34
I Feel the Earth Move
Two months later
‘God, I can’t believe you’re dating a publicist,’ said Lucy as she topped up both our glasses. About thirty of us were crammed in theRe:Soundoffice with wine and a portable karaoke machine – guess whose ideathatwas? – to celebrate record sales and our new secure future.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, offended. Swap the word ‘publicist’ for ‘Tory’ and you’d get an idea of her tone.
‘You always said publicists were dull.’
‘I’ve had my horizons broadened.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye, is that what the oldies call it?’
Jesus, since when did thirty-four count as old? ‘When you first saw Nick you called him sexyAF.’
‘Yeah, but hotness isn’t everything. Look at Gavin.’
‘I do look at Gavin. Every day. He sits opposite me.’
They’d been seeing each other for a couple of months and somehow Lucy – ten years my junior and never one to miss an opportunity to remind me – had now turned into a relationship expert. I didn’t really mind, though. My mood these days was pretty invincible, and not only because of a certain sexyAFpublicist.
Our September issue had sold out in two days, and the Marcie interview had been syndicated around the world, producing some healthy bonus income. Even the Hands Down issue – which included the last interview with all five members – had become a collector’s edition. It had featured on both theBBCand Sky News to illustrate the break-up of the band. And on top of everything else, we had the first performance of the band as a four-piece – thanks to some impressive phone footage that Gav had shot when they’d come to sing for Lucy’s birthday.
Jonny’s solo career was still trying to get off the ground, but Hands Down as a four-piece were going from strength to strength. They’d been asked to sing the next Bond theme – a proper rabbit-out-of-a-hat masterstroke from Nick, resulting in him being able to keep his job in London.
Everyone around me looked happy. Gavin’s shoulders were permanently relaxed instead of looped around his ears, and I’d even caught him smiling to himself when he thought no one was looking. Mike had kicked his vaping habit and shed ten years. A two-week family holiday to the Algarve had also endowed him with a Jeff Goldblum tan and an expensive new golf habit.
I’d suggested we make tonight’s party optional fancy dress – which meant only three people had bothered. Rob had brought along a pair of bongo drums and announced he was Matthew McConaughey, while Gavin had slapped on a pirate’s hat and taped a clothes hanger to his cuff as a makeshift hook-hand. In comparison, my punk rocker’s outfit looked like I’d spent days on it: ripped tights under denim shorts andDMs, backcombed hair and black lipstick.
Simon was here, too. He’d come straight from work in his civvies and couldn’t understand why Gavin had greeted him with, ‘Gareth Southgate, cool.’ I’d had to explain it was because he was wearing a waistcoat; he’d never really followed football.
‘How’s the training going?’
Simon nodded. ‘Really well. I’m going for a run after this.’
I was impressed. ‘Your third this week – and it’s only Thursday.’
After his hospital scare, Simon had embraced a healthier lifestyle and was training for the London Marathon. I’d never seen him so much as run for a bus, but his new exercise regime seemed to make him happy. He certainly seemed calmer and more grounded than he’d been when he’d first arrived in London all those weeks ago.
He leant over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Right. I’m off, Frixie. Catch you at Pilates.’
He’d joined Alice’s studio and the two of us went together once a week. There was a moment when I’d worried he’d go fullEat Pray Loveon me and give up caffeine, carbs and capitalism, but his love of Starbucks, steak sandwiches and stock markets kept him on the right side of that particular line.
I watched him go and thanked my lucky stars that our friendship had weathered our weird summer. After I’d got together with Nick, I’d been concerned that Simon would fall back into a dysfunctional relationship with Jess, but he’d been surprisingly lucid about the importance of staying single.
I’d even had good news from Jess herself. A couple of weeks after my brother’s wedding, she rang and asked me to set up a meeting with Marcie. They spoke on the phone a couple of times, then Marcie invited Jess to her Oxfordshire estate. The two women spent a weekend together, which culminated in Jessica agreeing to check into rehab, finally understanding that she needed treatment for her performance anxieties and reliance on drugs and alcohol. Marcie had insisted on picking up the tab and both of them seemed to find a sense of peace in the arrangement.
Peals of laughter erupted by the door. Someone new had arrived and I craned my neck to get a better view. Whoever he was, he was wearing a clingy electric-blue shirt and low-slung leather trousers held up by a rhinestone belt and witchcraft. From his height and gait, it had to be Nick, but I could only see the back of his head. He appeared to be wearing a long black wig, made of hair that you’d usually find blocking your plughole. Good God, it was shiny. The fluorescent tube lighting bouncing off it made my eyes hurt.
Then he turned round and it was like an orchestra had struck up.
The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing a slash of golden skin and an oversized crucifix. Strands of hair were falling into eyes that were ringed with jet-black eyeliner. He should have looked ridiculous, but he didn’t.
SexyAFdidn’t come close to covering it.
I swallowed as he walked towards me. His eyes were spellbinding. The black kohl brought out all the different shades of green in them. I was almost too embarrassed to look.
