Fallen for Rock

by Wells, Nicky

  Success! I pounced on the flyer gratefully. An inspired young soul had set up a ‘you book, we deliver, you cook’ service that promised same-day delivery of first-rate fresh ingredients via their website. I fired up my laptop and browsed eagerly.

  Fresh pasta, check. Mushrooms, check. Fresh spinach, check. Parmesan cheese, check. Cream, check. Ready-bake dough balls, check…. Clicking away happily, I put together ingredients for a feast that would feed at least six people, but I didn’t care. What I couldn’t manage to eat would keep, and I felt like splashing out. I added a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio for good measure—for cooking purpose, of course… not!—and hit ‘order now.’ A confirmation email pinged into my inbox to let me know that my order would be delivered between six and seven p.m. Perfect!

  Satisfied that my nutritional needs would be well taken care of, I settled down on the sofa to watch one of my favourite DVDs. For obvious reasons and for inspiration, I selected Nine to Five with Dolly Parton and gave myself up to the story. I cheered ferociously when the three ladies took their boss into custody and cried tears at the madcap antics that followed.

  The film had nearly finished when the doorbell rang with impeccable timing. Whoopee! I raced to open it, flung it open without looking through the spyhole, and waved my hands, ready to direct the delivery man towards the kitchen. My anticipated greeting stuck on my lips, however, and there was only one word I could manage. Just.

  ‘Mike?’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘Emily.’ Mike grinned sheepishly and shifted from foot to foot.

  A million thoughts ran through my head. Considering how desperately I had tried to get hold of him, it was unbelievable that he should be there, right at my door, just like that. I tried to feel angry but failed. Mike looked terrible. He had big bags under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved for days. His hair was straggly and unwashed, and he looked as though he had been sleeping under a bridge.

  How did he find me?

  ‘Mike,’ I repeated needlessly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Um.’ He ran a hand through his hair, and a little carrier bag set by his feet toppled over, spilling its contents of clothes and a bottle of wine. ‘I…I need—’

  ‘You need to come in,’ I hastily interrupted and bodily dragged him into my hallway whilst there was no sign of my neighbour. Ignoring the look of surprise on his face, I snatched up his spilled belongings and closed my front door. I propelled Mike into the lounge.

  ‘Sorry.’ I laughed at his evident surprise. ‘I have the nosiest neighbour in the whole of London. If she’d seen you here, you might as well have put an ad in the paper. “Mike Loud, disgraced rock star, hiding out at suspected drug user’s London pad.”’

  Mike’s face turned from ashen to deathly pale. He flinched as though I had slapped him, and too late I realised that I had delivered a double whammy of hurt and reproach. I rushed to his side and took his hands, sitting down on the sofa and pulling him alongside me as I did.

  ‘I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Are you okay?’ I let go of his hand and smacked my forehead. ‘Stupid question. Of course you’re not okay. What are you doing here? What happened?’

  Mike sucked in a shaky breath. ‘I’m sorry you got embroiled in this. I had no idea. I still have no idea what happened, really. The whole thing stinks of a set-up. I came here to—’

  He didn’t get any further because the doorbell rang. We both froze and held our breath, fearing the worst. After a few seconds, the doorbell rang again and again. The last ringing was accompanied by a banging of fists against wood and adamant shouting. A male voice. Young.

  ‘Miss Trenden? Delivery for you.’

  ‘Ohmigod, that’s the food.’ I had totally forgotten my culinary order. ‘Wait here. Don’t move.’

  I rushed to the front door and flung it open once again. The delivery man was waiting for me, trying to ignore Mrs Bowden, who had also opened her front door.

  ‘Hi,’ I addressed the delivery guy. ‘Sorry for the wait.’ I took the brown paper bags off him and had a cursory look inside. ‘Awesome. Thank you.’ I pressed a five-pound tip into his hand and tried to withdraw into my flat.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Mrs Bowden asked officiously. ‘Is everything all right?’

  She looked at the paper bags with utmost suspicion. What did she think was in there, a fresh supply of cannabis plants to grow in my flowerpots? Thankfully, the delivery man stepped to my rescue.

  ‘It’s food, ma’am,’ he offered cheerfully. ‘We’re a one-hour at-home delivery service of the finest ingredients for your own cooking. Here.’ He produced a leaflet and pushed it at her. ‘There’s a ten percent discount voucher at the bottom.’

  Mrs Bowden was momentarily distracted. I flung the guy a grateful smile and softly closed my door.

  ‘Food’s here,’ I called out to Mike while I carried the groceries into the kitchen. ‘Fancy helping me cook?’

  And thus it was that the disgraced rock star and the alleged druggie cooked a designer meal together in amiable companionship. It was quite surreal, but probably the best environment for having the talk that we did. Because after he had had a lightning-quick shower, Mike filled me on all the gory details.

  ‘After you left,’ he began while I was unpacking the food bags, ‘things got worse. We finished the tour, but the rest of the band and I, we barely spoke. Adam was trying like mad to mediate, but it was no good. It was as if the others had made up their mind to hate me.’

  I agree, I thought to myself but said nothing, merely continued chopping mushrooms and onions.

  ‘The last gig of the tour was awful.’

  ‘That was last Saturday, right?’ I tried to get my details straight.

  ‘No. Sadly not. Last Saturday should never have happened. I should have known better, but Adam said it would be okay. Yeah. Right.’ He snorted bitterly, and I poured him a glass of wine.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He looked at his glass of wine as though he had never seen one before. He grimaced and smiled, and clinked back.

  ‘Might as well. Cheers.’ He took a sip and continued his story. ‘No, I was talking about the last gig of the tour, nearly two weeks ago. Everything kind of fell apart, even on stage. Afterwards, Will really let rip. He’d become totally paranoid. He’d probably snorted too much stuff.’ Mike paused and rubbed a hand wearily over his forehead. ‘He said I was defrauding everybody. He told the others that it wasn’t fair that I should get more royalties than they did. Things got nasty after that.’

  ‘Where was Adam? Surely it’s his job to explain the whole royalty thing? And anyway, don’t you have contracts with each other?’

  ‘We do.’ Mike slugged down his wine and held out his glass for a refill. ‘Of course we do. The contracts were drawn up right after we won that talent show and before we went in the studio. I get fifty percent of the royalties because I write the music and the lyrics and perform lead vocals. The remaining fifty percent is split equally between Will, Lewis, Jake and Dylan. Everybody agreed back then that this was fair. Well, it isn’t anymore, or so it seems.’

  I set out a dish of olives and nibbles on the kitchen table, and Mike tucked in while he spoke. ‘Now Will fancies himself a writer too, although none of the others want to play his stuff. Or didn’t want to, at any rate. They do now. So they want more money.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What do you think? I said no. The work is mine. It’s my copyright, my intellectual property. Really, I should get more of the royalties still, but I didn’t say that. What I did say was that if they wrote some good stuff and we performed it together, we’d change the royalty distribution for the new songs, but not for the old stuff. Will thumped me one for that.’

  He touched his left eye lightly, and I took a closer look. I could just make out the remains of what had to have been a spectacular black eye.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Yeah. So that was the end of the tour. Adam didn’t witnes
s any of this and didn’t believe me when I told him. Last Saturday was a one-off gig to promote our next album. We had a fight on stage, and Will lashed out with his guitar. He ended up cutting himself and bleeding all over the place…’

  ‘Ah. That would be the blood,’ I interjected.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I saw the headline. This morning, at work. When I still had work. After the reporter called. But I’ll tell you later. So, what happened after that?’

  Mike shook his head as if to clear a fog. ‘The gig was cut short, an ambulance came and bandaged Will up, lots of journos took lots of unhappy photos, and Adam convened a band talk. The upshot of which was that Will staged a vote of no confidence…’

  I laughed out loud. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. ‘A vote of no confidence? You’re kidding, right?’

  Mike swirled his wine in his glass. Suddenly, his shoulders started shaking and for a moment I thought he was crying. Unexpectedly, he burst out laughing, too.

  ‘It is pretty funny, I suppose. The cheek of the buggers. “I motion for a vote of no confidence against Mike”,’ he intoned. ‘Gosh, it was absurd.’

  ‘I bet. What did the others say?’

  Mike’s face turned serious again. ‘They accepted the vote and kicked me out.’

  I stopped stirring the pasta and turned round to face him, ladle aloft. Even though I had read the rumours, hearing it from Mike’s lips was a shock. ‘They what?’

  ‘Yup. Apparently, I suck, my music sucks, I’m a greedy bastard, a lousy leader, an arsehole, a fuckwit, a traitor. The list goes on.’

  ‘Double ouch.’ I abandoned the pots for a moment and sat down next to Mike. ‘I hope you don’t believe a word of this, right?’

  Mike sighed. ‘Well. I’m sure there’s truth in there somewhere. I probably wasn’t the greatest boss at all times. But it’s been so hard. Ever since we hit it big, Will and Dylan have behaved like overgrown teenagers. Moody and sulky and jealous. Jake, he’s gone off the deep end is revelling in the fact that he can have any woman he wants. Me, I only want to keep making great music, but that got lost somewhere. So yeah, I got angry with them, and I put my bossy boots on. I was trying… I wanted us to make another platinum record.’ He shrugged. ‘More fool me.’

  The pasta chose that moment to boil over, and I rushed to the stove to rescue it. ‘So what now?’

  ‘I don’t know. The band’s finished. The contracts between us are cast iron, so they won’t stand a chance challenging them short of a mutual agreement to end them. Adam’s dissolving contracts with all of us, so he’s out of the picture. I guess… I guess that’s it for MonX. We’ll need to get the lawyers to terminate our mutual contracts somehow, and we’ll be legally divorced. Ha.’ He laughed drily. ‘Who’d have thought?’

  I was at a loss at what to say, so I plumped for the obvious. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’d been brewing for a long time. And, without meaning to sound arrogant, they don’t stand a chance. Contrary to what he thinks, Will can’t string two riffs together, and he certainly can’t sing. Me, I’ll start over when the dust has settled. But meanwhile I need to disappear. My house and my flat are inundated with press, and I can’t go home to my parents or to Jed’s place. I can’t even retrieve my car from the garage because the press blocked it in, so I am, um, well—’ He raised his hands, palms up.

  ‘Looking for a bolthole?’ I suggested.

  ‘Well, yeah. If you don’t mind. Only we had something. I…it felt like we’d become friends and…’

  I grinned. It was sweet, seeing this assured man suddenly so self-conscious. As for offering asylum—why not indeed? I had the space, I had nothing else to do, and the worst had already happened for me. So why not?

  ‘I don’t mind, I don’t think. But how did you find me in the first place?’

  ‘Ah. Well, I have a photographic memory and I memorised your ID.’

  ‘Mike,’ I chastised him, knowing he was pulling my leg. ‘You never saw my ID.’

  ‘True. Dash, you caught me out.’ He grinned. ‘All right. I admit it. I eavesdropped. When you told the paramedic your details, I listened in. And while I don’t have a photographic memory as such, I do have a jolly good memory for words.’

  ‘I can believe that,’ I laughed. I was a teensy bit flattered that he should have bothered to listen and remember. It was like he cared. And that was nice.

  ‘However, you’ll have to live with my nosey neighbour,’ I cautioned him. ‘And with my lousy, healthy cooking.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup. Really. Although I guess there’s takeaways if you get really fed up.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant, really, I can stay for a while?’

  I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘Of course. What are friends for?’

  ‘You’re sure? It’s no problem? What about your ex-boyfriend? Didn’t you…?’ He searched my face and answered his own question. ‘No. You didn’t. I’m sorry.’

  Abruptly, he got up and wrapped me in a hug. ‘Well, I’d love to stay if that’s really okay. Thank you,’ he murmured in my ear. His breath was hot against my skin, and my legs started trembling. I swallowed hard but disengaged from his embrace.

  ‘Food’s ready,’ I announced, playing for time. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘You bet. But while we eat, I need to hear what’s up with you. What’s with this drug user business? And why aren’t you at work?’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Mike put down his fork and looked at me, horror-struck. ‘You had to leave? Just like that? Because of a photo?’

  ‘Nh-huh,’ I disagreed. ‘Not because of a photo. Because of the way I looked in the photo. You know. Like I’d overdosed, or something.’

  ‘But you’d hurt yourself. You could barely stand.’

  ‘I know. And the barely-able-to-stand-bit shows.’ I shrugged. ‘I’m mighty pissed off that Mark wouldn’t even listen to me.’

  ‘Is this legal?’

  ‘I dunno. I’ll find out. I’m seeing a lawyer on Wednesday.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Mike gave me a rueful smile. ‘You and me both. I’m sorry to drag you into this.’

  ‘Not your fault.’ I put on my best philosophical air. ‘What really angers me is that after all the hours I spent slaving my guts out, my word counts for nothing.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Ah.’ I swallowed. ‘The million pound question. I have no idea. I’ll figure something out. Meanwhile…’ I waved the Pinot Grigio suggestively. ‘More wine?’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’ Mike grinned. ‘Unless you have something stronger?’

  ‘Do I ever! Let’s see what you’re made of,’ I teased. Suddenly, I felt reckless. Mike appeared to have that effect on me. And what did it matter either way if I stepped out of character again and got blind drunk for once? Who would know, or care?

  ‘Uh-oh.’ Mike laughed while I reasoned with myself. ‘What’s she got up her sleeve now?’

  ‘Not up my sleeve. In my cupboard. Watch!’ I jumped off my chair and rummaged in the back of my kitchen cupboard. Ages ago, I had purchased a few extravagant bottles for a fancy dress party that I never got to attend because of a work crisis. Now, where were they? Ah. There was one.

  ‘Whoa. Tequila.’ Mike took the bottle from me and held it against the light. ‘It’s full.’

  ‘Well, let’s empty it,’ I challenged. ‘But wait, there’s more.’

  I dived into another cupboard and retrieved a bottle of sparkling wine that I kept for special occasions. I had hoped to share it with Nate but… Best not go there.

  ‘Tequila slammers?’ I suggested as I set down the wine next to the spirit. ‘Sorry the bubbly isn’t chilled, but I’m sure it’ll do. Right?’

  ‘Wow. Golden slammers. Haven’t done those in a while.’ Mike shook his head and regarded me doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this? You don’t strike me as a shots kinda gi
rl.’

  ‘That absolutely does it.’ I banged my fists on the table, although sadly not hard enough to make the bottles jump as intended. ‘What do you mean, I’m not a shots kinda girl? I can be anyone I want!’

  Mike laughed and held up his hands. ‘Fine by me. But don’t blame me for your monumental hangover in the morning.’

  ‘I won’t. I don’t get hangovers.’

  ‘Have you done slammers before?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied. I had seen them done—surely that counted? And if I stopped after two or three, surely that wouldn’t be so bad?

  ‘Right. Let’s do this.’ Mike had spied my row of shot glasses on the shelf and retrieved two. If he was perplexed by the remnants of white wax in one of the glasses, he never let on. He simply rinsed it out in the sink and set both glasses down before us. I decided to keep silent about the fact that I normally only used them as candle holders.

  Deftly and with evident expertise, Mike poured a finger’s worth of tequila into each glass. He opened the sparkling wine and gently topped the drinks up to just below the brim.

  ‘Ready?’ He shot me a wicked grin.

  ‘Ready,’ I agreed and took care to copy his actions. I placed the palm of my left hand tightly over the glass, exactly like Mike was doing. Following his lead, I lifted the whole thing up with my right hand and slammed it on the table as hard as I could. Immediately, I could feel the liquid fizzing up and bubbling against my skin. But oh, no time to consider! Mike picked up his drink and downed it. Bottoms up!

  I followed suit and…wow. This was good! The drink ran down my throat, smooth and warm and fizzing, and arrived in my tummy like a big dollop of happiness. I shook my head and laughed.

  ‘Awesome. Awesome.’

  ‘Want another?’

  ‘What, right away?’

  Mike arched his eyebrows. ‘We can wait.’

  ‘No, no. Let’s have another, why not. Go on. Cool.’ I caught myself gabbling and wondered if I could possibly be drunk after the first shot.

  ‘Okay.’ Mike obliged and poured out the next round of shots. ‘Ready?’