‘Oh, I remember doing lovely things like that,’ said Freya wistfully, walking her out. ‘I suggest getting as much café avo on toast in as possiblebeforeyou have kids, Netts. Last time we attempted it was about a year ago and never again, I swear. We felt so bad about what Kit did to that high chair.’
Netta hugged her friend as they reached the front door. ‘Hopefully I can trust Pete not to shit himself at the table.’
‘Please. IwishPete would do something that interesting,’ said Freya, laughing. ‘He’s more likely to lodge a formal complaint that there wasn’t enough fibre in his bircher.’
Netta pressed her lips together and snorted. ‘Be nice, Frey.’
‘Iamnice. And Pete’s nice too. He’s just also a boring old fart sometimes.’ She winced when she saw Netta’s reaction. ‘I know he’s a good guy,’ she said, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s arm. ‘And he loves you, which means he’s also very clever and has impeccable taste. I’m just still in the stink with him about making you leave Matt’s fortieth early.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Netta admitted. Matt was Freya’s husband, and his birthday party two years ago had been the first time Freya had had a kid-free weekend in forever. She and Netta had planned to have a Very Big Night to celebrate, but Pete had dragged Netta home just as the second round of shots had come out.
‘Anyway, bygones,’ said Freya, holding the door open. ‘Let me know when you email Rhona. I need the excitement.’
Netta settled into the silence of her car, clicked her seatbelt on and waved as Freya closed the door to her joyous, exhausting life. Freya wasn’t wrong. Pete could be a bit beige at times. But Netta knew him on a level Freya didn’t. He could also be funny and charming. He took charge when Netta wanted him to. He was the one who could tell the waiter there was a hair in her pasta or the mechanic that he was taking the piss with his fees. He was a fixer. A safe harbour. An anchor when things were rough and, hopefully, the father of her future baby. A baby that, fingers crossed, might already be growing inside her.
She started the engine and idled for a moment while she rummaged around in her handbag to double check she hadn’t left her phone on Freya’s kitchen bench. Finding it, she pulled it out and considered her options. It had felt good to tell Freya about the diary, but the initial excitement of finding it had morphed into an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. The thought of opening the door to the celebrity world again made Netta genuinely nauseous. The Mitch thing had put her off that whole scene for life, but at the same time, none of that was Morrison Maplestone’s fault. She would email Rhona van der Wilden, post the notebook back, and never think about it again. She unlocked her phone, tapped into Gmail and began to type.
Chapter Six
MO
Rhona and Don’s house was chaotic and busy and loud—everything Mo’s house wasn’t. He loved his Thursday night family dinners with them and their kids. Here, in the warm fug of their overworked kitchen, crowded around their dining table, he felt more at home than he did at his own place—like he was part of something bigger than himself. Like maybe he could forget about the incident with the photographer. Like the resurgence of his career might be as safe and as sure as he felt here. In Rhona’s house, and with Rhona’s family, he wasn’t Morrison Maplestone the Grammy award–winning musician, he was just Mo, and he had to scrape his plate like everybody else.
Tonight, the cheerfully mismatched crockery was paired with chopsticks and little bowls of soy sauce, and theReality Bitessoundtrack played softly in the background—Rhona’s favourite. Rhona set bamboo steamers full of Don-made dumplings on the table and sat down opposite Mo, the giant shoulder pad of her nautically inspired outfit brushing against her husband’s arm.
‘Hey, Uncle Mo, watch this!’ Fourteen-year-old Miles flicked a misshapen dumpling into the air with his chopsticks and attempted, unsuccessfully, to catch it again.
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, Miles!’ cried his sixteen-year-old sister, Carly. She retrieved the splattered dumpling from her lap and flicked it back onto his plate. ‘These jeans are new, you idiot. If Dad can’t get this stain out, you’re totally buying me another pair.’
Don raised his eyebrows from across the table. ‘And why is it my job to wash your jeans? You’re old enough to wash them yourself. Or maybe Miles should do it, seeing as it was his lack of finesse that led to this truly ruinous situation in the first place.’ He selected a dumpling from his plate and expertly executed the trick, popping it into his mouth with an exaggerated flourish. ‘And,’ he said, swallowing, ‘maybe we could keep the profanity to a minimum, given we have company.’
Carly smirked. ‘It’s only Mo. He doesn’t care.’
‘I’ll have you know, young lady,’ said Mo, ‘that my ears are highly offended by such language and I am both shockedandappalled to hear it.’ Carly snorted and Mo’s face creased into a smile. ‘Just stop swearing so fucking much, okay? It’s not nice.’
Don chuckled and reached for another dumpling. ‘Rhona, keep your little friend under control, would you? He’s encouraging Carly’s inner chav.’
Rhona shrugged in response, held her hands up in a what-can-I-do pose, and downed the rest of her wine.
‘You’re right, Uncle Mo.’ Carly’s tone was solemn. ‘Swearing is bloody fucking shittingawful. I shall stop,’ she promised, hand on her heart and stifling a laugh. She turned her attention to Don. ‘But seriously, Dad, will you get the stain out of my jeans? Pleeeeease?’
Don rolled his eyes comically. ‘I will do my best, my flower, I will do my best. Now go and grab the next batch of dumplings out of the steamer, would you?’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Mo, pushing his chair out.
Rhona waved her wine glass at him.
‘I’ll grab the wine too.’ He grinned. ‘And some soap for Carly’s mouth.’
***
After dinner had been cleared up and he’d packed himself a container full of leftovers, Mo sat down with Rhona and Don at the table for one last wine. The candle at its centre was down to a drippy stub and the playlist had moved on to the Eurythmics, Annie Lennox’s voice gliding effortlessly over a backdrop of choppy synth.
Rhona rolled the stem of her glass through her fingers. ‘Hey, Mo, I know we made a promise not to talk shop at the dinner table, but I got an email today you might want to see.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘A woman from Australia wrote to me saying she thinks she might’ve found an old diary of yours. From when you were a kid.’
