Kate gave me a big squeeze and then flipped open her laptop. “Let’s find out the truth, shall we? Unvarnished. No holds barred.”
I nodded and reached for the wine bottle. I already knew the truth, but I was all for a bit of internet investigation.
Kate typed Geoff’s name into the search engine. A surprising amount of things popped up. Why hadn’t I thought of this? Had I really been that disinterested?
Truth? Yes. Geoff had been fun, but he wasn’t where my attention had been lately.
Kate clicked on a link that led us to a business website. “Well, he didn’t lie about his job,” she said. “That’s something.”
Sure enough, on the website for a financial institution in the City of London, there was a picture of Geoff dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit and what looked like a silk tie. His umber eyes were practically making out with the camera. I shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”
Unfortunately, security and the ability to carry his own weight in a relationship only went so far if the guy was an asshat. Maybe Geoff would never sponge off me, but he was a cheater.
“Let’s find out what his personal life is like.” She clicked back and perused the list of links. She brought up a social media site. “Here we go.” She frowned. “It says married.”
“Duh. He said he was separated, that he and his wife had been leading separate lives for ages and were getting a divorce. Obviously, that was a big, fat lie.”
“Maybe he didn’t bother to change it. Not everyone posts every little detail about their lives.” She started scrolling. I didn’t bother to tell her I wasn’t that interested. She was on a roll. She clicked here and there, diving deeper into his online profile. “Holy crap.”
“What?” I leaned forward, almost knocking my wine glass off the table and onto her cream-colored couch.
“Um, this.” She turned the laptop so I could see the screen. There was a picture with Geoff holding what looked like a newborn baby. The picture was tagged “Geoff Pendridge” and “Margaret Pendridge.” Next to the photo was the caption: “I’m a daddy! So excited to welcome this little girl. I love you, Mags!” But the kicker was the date. It had been posted just two weeks ago, during the time we’d been dating. While Geoff had assured me that he and his wife were living completely separate lives, in completely separate houses, the poor woman had been having his kid. Rat bastard. Geoff, not the kid. Why was my wine gone again? I poured another glass.
The pictures told a different story from the one he’d fed me. Photo after photo of cute baby pictures and family shots flew past until they blurred. Yep, Geoff was a big, fat liar, just like all the rest.
I picked up my cell phone.
“Whoa, what are you doing?”
“I’m ending this. Now. While I’m tipsy enough to give him a piece of my mind. Hashtag, no filter.”
Kate smiled. “Good. If you need help burying the jerk, I think Adam has a shovel somewhere.”
SUNDAY MORNING I GOT a text from Geoff. It surprised me, actually. The man never texted on Sunday. Probably too busy with his wife and new baby. I’m sorry I missed our date. I promise I’ll make it up to you.
I stared at the message. Hadn’t he gotten my voicemail? What a wanker. Don’t bother. Say hi to Margaret.
He sent me about a dozen text messages after that, and nearly as many voicemails, but I ignored them all. I was done with him.
At noon, there was a knock on my door. If it was Geoff, I was going to throw him down my front steps. But it wasn’t. It was Kev.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said, giving me a sad face. “I heard. I brought ice cream.”
“Well, get your butt in here, then. It better be chocolate.” Not that I needed the ice cream. I was fine. Frustrated more than anything.
Oh, who was I kidding? There was always a need for ice cream.
We huddled under the blanket on my couch with Sixteen Candles on the telly and pints of ice cream clutched in our hands. “If only life were as simple and easy as that,” I sighed around a mouthful of Cherry Chocolate Twist.
“Amen, sister. Have a crappy day, hunk shows up at the end to sweep you off your feet. Perfect.”
“At least you’ve got Roberto,” I said.
His face took on a woebegone expression. “Bastard turned out to be married. To a woman.”
I stared at him. “What is with you and supposedly straight married men?”
He sighed, leaning his head against the back of the couch. “I have no idea, but it’s getting ridiculous.”
“You’re telling me.”
He turned to face me, suddenly serious. “Let’s make a pact.”
“Um, what sort of pact?”
“If we’re both still single at forty, we’ll marry each other. That way we don’t have to die tragically. Alone.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. Well, sort of serious. I would have made a pact with Kate, but she had to go marry that gorgeous man of hers.” He sighed. “Traitor.”
“So I’m your second choice?” I asked in mock outrage.
“A little bit, yes. But I still adore you.” He batted his eyelashes at me.
I snorted. “If we’re both still single at forty, I’ll think about it.” I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“THAT RAT BASTARD.” Olivia slammed her handbag down on her desk so hard, it made her phone jump.
“Paul?” I asked.
“Who else?”
“What happened?” I didn’t add “this time,” though it was on the tip of my tongue.
She plopped into her chair and stared up at the acoustical tiled ceiling. There was a stain in one corner that looked like Mona Lisa. “We were supposed to go to this art gallery thing Saturday night. He totally flaked. Typical, the tosser.”
“Huh. Seems to be going around.”
“What do you mean?”
I told her about Geoff ditching our date. And about Margaret and the baby. And all the dang texts.
She sat bolt upright, eyes wide. “What are you going to do?”
“Ignore the bastard.”
“Good for you.” She sat up, a look of determination on her face. “You know, that’s what I’m going to do with Paul. When he calls, if he does, I’m ignoring him. Totally ignoring him.”
“Aren’t you supposed to go to Barcelona or something with him next week?”
“Madrid. I think I’m going to change my ticket and go somewhere fun. Ibiza maybe, or somewhere nice in Greece. I hear the guys are hot there, and they like women with big asses.”
I gave her a look. The girl was skinny as a rail. “I don’t think you qualify.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I guess I’ll have to try Turkey. What size asses do Turkish men like?”
“I honestly have no idea, but I’m sure you’ll have fun wherever you go.”
“I just don’t understand men,” she said with shake of her head. “Maybe I’ll become a nun. Or move to France.”
I had no idea what the correlation was between nuns and France, but I nodded in agreement. “If you find a nice convent, maybe I’ll join you.”
Mr. Romance
GUY FAWKES NIGHT IS an interesting experience for an American in England. It’s rather like the 4th of July with the requisite fireworks, only instead of barbeques and ice cream, the November celebration involves bonfires and hot drinks. I’d gotten home around midnight after the local fireworks display and promptly fell asleep, thanks to the heavily doctored hot chocolate I’d drunk.
A heavy pounding woke me from a dead sleep. I glanced at the alarm clock. Three in the morning. Was someone dead? I poked my head out into the hall. I could just make out the shadow of a man through the frosted glass in the front door.
“Who is it?” I shouted. No way was I opening the door at this hour.
A man’s voice, slightly slurred, shouted back, “It’s me. Tommy.”
“You’ve got the wrong door,” I shouted back.
“It’s me. From around the corner. Can you open the door? I need to talk to you.”
I tried to think of a Tommy from around the corner. The only image I could pull up was of a group of kids in their late teens and early twenties who hung out a few doors down, smoking and telling dirty jokes. It had to be one of them.
“It’s 3:00 a.m.,” I said. “Is something wrong?”
“Please. Just open the door.”
“No. If you need something, you can tell me through the door.”
“I just want to talk to you. Please, please open the door.”
“Heck, no. If you need to talk to me at this hour of morning, you can do it through the door.”
This went back and forth for a couple of minutes to my increasing amusement. Tommy begged me to open the door, I refused. Around and around in circles we went. Eventually the mail flap in the door squeaked open. I could see a slice of Tommy’s face. The move was followed by a blast of alcohol. Talk about killing me not-so-softly with his breath.
“You are drunk,” I said, trying not to laugh. “You need to go home.”
“Can I use your toilet? I feel sick. I think I gotta puke.”
“Good gosh, no. You are not puking in my house. Go home and use your own toilet.”
“But I gotta tell you something.”
I rolled my eyes. “What?”
“I’m attracted to you.”
I snorted. “Thanks. How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty.”
I was silent.
“Okay, nineteen.”
“You are way too young for me, Tommy.”
There was a pause as he seemed to sort through that. “I like older women.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying desperately not to snort with laughter.
“Can I ask you something?” he slurred.
“Is it dirty?” I asked.
“No.”
“Okay. What?”
“Do you still do sexual stuff?”
I blinked. “What do you mean ‘still?’ And you said it wasn’t dirty.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Can I ask you something else?”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, what now? I had to know. “Okay.”
“Will you sit on my face?”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing so hard, my stomach hurt.
“Well. Will you?”
“How about this, Tommy? When you turn thirty, you can come back and ask me again. In the meantime, go home, or I’m going to tell your mother.”
That did the trick. My mail flap snapped shut, and Tommy’s shadow disappeared down the front walk. I sat there and laughed until tears ran down my face. And they said romance was dead.
Chapter 11
IT WAS MONDAY AND NOT my usual night, but I was desperate for the Purple Note. I needed some jazz to sooth my soul and get out the anger and frustrations that were eating away at me. All day I’d felt depressed. I wanted to give up, and that wasn’t like me. I refused to let a man destroy my peace of mind.
Besides, maybe Bram would be there. I knew it was nuts, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I wanted to see him again. Would the spark we’d shared across the room be just as strong this time?
I was half tempted to don my only black dress. It certainly reflected my mood. But I refused to give in. If I couldn’t feel awesome inside, at least I’d look fabulous outside. Fake it ’til you make it, right?
Plugging my phone into the dock, I selected “A Night Like This,” sung by Caro Emerald. As the snappy tune filled my apartment, I sang along. Immediately, my spirits began to lift.
I pulled out a retro-look fifties-style dress in rose pink, added a pair of strappy silver shoes and some seriously blinged up jewelry, including sparkly chandelier earrings. I put a fuchsia colored silk poppy in my hair and wore bright pink lipstick. Yeah, bright was the way to go. I already felt better. I dumped the contents of my usual handbag into a bright red purse designed to look like a rose and slung the gold chain over my shoulder.
The club wasn’t as full as it was on other nights. A few couples huddled around tables, holding hands and murmuring sweet nothings, no doubt. Great. I’d hit couples night. Just what I needed. I hesitated in the doorway for a moment, tempted to turn tail and run.
“Chloe,” Ray, the doorman, greeted me with his cheerful, booming voice as he strode up from the back. “I never see you here on a Monday.”
“My soul needed some jazz tonight, Ray.”
He nodded. “Good. Always need a bit of jazz. Head on in. It’s open mic night.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Just talk to the boss man and he’ll put you on.” He stepped outside, taking up his post by the door.
As if walking on air, I floated into the club. “The boss man,” otherwise known as Gabriel Tate, was leaning against the back wall, enjoying a piano solo by some guy who looked like he was wearing pajamas. He was also wearing a top hat, which I guessed made his pajamas dressy. Almost anything went at the Purple Note as long as it was jazz.
“Hey, Chloe.” Gabe nodded at me, not bothering to move. “That dude looks a wreck, but man, can he play a tune.”
“Hey, Gabe. Who is he?”
He frowned. “No clue. Comes in now and then, plays a bit, leaves. Talk about talent. What can I do you for?”
“Put me on. I need to sing.”
“You got it. You’re up after Bram.”
Instantly I was on full alert. He was here. Bram. The total hottie sax player from the other night. Something inside me gave a little shiver. I ruthlessly repressed it. I did not need to fall for another loser musician just because he looked good and knew how to make love to a sax.
Pajama Man ended his song to enthusiastic clapping from the small crowd, and Gabe jumped up on the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for our very own Bram Halliday.”
There were a few whistles and jeers as Bram strolled onto the stage, oozing sex appeal. Pajama Man stayed at the piano and tinkled a little intro, then Bram jumped in on the sax. I felt chills all over, the music was that dead beautiful.
The song came to an end with more clapping, and Gabe stopped the two men before they could leave the stage. “Gentlemen, I’ve a lady who is dying to get a song out. Would you accompany her?”
The men agreed, and I took my place in front of the mic. Bram gave me a long look, but I ignored him. I whispered the name of a song to Pajama Man, who smelled oddly like pepperoni pizza. He nodded and the first few notes filled the now silent room.
It was a song about love and loss, betrayal and heartache. But it was also a song about hope and need and desire. I forgot about the crowd, forgot about Pajama Man and Bram and pulled every note deep out of myself. Pain I never let anyone, not even Kate, see boiled up inside me. I’d been lonely for a long time. Years, frankly. Since Damon had done that number on me, I’d never let a man truly touch my heart in the way I wished one would. I let it bubble up and spilled it across the room for everyone to see, along with the new anger I’d found because of Geoff’s shenanigans. I didn’t care. I needed to get it out of me, let it go before it consumed me. As I belted out the notes, releasing my utter depression into the atmosphere, something new took its place. I felt a tiny trickle of hope different from anything I’d ever felt before. I pushed that into the song, too. I let it shine as the last notes hung in the air.
The final note died, and for the longest time, the room was silent. I opened my eyes and flushed as what seemed like a thousand eyes stared at me. And then came applause as the entire audience rose to their feet.
A standing ovation. For me. Holy heck.
I glanced at Bram, who was gazing at me so intently, my stomach flip-flopped. He gave me a crooked smile, flashing a dimple, and I melted. The smile turned a handsome man into an extraordinarily beautiful one. With a return smile that was just a little wobbly, I made my way offstage and straight to the bar. I suddenly felt the need for a stiff drink.
I was just taking the fi
rst sip of my Cosmo when someone slid onto the barstool next to me. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
I glanced up. Bram Halliday. His voice was a low rumble. His accent was London, but with a hint of something else.
“You want a Cosmo?” I asked, astonished, glancing down at my bright pink drink.
“Sure. Why not? They taste good.”
Well, color me astonished. A man secure enough in his masculinity to drink a Cosmo. Of course, with my luck he was gay. Although that didn’t explain the smoldering looks he’d been throwing my way.
His eyes raked over me, and the heat in them nearly incinerated my shoes. I resisted the urge to fan myself. Nope. Definitely not gay. If only he had a real job. I so did not need to contend with flakiness and fangirls. I’d learned my lesson. I had. And maybe if I kept telling myself that, I could ignore the attraction simmering between us.
“Bram,” he said, sticking out his hand.
I shook it. “Chloe.”
“You’ve got an amazing voice, Chloe.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s more than that.”
I stopped mid-sip. “It is?”
He nodded. “It’s like every word, every note, you make it live. Breathe. I can feel the emotion in my gut.”
“Um, thank you?”
“It’s a gift. A rare one. But it’s the way music should be. The way it was meant to be. Billie Holiday—she had that kind of voice.”
. “I’m not even in the same league. I just do this for fun because I love to sing. Because I need to get things out sometimes, and it’s the only way I know how to do it. Music is life, you know?”
He nodded and took a sip of his Cosmo. “I get it. Makes perfect sense. But you’re amazing. You really are.”
I forced down a blush. I was only partially successful. “Thank you.”
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