One Christmas Star

by Mandy Baggot

  Emily looked at his guitar. ‘Can I move this down and sit? Or isn’t it allowed to be touched by mere mortals who can’t even hold a tune on the recorder?’

  He picked the guitar up. ‘This is a guitar I used to busk with before Lyricist. I’ve had it since I was twelve years old. It’s still my favourite. It’s funny how every instrument has a different feel to it, even ones of the same model.’ He stroked the neck. ‘Some you can instinctively feel are right for you. Others not so much. And there are the growers.’ He moved his fingers over the strings. ‘You can learn to love something you thought wasn’t right to start with.’

  Emily sat down on the sofa next to him. ‘That sounds like people… particularly landladies who plead for your help then open their stupid mouths and say something insulting and moronic.’

  ‘I never wanted to be a celebrity,’ Ray admitted. ‘I just wanted to make a living from my music. But, these days, you can’t do one without the other. As well as listening to my songs, people feel they need to see where I buy my clothes, what I eat for lunch, know how often I go to the pub or pee and… it’s exhausting.’

  ‘I’d say that I can imagine but… I really can’t.’

  He turned his head and Emily was caught up in his amber eyes. They were extraordinary. Brown yet not brown. Some sort of glorious nearly tortoiseshell. He sighed, his shoulders raising then dropping with the breath.

  ‘That verse we just wrote,’ he said softly. ‘That’s the first thing I’ve written for months. I’m meant to have songs written. I’m meant to be in the studio finishing my new album but… I can’t do it and now there’s all this with Ida and the press and…’

  ‘A stupid school Christmas show,’ Emily added. She shouldn’t have asked for his help. He was busy and important.

  ‘No,’ Ray said quickly. ‘No, I’m not saying that.’ He sighed again. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’ He turned his body towards her slightly. ‘I’m saying that, maybe meeting you and staying here and doing this was… meant to be, somehow.’

  ‘Well,’ Emily said. ‘Sharing my apartment with you has definitely prevented me from sharing it with Lee, Anthony, Raul or Caleb. All quite questionable housemates in my opinion.’

  ‘When you started with Lee and Anthony I was waiting for the rest of the members of Blue.’

  ‘As my mother hears in court on a daily basis… all rise.’

  Ray laughed then, the whole of his face creasing up, fine lines appearing by those gorgeous eyes, his mouth widening, beautiful straight teeth appearing…

  ‘So,’ Ray said, picking the guitar back up. ‘Are we finishing “Here at Stretton Park” to the tune of “O, Holy Night”?’

  ‘Yes!’ Emily replied excitedly, leaping up again. ‘I mean, if that’s OK with you. Would you like a beer? I’m sure Jonah left some Peroni at the back of the cupboard.’

  ‘No,’ Ray answered. ‘That’s OK. But, if you’re going to make one, I’ll have another coffee.’

  Twenty-Eight

  Emily opened her eyes slowly and immediately nothing felt quite right. There was daylight for a start, not much, but a definite lightening and not the pitch black it should be at 6 a.m. when she usually woke up… and her pillow was way firmer than it ought to be too. Eyes springing open she saw it wasn’t Dunelm Mill bedding under her cheek, it was a grey sweater. And the firmness wasn’t being brought to her by synthetic filling, it was Ray’s abs. She was lying on Ray! Her head on his stomach… she hoped it was his stomach. She shifted, sitting up. She was on the sofa and Ray was on the sofa too and light was now streaming into her living room. What time was it? One glance at her watch told her 8 a.m. 8 a.m.! She should be halfway to school by now! She was never late! She never slept on the sofa, with or without a man’s body as a pillow! As she got up and off the settee, she kicked something on the floor. The guitar made a loud and echoing twanging noise that had her companion stirring.

  ‘Morning,’ Ray greeted, blinking and yawning at the same time.

  ‘Yes,’ Emily answered, patting herself down as if to check she was wearing all her clothes. How could she be this clueless about how the night had ended when neither of them had had anything to drink. They had been singing. She had been singing. They had been singing together and coming up with lines for ‘Here at Stretton Park’. ‘Yes, it is morning. Late morning. I’m late. I have to be in class by eight-thirty and I have to get there and I have to shower and change and…’ And she was dithering. Moving back and forth between her bag at the end of the room and the door to the kitchen, wondering what to do first. Did she have time for coffee?

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Ray said, unfolding his large frame from the sofa and getting to his bare feet, stretching his arms over his head. ‘Sorry about last night.’

  Oh God! What was he apologising for? What did he do? What did they do? She remembered singing, as abandoned as she had ever been, Ray encouraging her to increase her volume – God knew what Sammie and Karen downstairs must have thought. And they had mugs and mugs of coffee and she’d opened peanuts she hadn’t even known she’d had and they’d eaten them by the handful and Ray had such lovely, lovely hands… and her thinking that was why she was now worried she might have made an indiscretion. She had never woken up this way before…

  ‘I… er…’ She really had nothing else.

  ‘Just so you know, when I get into something I’m pretty dogged about finishing it. Even if it means it’s a late one.’

  The song. He was simply talking about the song. They’d finished it and they’d just…

  ‘You fell asleep,’ Ray said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. I thought that might be bad etiquette for a new lodger.’

  So instead he had let her sleep… on him. She shook her head and hoped sense would follow. ‘I should get in the shower.’

  ‘And I’ll make that coffee,’ Ray said again.

  *

  Ray watched Emily scurry from the lounge and he took a deep breath and padded over the bare boards to the Christmas tree they’d put up together. It was insane. Ray Stone putting up a Christmas tree in November but doing it with Emily, for Emily, had felt right. She had given him a roof over his head without judgement and literally everything she did or said came from the sweetest of places. He wasn’t sure he had met someone so genuine before. And last night was about the most fun he had had in so long. Simplicity. Sitting on a sofa, drinking coffee not alcohol for Christ’s sake… literally for Christ’s sake, with all the Biblical terminology he had had to rhyme with. It had been extraordinary in its normality. He touched one of the bright red wooden reindeer hanging from one of the boughs and his phone vibrated in the pocket of his jeans. He knew it was going to be Deborah, but now he was ready to face his demons and take her call.

  ‘Hey,’ he greeted and waited for the onslaught he knew was coming. Closing his eyes, steadying his core, he moved to the window and prepared to take the verbal roasting heading his way.

  ‘Did you just “hey” me? Like we’re drinking buddies or something?’ Deborah asked him. ‘Don’t “hey” me, Ray. I’m at the end of a very short leash right now. Very short. Shorter than the leash they use at Tucker’s obedience classes.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised.

  ‘Walking out on Ida yesterday was a very bad move. You need to talk to her and fast.’

  ‘I know,’ he answered with a sigh.

  ‘Oh,’ Deborah said. She sounded taken aback as if she had been expecting resistance from him. Well, perhaps he needed to show that this leopard could change his spots.

  ‘Yeah, I was a coward for walking out. I just didn’t expect to see her and seeing her was… confronting… and I wasn’t ready to deal with it but now… well, I can’t say I’m absolutely ready but… I’m ready to try.’

  Was he? After one evening of installing a boiler thermostat, making up new lyrics to ‘O, Holy Night’ and decorating the most hard-to-put-together Christmas tree that had ever been invented?

  ‘Really?’ Deborah sound
ed less than convinced and he couldn’t blame her. He had been doing the doggy-paddle in self-pity since all this started. But, put simply, things seemed brighter now. He looked out at the dawn breaking over the frost-coated rooftops of Islington. He had somewhere to stay. He had a new project. He had spoken to his dad yesterday and neither of them had yelled. They had talked about his mum…

  ‘Yeah,’ Ray said. ‘Fix up another meeting. Text me the time and the place. I’ll be there.’ He heard Deborah draw breath, ready to say something else, so he carried on. ‘And, can you get me a gig? Like, something small and intimate, but with all the press there. I think it’s time we showed everyone that I’m still here, still singing, and definitely not hiding.’

  The words sounded far more resolute and resilient than he really felt. His stomach was quaking with panic already but, singing last night, albeit not his usual style, had given him a shot of confidence that his voice wasn’t about to give out. Perhaps he should seek another opinion. Maybe his vocals couldn’t manage a full-on nationwide tour just yet but a few gigs, time in the studio, could be possible, couldn’t it? Dr Crichton might have looked down his throat with his fancy equipment, but it was Ray’s body. He would be able to feel what was right and what wasn’t, wouldn’t he?

  ‘Fan club members and a shout out on social media. I’ll book something like a jazz club. This is great, Ray, really great. I’ll speak to Ida and I’ll talk to you later. What are you doing this morning?’ Deborah asked him.

  ‘This morning,’ he said, taking a breath and facing the new day outside of the window. ‘This morning, I think I’m going to write a new song.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Stretton Park Primary School

  ‘I don’t know whether this looks like Santa’s grotto or an upper-class brothel.’ Dennis was standing at the doors of the school hall, hand dipping a lolly into a Dip-Dab, eyes moving around the ceiling and the walls, taking in all the decorations Emily and her class had put up earlier. The whole room was now festooned in fat, fluttery, glittering tinsel, with bright baubles, strings of lights and hand-painted pictures of the nativity scene covering one wall.

  ‘I don’t think you would get paintings of Jesus in a brothel,’ Emily said, getting down off the chair she had been standing on to pin the last picture in place. ‘And there isn’t one red light. We went for classic white and blue… well, it was all Poundstretcher had.’

  ‘It looks… fuller than it did this morning, I’ll say that.’

  ‘“Fuller,”’ Emily said. ‘That doesn’t sound like a compliment. My class have worked really hard this morning. And we’ve got the “What Christmas Means to Me” parents’ visit after school today. The only full going on is full-on.’

  ‘Keep your baubles on,’ Dennis said. ‘It looks fine. The diocese will love it.’ He scrutinised the Jesus portraits. ‘Especially this picture where the good Lord looks like Tom Jones.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘Is that Tom Jones? Because even the throne looks like a chair from The Voice.’

  ‘Have you found out if Penny is pregnant yet?’ Emily asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I do teach a class too, you know,’ Dennis said. ‘I don’t have all day to…’

  ‘Stalk the dinner ladies?’

  ‘I’m just taking a healthy interest in her welfare… and worrying that the quality of the meals might go down if we lose her. Unless Mother applies for the job, of course.’ He sucked at his lollipop.

  ‘Is she really interested in working, Dennis?’

  ‘She needs something,’ Dennis told her. ‘And I’d rather it was here making meals where I can keep an eye on her. And she would be in a kitchen situation where she’s completely comfortable.’ He sighed. ‘Yesterday she was watching re-runs of The Ryder Cup and talking about getting her old clubs out.’ Dennis shook his head. ‘I would worry about her re-joining the golf club. Driving those buggies around or falling in a bunker.’

  ‘So,’ Emily said, looking up at her beautifully crafted ceiling work with the decorations. ‘What day are the diocese coming next week? And what time? Because if it’s afternoon maybe we can wow them with scones… or mince pies and cinnamon spice coffees.’

  Dennis clapped a hand to his cheek, lolly between his lips. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Know what?’ She actually now felt sick. Maybe it was last night’s peanuts. She hadn’t checked the eat-by date.

  ‘They’re not coming next week now,’ Dennis said.

  Thank God! She had time to write a script and make up some new lyrics to Christmas tunes and get Year Six to learn them! There was someone or something up there looking down on her… possibly Simon or maybe an angel he had sweet-talked with an Oyster card for the pearly gates.

  ‘They’re coming today,’ Dennis informed. ‘I thought you knew! I thought that was why you’d got on and done the decorating this morning.’

  Holy Christ. Today! The diocese was coming today! She wasn’t ready! For anything! And why hadn’t Susan told her? She already had parents coming in later. She couldn’t deal with parents and vicars on the same day… What did she do? Her mind was racing like Mo Farah on the final sprint to the line. She had shared ‘Here at Stretton Park’ with the children that morning, but they wouldn’t remember the lyrics for a performance later that day. But they could sing from song sheets for now. If she whipped some up on the computer…

  ‘Are you alright, Emily?’ Dennis asked her.

  She mustn’t flap. She mustn’t look pale or overwhelmed or pretty much ready to faint. She wasn’t a giver-upper. She could do this.

  ‘Fine,’ she managed to say. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s good they’re coming today. They can see the tableaus the children have made and…’

  ‘See the start of the show you’re creating,’ Dennis added.

  She nodded. ‘Absolutely that.’ And then another thought struck her. It was all very well getting the children to sing the song, but she had no one to play the music. Now she really was going to be sick. She put a hand over her mouth and headed for the door.

  ‘Emily!’ Dennis called after her. ‘Are you OK? You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  Thirty

  Ladurée, Covent Garden

  Ray looked up at the stone building in the heart of Covent Garden, its sign in green and gold, matching the frames around the windows. This was typical Ida. This location would have been her suggestion, exactly like the Alice in Wonderland fantasy style of yesterday’s eatery. Ida liked eccentricity as much as she liked excess and exuberance. She would think nothing of spending hundreds of pounds on a painting she liked but couldn’t understand why their electricity bill was so high. She had always had a different, slightly skewed view of what was most important in life. And some of that was wrapped up in the lyrics of the song he had begun to write this morning. Since moving into Emily’s apartment, he had managed to avoid the press, so, donning his coat and hat, he had taken his guitar out to the park and sat on the damp grass letting the grey and cold seep into his thoughts as well as his skin. As difficult as it was, really bringing out the honesty of your soul was the only way to write real music in his opinion. In the last few years the only honesty he’d shared had been in his lyrics.

  Covent Garden was alive with tourists and shoppers taking photos of the well-known markets and arcades. Despite the late-November temperatures there were still street-performers drawing a crowd, still people sipping drinks from the balcony of the Punch & Judy pub. Large wooden wheelbarrows held planters containing winter ferns, hot dogs sizzled on stalls outside Jubilee Market Hall… He pushed open the door of the French café and headed inside.

  Rows and rows of perfectly rounded macarons in all the colours greeted him. They were set on a black marble slab ready to be served for taking away, along with other elaborate-looking cakes that could have been put on display in an art gallery, such was their intricacy. The décor was soft and pastel and very French and, as he moved through the building, he hoped in the directi
on of the seating area, macaron trees bordered the way.

  Finding the room he was supposed to be in, he saw the back of Deborah’s sleek bob first and focused on that as he made his way to the table. Ida was there too, but he couldn’t fully engage with that notion yet. Keep on moving. Keep it civil.

  He put a hand on the red velvet-covered chair to steady his body, as well as his nerve, before dropping down into the seat next to his agent. He took in the pale green wallpaper and randomly placed pictures on the walls before he raised his head to look at his ex-girlfriend.

  ‘You’re early,’ Deborah said, putting down her iPhone.

  ‘Surprise,’ Ray said. He took in the teapot on the table and a gold three-tier cake stand filled with circles of macarons. What even was a macaron? What was it made out of? ‘You started without me?’ If they had had tea and cakes before he’d even arrived, just how long had his agent and Ida been here? He needed to look at Ida now. He needed to own this difficult situation she had put him in.

  ‘You won’t like the tea.’ It was Ida speaking and it forced his gaze to meet hers. ‘It’s Earl Grey. You don’t like Earl Grey.’

  She didn’t look a bit different from the last time he’d seen her in person, not including yesterday’s brief encounter. That last fateful day when he’d finally packed his bags and left. Her near-white blonde hair still looked as soft as dandelion fluff and she was wearing an off-the-shoulder dusky pink jumper that was somehow shapeless yet equally showed off her petite frame. She’d screamed that day and clawed at him, telling him, in one breath, he was worthless, a piece of shit, and in the other breath that she loved him and she was never going to let him go… He looked back to the macarons.

  ‘The waiter will come,’ Deborah told him. ‘Ask you what you want to drink.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Not champagne.’

  ‘I’ll have Earl Grey I think,’ Ray said, settling in his seat and clasping his hands together.