One Christmas Star

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I’m sorry, son,’ Len whispered. ‘I should have been there for you. I should have known there was something wrong. That there was more to it than what that ponce Piers Morgan was saying.’

  Ray shook his head. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know. I don’t want anyone to know.’ He sniffed back his tears, wiped the back of his hand over his nose.

  ‘Listen to me, you have to tell someone,’ Len told him. ‘You have to tell everyone. Then they’ll all see that it wasn’t ever you. It was her. And she made up all these lies the papers have bought, to hide the truth about herself. She has to be stopped.’

  ‘She’s not well,’ Ray repeated.

  ‘I agree!’ Len said. ‘But that don’t mean she’s not responsible.’ He put a hand to Ray’s coat, parting it and pulling at the collar of his jumper.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ray asked, shifting on the mattress and trying to escape his dad’s grip.

  Len tugged the jumper down from Ray’s shoulder and revealed the jagged scar that lay there, a hoarse breath escaping his lips. ‘You have to look at that every day in the mirror and be reminded of what she did to you. What’s she gonna do next? To someone else? Someone not as strong as you? Or someone who might fight back? Where will things be then?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Ray asked, dragging his clothing out of Len’s grasp.

  ‘I’m saying, son, you need to do the right thing for you this time. Not what you think the right thing is for this woman… or for your career. For you. For Ray Stone. For my son.’ Len’s voice weakened on the last phrase and Ray felt his insides curdle at the love that lay there.

  ‘I’m scared, Dad,’ he admitted.

  ‘Of what?’ Len asked. ‘Because I’m here for you. And Brenda can’t wait to be here for you since I told her you loved Australian soap operas. We are gonna be right by your side.’

  ‘People will think I’m weak,’ Ray stated. ‘That I somehow made this happen. That maybe it all started with me and Ida was… defending herself.’

  ‘That’s not what the videos tell me,’ Len said. ‘And that’s not what they’re gonna say to anyone else either.’ He took a breath before continuing. ‘People said I was crazy to stay with your mum, you know that. They saw how she was with us when she went to her bad places with the booze… but I loved her. We loved her, didn’t we? Because no matter how bad things were, she would never have hurt us like this woman hurt you. Never.’ Len swallowed. ‘And if she was here now, to see you like you were on the video…’

  ‘Don’t,’ Ray begged. ‘Please.’ He remembered almost every line he had spoken the days he had recorded what had happened to him, plus the other clips recorded while Ida was ranting and smashing and thumping him with anything she could get her hands on. Every scene was imprinted on his memory and he didn’t want to relive another second of it.

  ‘I’ll do something,’ Ray breathed. ‘I was going to call Ida’s mother, but I think I need to call someone else too. She’ll know what to do.’

  Len shook his head then put fingers to his eyes and padded away unspent tears. ‘It breaks my heart you went through this and you didn’t come to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Ray said, their shoulders touching as they sat on the mattress.

  ‘Don’t you be sorry, lad. I should be the one who’s sorry.’

  Ray shook his head. ‘Dad, there’s something else I haven’t told you. And I should have, in case… in case it all goes wrong.’

  ‘What is it?’ Len asked him, expression back to worried.

  Ray took a deep breath and looked directly at his dad. ‘I’ve got to have an operation, on my vocal cords, and… I’m… I’m absolutely fucking terrified.’

  Len’s mouth fixed into a firm line and he gave one single nod of defiance. ‘Right, well, now you listen to me, son. I understand but… what you don’t know is last year I had to have a general for an ingrown toenail and I almost wept when the appointment letter came through. But Brenda, she bucked me up, and then she told me real statistics of mortality rates for operations and, well, I went through with it and here I still am, minus that toenail.’ He smiled. ‘Your mother died because she drank too much. She didn’t deserve that transplant as much as it hurts me to say it. She knew that too. I always believed it was the resignation that killed her in the end. She just gave up,’ Len told him. ‘If the surgery had been a success she would have simply given up when she got home.’ He put his arm around Ray’s shoulders again. ‘You’re not someone who gives up. You never have been. That’s why you’re singing and not working on boilers,’ Len said. ‘You’ve got everything going for you, son. Everything. And if you want your room here back, I’ll return the purple paint and you can have it any colour you want.’

  Ray blew out a breath as gradually, very slowly, the weight of all the fears he was facing began to gently ease.

  ‘Right, well, we need a plan, don’t we? You need to phone who you need to phone to put things right, and I need an excuse not to start painting until tomorrow. Want to stay for some tea?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ray answered. ‘I’d really like that.’

  Fifty-Seven

  Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Emily paused YouTube on her phone and clicked over onto her texts. Nothing. Maybe she should text Ray and see if he was OK. But, then again, if things were bad with his father he would let her know, wouldn’t he? Or maybe he was in the thick of things at a hospital or worse… She clicked back into YouTube and returned to listening to ‘Shallow’ from A Star is Born. This was what she was working on, curled up on the corner of her sofa, trying to draw inspiration from the night sky and all those twinkling stars across the London skyline she could see from her vantage point. She was trying to create the Christmas song for the nativity section finale, making festive lyrics to a non-festive song the children all knew the tune to. So far she had the first couple of lines of the first verse.

  Will he be born tonight? Lying underneath a star so bright?

  Or will it take some time? Will Mary wish she’d had a glass of wine?

  She wasn’t really as adept at this songwriting business as Ray. But, then again, she was a schoolteacher and he was a professional songwriter. It was quite possible that Ray couldn’t teach a lesson on deforestation… But her skills with lyrics had developed since they had begun this school show mission.

  Her phone made a noise, dulling Bradley Cooper’s vocals for an instant and Emily clicked over to her messages, hoping it was Ray. It wasn’t. It was her mother.

  Darling, when is your little show at school? Daddy and I are going to see if we can squeeze it into our schedules. What is the dress code? And when do tickets go on sale? I don’t suppose there’s a VIP section…

  Emily shook her head at her mother’s message. There was the usual ‘We are so uber-busy, if Donald Trump popped over for a visit we would have to decline’ but at the core of the text was the sentiment that her parents wanted to attend the Stretton Park show. It was unheard of. They had never been to any of her events at school. Her mother had loosely said she might come to one of the summer fairs, but in the end she donated ‘An hour with a barrister’ for the raffle instead.

  Should she text back? Or do her usual of ignoring it for a few days to pretend she was also uber-busy? No, that wouldn’t work right now. She wouldn’t be able to get on with re-writing ‘Shallow’ with that hanging over her. She texted a speedy reply.

  Tickets are usually free, but a donation to the school would be very much appreciated. It’s 20 December at 6 p.m.

  Emily’s thumb hovered over the ‘send’ icon and then she added another line.

  Everyone is dressing up as their favourite Christmas character. I think Dad would make a wonderful King Herod

  Now she clicked send. Within seconds her mother would come back with a sarcastic response about her attempt at hilarity. The phone buzzed again before Emily could even switch back to YouTube. What quip had her mother made about outfit choices now? But, looking
at the screen, Emily saw that it wasn’t from her mum, this one was from Ray.

  I want to talk to you so much but, right now, I can’t do it. Emily. Gorgeous, sweet, beautiful, kind, Emily. No one has stood up for me like you did today at the school. You turned warrior right before my eyes and I have to admit, it was incredible and… really, really hot. But there are things going on now that I have to deal with before I can move forward.

  You are going to hear some things about me in the press over the next few hours and days and, as much as I don’t want this to be out there, there’s no way around it now. I have to do the right thing. And that means I have to stay here with my dad, for a while, and I also have to… not sing. No Ronnie Scott’s show. No humming in the shower even. No singing at all. I’m terrified about the enormity of that last sentence because I can’t remember a moment when I haven’t sung, but more than that I’m terrified that I’ve already hurt you by starting something you are going to want to finish as soon as this news is out there.

  I’ve been closed when you’ve been so open about everything and it kills me that I haven’t been able to be truly honest with you. But I want you to know that you’re the only person I’ve told even a fraction of anything to – about my mum, about Ida. If I could be the man you deserve, Emily, I would be there in a heartbeat, but you deserve so much better, someone so much stronger, someone who’s not too much of a coward to pick up a phone and instead wears out his thumbs typing a text.

  I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for promising you things I can’t deliver on or, at least, alluding to them by kissing you in the snow… and feeding you cheese… and finding hedgehogs. God, I walked out on Idris. I hope he/she is OK.

  Anyway, this is really hard and way too long but, honestly, you’ve got this Christmas show nailed. It’s going to be amazing and, by the way, I wouldn’t leave you with that Mr Jarvis fella if he really can’t even play ‘He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands’. I’m going to finish the song I promised I’d write for you and I’ll get the music and the lyrics sent to the school. And I’m going to get a pianist from the studio to take my place for any rehearsals you need and for show night. I would love to be there, I’ve loved every second of these crazy few weeks, but it’s better that I’m not there, for everyone. The show’s spotlight should be on the children and on you, Emily, the amazing, most wonderful person who believes anyone can achieve anything.

  I just want to say that I think, if the timing was better, I’d be telling you I love you. Can I still say it? Even if it’s in a goodbye? I don’t know why I’m asking. Here it is. I loved you, Emily Parker and I’m so grateful for every second we got to spend together. Ray x

  The tears had been falling from Emily’s eyes by the second paragraph and they quickened and thickened until she could no longer see the screen of her phone that was wobbling in her shaking hand. What had happened? Between this afternoon at Stretton Park and now, just a few hours later? It was a goodbye. And she didn’t really understand it. How could she? The message said everything and nothing. What was she going to hear in the press? Had Ida’s claims been right all along? She didn’t believe that. Even Jonah was coming around to Ray now or he wouldn’t have asked how many tickets she wanted for the Albert Hall show… None of it made sense and Emily had no idea what to do. But she had to do something. She had to speak to him. Text back? Call? See him in person? She didn’t know his dad’s address. She was up off the sofa now, YouTube forgotten, pacing the bare boards of her lounge and trying to think logically. This couldn’t be the end of things between them, not when things were only just beginning. It couldn’t be because… she was in love with him too.

  Her eyes went to the cardboard box in the corner of the room and she walked towards it, full of determination. Perhaps it was time to use the power of a hedgehog.

  Fifty-Eight

  ‘I don’t know why, but just Googling this is making me feel really really dirty,’ Allan said, screwing up his face as he typed into his laptop. ‘How to make pregnant hedgehogs give birth. Ugh!’

  Emily’s face was reddened from sobbing but, after sharing the contents of Ray’s text with Jonah and Allan over the phone, and again when they arrived at her flat, she was now feeling less pathetically desperate and more desperately determined.

  ‘Here you go,’ Jonah said, handing Emily one of his very special caramel and coconut hot chocolates he only ever made on special occasions – Eurovision, royal weddings and season finales of How to Get Away with Murder. ‘Are we really sure this is the best course of action? I mean, I know you say you can’t phone him or text him back, and you don’t know where his dad lives, but there must be something else you can do other than inducing the birth of hedgehog babies.’ Jonah looked at Idris Elba who was currently snoring, wrapped up in a blanket in the cardboard box.

  ‘Jonah!’ Allan hissed. ‘Can’t you see how upset Emily is?’

  ‘I know she’s upset. I’ve made caramel and coconut hot chocolate, haven’t I? I’m simply saying that trying to find out where Ray’s dad lives and seeing him in person, talking to him face-to-face might be a better option than… this.’

  ‘I’ve tried to find out where his dad lives,’ Emily said, sniffing back the gooey muck of after-crying that was clogging all her much-needed breathing tubes. ‘But it’s impossible.’

  ‘Is his real name “Stone” because sometimes they have stage names, don’t they? For their Equity card or whatever. We need to Wiki Ray and find out all the info on him from there. Sometimes they have where they’re born and their real name and who they’ve had kids with… not that I’m saying he’s got kids,’ Allan said, talking fast but his eyes on the screen. ‘Ew! We are not doing that to a hedgehog.’

  ‘There’s nothing helpful on Wikipedia, or on Facebook, or Twitter… or Instagram. He doesn’t use social media much. It’s someone from his record company doing his posts,’ Emily replied.

  ‘Did you know,’ Allan began. ‘That hedgehogs are only pregnant for about thirty-five days, so, we might strike it lucky and this one might be due imminently or…’

  ‘Or worst-case scenario, we have to sit here for thirty-four days?’ Jonah asked.

  ‘Well, I’m sure it will only really be maybe a week or so? I mean, she does look rather well-rounded.’

  ‘I can’t wait a week,’ Emily said. ‘I need to action something now. Because Ray will come if there’s an emergency with Idris Elba. I know he will.’

  And that was her grand plan. To force him to come here under false pretences. That wasn’t like her at all. What was this situation doing to her?

  ‘How does she really look to you?’ Emily asked, peering at the hedgehog who seemed nothing but peaceful and sleepy. Was that a sign of imminent childbirth? Or was it simply slipping into hibernation like it really should be in December?

  ‘You’re saying that like you’re talking to two wildlife experts. I might have had a season of my hair looking like a funky ginger Chris Packham, but the only wildlife I’ve ever really been interested in hung out in bars in Soho,’ Two L’s said.

  ‘And you know most of the creatures in my neck of the woods were rats… and that was just some of the neighbours,’ Jonah added.

  Emily let out a desperate sigh and sank back into the sofa feeling defeated. What was she doing? Trying to make a maybe-pregnant may-not-be pregnant hedgehog go into labour simply so she had a genuine excuse to contact Ray. If she wanted to contact Ray, she should contact Ray. But that would involve talking about how she felt about Ray to Ray and the thought of doing that was terrifying her. And, maybe it didn’t even matter how she felt. The text was goodbye. As clear as it got. Except he had also said he loved her and most of his large rucksack, his two guitars and the tool bags were still in his room. His room. Not the spare room. Not Jonah’s room anymore. Now thought of as only Ray’s.

  ‘This is silly, isn’t it?’ Emily said, fingers in her fringe. ‘What am I doing? I should be taking Idris to the sanctuary, not trying to get her to pus
h babies out.’

  ‘You said the sanctuary is closed,’ Jonah reminded.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So, what do you want to do, darling?’ Allan asked her, fingers poised over the keyboard of his laptop. ‘Do you want Jonah and me to continue looking at ways to make this little one start heaving and grunting and delivering young? Or shall we, instead, talk about the real issue here?’

  Emily shook her head. Googling the habits of pregnant spiky females was distracting. While she had a stupid crusade, she didn’t have a yearning for gin or a hurting heart.

  ‘Perhaps, if you give Ray a little time and space then things will work themselves out,’ Jonah suggested, slipping an arm around Emily’s shoulders.

  ‘Are you mad? I know I thought this skit with the pre-newborn kits was crazy, but Emily has the right idea to not give him space. Time doesn’t heal everything, it simply increases distance. And the longer the distance stretches, the further away you get. Like an endless journey on a Virgin.’

  ‘Allan, you’re talking rubbish.’

  ‘Well, you’ve never really been on board with Emily and Ray.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Jonah answered. ‘I admit, at the start, I was unsure about the set-up, but now… I can see how much you like him and he… grew on me.’

  ‘He’s not a foot fungus, Jonah. He’s a nice slightly-rough-around-the-edges guy with a gorgeous voice and quite a nice arse.’

  ‘Allan!’

  ‘He does wear jeans well, you have to admit that.’

  ‘I do like him,’ Emily said. She got to her feet and moved to stand at the full-width windows overlooking the rooftops of her neighbourhood. The sky was clear and filled with a thousand stars. Like it had been when she and Ray had sat drinking hot chocolate and finding out about each other. Before they’d rolled around on the floor of the terrace…