‘Oh, come on, Mo,’ she said. ‘You’re a world-famous, rich-as-God celebrity who looks like—’ she waved her hands at his face, ‘—that.And I’m just me.’
‘There’s nojustabout you, Netta.’
‘Don’t pull that shit on me, Mo. It’s pretty clear it only happened because I was your only option.’
Mo felt as though he’d been stabbed. ‘I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way.’ He meant it, but his voice had turned to stone and there was nothing he could do about it.
‘Well, what am I supposed to think? I was on cloud nine. And not because of who you are, but because of how we weretogether. I thought you were up on the cloud with me, which makes me feel like a total idiot.’ She slumped back into the car seat, deflated. When she spoke again, her tone was flat. ‘Did you tell me that story about your mum to turn me off? Was it an exit strategy?’
‘That’s not fair. I’ve never told anyone about my childhood before. Or about Mum. You’re the only one.’
Her face softened, dropping into sadness. ‘I’m glad you told me. But it was like, as soon as you did, youvanished.’
Some distant, inaccessible part of him wanted to touch her. To pull her into him. To bury his face in her neck and sob thirty years of pain into her soft skin. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. But you don’t want this.’ He placed his hand on his head. ‘It’s a mess. All the other stuff, it’s just bullshit. I’m only shiny on the outside.’
Her chin crumpled. ‘What happened to your mum wasn’t your fault. But I know you can’t hear that from me. You need to get there on your own, and I really hope you do, for your own sake. And you should tell Mav the truth.’
Her words pierced his chest as she opened the door to leave. Mo said her name, low and rough, but when she turned back to him, he couldn’t speak. The tsunami had swept his words away.
He’d lost her.
Chapter Forty-Three
NETTA
Netta closed the door behind the reporter and leaned against it, releasing a long, slow breath. The interview was done. She’d said everything she wished she’d been able to say to the press twenty years ago. Every sordid detail would be printed on New Year’s Day in full colour and, no doubt, with a barely partial dose of journalistic integrity. She’d kept mum about her time with Mo, keeping any mention of him brief and surface level despite the needling of the reporter.
She felt freed and sullied at the same time. Grimy, but liberated. But whatever she felt about the interview paled in comparison to the comprehensively crushing feeling she had about Mo. She should’ve known it was just a bubble; a delicate, barely there barrier between them and the real world—between the holed-up-for-Christmasin-a-cute-cottage versions of themselves and the real Netta and Mo. And bubbles always burst. It was inevitable, in the same way that damaged guys like Mo had always sucked her in, chewed her up and spat her out. It was a cycle she thought she’d broken with Pete, but now, after Mo, she realised she’d let it happen again. But what hope had she had? Being with him had felt so right. Soperfect.Christmas Eve with him had felt like swimming through crystal clear water, but once he’d told her about his mum and the diary, he’d become as opaque as a storm-shaken lake, as deeply unknowable as its bed, hidden beneath the murky, chopped-up waves. The depth of his pain had dwarfed her, reducing her to something to be flicked away. Discarded. Forgotten about.
She sat on the bed and tapped into the banking app on her phone. The fake gala date money had landed in her account. She hadn’t seen her balance look so healthy for a long time, and yet her stomach churned. Money from a man she’d had sex with felt dirty.
She tossed the phone to the other side of the mattress and lay back into the nest of pillows, doing her best to narrow her focus to the cinnamon scent lacing the air. She pulled a pillow off the pile and hugged it hard to her chest, curling herself into the foetal position, and then smaller.
Christmas with Mo had been a dream. Like something from a so-bad-it’s-good holiday movie, if R-rated holiday movies were a thing. She’d felt like she was floating, high above reality. But what goes up, must come down, as they say, and Netta had hit the ground like a sack of cement. She should’ve known it was too good to be true.
Her phone beeped a message alert and she stretched a leg back to scoop it forward with her foot, nudging it to within arm’s reach. Her heart flared with relief at seeing Freya’s name on the screen.
Oh my GOD Netta, the red carpet photos of you and Mo. Are you kidding me?! You looked incredible! And the kiss!!!! I’m deceased.
Netta clutched the phone to her chest. She’d missed Freya so much. Please don’t be dead. I’m coming home tomorrow.
Jed’s just woken. Have to go but I’ll pick you up from the airport. Text me the details.
Netta dropped the phone to the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Her body buzzed with post-interview adrenalin even as it sank, dragged down by Mo’s rejection, her own self-doubt and the knowing that she was no good on her own in times like these. She needed to download to someone, to dial down the static in her head. To stop her descent to the bottom. It was times like this— when she was lost—that she missed her mum the most.
A burst of yapping floated up from the street. Netta slid over to the window side of the bed and peered out. Audrey, looking like a movie star in bright fuchsia lipstick and black-rimmed glasses, was on the footpath with Fletcher, who didn’t sound at all happy with the pug who’d just waddled past him.
Netta opened the window. ‘Audrey!’
‘Netta!’ Audrey peered up at her. ‘Interview done?’
Netta nodded grimly.
‘I’ve just been to the bakery,’ Audrey called, holding up a white box for Netta to see. ‘Come for a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’
Audrey’s classic trench was dusted with rain as Netta met her in the lobby, Fletcher snuggled into her bag and the bakery box in her hands. ‘Are you okay, dear?’
