by Lily Morton
Trust Me
A Beggar’s Choice Novel
Lily Morton
Books by Lily Morton
Beggar’s Choice Series
Promise Me
Trust Me
Text Copyright© Lily Morton 2015
Cover Image: PeopleImages at iStock by Getty Images
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
References to real people, events, organisations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organisations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Nike, Adidas, iPod, Vans, Converse, Audi, Kindle, Ralph Lauren, Burberry, The Sun, Element, Marks and Spencers, Harvey Nichols, American Express, People Magazine, Waldorf Astoria, Beverley Hills Wilshire, Starbucks, Shutters on the Beach
Lyrics used – Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ written by Guy Garvey, Elbow and produced by Craig Potter. All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
For my three boys – love you always
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Epilogue
Thank You
And all the roads we have to walk are winding
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding
There are many things that I would
Like to say to you
But I don’t know how
Because maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves me
Oasis ‘Wonderwall’
One
“Wake up Nelly. It’s time.” My brother’s words that had woken me up from a deep sleep this morning echo in my head as I race into the trendy hotel in Camden, out of breath and horribly, horribly late. Spotting the reception desk I skid to a stop attracting the immediate attention of a very beautiful receptionist who has long, dark hair and a dewy complexion, which unlike mine, has definitely not been caused by breaking the one minute mile in biker boots and a short dress. She exchanges a speaking look with the other blonde receptionist and promptly curls up her nose as if I smell. Actually, taking into account the distance that I’ve just run flat out due to the bus being late, she might have good reason to do this. “Can I help you Miss?” she asks in a beautifully modulated, if cool voice. I take another breath into my air starved lungs and attempt to inject a note of control into my voice.
“Yes please, I do hope so. I’m here for the backing singer auditions. Could you please point me to where I need to go?”
The woman’s face creases in a superior way. “You’re very late Miss. I think the auditions are over now.” She leans over in a condescending way. “These sort of professional people do demand a modicum of organisation and respect you know. You might try and remember that for the next time.”
Letting out a breath I deliberately reach for control. I really can’t afford to lose out on this audition. “Wow that’s very good advice,” I counter coolly. “Thank you so much for that moment of life coaching – I feel like we’ve really bonded. Now, do you think you could possibly ring the people concerned and find out from them whether I’m really too late?”
She looks at me for a second and when I maintain my level, don’t fuck with me stare she exchanges a long suffering sigh with the other girl and raises her eyebrows. “I’ll find out Miss. Please wait here.” She gets to her feet and straightens her tight, black pencil skirt. The blonde girl stirs.
“Freda, you don’t have to go over to the room. They’ve got a phone in there – the extension’s 1128.”
“No Lucy,” my exquisite torturer drawls. “I’ll go over, it’s easier.”
I smirk and roll my eyes. I bet it’s easier, more like easy on the eye. The boys from the band Beggar’s Choice are notoriously hot so I bet she’s been over there every chance she’s had. Not that I’m interested. They’re from a world I deliberately withdrew from three years ago and it’s with extreme reluctance that I’m skirting its boundaries again, but I remind myself that this time I haven’t got a choice. I have to get this job. When she disappears from sight I take a second to check my appearance in the mirrored pillar near the desk under the disapproving eye of the blonde girl. Under my black pea coat I’m wearing a short, black and pink flowered, chiffon dress over black opaque tights with my trusty battered, lace up biker boots. My hair still takes me by surprise as it’s now a bright, fire engine red rather than the long brunette locks that I spent years seeing in my reflection. It’s growing out from a crop and is now in a chin length wavy bob which looked sleek when I left home, but now just looks windswept and messy. My face is still too thin making my cheekbones look too sharp and my lips overlarge, but at least my cheeks have some welcome colour in them and I bite my lips to redden them so they’re not so pale.
A tapping of heels interrupts my inspection and announces Freda’s return. She’s looking very flushed so someone from the band is obviously still there. I don’t think she’d raise a blush for a roadie. Turning to me with a mock sorrowful look she sighs. “I’m so sorry but you are far too late Miss. The last person to audition left over an hour ago.”
“But they’re still there aren’t they?” I ask, too desperate now to have any pride. “Surely they can spare a few minutes?”
She leans towards me smirking slightly. “I don’t think they will. Sid Hudson, the guitarist you know?” She pauses questioningly and I sigh loudly and gesture to her to continue because obviously I know who he is. I don’t think there’s a spare vagina in England that doesn’t know him. “Well he said that perhaps you should invest in a watch or an alarm clock,” she relays with a little giggle.
I don’t know whether she genuinely takes pleasure in another woman’s misfortune, or whether working in this trendy abode has worn her down, but she is definitely way too happy for someone who is in customer service about telling me this. A few years ago I would have eviscerated her with my words but that girl died three years ago. I don’t have the time or energy nowadays. However, I do still need this job desperately and as if summoned my chance arrives. Out of the corner of my eye I see a middle aged couple approaching. They have a huge mound of luggage and she has a very demanding upper class voice so instantly the two girls’ attention shifts to them and I seize my opportunity. Edging past them I skirt the outskirts of the room and move towards the room that Freda emerged from. A porter eyes me suspiciously but I move purposefully and he turns away as I reach the door and opening it edge inside.
It’s darker in here so I stand still for a second blinking to allow my eyes to get used to it. It’s a large room with a huge, wooden dance floor on which are a load of instruments which a portly man in jeans and a Beggar’s Choice t-shirt is slowly packing away. I move towards him only to hear an amused voice with an Irish lilt come from the side of me.
“Help you love?”
I turn to see a wooden table on which is leaning the unmistakably fine figure of Bram O’Connell the bass guitarist of Beggar’s Choice. His backside is resting on the table and his fingers are beating time on the wood to some tune in his head. He unleashes the power of his famous smile on me, all dimples and white teeth in his tanned face and I blink slightly.
“I’m here for the auditions,” I say slowly.
“Ah now love that might be a problem,” he says and I hear a snort come from the other side of him. Moving sideways a step I can now see that there’s someone else sitting at the table. Another step and I see the unmistakable form of Sid Hudson. He’s kicking back on his chair with his long legs propped up on the table. He’s looking at something on his phone, and he obviously doesn’t pay attention to smoking laws because he has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a stream of smoke coming out of his nose. I cough slightly and wave my hand in front of my face and without looking at me he smirks and blows out another stream of smoke, his lips almost pouting. Prick! Remembering Bram I take off my cross expression and paste an ingratiating smile back onto my face.
“I know I’m a bit late.” I begin, taking off my coat so they can’t immediately throw me out.
“A bit?” comes Sid’s deep, rough voice. “Auditions finished an hour ago sweetheart. If you can’t make these on time how the hell are you going to be on stage on time?”
Ignoring him steadfastly I turn back to the more approachable figure of his bandmate. “I’m so sorry,” I continue as if his friend hadn’t spoken, and Bram smirks. “The bus was late and I’ve run for a mile to get here.”
“Should have moved a bit quicker then,” comes the muttered voice again.
“I’m sorry,” I say curtly. “I can’t hear what you’re saying through that cigarette.” Picking up my dropped smile I paste it back on again and turn back to Bram who is starting to look very entertained. “As I was saying I’m sorry I’m late but I’m here now. Could I possibly sing for you very quickly?”
“Instruments have been packed away now,” Sid offers happily and still he hasn’t looked at me, focusing instead on his bloody phone and tapping away with one long finger. The man is seriously starting to fuck me off.
“I don’t need instruments. I’ll just sing if that’s okay?” I offer to Bram.
“Can’t hurt,” he says, turning to his bandmate. “What do you think Sid?”
“Whatever,” comes the careless reply and I feel my face flush with rage. A few years ago people were paying to hear me sing and now I can’t give it away.
“Fine,” I say snappily, throwing my coat over a chair and rolling my sleeves up. I tap my foot to get my beat and then point a finger at Sid. “This one’s especially for you Mr Hudson,” I say and launch into the opening verse of Lily Allen’s ‘It’s Not Fair’. By the time I get to the chorus and I’m singing about him being no good in bed Bram is openly laughing and looking at Sid who has at least put his phone down and there’s a slight smile playing on his mouth. Then I throw myself into the song and really let go, and suddenly the atmosphere changes and both men focus. Bram straightens up and Sid slowly lowers his feet to the ground and sits forward, his attention now solely on me. I look at him clear of smoke for the first time and blink because he’s even more beautiful in person than his photos let on. His hair is collar length, shiny and a dark conker brown, and it frames a face with high, flat cheekbones and full lips. He’s rocking rough stubble which is almost a beard, his skin is a lovely olive colour and he stares back at me his gaze considering. I come to the end singing the final line about all he does is take and the room falls into silence, broken only by the sound of clapping from the roadie behind me. I turn round and curtsy, mockingly holding out the skirt of my dress and the man laughs. “Bravo!” he shouts, kissing his fingers to his mouth. I smile feeling that old familiar rush that comes when you please people with your voice. In the old days it would have been thousands of people cheering, but now I’ll settle for one portly roadie. I turn back to the two men and find Bram smiling widely.
He claps his hands together. “That was fucking brilliant. You can certainly sing love. What do you think Sid?” and he turns to his friend who is staring at me unblinkingly.
“I know you from somewhere,” he says slowly, his eyes a deep piercing blue which remind me of the colour of the Cerulean Blue crayon from my Crayola box when I was a kid. My heart sinks. I don’t need this now.
“I don’t think so,” I say quickly. “We’ve never been introduced. I’m sure you’d have remembered me.”
Bram laughs but Sid still stares at me and I fidget uncomfortably. “Phil Walker sent me,” I offer. “I’ve done some radio jingles for him and I’ve been a session singer for a few years.”
Bram snaps his fingers in recognition. “The marmalade girl. I knew I recognised your voice. I fucking love that advert.” I smile and nod in acknowledgement because the tune and lyrics that I wrote for the advert are seriously catchy, not to mention they paid our rent for a few months. However, Sid is still staring at me as if the diversion hasn’t worked for him.
“What’s your name?” he asks suspiciously.
I stare at him challengingly. “Nell Slater.”
He smiles slightly and I blink. “Your mum a fan of history and orange sellers?” I look at him quizzically and he shifts slightly as if it’s embarrassing for a rock star to know his history. “Nell Gwynn,” he offers in a low voice and I take pity on him.
“Alas no. She was more a fan of the Beatles. My full name’s Eleanor after the lonely dead woman in the Lennon and McCartney song. But it’s usually Nell, not Eleanor and never, ever Nelly.”
He smiles full out at that and my unruly heart skips a beat at the beauty of his face. Stop it I tell the organ crossly. I turn back to Bram who is looking at Sid carefully, a smile playing on his lips. “Well?” I ask, grabbing my coat and pulling it back on.
He looks at Sid again. “We’ll let you know love. We’ve got to talk to Charlie and Seth first,” he says, naming the other boys in the band. He offers me a piece of paper and a pen. “Write down your details and I’ll call.” I lean forward over the table and he whistles under his breath. I look up to find him blatantly looking down my top. Caught, he offers me an unrepentant smile. “I’ll definitely call,” he says smoothly and I roll my eyes, but his attention has already been distracted by Sid who shifts suddenly in his chair and catches my hand when I offer the pen back.
He looks up at me intently. “You haven’t asked about why we need a singer.”
“I was getting to that,” I say crossly, endeavouring to pull my hand free of his vice like grip and trying to ignore the tingles from where our palms meet. He holds it for a second longer and then lets go slowly. I resist the impulse to rub my hand down my leg. I look at him but at that moment his phone beeps and just like that all his attention is gone from me, and it’s such a concentrated thing that it’s almost as if the sun has gone in. Cursing myself I decide that this job might be a bad thing after all. I turn back to Bram. “So tell me about it?” I offer and smile.
He sits back on the table and shoves some papers aside. “We’ve got a new album out and instead of playing the big arenas we’ve decided to go back to the beginning and play smaller venues.”
“Why?” I gasp. This is a band that sold out a fourteen night residency at the O2 Arena in under 15 minutes, two years ago. “You’ll be losing shitloads of money.”
He smiles, looking slightly embarrassed. “Love, we already have more money than we’ll ever spend. What we want now we can’t buy, and that’s the chance to play small again. It’s an amazing feeling being that close to the audience, makes it all seem real and just more, somehow.”
“I know,” I say smiling slightly and forgetting myself. Sid suddenly looks up, focusing on me, and I realise that he’s been paying attention even while being on the phone. Wow a man that can actually multitask and it’s my misfortune to meet him.
“You know?” h
e asks sharply, and I shift uncomfortably.
“Yes,” I say simply and before he can ask me any questions I turn back to Bram. “So you’re going small again. That’ll be interesting. You don’t normally have backing singers though do you?”
“Not normally but our new stuff would benefit from it.” I wonder about this and how much of a change they’re making, because while they’re known for their quirky, rocking songs with amazing melodies, they’ve always been such a male sound. I also wonder how much of this shift in direction is down to Sid who suffered a much publicized overdose eighteen months ago.
“How many dates?” I ask. I really want to ask how much money they’re paying but that’s an awkward question in any circumstance, and so I play the game and pretend that making music is more important to me than paying my rent. Three years ago I wouldn’t have ever had to pretend this.
“Thirty five, spread out over the UK and Europe,” he replies. “Do you have any commitments, because we’ll be on the road for a few months?”
“No, nothing that won’t get along without me,” I say sadly, and again I feel Sid’s attention on me like a laser.
“Well we enjoyed meeting you,” he drawls, patently insincere, and I pick up my coat. I can take a hint as well as anyone. “We’ll talk to the other boys and call you one way or the other. We’ll speak to you soon Nelly.”
I offer Bram a grateful smile as he leaps up and helps me with my coat, and give Sid an outright glare for his use of the hated name Nelly who just offers me in return an unrepentant smirk. My reaction to him worries me enough that I won’t be sad if I don’t get this job after all. There’s no doubt that we need the money but I can probably pick up another job. I’m just worried that it won’t be enough money and in time, if this doesn’t pan out. The thing about this job was that it fell into my lap like an answer from heaven.
“Any last words for us?” comes the low voice from Sid, and I look down at him with his blue eyes shining full of attitude and I just think fuck it.