by Mandy Baggot
He watched Ida roll her eyes and shake her head. ‘Maybe this was a mistake.’
‘What?’ Deborah asked. ‘We haven’t even started talking yet.’
‘No, but I can tell Ray is in one of his moods,’ Ida answered.
‘I’m in one of my moods!’ That was rich. And typical of Ida to carry on playing the victim she had portrayed in the newspapers. Deborah put a hand on his arm. Firm. A warning. And she was right. Even though his agent didn’t know the depth of their story, she was right. Riling Ida up was only going to be counterproductive.
‘I’m going to make a suggestion to both of you before we get into this. We are all here to try to make progress, yes? There will be no raised voices. There will be no judgement. Everyone will get a chance to have their say and then we will try and work towards a resolution that suits everyone.’
There was so much Ray wanted to say. So much. But still now he couldn’t. He was here at this meeting knowing he wasn’t ever going to be able to be completely honest, in this room or any other, and Ida, she knew that too.
‘Would you like something to drink, sir?’
It was a waiter at Ray’s side. He looked up at him and nodded. ‘Yes, please, I’ll…’
‘He’ll have English Breakfast tea,’ Ida ordered. ‘And please bring plenty of sugar.’
He really really wished he could order the champagne.
*
Macarons, Ray had found out, were crisp, baked shells of sugar, egg white and ground almonds making the sandwich around a creamy ganache in a rainbow of colours and flavours. He had eaten five already, mainly to stop himself from speaking too much or, particularly, whenever Ida said something really offensive and he’d been tempted to want to hiss across the table at her.
‘I think, Ida,’ Deborah began again, ‘and correct me if I’m wrong, Ray, what we’d like is for you to stop speaking to the press.’
Ouch. That was to the point and Ray instinctively knew this would push all Ida’s buttons. She had never liked being told what she could or couldn’t do by anyone. She liked to be the one calling the shots. Always.
‘I’m sure you would,’ Ida replied. She picked up her tea cup with a forefinger and sipped silently before returning the cup to the saucer. ‘But my free speech isn’t something you can control.’
‘It is if there isn’t any truth in it,’ Ray snapped. ‘If it’s lies.’
‘Oh!’ Ida exclaimed. ‘So, you’re saying that I’ve lied in the stories, are you? Perhaps I should have asked my lawyer to come with me today.’
‘Come on, Ida,’ Ray said, leaning forward. ‘We’re not stupid. I’m not stupid. You’ve said the bare minimum to kick the rumour mill into overdrive to try and nail my reputation to the wall.’
‘Oh, that’s what I’ve done, is it?’ Ida asked, unmoving. ‘It’s all about you, Ray, is it? It couldn’t possibly be about me? About my need to release myself from the past and forge a new future?’
Ray shook his head. This was going to be a waste of time. Ida saw things completely differently to anyone else he had ever met. Everything was always about the unfairness of her life. Her battle against the world…
‘You leaving was incredibly stressful for me,’ Ida continued. ‘It worsened my anxiety, it brought out my OCD tendencies, I couldn’t paint or sculpt…’
‘And that’s my fault?’ Ray stated.
‘You left me!’ Finally, there was emotion from her. The wild eyes, the cutting tone. Difficult memories arrived. He had seen that look in her eyes so many times, the anger bubbling away that showed in the line of her jaw and the downturn of her lips. It had always taken him by surprise. How someone so seemingly content in one moment could turn the complete opposite because of one misplaced word, one look in the wrong direction, the incorrect item bought from the supermarket…
‘I had no choice,’ Ray answered. His voice was calm, but inside there was a riot of emotions jockeying for position, all armed, some of them with petrol bombs ready to blow.
‘There’s always a choice, Ray,’ Ida said. This time the voice was gentle and coquettish. It was a performance he’d seen too often. Now it only turned his stomach. He reached for another macaron.
‘What would it take, Ida, for you to retract what you’ve said in the press and to not speak to them again about Ray?’ Deborah was desperate for this to be productive but, as good as she was at conflict resolution and negotiation, she really didn’t know Ida.
‘I won’t be retracting what I’ve said already,’ Ida made clear.
‘Why?’ Ray asked. ‘Because they’ll all ask for their money back?’
‘I’ve never been materialistic,’ Ida stated, toying with a thread on her jumper. ‘Money is simply paper with different portraits on. Some people like to collect it like it’s art, but it will never make them truly happy. Like with you, Ray.’ She picked up a macaron and smoothed her thumb and forefinger over it. ‘You say you don’t want fame, yet you couldn’t survive if you were back to busking on the street or playing those tiny venues to a crowd of twenty. You crave attention. You always have. Losing a mother does that to a boy.’ She crushed the macaron with her grip and watched the pieces crumble down onto her plate.
Don’t react. She knows how to hurt you. She’s always known. She had punched him, emotionally, in the deepest, darkest place, the place she knew would trigger a response. His mother. Veronica Stone would have hated Ida and everything she was. Cold. Shallow. Fake. Someone who showed you what you wanted to see, then revealed it as a desert mirage once you committed and got close. He rolled his tongue up inside his mouth, focusing on the texture of it, distracting himself from Ida’s words and the way she was looking at him now, waiting for him to fall apart.
‘Right,’ Deborah intervened. ‘Ida, if you won’t retract what you’ve already said to the press, can we at least have your assurance that these stories will stop now? That we can all agree that what’s done is done and we can move forward with a line drawn underneath it? No unwarranted or unwanted media surprises.’
Ray continued to watch Ida. She tilted her head a little, looking at him with a half-smile on her mouth. ‘As I said, the stories were my therapy. I feel better now it’s out there… for now. But I don’t know how long that feeling’s going to last.’
Ray shook his head. Here it came. Just how much money did she want to go away? Enough to buy her some rent in a smarter art studio? Except he didn’t have anything to give her. And Deborah didn’t have the money to sub him – she was already working for the bare minimum she got from Saturn Records.
‘OK,’ Deborah said. ‘So, can I ask, do you have a figure in mind that might help you feel better for longer, ideally for good?’
‘Money,’ Ida whispered, like the word was poison to her ears. ‘I don’t want money. Haven’t you been listening to me at all?’
‘OK,’ Deborah said again. ‘If not money, then what? What can we do to make your life a little more comfortable, so you don’t feel the need to share details of your relationship with Ray with the world?’
‘Well,’ Ida said, sitting forward. ‘There’s only one thing I really, really want.’
‘Tell us,’ Deborah said. ‘We’ll see if we can make it happen.’
Ray knew it was coming, but part of him wanted to hear Ida’s audacity out loud, in front of his agent, to underline his ex-girlfriend’s instability.
Ida smiled, playing with a tendril of her hair. ‘Ray,’ she said. ‘I want you to come home.’
Thirty-One
Stretton Park Primary School
‘How do I look?’
It was Susan Clark, fresh from the ladies’ toilets where she seemed to have slicked a deep plum shade of lipstick over her lips and highlighted already quite prominent eyebrows with a kohl stick. What was the right answer? Emily was just glad she had worn her champagne-coloured blouse and taupe trousers today. She always felt ultra-confident in that outfit and thought it was a good mix of looking ready for business yet also mainta
ining an appearance of ‘softly approachable’.
‘You look ready for the bishops,’ Emily answered finally. ‘Or are they deans? I did tend to get them mixed up the last time.’
‘One bishop,’ Susan answered, fiddling with the amber beads on the string of her glasses. ‘And two suffragans. As far as I know. But, last time there were representatives from other deaneries, so we could actually have the whole church shebang.’
‘Except the Pope,’ Emily added with a smile.
‘Obviously,’ Susan said, frowning. ‘Because we are talking Church of England, not Catholic.’
Of course they were. Emily knew that. But the ins and outs of religion had never been her strong point. She hadn’t been formally baptised. Allegedly, the story went, that off a yacht called Destiny II belonging to someone called Cassar, William and Alegra had dipped Emily in the crystal waters off the Ivory Coast and declared her godly with witnesses all drunk on dark rum. She was sure the diocese wouldn’t have approved of that kind of christening. She had no everlasting candle or documents to prove it even happened. Only the testimony of her parents and occasionally the drunken rantings of her alleged godfather Marcus, who she used to see every other Bank Holiday Monday if her parents weren’t working…
‘I’m putting a lot of faith in you here, Emily,’ Susan spoke, sucking in her chest and adjusting a button looking like it was keen to slip into an escape. ‘Pardon my pun.’
‘I realise that,’ she answered. Did she? Was this actual faith Susan was putting in her? Or was it more the case of she had no one else she was capable of bullying into the difficult role of Christmas show organiser. Dennis wouldn’t have done it. Linda Rossiter would probably have had a seizure if she was asked to do it. But, whatever her reasoning, Emily was now at the helm and therefore she would do her upmost to deliver. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘That’s music to my ears,’ Susan answered. ‘And, speaking of music, we are going to give them all a cup of tea, or coffee, and biscuits and then we’ll be straight into a taster for the Christmas show, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Emily replied. Why was she saying yes? She had no one to play any music whatsoever. But, if push came to shove, she would just have to play the Mariah Carey version of ‘O, Holy Night’ on Spotify – on her phone – and hope that her children could sing loudly enough over Ms Mimi.
She had texted Ray earlier, having thoroughly deliberated over even asking him for a whole hour before her fingers met the keys. He was helping her enough already. He had basically written the new lyrics and mended her central heating. But he was getting a lovely room in a bright and roomy apartment and, this close to Christmas, there wasn’t going to be a lot else out there. So, she had done it. She’d messaged him.
HELP! Sorry! I know you’re super busy and I’m already taking up lots of your time but I need a guitarist or a piano player this afternoon. At 2.30 p.m. To play ‘Here at Stretton Park’, I mean ‘O, Holy Night’, with the new words. Anyway, would you possibly in any way at all be around? This is Emily Parker by the way.
She wasn’t sure she had ever sent a more pathetic text message in her life. And they had only just swapped numbers the previous night – a landlady/tenant thing in case emergencies occurred – and here she was asking for another favour. Needless to say, he hadn’t replied.
‘Miss Parker, Cherry says she feels sick.’ Alice was suddenly in reception at her side, tugging at her champagne-coloured blouse. Why wasn’t she in the hall with the other children? And why weren’t Dennis or Linda, or one of her other colleagues keeping a closer eye on them?
‘Oh, Alice, are you sure?’ Emily asked. She had worked out quite a while ago that Alice quite liked classmates to be feeling ill. She would probably make a very good nurse… as long as her interest in death didn’t continue. Although there was hospice care…
‘She’s really pale,’ Alice said, stroking fingers down her own cheek. ‘And her face looks like this.’ Emily watched as Alice rolled her eyes to the roof of the sockets so almost all her iris disappeared, then she made her mouth into a replica of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
The last thing Emily needed was a vomiting child when the church representatives arrived. And she didn’t want Susan to catch wind of this potential disaster. She shuffled away from the Head who was now preening a rather awful festive flower arrangement Linda Rossiter had popped on the reception table earlier. It was gold terribly spray-painted fir cones and deep, dark berries Emily was concerned were deadly nightshade.
‘If Cherry is feeling sick, Alice, she really needs to come and tell me herself,’ Emily whispered.
‘I think she’s too sick to move,’ Alice said, blinking. ‘That’s why I thought I should tell you.’
Emily still wasn’t convinced, so she took three paces towards the hall doors and looked through one of the small viewing windows. There was quite a lot of chatter going on amongst all the pupils gathered to greet their guests from the diocese. Dennis was eating more sweets! More! He had to be personally keeping that retro sweet shop on the high street going. Where was Cherry? If she was less than her usual vibrant self perhaps she would go in and speak to her.
‘They’re here!’
The announcement came from Susan, who was fiddling with her blouse buttons again. There wasn’t time to check on Cherry. Anyway, if Cherry really was feeling ill she’d have to tell one of the other teachers. One of the other teachers who wasn’t in charge of impressing the people with the money.
‘Alice, please tell Cherry that if she’s feeling really poorly she should tell Mrs Rossiter or Mr Murray. Now please, go back into the hall and tell the class to sit nicely and quietly until it’s time for us to sing.’
‘But…’ Alice began.
‘Please, Alice,’ Emily begged, already sounding like she was losing control of the situation. ‘I’ll… let you play with worms in the playground this afternoon.’
‘Really?!’ Alice said, brightening up.
‘If you’re gentle with them,’ Emily said. ‘Now, please, go in and sit down.’
She made sure Alice skipped off into the hall before re-joining Susan at the door. She looked out of the window at a large black car pulling into a disabled space in the car park. It was smart, with privacy glass.
‘They didn’t have that car the last time they came,’ Susan stated. ‘It’s very luxurious.’
‘Well, they have given us money for the Christmas show so…’
‘Not yet,’ Susan answered, pursing her lips into a smile.
‘Not yet?’ Emily asked. Not that she had any grand plans for costumes seeing as she didn’t have a script or know what the play was actually going to be…
‘We aren’t the only school they look after. That’s why I’m so keen to impress them, Emily. If we impress them they might give us more and then I can loosen up those budget restraints.’
Now she felt more pressured than ever. Literally the school’s immediate financial future hinged on her getting this right…
‘There’s the bishop,’ Susan breathed. ‘No headdress today. Do you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘I have no idea,’ Emily replied. ‘But I quite like his purple shirt.’
‘I feel that’s rather like wearing civvies for him. Maybe he’s saving his hat for St Osmond’s school.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Emily said. ‘It’s going to be fine. Year Six are ready to sing their little hearts out.’ Although Felix might repeat the repeating line twice more to balance out his OCD. And she didn’t have anyone to accompany them on a real musical instrument, and she hadn’t even tried to connect her Spotify account to the Bluetooth speaker yet…
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she quickly took it out before the bishop and his companions got to the front door.
I’m outside Stretton Park. Front door or back? Could do without getting arrested. But ready to play piano if you still need me. I’m hoping you have a piano. This is Ray.
She had a pianist! Sh
e had Ray Stone as her pianist. And he could help the children sing too! But if he was going to play in front of everyone she either needed to tell Susan, get him signed in, do everything above board or… she needed to put him in a disguise.
‘Hello, Bishop Nicholas and… suffragans. It’s so lovely to see you again.’
Susan was greeting their guests. Emily fired off a quick text and smiled at their visitors, ready to shake hands and win favour.
Thirty-Two
Ray wasn’t entirely sure how his life had come to this. He was currently behind the stage curtain of the school hall, dressed in a Santa outfit, complete with a fluffy white beard that covered every inch of his face. He could barely breathe, let alone sing… and, of course, he wasn’t even meant to be singing at all. Well, that wasn’t going to happen anymore. Even more so not after the meeting with Ida going the way he knew it would go. He had no other choice now. He had to face everything head on, starting with getting back out there, being 100 per cent unfazed by what the media were saying. He had nothing to hide. He had done nothing wrong. Hiding away was saying the exact opposite and it needed to stop.
‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this,’ Emily said, putting a red hat over his head and tucking in his hair so nothing of who he really was showed. ‘I mean, really, thank you. You’re basically saving my life here. My professional life at least.’
‘Did I tell you I hate Christmas?’ Ray said through the white nylon-y curls snaking around his mouth.
‘No! Ray, you can’t hate Christmas!’
‘I can. And I do. I even have a no Christmas songs clause in my record company contract.’
‘What? Well, that’s silly. Because everyone loves a Christmas song.’
‘I don’t.’
‘But… all the new words you made up for this song we’re about to perform.’
‘Yeah,’ Ray said. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t write a Christmas song, I just wouldn’t want to release one of my own.’ He shuddered. ‘All that talk about it being the most wonderful time of the year.’