by Karen Swan
Mrs Wilkins stepped forward, either the designated or self-appointed leader of the exercise.
‘Sandra?’ her father asked as they stopped in front of the group. ‘What is this?’
Nettie turned in a slow revolution as the crowd swelled, more people beginning to spill from their houses now that they had arrived.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Sandra said.
‘You did this?’ her father asked them all, his voice split like a log.
‘We wanted to show our support,’ she replied, placing a hand on his arm. ‘The way those animals hounded you from the house, we wanted to find a way to show you that we haven’t forgotten what you’ve been through – and are still going through. You’ve both done so much for the community’ – she included Nettie in the comment with a kind smile – ‘we couldn’t just sit by and do nothing, pretend that it’s all OK. It’s not OK.’
‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ her father murmured.
‘How did you make them leave?’ Nettie asked.
‘We didn’t,’ Mrs Wilkins said. ‘They just upped and left, the lot of them, a few hours ago. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’
‘I’m so sorry. It was my fault,’ Nettie said quietly, feeling ashamed that her actions had brought this into all their lives. She glanced at the seven-year-old twins. How frightened must they have been? Had they even been able to play in the playground while those strangers had been camped out there? Of course not. ‘If I’d had any idea it was going to happen . . .’
‘What have you got to apologize for, Nettie?’ Mrs Wilkins said stoutly. ‘All that money you’ve raised? We couldn’t be prouder of you.’
Nettie rolled her lips, trying to keep the tears back. She didn’t deserve their admiration. If they only knew what she’d done to her own mother . . . ‘I can’t believe you did all this,’ she murmured, pointlessly trying to dab her eyes with the backs of her hands.
‘Well, we can’t take responsibility for the idea, but when we heard about it on the radio today, we knew we had to step up for you – just like you have for all these other people.’
Nettie blinked. Radio? ‘Sorry, what do you mean? What’s on the radio?’
‘About the ribbons. Evie heard it, didn’t you?’ Sandra asked, motioning to the young Indo-Chinese woman who lived in the first-floor flat in number 13. She stepped forwards.
‘That’s right. Apparently, people who have a loved one missing are putting yellow ribbons outside their houses for Christmas all over the country,’ Evie said quietly. ‘Look.’
She pulled her phone out of her coat pocket and quickly bringing up Jamie’s Twitter page, scrolled through the tweets that had supposedly mobilized this . . . movement. He may only follow eighteen people, but six million people followed him.
‘She raised £2m for others in 2 weeks. Time to show some love back. Like and RT #teambunny. If u’re missing someone too, tie a #yellowribbon. #lovenettie.’
There had been over four million retweets already.
‘Jamie Westlake’s been promoting it all day – Radio One, Capital. He’s been everywhere. Because it’s the last day of the campaign, right?’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘I’ve got to say, I’ve been absolutely loving it. I couldn’t believe it when it came out that you were the bunny.’
‘But . . .’ Nettie’s head was spinning. If he’d urged everyone to vote #teambunny . . . ‘What happened with the song vote?’
‘You won! Didn’t you know?’
Her stomach flipped. Jamie had hijacked the vote to support her? Nettie shook her head, trying to imagine the emergency meetings being held in Dave’s hotel room even now. The record label would be going nuts. Coco Miller would be . . . actually she didn’t want to think about what Coco Miller would be doing in response to this. Mike would fire her now for sure.
‘Did you see the video?’ Evie asked, swiping the screen and bringing up a new page. Nettie double-blinked, trying to keep up as Evie handed over her phone again. Her father came and stood by her shoulder as Nettie pressed ‘play’ on the white arrow and the screen cut to a close-up of Jamie.
His khaki eyes held the camera in place – who could look away from them? Not her. Not ever, even though this was as close as she’d get now. She was back to being behind the glass, a fan, a stranger, her connection with him only extant for as long as she remained one of what Jules now called the Westlake Eighteen. But with the campaign now at an end, there was nothing else for the Blue Bunny to post. The account was closed, the campaign done. Christmas had been counted down, almost £2 million had been raised. It was over.
The camera panned away slowly to show him strumming his guitar, and as the scene enlarged, she saw he was standing on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square, the bunny head sitting beside him, empty. It seemed like a statement – that she wasn’t there? That not just anyone could put on the suit?
The video cut to him standing on the top of the Shard, and then the O2 – in fact, all the places she’d been, even the postbox in Belgrave Square, him sitting on the top like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be playing his guitar there. And amid all these scenes was actual footage of her – speeding down that bloody ice ramp, knock-kneed and unable to stand at the bottom as the rabbit head was pulled off, revealing her white, terror-stricken face; batmanning, planking, money-facing . . . all the daft and crazy things she’d done compiled into a sort of greatest-hits film. And then her pièce de résistance – Blakeing him at the ball, the skit that had almost killed off the campaign, before cutting back to the present again and showing a small copper bath of iced water being upended over him too. But whereas she had almost fallen off the plinth in shock, screaming and jumping around, he kept perfectly still, not missing a word of the song as he raked his sopping-wet hair back with one hand, those eyes never leaving the camera, before picking up the chords and resuming playing the guitar.
Nettie handed back the phone, completely overwhelmed – when had he done all this? Surely they would have been flat out all day to get this filmed, edited and spliced in time, but if he’d been on the promotional trail too . . .
‘Popular, is he?’ her father asked.
‘You could say that.’ Evie grinned. ‘The song’s already top of the charts on iTunes and Spotify, and they reckon it’ll be number one by Sunday,’ Evie said proudly.
‘But why did he do all this for us? Who is this man?’ her father asked, baffled and confused as to how this stranger’s song had led to yellow ribbons being tied in their square for his wife.
Evie looked at them both, an eyebrow arched. ‘You saw the hashtag. Someone who loves Nettie, I should say.’
She stood by the window in the darkness, looking out at the square. The ribbons fluttered in the night breeze, the cluster of candles grouped by the railings opposite their front door throwing a flickering light onto the laminated ‘missing person’ poster of her mother above.
Downstairs, two flights below, voices and laughter vibrated up through the floorboards. Almost everyone had accepted the invitation to come into the house for Christmas drinks and her father was hastily digging out the mulled-wine sachets buried at the back of the larder, which had probably been there since her mother had left. Fred, from two along, was on a mercy run to the twenty-four-hour shop round the corner to buy nuts and crisps, and Sandra had dashed next door to bring over extra glasses and chairs.
She had texted Dan, Stevie and Paddy, telling them to swing by on their way back from the Engineer, but Jules wasn’t picking up on her mobile and Nettie frowned as the call went to voicemail again. Where was she? What was she doing? Was she still with Jamie?
Her stomach fluttered at the mere thought of him. She placed a hand to the glass, staring down at the spot where they had stood in the twilight not twenty-four hours earlier. She wrapped her arms around herself, giving a shudder at the realization of how close she’d come to getting her happy ending – she had almost got her mother back, almost got the guy.
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Almost, but not quite. She had jumped for the moon but fallen short.
And now it was too late. Everything he’d done for her today had been but a parting gift. A golden goodbye. The flashing lights of a plane in the night sky caught her eye and she watched it track the earth’s curve until it disappeared behind thick clouds. He was in the sky too, right now, already hurtling away from her, like a comet travelling to another galaxy, another star. Their worlds had collided for two short weeks, just a quick bump that was now sending them spinning off in opposite directions, him back to a land of glittering awards ceremonies and models in couture dresses, gigs and after-show parties, glamorous shoots and long days and nights in recording studios. And her? She was back to this house, this small, quiet safe life with her father and the friends she’d known since school. Even the ridiculous bunny costume was assuming a strangely exotic nostalgia now that custard creams in the conference room were most likely out of reach too. Life was correcting itself and they were both back on their proper trajectories.
She dropped her forehead to the glass, appreciating its soothing chill. The day’s events had left her feeling feverish – alternately hot and cold. She thought back to the woman at the flat and her accusing stare, the cruel fact that they had missed her mother by hours – or minutes, even? They would never know.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out with customary haste. Gwen, no doubt, with her usual Christmas Eve message, reminding her of the importance of hope.
‘Got something to tell me????? Ems x’
A moment later there was another text.
‘Coming over now. With tequila. Prepare to talk.’
Nettie leaned against the glass with a sigh. Maybe she was prepared to talk now. For four years hope had felt like a thumb on a bruise, and while her mother had been absent and yet ever-present, she had been present and yet ever-absent – hiding behind opaque smiles, turning down the colour in her world to something more muted, something more manageable, where the sounds weren’t too loud, the feelings too much to bear.
She heard a taxi chunter slowly up Chalcot Road and turn into the square, coming to a stop outside the house. She put a palm to the glass, trying to clear the fog from the glass. Lord, that was quick!
But it wasn’t Em she saw stepping out.
She ran from the room, desperate to get to the door before her guest was swallowed up in the crowd and they were forced into polite, public conversation, unable to talk freely about what had to be discussed.
‘Hey,’ Jules said, taken aback by the sight of Nettie, wild-eyed, flying towards her down the stairs as she closed the front door behind her. She looked through to the filled kitchen and sitting room – hesitant for once. ‘I didn’t realize you were having a party.’
Nettie looked into the rammed sitting room. There were so many people they were standing with their elbows pinched in to their waists, Nat King Cole singing about roasting chestnuts from the speakers above their heads. ‘No, no, no, it’s just a last-minute thing,’ she panted, coming back to look at her friend. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Where’ve you been, more like?’ Jules said, shrugging off her coat and throwing it over all the others on the stair bannister. ‘Hiding out from the press all day doesn’t mean you don’t have to answer your phone, you know.’
‘It wasn’t like that. We got an address for Mum.’ She shook her head quickly before Jules could get excited. ‘No, don’t – she’d already gone.’
‘Because of yesterday?’ Jules asked, and Nettie knew Dan must have told her.
‘Yes.’
Jules put her hands on her shoulders. ‘You are not to beat yourself up. You were shocked, that was all. Anyone else would’ve done the same.’
Nettie shrugged, but Jules walked in to her and gave her a hug. Nettie pressed her face into her friend’s shoulder, but she didn’t want to cry here, not now. If her father needed this party to represent anything, it was moving forwards. Onwards, if not upwards.
‘Fancy a drink?’ she asked, pulling away. ‘Dad’s been making mulled wine.’
‘Oh, is that what the smell is? I thought you’d gone overboard on those cheap scented candles.’
Nettie smiled and went to head into the kitchen, but Jules caught her by the wrist. ‘You heard what he did, then?’
Nettie blinked and it felt like an age before she could answer. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither could anyone, trust me. Dave’s practically gone bald overnight, and the record company’s going nuts.’ Jules shrugged. ‘Jamie doesn’t care. He told them you’d be getting an MBE for what you’ve done.’
‘Oh my God!’ Nettie laughed with shock. ‘He didn’t?’
‘Seriously. He reckons you’re going to be named in the New Year honours list.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
Jules shrugged. ‘Just telling you what he said.’
Nettie bit her lip. ‘What else did he say?’ She stared at the ground, suddenly unsure as to what she wanted Jules to say, what she could bear to hear – because was any answer going to make her feel better? Was she going to feel great knowing that he felt as miserable as she did? Was she going to feel relieved if she heard that he hadn’t looked back? She scuffed the floor with her socked foot, her stomach in knots. ‘You must be really tired. All that running around London, filming and stuff,’ she mumbled, losing courage and changing the subject quickly.
‘Yeah, Daisy’s pulled in every favour she was ever owed, and Caro’s almost given her jaw RSI getting the editing done in time. It was really tight, I’m telling you.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And Mike’s been fired.’
The way she said the words, so casually, it was a moment before Nettie registered their meaning. ‘What?’
‘Don’t be so surprised. He promised Dave that your song wouldn’t win, and it did.’
‘But that was Jamie’s fault!’ Nettie spluttered.
‘You know that, I know that, they know that, but they can hardly get rid of their biggest star, can they? Someone’s head’s got to roll, so Mike got the chop. He was the “team leader”, after all,’ she quipped, making speechmarks in the air.
‘So then . . .’
Jules grinned. ‘Yep. I’m your new boss.’
Nettie squealed, throwing her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘Does that mean I can keep my job?’
‘Nope.’
Nettie’s arms fell down to her sides as she looked back at her friend in shock. ‘But—’
‘If you think I’m letting you commit yourself to the slow death of working in a job you hate, you can think again.’ She winked. ‘Besides, how can you go back to shaking buckets and eating custard creams after what you’ve just done? You’re the Blue Bunny Girl, for Chrissakes. You raised two mill in a fortnight. You’ll be able to walk into any job you want now. We couldn’t afford you even if we wanted you.’
‘But what will I do?’
‘What do you want to do? The world’s your oyster now. It’s time to start making your life what you want it to be.’ She yawned. ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m so knackered. We started at six this morning—’
Nettie blinked in astonishment. Six? But Jamie had dropped her back here after three this morning. Had he not slept at all?
Jules caught Nettie’s look of surprise. ‘It was the only way to get it done in time – plus it meant Jay didn’t have to deal with the crowds. That just would have made it ten times harder and slower than it already was.’
‘It’s amazing. I just . . . I can’t believe you did all that.’
‘He did all that.’ Jules watched her closely. ‘He did all that for you.’
The tears bit again as he crowded her thoughts, refusing to be ignored. ‘Well, I guess he knows better than anybody what it’s like to have the press camped out on your doorstep,’ she replied lightly.
Jules arched an eyebrow. ‘I suppose so, although I don’t think that’s why he did it, do you?’
Nettie didn’t reply. She suddenly didn’t want to pursue this line of conversation after all. It wasn’t going to make her feel better to know he felt as bad as she did. It wouldn’t change anything – she would still be stuck here and he would still be gone.
‘So . . .’ She inhaled sharply, knowing she couldn’t avoid it. She had to know, if only to start drawing a line under it all. ‘He’s gone, then, yes? I mean, I imagine he’s halfway over the Atlantic by now, isn’t he?’
‘No, actually, he’s in the square.’
Nettie groaned. What else did she expect? She had been friends with Jules long enough to know that if you asked a stupid question . . . ‘Come on, then,’ she said, turning towards the kitchen again. ‘We need to toast your promotion. Em’s on her way and—’
‘Where are you going?’ Jules demanded, stopping her in her tracks.
‘To get you a drink.’
‘Did you hear what I just said?’
‘Yes, you’re my boss now.’
‘No. Try again.’
Nettie blinked at her, her eyes shifting over Jules’s shoulder towards the front door and back to her friend again. ‘But . . .’
‘That’s right.’
She swallowed, feeling her heart begin to bash. ‘You mean you’re not joking?’
‘Right again.’
‘He’s . . .’
‘Out there. Yes, and probably frozen half to death by now. We got a cab over here together. I told him to stay out there. Let’s face it, he’d start a riot if he just strolled in here.’
Nettie gasped.
‘Go.’
‘But—’
Jules reached for the nearest coat – not Nettie’s: it was man-sized and the sleeves hung past her hands almost to her knees – and put it on her like a mother to her toddler. ‘Go.’ She opened the door, a blast of arctic night skittering down the hall as she pushed Nettie over the threshold.
Nettie pulled the coat tighter around her, her eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness. She ran down the steps, realizing too late she was still in her socks. She crossed into the square, past the fluttering ribbons and the candles fighting the breeze, her eyes trying to adapt to the dimness after the noisy brightness of the house.