‘It’s a great record,’ I said.
‘Zoë’s one of the few people I’ve met who loves Marcie Tyler as much as I do.’
There was something behind that statement that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It didn’t help that he made it sound like Marcie fans were rare. Like we were two trainspotters cast to the edges of society because no one understood our love for diesel engines.
‘Loads of people like Marcie Tyler,’ said Simon, with a touch of defensiveness.
‘Exactly,’ I added.
‘When you meet her, like I have,’ said Jess casually, ‘you realise she’s not that special. Even her voice was disappointing. Autotuned to the max every night.’
‘Interesting,’ said Nick. ‘They say meeting your heroes is always a bad idea.’ He sounded amused. How was he not pissed off to hear Marcie slagged off like this?
It was taking every ounce of my willpower not to—oh, fuck it. ‘Have you not got anything positive to say about her?’ I said to Jess.
Her eyes were still struggling to focus, but when she looked at me, I swear it was with pity. She smiled. ‘Let me think... She had good taste in men. For an older man, Benedict was sexy as hell.’
‘You guys had great chemistry on stage,’ said Nick.
‘Are you implying I shagged him, Nick?’ She giggled. ‘I’ll never tell,’ she whispered, then winked, which contradicted her vow of silence as loudly as if she’d given us a run down of times, places and preferred positions.
Nick had told me that Marcie had wronged Jess, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that Jess had not been an angel either.
Nick leant forward conspiratorially. ‘How was Benedict those last few nights of the tour? Were the arguments with Marcie as bad as ever?’
‘Are you from a tabloid, or something?’ Simon hadn’t said much so far, but it was like he’d finally smelt a rat. He looked at me, waiting for an answer.
Nick held his hands up in the air. ‘Sorry, I was just curious.’
He’d pushed too hard and antagonised Jess. Could he not turn on a bit of charm? She’d flirted with him – all he had to do was flirt back. Was he really such a stiff?
Giggling from the next table distracted us. A couple of girls, or rather, grown women, were attempting to photograph Jess on their phones without her noticing, but they were doing a piss-poor job of it. When Jess clocked it she grinned broadly – being the centre of attention seemed to make her glow.
‘It’s so nice when actual fans want a picture. I can’t abide it when the scumbag paparazzi do it. They’re only interested in humiliating photos. I had one chasing me up Bond Street the other day,’ she said crossly. ‘I thought social media would put an end to the paparazzi.’
Nick gave me a knowing look which said,I told you.
Jess didn’t notice, though; she was too busy interacting with her fans. She waved them over. ‘Come and get a proper pic, ladies!’
A proper pic was a selfie, naturally. Each of them took about five turns to get a picture they were happy with and it all took twice as long as it should have because they were telling Jess how great she looked: her lipstick, her hair, that darling little seahorse necklace that glistened under the lights.
Could she not see how self-centred and rude she was being? Simon raised his eyebrows when one of the women jostled him. I smiled in solidarity and he grinned back. For a moment, we were the only two people in the room.
I wasn’t overly concerned with what Nick was doing while this was going on, but it dawned on me that he had turned to face in the opposite direction like he was embarrassed to be seen with us.
Jesus.
Yes, he was hiding his identity from Jess, but it wasn’t as if the pics would go viral and expose him. And if he thought so, he was even more deluded about Jess’s popularity than she was.
Jess noticed his reluctance to be photographed, too. When her gushing fans were gone, she said to him: ‘Got a wife at home, Nick? Is that why you’re avoiding the cameras?’
‘I thought I saw someone I knew,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ said Jess.
‘My wife,’ he deadpanned.
‘Did you know he was married, Zoë?’
