A Hundred Ways to Break Up (Let's Make This Thing Happen 2) (6 page)

He texted her at work, late morning.

Can’t stop dreaming about you. Lunch? Rxx

All it took was a text to turn her to mush. It really was feeble.

A short time later a car pulled up in the street outside Hamilton and Chambers. The windows were tinted, concealing the car’s occupants so she didn’t know if Ray would be there or waiting for her at some restaurant.

The door popped open, she climbed in and slotted straight into his embrace.

Of course he was there. How could he not be?

He kissed the top of her head, and then she tilted her face to kiss him properly. He tasted of coffee and smelled of that peppery, slightly citrus, aftershave he favored.

Mo drove them to Ray’s place where the door had barely closed behind them before Ray was on her, all over her, unfastening and freeing her clothes, pulling her down to her knees, both of them kneeling, lying, on the hard, unforgiving floor. He was fast and urgent, and minutes later they sat with their backs against the wall, knees drawn up, laughing at what had just taken place between them.

Ray made an omelet and they talked. About her morning, about L’Auberge and Ronnie, about Thom. That led them on to: “He was waiting for me at the station. He had bad news. My aunt... Helen.” And so they talked about Emily’s family, and Ray very deftly turned the conversation to happy times, fond memories of Helen, Bill and Kayleigh. That thing he did where he was able to draw positives out of the negative, that they were two sides of the same thing.

Later: “I should be getting back.” How could they talk like that? Just keep on going, losing all track of time.

“I need to see you again.”

She felt that rush, but tried not to show it, tried to stay cool. “Lunch again tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m in Berlin tomorrow. Corporate shit. Can’t get out of it. You could always come with me?” That mischievous grin again.

“I have a job, you know. And like you said: we have to be discreet.”

“Saturday?”

“I’m seeing Kayleigh in the morning. Wedding stuff.”

“Afternoon? Evening? Overnight?”

That grin had grown even broader. All the time she felt like a schoolgirl, it still came as something of a surprise to realize that Ray must be feeling just like a kid, too: the excitement, the thrill, the eagerness to make the most of every moment.

“I don’t know. I...” She laughed. His eagerness was so enthusiastic. “I’ll let you know.”

“Do that.”

§

“Hey, Marcia’s friend.” That big deep voice, and the way he called her that.

“Hi, Mo,” she said. She was taking the call at her desk again, but it was fine. There was no reason people around her wouldn’t think this was a business call. “Aren’t you in Berlin with Ray?”

“Yeah yeah, I am. Listen, he’s in a meeting with some TV people but I thought you should know: there’s some buzz online. Have you seen the Cans Fans page on Facebook? You might want to keep your head down, you know?”

She opened a new browser window as Mo was talking, found Facebook and then clicked through to the Angry Cans fan page. She knew Mo ran this page, but it was open for anyone to post. Usually it was a mix of reminiscences about the band’s heyday, fans’ photos from gigs, and a trickle of news stories and plugs scheduled by Mo from various ghost accounts.

“You there?”

“Yes, just looking.” Heart racing, hands suddenly sweaty, it was taking her far too long to get to the page and then for the page to load.

The first story in the feed was a link to one of those reviews of the Roxette gig that had so got under Ray’s skin the other day. It had nearly a thousand likes and 146 comments. So much for all the stressing about the press jumping the gun: the buzz for the new album was clearly growing, and no doubt being gently guided by Mo.

The second story... Posted by a user called ‘LucyCanFan’, it read:

Noooooo!!! He MINE!!

Below it was a photo of Ray and a headline from one of the gossip sites:

Curvy lurv for Ray. He’s back in the game!

She clicked through to the story and was immediately relieved that the only pictures were a PR photo of Ray and an old paparazzi shot of him with his estranged wife Róisín, arm in arm at some red carpet do. She started to read, her throat dry, her heart pounding.

His long-awaited forthcoming album wasn’t the only new thing in Ray Sandler’s life, the story told her. Recently he’d been seen at some discreet megastar haunts with the new love of his life, a mystery beauty with ‘more curves than a Monte Carlo racetrack’.

“Just thought I’d let you know.”

She’d forgotten she was even on the phone, and before she had a chance to respond to Mo the line went dead.

The story was almost completely lacking in specifics, but it was clear that it was referring to L’Auberge. Their private dining room had been tucked away from view, and Emily had barely laid eyes on another customer when they had been there. But all it would have taken was for someone to see
them
. Someone peering through that archway, someone losing their way to the toilets.

Or a member of staff...

How many staff-members had served them, or passed within view? What had been said in the kitchens?

She went back to the Cans Fans Facebook page and skimmed through the comments. Jealous female fans. Jokes about Ray’s wild past and how anything more than one date counted as a long-term commitment for him. Outraged Róisín groupies – she had been the kind of celebrity wife who either alienated the fans or developed a cult following of her own. Again, just gossip; nothing of substance.

Emily slipped away from her desk and went down to the street to call Marcia. This wasn’t the kind of chat that could easily be disguised as a business call.

§

“It’s all over the place,” she said into her phone. “Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter. Everywhere. What if they identify me? What if Thom finds out? What if all the fuss scares Ray off? He’s so edgy when it comes to attention from the press. And the stories... Why do they keep calling me curvy? I’m not
fat
, damn it. I’m hourglass. There’s a difference.”

“In. Two. Three. And
out
. Two. Three.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hey: ‘mystery beauty’. While you’re busy obsessing over the digs at your curves, you’re completely ignoring the ‘mystery beauty’. Hell, girl, I’d go with that any day of the week.”

“Are you reading it now?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Do you think it’s bad? Is this going to wreck everything?”

“You listen to me, Emily. Are you listening? Good. Just what exactly are you scared it’s going to wreck? You and Thom have been history for the longest time now. You’ve got an exciting new man and up until you grabbed him he was free and very single. So people are talking: so what? Enjoy the ride, my lovely. The only person threatening to wreck things here is you and all your worrying.”

§

Back at her desk, she read through the main story once again. Marcia was right. She just had to deal with this. Suck it up and enjoy the ride.

After hesitating forever, she texted him.

We still on for Saturday? E xx

She waited nervously for the response. What if all this scared him off?

She kept checking her phone. Kept reminding herself that he was in Berlin on business. He’d be in meetings, he’d be entertaining and being entertained. He might even be on a flight back by now – she didn’t know his schedule. There was any number of reasons why he might not reply immediately.

Finally, almost two hours later, her phone buzzed with his answer:

Of course. Why wouldn’t we? ;-) Rxx

She went to Kayleigh’s house. Uncle Bill was there, quiet and unassuming in his grief. Just wanting to make things work for his daughter. Emily sat with her cousin in the conservatory and went through the lists, making sure everything had been done, checking off all the last-minute details. She’d just kind of assumed this role. She wasn’t even a bridesmaid, but they all had their own roles and now that Helen was gone... Someone had to step in.

“She really had everything organized, didn’t she?” said Emily.

Kayleigh smiled. Her mother had recorded everything in meticulous detail, with lists and timelines all set out for the run-up to the wedding.

“She was a phenomenon,” Emily said. In fact everything was so well organized that her role here was more a gesture of solidarity than anything else. “You are too, Kayleigh. It takes balls to do what you’re doing.”

“It’s what she’d have wanted,” said Kayleigh. Then she went on: “Anyway. You. What’s with all the messages? Is there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?”

Emily faltered. She’d thought she was being discreet, just checking her phone occasionally to see if Ray had been in touch, or Marcia, or even Thom. She wasn’t checking it all the time. She smiled, raised her eyebrows in her best attempt at an innocent look, and said, “No. No secrets. Just a lot going on, that’s all.”

“Damn. I was hoping for gossip. Feels like my head’s full of nothing but weddings and funerals at the moment and I’m not even in a Richard Curtis film.”

They laughed, they hugged, and Emily tried not to feel guilty at having been so distracted, and at misleading her cousin and generally not living up to the standards of her late Aunt.

§

She grabbed a sandwich at the station and ate it on the train into the city, then, after a twenty minute cab ride, she was stepping out in front of Ray’s house.

This was a very genteel part of the city. Leafy trees lined the street, each surrounded by its own tight ring of iron railings, like an unforgiving leg-brace. More iron railings separated the rows of immaculately restored Victorian houses from the street, marking off a drop down to the basement level. The railings were interrupted by flights of stone steps which led up to column-flanked front doors, the wood of each painted the same deep blue and with identical brass knockers and fittings.

It felt odd, standing here like this. She felt exposed and out of place.

She peered around, but the street was quiet. Just a low-slung sports car cruising past and over on the far side an elderly couple walking painfully slowly, minding their own business.

When she looked back at the house he was standing there in the now-open doorway, studying her, smiling, waiting.

“Aren’t you worried the press will be watching?” she asked, still not approaching, allowing this moment to draw itself out.

He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Don’t worry about the press,” he said. “They’re like flies. Sometimes useful flies, but bugs nonetheless.”

He blew so hot and cold. So often
he
was the one stressing about the press and yet now he seemed prepared to dismiss them.

She approached the steps, and started to climb, slowly. She felt like a fish being drawn in by those dark eyes.

She reached the top, one pace away from him, her eyes locked on his, and kept right on walking.

She pressed against him, and took another step, forcing him backwards until he came up against the doorframe and now she was squashed against him and her mouth found his and, body hard against body, they kissed, not a care in the world for the fact that they were in an open doorway on a public street and they were supposed to be being discreet.

It was a release, a wave washing over her. She realized that she was undergoing some kind of transition, that Ray’s world was becoming her world and that the other world – Thom, work, day to day reality – was rapidly retreating. This was what mattered to her now. This was what was real.

Inside. The door fumbled closed behind them, and they stood in each other’s arms, clinging on tightly.

“I’ve missed you.”
Stupid
. It had only been two days. But two days when she had felt as if she was being swallowed back into her old life, into Thom’s life.

“I’m here.”

He released her, reached down for her hand, and led her through to the front room. She hadn’t been in here before. The floor and walls were painted white, stark contrast to black leather furniture, and the dark wood of an upright piano. The only color in the room came from the scuffed chestnut body of a well-used and clearly well-loved acoustic guitar propped up on a stand against the far wall.

The room looked cold, as if it had been done out as some kind of photo-set: an arty illustration of how rock stars live. There was a big, framed black and white print hanging on one wall: an industrial landscape of broken-windowed warehouses and burnt-out cars.

Odd, how sharply a mood could change.

“‘Useful flies’?”

He looked puzzled, and went to stand by the window, leaning with his back against the frame.

“You said the press were like flies: ‘sometimes useful flies’.”

He shrugged. “You learn to use them,” he said. “That’s what Mo does. He’s a master at dripfeeding them stories so they think they’re doing all the work. He’s the master of spin.”

She almost left it at that.

She knew that’s what Mo did. She knew all about the ghost accounts Mo used to manage the social media feeds, steering and building stories that kept Ray’s and the Cans’ profiles high when they needed it.

But he glanced away. He wouldn’t hold her look.

She’d known Ray behave like this before: those moments when something special was happening and they’d both sensed it and they’d both been unnerved by the sudden intensity of feeling. But this was subtly different: he was looking away because he was uncomfortable about something.

“The stories,” she said, approaching the subject cautiously. “Those journalists who got into the Roxette show. Just how accidental was that?”

That shrug again. The same evasive look: briefly at her and then away. Why did she suddenly feel like the grown-up here? She didn’t like this new dynamic between them. Didn’t like that it had sprung up out of nowhere like this.

“Or were they invited by Mo? Was it all part of the PR job he’s doing for the new album?”

“It’s what happens,” said Ray. “It’s how the business works.”

“So why were you so angry about it?”

“Because I didn’t know. Because Mo had just gone off and done what he thought needed to be done and didn’t tell me there were hacks in the crowd. It wasn’t meant to be like that.”