by Mandy Baggot
‘No pity,’ Emily said deftly. ‘Just the offer of my spare room for the night… or for however long you need it.’ She nodded, picking up her glass and swirling around the dregs of the soft drink. ‘It’s spare, you know, a spare room, doing nothing much but being spare.’ She blew out a breath. ‘I mean, it isn’t luxury and it’s small but it’s maybe better than…’
‘A shed?’ Ray suggested.
‘Even with the heating doing its crazy thing at the moment I’d like to think that it was better than a shed.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he replied.
‘Say yes,’ Emily said. ‘Then I’ll feel better about that oil you still have on your hands.’
He looked down at his fingers and cursed at the black streaks that lay there. ‘Lucky it’s radio in the morning not television.’
‘You’re on the radio?’ Emily asked.
He nodded. ‘City FM. I’ve got to be there at 6 a.m.’
‘Well then,’ Emily said. ‘You need somewhere decent to sleep before that.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll go and make the spare bed.’
‘Emily,’ Ray said, calling her back.
She turned around to face him. His expression told a story that looked like what she had offered him was not an empty room but a lifeline, something worth the world.
‘Thanks,’ he told her.
Twenty
Blurry-eyed, Emily woke up to the sound of water running in the bathroom. Her first thought was that something was now leaking and she had another boiler issue to deal with. But then, as she turned over in bed and reached for the switch for her bedside lamp, she remembered last night. Ray Stone had stayed the night. He could even be her new flatmate until she found a suitable paying party or got her promotion…
Glancing at the clock she saw it was only 5 a.m. Well, he had said he was meant to be at the radio station for 6 a.m. and City FM was over in Leicester Square. Usually she got up at 6 a.m., but once she was awake there was no nodding off again. She clambered out of bed and reached for her dressing gown – a 1940s peach silk with four little buttons in the middle to fasten it. Another piece of her inheritance money chipped away at in the name of melancholy…
As she opened her bedroom door the running water stopped and before she could take the few steps across the hall to the kitchen, the bathroom door burst open and there was a dripping wet Ray, completely naked.
‘Oh… I…’ Emily exclaimed, closing her eyes then opening them again, then not really knowing what to do. It took milliseconds for the taut physique to be ingrained on her brain. Broad chest, washboard abs, that deep muscular V to his… Eyes up – was that a scar on his shoulder?
‘Sorry,’ Ray apologised. ‘I left the towel you gave me in my room.’
She couldn’t proceed past him. He couldn’t proceed past her. She had never had this small walkway scenario with Jonah. The only option she had was retreating backwards and letting him go past her to his room.
‘Sorry,’ she apologised again, eyes to the floorboards, catching sight of the water droplets falling to the wood. ‘I’m not usually up this early so we won’t… have this happen again.’ Just how awkward was this?! And she still hadn’t stepped back into her room… She shuffled backwards.
‘Cheers,’ Ray said, voice breaking a little as he headed back to his new abode.
*
When Ray came into the kitchen, dry and dressed, Emily was plunging the top of a cafetière down into inky black steaming coffee on the tiny table. There were two cups and saucers on placemats and a silver rack holding triangles of toast and the very last crumpet. He was in the same clothes but after the shower he definitely felt fresher.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted. ‘Again.’
‘Oh, hello,’ Emily answered, turning to face him. Her fringe was a little stuck up and the gown she was wearing was on one shoulder far more than her other. The colour of the gown wasn’t too dissimilar to the glow of her skin…
‘I’m sorry about that before,’ he said. Should he try and sit? It was a very snug space. ‘I’m not usually a man-up-at-five-in-the-morning kind of guy.’
‘It’s fine,’ Emily replied. ‘Me neither. As I said. Not that I’m a man. I mean the five o’clock bit.’ She poured the coffee into both the cups. ‘Please, have some toast. Or the crumpet. I’ll just get the margarine… do you like margarine? I don’t have butter… but I have Nutella… or it might be out of date. Or there’s Marmite. That never really goes out of date, does it?’
‘I’m good,’ Ray answered. ‘The coffee’s great.’
‘Do you take milk?’ Emily asked, hovering a small jug over his cup.
‘Yeah… but not right now.’ He picked up the cup and sipped some of the coffee. It was good coffee.
‘Oh,’ Emily said. She sniffed at the milk in her jug. ‘It’s not gone off, has it?’
‘No,’ Ray replied. ‘It isn’t that. It’s dairy. I have to sing on the radio and dairy… it’s not good for the voice.’
Neither was alcohol, but that hadn’t stopped him from finishing up all the wine last night. And he hadn’t done one breathing exercise since he’d left Harley Street… Had a night in the spare room of this apartment really made him wake up focused and half-sensible?
‘Gosh, I’m so sorry,’ Emily said, putting the milk jug down as if it was toxic. ‘You must think I’m a very poor host.’
‘I think the complete opposite,’ Ray replied. He decided to keep standing, lean slightly on the worktop behind him. ‘I think it was very kind of you to offer me your spare room for the night and as soon as I have an alternative, hopefully later today, I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘Oh, well, that’s fine,’ Emily said. ‘But… wow, I’m still thinking about dairy. I could never be a singer in that case. Not that I have any ability in that area whatsoever. But, I do like dairy… cheese and… cheesecake… and well, cheese.’
Ray smiled. ‘Chocolate’s a no too.’
‘Goodness,’ Emily said, picking up her coffee cup. ‘I could have the talent of Jennifer Hudson and I’d have to hide it from the world if it meant giving up all that.’
‘Not giving it up,’ Ray said. ‘Just not eating it or drinking it a couple of hours before a performance.’ He checked his watch. He was apprehensive. For the singing and for the interview. Deborah might have said there would be no questions about what was being talked about in the papers, but the radio show was live. Once the presenter asked the question over the airwaves there was no taking it back. And what if his voice cracked or broke the way it had done recently at the studio? There was nothing like not hitting the perfect notes to really compound the tale that his career was on its way to being over.
‘I should get going,’ he said, slurping the rest of his drink and putting the cup down again.
‘Good luck,’ Emily answered. ‘Oh, is it OK to say good luck? You don’t have any superstitions about that, do you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Good luck works for me.’
‘Oh,’ Emily said, turning towards the worktop and moving multi-coloured tins, magazines and one of the three whisks. ‘You should take this.’ She held out a key on a small keyring made of acrylic with a pink pressed flower inside. ‘Simply in case your alternative doesn’t happen… not that I think it won’t. But if it doesn’t, you can get in if I’m not here before you… get back… maybe.’
‘Emily,’ he said, not reaching for it. ‘That’s really kind of you but I can’t pay you anything for the room just yet so…’
‘I’ve Googled the thermometer thing you told me I needed for the boiler. I was hoping, if it wasn’t too much of an imposition, that you would perhaps fit it for me if I ordered it.’ She carried on holding out the key. ‘That would be payment enough for now. But I understand you’ll probably get a better, much bigger place and that’s fine if you do but… if you don’t…’
He shook his head. Why was this virtual stranger being so nice to him? He was sure he didn’t deserve it. And he definitely w
asn’t used to it.
‘Thermostat,’ Ray told her. ‘Not thermometer.’
‘Crap. See! I’ll probably order the wrong thing.’
‘I’ll get one,’ Ray told her. ‘I’ll try and get one today. After the radio thing.’
She offered the key again. ‘Well, if that’s the case then you’ll need a key to get in to fix it.’
He looked at the brass attached to the ornate keyring. She was offering him her home for the price of an hour’s work… He reached out, picking the key from her palm. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem. I’ll look forward to a flat that doesn’t give me Caribbean cruise one minute and Northern Lights the next.’
He felt emotional in this moment. Perhaps it was the stress of the worry about this interview and singing live on radio. Or maybe it was the story Ida had sold to the newspapers, or his run-in with his dad last night. Or the threat of an operation looming. Maybe it was everything. He breathed deeply and tried to take control. ‘I should go.’
‘Yes, good luck,’ Emily said. ‘And, well, see you later.’ She flapped a hand in the air. ‘Perhaps.’
He picked up his coat from where it was still draped over the kitchen chair. ‘See you later.’
Twenty-One
Stretton Park Primary School
‘Rumour has it, Penny is pregnant.’
It was Dennis, sucking on something that smelled like rhubarb and custard. Emily found it surprising she could smell his sweet – or probably sweets – over the lingering aroma of macaroni cheese that was clinging to the air and probably her silk shirt with real mother-of-pearl buttons. She couldn’t remember where she had bought this one, but Simon had always said it was his favourite. It was always noisy in the hall at dinnertime and today was no different. All the children were either crashing knives and forks against plates or crinkling up tin foil from their lunchboxes.
‘Did you say Penny is pregnant?’ Emily asked, as loudly as she could without fear of being overheard. Penny was the cook. Emily knew she worked for next to nothing because her daughter was in Year Three.
‘I said,’ Dennis said, ducking his head a little closer, that half-sweet half-sour aroma ripening. ‘Rumour has it she’s pregnant.’ He dipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out more sweets. ‘I wouldn’t want to start a story that isn’t true, but she lives near us and Mother saw her buying three packets of ginger biscuits the other day.’
Emily scoffed. ‘Maybe she just likes ginger biscuits.’
‘They’re good for morning sickness, Mother says. And,’ Dennis carried on, ‘she’s put on a bit of weight, don’t you think?’
‘I can’t say I’ve noticed.’ And Emily didn’t scrutinise her colleagues like that… except maybe Mrs Adams before she left. She’d had a rather unmissable case of elephantiasis.
‘Mark my words,’ Dennis said. ‘They’ll be looking for a new cook soon to cover maternity leave. Mother’s quite excited.’
Emily frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Well,’ Dennis said, crunching up the hard-boiled sweets now. ‘Mother’s started to get a bit restless at home. I think she needs a part-time job.’
‘Dennis,’ Emily said. ‘I thought you told me she was eighty-five.’
‘Eighty-five in January.’
‘Well, goodness, she should be enjoying life and…’ What did Emily want to be doing if she made it to eighty-five? She mused for a moment. ‘Going on a cruise or… drinking gin in the middle of the day.’ Some people didn’t make it to eighty-five. Some people didn’t even make it to thirty. What would Simon have wanted to be doing at eighty-five? Eating his way through boxes of Cadbury’s products probably. Watching classic rom coms while they nibbled, curled up on the sofa together. She took a breath and focused on Dennis again.
‘Hmm,’ Dennis said, sounding thoughtful. ‘She did have a good few years doing those things, but she seems ready for a new challenge.’ He offered Emily a paper bag he’d got out of his pocket. ‘A bit like you and the Christmas show.’ He giggled. Actually giggled.
‘Yes, well, I’ve got lots of ideas for the show already. The Year Sixes are extremely talented when it comes to taking a concept and running with it.’ In reality she had a ton of rather ridiculous, over-the-top ideas they didn’t have the budget or the health and safety certificates for and very little else.
‘If you believe the rumours, some of your class are quite good at taking stuff off the shelves of the local shop and running with it.’
‘Who?’ Emily asked, in full-on maternal mode.
‘I’m not one to name names.’
‘If you don’t tell me who it is then I’ll tell Penny you’re telling everyone she’s pregnant.’
Dennis shoved the now empty paper bag back into his pocket. ‘Everyone will see for themselves in a few months’ time. Mother has an intuition about these kinds of things.’
‘Dennis, if one of my class is shoplifting then I need to know about it.’
‘I haven’t seen anyone do it. Someone else told me,’ Dennis backtracked.
‘Well, who was it?’ Emily snapped, getting more annoyed by the second. It was going to be Jayden. She knew it. She shouldn’t immediately think it, but he had nothing, it stood to reason he would be the most in need of treats out of financial reach in the shop. She hoped to God it wasn’t football cards he’d taken, that would mean he had completely lied to her over that spat in the playground…
‘Rashid Dar,’ Dennis informed matter-of-factly. ‘And you didn’t hear that from me.’
Emily was gobsmacked. ‘No, Dennis, that can’t be right.’ Rashid’s family were wealthy, she was sure of it. She’d been to Dar’s Delhi Delights several times. It was buzzing and busy and it had just had a brand-new makeover. She knew they also paid for Facebook advertising because their deals were forever coming up on her timeline. Rashid had the latest iPhone, new shoes every term, school trousers from Next… He wasn’t Jayden with his Shoezone trainers and his falling-apart rucksack.
‘He was seen, a couple of times, slipping those fancy chewing gum pots into his pockets. The person in question called him on it the last time, gave him a chance to put it back on the shelf. He denied all knowledge. I’m just saying, if it happens again, she said she’s going to tell the owner of the shop.’ He sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t have hesitated.’
And Emily couldn’t blame this person. She would be doing the same. But everyone deserved a second chance. Perhaps if she spoke to Rashid herself. She had ear-marked this afternoon, when her pupils were a little jaded and full of macaroni cheese, to get them to delete any photos of Ray. She could throw in a talk about taking things that aren’t yours. It wouldn’t come so out of the blue having had the football cards incident…
‘Leave it with me,’ Emily said to Dennis. ‘Tell… your source that I’ll handle it.’
Dennis crunched up the sweets in his mouth again. ‘Quite the busy bee, aren’t we? I hear Susan’s going to put you in charge of decorating this space tomorrow. The diocese is visiting next week apparently. It’s all hands to the Christmas pump.’ He indicated the large hall currently filled with chattering children, then clapped his hands in front of Emily’s face. ‘Showtime.’
Twenty-Two
Marylebone
‘I don’t understand,’ Ray said, struggling to keep up with Deborah’s hectic pace as she rushed down one of London’s main shopping streets. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ll explain when we get there,’ Deborah answered. She had thrown the comment at him, over her shoulder as she hurtled past other pedestrians. She looked back for a second. ‘Did I tell you how brilliant you were on the radio? How well you handled yourself?’
‘Yeah,’ he responded with a sigh. It was raining. A cold, freezing rain making him wish he had his hat with him. It wasn’t in the pocket of his coat, so he knew it was most likely at Emily’s apartment. He looked up at the stores around him, all bedecked with glittering tinsel and round shiny baubles. Even in the daylig
ht it was Festive 101. He could only guess how bright the ‘Christmas is Calling’ signs strung across the road from one side to the other would look when night fell. There were even giant reindeers suspended on strings that looked like they were flying. All this, he decided, would be much better viewing if he was pissed.
‘So, do you think I was good enough to get a rental property without anyone looking too closely at my finances? Maybe people who read The Independent not the Daily Mail.’
He hadn’t been amazing. He had been scared to death. And, in some ways, he had been right to be. The DJ had asked about work on his new album but then, at the very end, just before he was due to sing, he asked his final question.
We’ve all seen the newspapers. We’ve all jumped to our own conclusions. Tell us, Ray, have you got anything you’d like to say to Ida if she’s listening?
For a second, he had almost fallen into the trap set beautifully by the interviewer. A vision of Ida had sprung up, kicking at his brain, and those thoughts were tumbling out of his mind and down towards his lips. And then one of the crew had spilt boiling hot coffee over the desk just as he was about to reply. It brought back a vivid memory of another cup, a just-boiled kettle and the bubbling water flowing through the air.
This time, as the steaming liquid headed his way he’d scooted back, standing quickly. The interruption and the DJ’s need to explain what had happened to the listeners, gave him enough time to regroup. He’d sat back down and smiled at the interviewer before responding.
You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the press, Milo. And, I’d really like to sing for your listeners before we run out of airtime.
He’d then slid along to the seat behind the keyboard and played a chord to signify that talking was most definitely over.
‘I asked Saturn about an advance on your advance,’ Deborah said as he caught up to her at last.
‘And?’
‘Ray, you haven’t been in the studio for over two weeks. They’re worried you aren’t going to complete before the deadline.’