‘But he loves you, Netta!’ said Freya. ‘Can’t you hear it in his voice? And those lyrics …’ She trailed off, a dreamy expression softening her features.
‘Yeah, but why couldn’t he justsayit? And why’s it taken so long? I’ve been tortured for weeks and now I’ve lost the baby—’ She cleared her throat. ‘And then there are the photos of him and Lorena Long.’
‘Okay, I get that his timing is terrible. But as for the photos, you know better than most people how misleading those paparazzi shots can be,’ said Freya. ‘Seems to me that if he was with Lorena, he wouldn’t have written the most beautiful love song in the history of love songs foryou. Know what I’m saying?’
Netta took a moment before she answered. ‘You didn’t see them together,’ she said flatly. ‘They make sense.He and I? We don’t. We just don’t.’
‘He obviously thinks you do.’
Netta sighed. ‘Why are you on his side? Aren’t you supposed to bemywingwoman?’
‘You know I’m your Goose for life,’ said Freya, reaching over to rub Netta’s knee. ‘I just don’t want you to miss out on something amazing because his timing’s a bit off.’
‘It’s more than the timing,’ said Netta. ‘I’m so messed up about the miscarriage and I’m about to turn forty. I can’t wait much longer if I want to try for a baby on my own. I can’t let anything—oranyone—get in the way or I’m going to miss out.’ Her voice snagged on the thorny reality of her situation.
‘So, what are you going to do about it?’
‘The song or the baby?’
Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Thesong.’
‘I’m not going to do anything about it. It’s time to move on and move forward. No more drama.’
‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what would happen if you gave him a chance?’
‘No,’ Netta lied. ‘I know exactly what would happen, and I’m not going there. In fact …’
She reached for her phone once again and opened Mo’s email, then hovered her finger over the delete button and pressed.
Chapter Fifty-Five
MO
Rhona’s kitchen was filled with the aromatic scent of basil and tomatoes, and steam billowed from a big pot on the stovetop. Don, wrapped in a bright blue and yellow striped apron, tipped the ravioli in and stirred as the water resumed its frantic boil. Rhona sat at the dining table, grating fresh parmesan, and Mo wiped flour from the bench where Don had made the pasta from scratch using the pasta-making machine he’d found under the Christmas tree. A bottle of red wine was open on the bench, of course. Mo splashed a little into his emptied glass just as the Spotify playlist switched to another chillout track.
‘So, no response at all, huh?’ Rhona was down to the stump of the parmesan now, clawing it carefully so as not to grate her fingers.
Mo shook his head and threw the flour-covered cloth into the sink behind him. ‘I feel like an idiot.’
‘For telling her how you feel about her? Or for waiting so long to say it?’
‘Both. She either hates me, or never had feelings in the first place. I don’t know which is worse.’
Rhona slid the mound of grated parmesan into a brightly patterned ceramic bowl. ‘It’s probably not as simple as that, Mo.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it looks pretty black and white from my end. I got the read receipt, so I know she opened the email. And I’ve called her since. Twice. No answer. No return call.’
‘So, what,’ said Don, turning away from the stove to look at him, ‘that’s it? You’re just going to let it go?’
‘I’m not sure what else I can do, mate.’ Resignation flattened Mo’s voice. ‘I can’t force myself on her. I’ve told her how I feel—the lyrics were pretty clear about that—so if she hasn’t responded, then I can only assume she doesn’t feel the same way.’
Rhona beckoned for Mo to pass her the wine bottle. ‘I’d say it’d also be fairly safe to assume she’s still pissed with you for the way you left things,’ she said. ‘I mean, think about it. She flew here fresh out of a break-up and then all that Mitch Carlton stuff got dredged up because she was seen with you. And fair enough, maybe that ended up being a good thing in the end, because she finally got to give him what for and that brilliant interview she did gave him the bollocking he deserved. But even so, she would’ve skipped a lot of drama if she’d never done you the favour of returning the diary. And then shesleepswith you, makes it safe for you to finally talk about your childhood and then you run for the hills, never to be heard from again until … what? Five or six weeks later?’
Mo hung his head, nodding to the floor. ‘I know, Rhona, okay? I really messed things up. I’ve been—’ He took a swig of shiraz and collected his thoughts. ‘Things have been pretty messy for me since Christmas.’
‘And let’s not forget the bloody photos of you and Lorena Long! I’d say she’s seen those and thinks you two are going at it like a pair of celebrity rabbits.’
Mo slumped. Those fucking photos. Rhona was right. If Netta had seen them, she’d definitely think he was with Lorena. Without context, they showed a couple leaving a bar. In reality, they showed a man walking down some steps with a woman who’d tipped off the paps to ensure they were captured leaving said bar ‘together’.
