Mo knew instantly what she was going to tell him. He was now officially late with the new record. He’d written one song, and it was shit. That, on top of the photos of him standing over Mitch Carlton, stacked on top of all the other stuff … ‘They’re dropping me, aren’t they? The record deal’s off.’
Rhona paused. ‘Not yet, but they’re going to, Mo. Basically, this is it. They’ve agreed to a time extension, but if you don’t get them a complete album of songs by the end of next week, you’re out.’
Mo closed his eyes and assessed his feelings, only to find he had none. Nada. Zilch. He was numb. Five years ago, if he’d been threatened with an end to his recording career, he’d have moved mountains to stop it from happening. But now, it seemed, he couldn’t muster even half a shit to give. He’d lost so much already that this addition to the list felt almost inconsequential. He didn’t deserve any of it anyway.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ he said.
‘That’s what I told them! I said you’d have the songs to them pronto and that they’d be great. They’ve just forgotten who they’re dealing with.’
‘No.’ Mo stood stiffly and crossed the room to the window. ‘I mean, getting the songs to them by the end of next week isn’t going to happen. I’ve been trying to write but it’s like it’s dried up. It’s gone, Rhona. I think I’m done.’ He drew the curtain back to find the weather matched the inside of his head. Bleak. Uninviting. ‘I’ll look after you until you find some new little punk to manage, but I think I’m out. I’m tired of it all. I’ve got nothing left to give.’
There was a long silence at the end of the phone. ‘What about Play On? You can’t expand without the new album.’
‘I’ll work something out.’ Mo’s gut clenched. The last thing he wanted was to let Play On shrivel. He’d have to find another way to float the expansion—it meant so much to him, and the guilt of knowing he couldn’t be the one to shoulder it anymore sliced through him. He let the curtain fall back and, out of habit, stood in front of the fireplace, despite its cold, fireless grate. ‘I’m so sorry, Rhona. I know I’m letting everyone down. Especially you.’
Rhona snorted. ‘Don’t be daft! I’ll be fine. But Mo? If even half of this state you’re in is because of Netta leaving, then promise me you’ll do something about it. Reach out to her. She’s probably feeling like a notch on your bedpost, and I get the feeling she was a lot more than that.’
Mo leaned against the mantel. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Good boy,’ said Rhona. ‘Will we see you next week for dinner?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’
‘I’m going to take that as a yes. I’ll speak to the record company and we’ll announce it as a hiatus for now. You don’t have to do anything, but you’ll probably have press buzzing around once I send the release out.’
‘I know the deal,’ he said. ‘I’m not planning on leaving the house any time soon anyway.’
‘I’m going to send you something.’ Rhona’s voice had changed again. Softer, but still not to be fucked with. ‘The number of my therapist. Just in case.’
Mo groaned. ‘Righto.’
‘Bye, darling. I’ll check in soon.’
‘Bye.’ Mo barely got the word out before a stealthy wave of grief crashed down on him, folding him into a crouch, his elbows digging into his knees. Tears came, slowly at first, and his body relented, sagging to the floor. He wept for his mum, for the little boy he’d once been, for the guilt that never seemed to lessen, no matter how many years passed. He wept for his walled-up childhood and his unknown future. For Rhona. For Mav. And for Netta, too. He had nothing left but guilt and emptiness and a long list of too-lates. It had finally happened. The illusion had been worked out, and now the world would see him for what he really was.
A useless fucking fraud.
Chapter Forty-Eight
NETTA
Netta turned away from the reception desk and looked around the waiting room. Seats lined the walls, filled with expectant mothers at varying levels of about-to-popness, and the air buzzed with their collective nerves and anticipation, hope and fear. She’d only had to wait a few days for this scan but that had been more than enough time for her imagination to cook up intricate fantasies of how it would play out. But in her imagination, it hadn’t been anything like this. She’d anticipated pure elation and excitement, but instead the overwhelming feeling wrapping itself around her as she waited for her name to be called was one of powerlessness. This dream of hers, which she’d spent months of her life meticulously planning for, now seemed so far out of her control. She had no idea what was happening inside her, and the realisation that she was at the mercy of luck was a sobering companion to her excitement.
Freya squeezed her hand and pointed to two spare chairs near the door. ‘So, Pete’s definitely not coming, then?’
‘No,’ Netta said, recalling her last conversation with her ex. Her hand found its protective spot on her still-flat belly as they sat. ‘He’s still sulking.’
Pete had been almost unresponsive when she’d called him to tell him she was pregnant. He’d even accused her of trying to pin Mo’s baby on him—he’d seen the photos of them online; everybody had, apparently. She’d had to catch herself when she’d started empathising with him, conceding that having his friends see photos of her kissing Mo would’ve been deeply humiliating for him. But she wasn’t the one who’d cheated. Later that night, Pete had turned up drunk on her doorstep, begging to get back together. Saying that if it really was his baby, then it deserved committed parents, which seemed a little rich, given he’d divorced Heather when their kids were barely in primary school. Netta hadn’t felt any need or desire to consider his proposition. They were done.Sodone. The baby would be better off with a happy single mother than with paired-up parents who didn’t trust each other. Pete could be as involved as he wanted to be, but only with the baby.
Freya shook her head in disbelief. ‘Never mind him. How excited are you out of ten?’
‘Twenty.’ Netta grinned. ‘I’m also pretty nervous. And I’ve never needed to pee so badly in my life.’ She tapped a rhythm on her thighs to distract herself from the pressure. The receptionist who’d made the appointment for her had told her to arrive for her scan with a full bladder and she’d taken her instructions very seriously, possibly to the point of overkill—her back teeth were screaming for lifejackets. ‘I think I need to see the baby for it to feel like it’s actually real, because my body doesn’t feel any different yet. Is that normal?’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Freya. ‘All of my pregnancies have been non-stop puking for the first ten weeks.’
‘Netta Phillips?’
Netta’s head swivelled at the sound of her name and she hastily stood and crossed the room, her heart suddenly feeling as though it needed far more room in her chest.
