Chapter Thirty-Seven
NETTA
The hall was even more breathtaking than the last time Netta had been there. It was softly lit and cavernous, filling with beautiful people wearing beautiful things. Classical piano music filled the air and mingled with perfumes, happy hellos and excited murmurs. Netta felt tiny as she followed Rhona to her seat.
‘Here we are.’ Rhona held her hand out to indicate where Netta should sit. ‘Mo will be here soon. He’s not on till the second half, so you’ll be able to watch from here until the interval and then he’ll have to go backstage to prepare,’ she said, settling into Mo’s seat. ‘That was quite a kiss back there.’
Netta looked up to see Mo standing in the aisle. ‘Don’t get too comfy,’ he said, flashing Rhona a grin. ‘You’re in my seat, lady. Up ya get.’
‘That was quick!’ Rhona said. ‘Did you sprint down the carpet?’
‘Like Usain Bolt.’
Rhona stood and said her goodbyes, pecked Mo on the side of his head, shot Netta one last cheeky grin and disappeared to find her own seat.
Mo sank down beside Netta, his shoulder pressing against hers, the fabric of his sleeve electrifying her bare skin.
‘So,’ he said, his gaze trained straight ahead. ‘I guess we kissed.’
‘I guess we did.’
Mo nodded, his lips pressed together, as Netta tapped her fingers, one by one, on her clutch. She wondered what Lorena would have to say about it when the photos came out. She imagined the pitchfork-wielding posse of sequinned celebrities she’d rally to chase her out of London and far, far away from Mo and his mouth. Netta wondered even more if Mo was conflicted about it or if the kiss had been as world-ending for him as it had been for her, the voltage high enough to brush his conscience aside.
‘How are you feeling about it?’ Mo cleared his throat and looked across at her. ‘About the shoot and being here, I mean.’
‘I’m glad the photos are done and I’m looking forward to the show,’ she said, tipping her head towards the stage. ‘I’m trying not to think any further ahead than that.’
Mo shifted in his seat and his knee pressed briefly against Netta’s, sending a jolt of desire straight up her thigh. That kiss had really flipped a switch. The feeling settling into her body was like the animal urge to scoff the entire packet of Tim Tams after eating the first one; her urge to binge on Mo now that she’d had a little hit seemed unleashable. She looked around the grand hall to distract herself. Most of the seats were full, and as the lights began to dim, bells began a rhythmic jangle from the orchestra pit and a booming ‘Ho Ho Ho’ erupted through the sound system to rapturous applause. The orchestra broke into a jaunty version of ‘Jingle Bells’, and a troupe of dancers, dressed in sparkling elf costumes, came trotting out from the tunnel at the back of the stage.
Netta tucked her elbows into her sides and clapped her hands in pure, unadulterated glee.She felt Mo looking down at her and she met his gaze, unable to wipe the delight from her face.
‘So, you’re a Christmas person, huh?’ he said.
‘Hardcore,’ she replied. ‘And Ilovethis event. I look it up online and watch it every year. Actuallybeinghere—’ she bit her bottom lip and shook her head in wonder, ‘—it’s blowing my mind a bit.’
The first half of the gala was a magnificent blur of celebrity singers, comedians and dance acts. With each performance, the Christmas spirit in the room grew and lifted Netta above the drama and angst of the lead-up. This was fun.She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light.
Just before intermission, an usher appeared at Mo’s side with ninja stealth. ‘Good evening, Mr Maplestone,’ he whispered. ‘It’s time to head backstage.’
Mo turned to Netta. ‘You coming?’
‘Hell, yes.’ She stood and smoothed the skirt of her dress. ‘Let’s go.’
Half an hour later, after watching Mo go through his warm-ups and a briefing with the stage manager, Netta found herself next to him, hidden in the shadows at the stage entry as the host delivered his spiel.
‘Our next performer needs no introduction. Especially to the ladies in the room.’ Mo rolled his eyes at Netta as a whoop swept around the audience. ‘He’s the tattooed naughty boy from Australia, hit maker extraordinaire, an unforgettable voice. Please welcome Mr Morrison Maplestone!’
The crowd cheered as Mo strode confidently onto the stage and took the mic. The orchestra rang out the opening bars of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ and as the audience ramped up the cheering, Mo rewarded them with a languid smile, pulling his body close to the mic stand. Netta watched, entranced by his stage persona. It was rough and smooth at the same time, his voice a gravelly firepit but his body fluid and free. There was nothing choreographed about his moves, instead it was as though the music moved through him as naturally as water running through a creek bed, following its twists and turns without effort.
Netta sensed someone step into the space beside her.
‘’Scuse me, love.’ Lorena Long towered over her in a shimmering gold dress, sky-high heels propping up her already sky-high legs. ‘You win a competition or something? Win a backstage pass, did you?’
Netta’s desire for Mo was replaced by an oily slick of guilt, sliding down her throat and roiling in her belly. ‘Er, no, not exactly.’
Her answer was ignored by Lorena, who’d already moved in front of her to get a better look at Mo out on the stage. She swayed her hips in a way Netta would have no hope of imitating. Netta’s hips only went side to side; Lorena’s seemed to have a few extra joints, which felt like an unfair advantage, given she already had a body seemingly made entirely of Pilates and egg whites. Netta shuffled sideways to reclaim her view, and as she did, Mo looked over his shoulder. He caught her eye briefly before his gaze migrated north to Lorena’s, where it lingered with intensity before he snapped his attention back to his rapt audience and sang the hell out of that Mariah song.
Netta shrank back. Their kiss had been for show, nothing more. A shameless publicity stunt. And one he was paying her for, at that. She moved further back from the stage and brushed her fingers against her lips. The tingle was still there but now it had been joined by the burn of mortification.
