
As if on cue, the scarf slipped down to reveal his mouth. And there was no mistaking that mouth.
‘Oh my God! It’s only Morrison bleeding Maplestone on the Tube!’ the woman shrieked, her hand pressed to her chest.
Mo straightened, instantly on high alert, and grabbed Netta’s hand, clasping it close to his hip. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Stay close, okay?’
The hum of voices hushed and a hundred heads turned in their direction. Netta felt like a deer frozen by a highway’s worth of headlights. She could only imagine how Mo felt. The woman hugged him around his middle—quite aggressively, if you asked Netta—and for every person struck mute with shock, there were two shouting his name—or calling him one; it seemed not everyone was a fan. Mo remained calm and gracious, but his increasing grip on Netta’s hand told her he was hating every second.
Just as a group of women started singing one of his songs loudly, drunkenly, at the back of the carriage, the train slowed for its stop at South Kensington, and Netta pulled Mo towards the door so they’d be ready to leap out and leg it as soon as it opened. When the doors slid open they cleared the gap and hurried along the platform to the exit, followed by a group of commuters, who swarmed around Mo like bees to a lavender bush. He slowed to a stop and turned to them, dropping Netta’s hand.
‘Hi, guys. Nice to see you all but we’re kind of in a rush to get to an appointment I’m afraid.’
Netta checked her watch. He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t far to the studio on Fulham Road but his fitting was scheduled for two o’clock and it was already quarter to. According to Mo, Valerie was known for her moods. She didn’t need him to wear her suit to boost her profile, so if he wasn’t there on time, it wouldn’t be surprising for her to just bin it and lock the door.
‘Can we just have a quick photo, Mo?’ said one of the fans. Mo’s smile was too shallow for his dimple to make an appearance. ‘Sure.’
He posed with each of them and then moved quickly back to Netta, mouthing,Sorry.
Netta dipped her head as he approached, scared of being caught on camera.
As if sensing her fear, Mo turned to the crowd again. ‘No more photos, guys. Thanks.’ He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders as they made their way to the exit, followed by the group, who seemed unsatisfied with the photos, and now wanted to know where he was going, too.
Netta looked up at Mo’s set expression and obvious weariness and realised his arm around her shoulder wasn’t just for her benefit. ‘How far is it from here?’ she asked.
‘Couple of blocks. They’ll probably follow us there, but they won’t be able to come in and see me strip off or anything.’
The corners of his lips twitched and Netta’s heart skipped several beats. Wasshegoing to see him strip off?Sweet Jesus.
She took her eyes off Mo and shrugged out from under his arm in case he could feel the desire ping-ponging around her body. As she did, she looked up to take in her surroundings. Chelsea was glorious at Christmastime. Shops and impressive houses dripped with tasteful designer wreaths and lights, and lavish decorations screamed ‘rich people do Christmas better!’ But despite the curated magic, the realisation that she was about to walk straight past Mitch’s street buckled Netta’s knees and filled her stomach with cement.
She stopped, the following gaggles swallowing her in their pursuit of Mo, who took a few beats to realise she was no longer by his side.
‘You okay?’ he called.
Netta shook her head, her face feeling so drained of blood she was sure he would be able to see her bones.
He strode back to her, the fans parting like the Red Sea in his wake. His face was etched with concern, his eyebrows knitted together below his beanie. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘That’s where he lived. Two blocks that way.’ Netta pointed. ‘Sorry, I know I said it would be okay …’
Mo nodded. ‘What about if we just make it to Valerie’s—which is just around this corner, not past dickwad’s street—and then I’ll have Jac come to pick us up afterwards. You can close your eyes and I’ll guide you to the car so you don’t have to look at this …’ He raised his hands and gestured around him at the picture-perfect Christmas scene.
‘This hellish pit of rancid memories?’ Netta finished.
‘Exactly.’
She checked her watch. It was five to. He couldn’t wait for her to work through whatever it was that was happening to her. Besides, if she told Freya she’d passed on the chance to see Mo trying on a suit, her life wouldn’t be worth living.
