“Go on,” I say.
“It could just be made up, of course, but there’s the most romantic story ever to the song. Rafe Thorne wrote it – I think he wrote all the songs – and it’s about this girl he met one Christmas Eve. Apparently he was on a railway platform in the middle of nowhere – you know, travelling home with his guitar over his back and all that – when he met his soul mate. He knew straight away that she was the one for him. They were all alone, the snow was falling and he kissed her while the Christmas bells rang across the countryside. Isn’t that just the most romantic thing ever?” She closes her eyes dreamily, which is just as well because she can’t see the shock on my face. Then she starts to sing, “‘Falling in love with the drifting of snow, how could I ever have let her go? One perfect night, a love like this, an angel’s touch, one Christmas kiss.’ And then he let her go and he never saw her again, the muppet!”
There’s a rushing in my ears, as if a high-speed locomotive is tearing through my brain. The blood feels as though it’s draining from my body and I’m cold from head to foot even without Alex being nearby. This isn’t possible. It can’t be true. But if I were to put on my logical head and start analysing the evidence, what would I say then? There seem to be quite a few coincidences…
“God, I wish something like that would happen to me,” Susie is saying longingly. Her voice sounds as though it’s coming from a thousand miles away. “If I’m lucky it’s a snog by the photocopier or a grope under the mistletoe at Christmas. No one’s going to write a song about that, are they?”
I shake my head, a response that’s good enough for Suse because she’s on a roll now.
“Can you imagine being immortalised in a song like that? Anyway, it’s a bit sad really because he missed the one chance of being with the love of his life, his soul mate. Their paths only crossed for that one moment; it was love at first sight and then he lost her.”
He didn’t lose her. He never called! She waited and waited and waited but he never got in touch. Anyway, she wasn’t lost. She was in Egypt doing her fieldwork, ironically enough trying to bury her unpleasant memories by digging up the past.
That’s probably not quite so romantic.
There’s a pause because Susie’s waiting for me to say something.
“Err, Cleo? Isn’t this the bit where you’re supposed to tell me it’s all bollocks, and there’s no such thing as true love or soul mates? Love’s just a chemical reaction to encourage the species to propagate?”
Wow. Don’t I usually sound a right barrel of laughs? She’s not wrong, though: normally this is exactly the sort of thing I would say, because once upon a time I did think I’d met my soul mate – only to be bitterly disappointed. But today my vocal cords have gone on strike, along with my logic, my reason and all the other things that keep me sane.
“It was so tragic what happened to Alex Thorne, too; he was gorgeous,” Susie sighs.
Flipping annoying sums him up much better in my opinion. Still, whether I’m annoyed with Alex or not, I must admit I’m curious now.
“So the band broke up after Alex was killed in the car accident?”
“Pretty much. Alex was the lead singer but his brother, Rafe, was the one who wrote the music. He was supposed to be a genius. You never saw much of Rafe: he was in the background and he hardly ever did press stuff. The rumour was that he wanted to give up the band and just write.”
“What happened to Rafe?” My mouth is so dry I’m amazed I can speak at all. This is really him, the brother that Alex is so keen I help him reach. Is it possible that his brother is also my Christmas stranger? This has to be one coincidence too far.
Then again, coincidences do happen. Maybe my Christmas stranger was someone else entirely.
Susie maximises the screen with her thumb and forefinger and squints at it. “Wiki doesn’t say much more, but I read in The Sun that Rafe Thorne hasn’t written a note for years. I think he’s pretty much a recluse. Here, have a look.”
The iPhone is scooted across the table – but I don’t even need to look at it to know what I’m going to see. Staring up at me with those wide-spaced violet eyes and a serious expression is a face I’ve not seen for a very long time. Ten years, in fact.
It’s impossible.
Rafe Thorne, Alex’s brother and Britpop legend, is none other than my Christmas stranger.
Chapter 12
My shock at seeing the face of my Christmas Eve stranger again is so profound that Susie’s able to drag me around Selfridges for another couple of hours. Usually I’m driven crazy by her disorganised approach to shopping – which entails zooming backwards and forwards to look at things over and over again, with not a list in sight – but right now I’m glad of an excuse not to have to think. It’s far better to concentrate on glittery things and frocks than to try to figure out what’s happening to me. While I’m being frogmarched in and out of changing rooms and giving my credit card a hammering, at least I can’t be thinking about the way my life is beginning to fall apart at the seams.
The world around me looks absolutely normal, give or take all the Christmas paraphernalia. There are no shoppers dressed in the fashions of bygone eras and so far Alex hasn’t peered at me over a rack of clothes or waved at me from across the designer section – but even so, I’m not sure I can trust my senses anymore. Everything in my world has shifted and all my certainties have turned to quicksand. It’s the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me and, try as I might, I’m struggling to come up with a logical explanation.
I’m starting to worry that there isn’t one, which leads me to one very unwelcome conclusion: this is actually happening.
While Susie’s been chatting away I’ve been so deep in thought that she’s managed to draw me into Topshop in Oxford Circus, fill my arms with party dresses and goodness knows what else, and shove me into a changing room. If she thinks it weird that I’m not protesting or taking exception to her choice of outfits, she’s far too busy taking advantage of my distractedness to say anything. After all, this is her chance to get me into some bright colours and funky Kate Moss designs, and Suse isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth by questioning my state of mind. Why let a head injury get in the way of a makeover?
I lock the changing-room door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. Did I really kiss Rafe Thorne all those years ago? Was it his mouth, softer than the brush of butterfly wings, that had skimmed mine? And was it his fingers that had so tenderly wiped away my tears? As I pull off my boots and unpeel my wrap dress, I might be staring at a floor-length mirror and a pile of party outfits, but in my mind’s eye it’s a snowy railway platform that I’m seeing: a moment frozen in time, a perfect moment to which nothing before or since could ever compare. Every detail is as fresh as if we’d only met hours earlier rather than a decade before. Of course it was him. There was no mistaking those unusual eyes, almost violet in colour; they’d leapt out of the screen, every bit as compelling online as they’d been in real life. My perfect stranger is Rafe Thorne, rock legend and brother of the phantom who saved my life and has been following me ever since.
Hang on, that’s a thought. Does Alex know who I am? Does he know I’m the girl from the song? And if so, why hasn’t he said anything?
“Because I didn’t want to freak you out.”
I’m certainly freaking out now, because Alex is sitting on the floor looking up at me – and apart from the fact that he’s made me jump out of my skin, I’m in my bra and knickers. At least today’s are white but that’s not the point! I’ve had quite enough of men seeing me in my underwear lately and, whether he’s dead or not, I’m certainly not making an exception for Alex Thorne – he of the playboy reputation and dubious taste in pervy ghost friends.
“You can’t come in here!” I screech snatching up my dress and shielding my body with it like a prudish Victorian sea bather. “I’m changing!”
“Oh chill out, Cleo,” drawls Alex. “I’ve seen it all before. Besides, you
don’t believe in me, remember, so what’s the problem? Nice knickers by the way, although I did prefer the spotty ones! Sexy! Woof!”
I am not amused. Can’t a girl have some privacy? There’s no way I’m going to stand here in my smalls with Alex Thorne about.
“Go away!” I order. “I’m not kidding, Alex!”
“Keep your hair on! Anyway, you called me, remember?”
I glower at him. “I did no such thing!”
Alex looks triumphant. “I’m afraid you did. Why else would I be in Topshop on a Saturday afternoon? Believe me, no guy – dead or alive – really wants to spend his spare time waiting outside the changing room–” His eyes take a road trip over my body. “Although I must admit, being inside is a whole lot more fun!”
There goes that annoying blush again. “You’re as bad as Hank!”
“Ouch. That’s harsh, even for you. Look, I’ll close my eyes, how about that?” Alex makes a show of screwing his eyes tightly shut and then places his hands over them for good measure. “Ooo! It’s dark! I’m scared. I hope there aren’t any ghosts!”
I hug the dress tighter against my chest. I’m not sure I trust him not to peek. Ghost, hallucination, whatever; he’s still a boy.
“What did you mean about me calling you?” I demand.
“Who said that?” he deadpans, but I’m not laughing. This is not a joking matter. This is my life that’s being disrupted.
“Seriously, Alex, I need to know what you meant by that?”
“You were thinking about why I hadn’t told you about Rafe, so it’s your fault I’m here. You summoned me. Don’t blame me if you’re half undressed.” The lips below the hands curve into a smile. “Anyway, you’re not the first girl who’s taken her kit off and called me over, and I’m really hoping you won’t be the last.”
I choose to ignore his teasing. “So you appear if I think about you?”
This is not good news. If Alex does exist, and unfortunately all the evidence I’ve gathered so far is pointing in favour of this alarming conclusion, then I can’t have him popping up whenever I might randomly think of him. What if I’m in the bath? Or on the loo? Or naked?
“Now you’re panicking that I’ll appear when you’re in the bath or something, aren’t you?” he laughs. “Like I want to see you on the loo, Cleo Carpenter!”
I’m scarlet now; my cheeks feel like the core of Sellafield.
“I thought I was supposed to be the psychic one?”
“Aha! So you are starting to believe me? About bloody time. No, Cleo, give me some credit. I’m not Hank. Anyway, you weren’t thinking: you were talking out loud, which, unless I’m very much mistaken, is one of the early signs of madness.”
“The first one is believing in ghosts,” I say bleakly.
“Or denying all the evidence to the contrary,” he shoots back.
I’m still trying to think of a cutting retort, and failing miserably, when there’s a sharp rap on the cubicle door, followed by a bout of nervous throat clearing.
“Is everything all right in there?” asks a shop assistant. “I thought I heard voices?”
“Yes! Yes! Fine! Just, err, FaceTiming my boyfriend to ask his opinion on the dresses!” I explain hastily. Lord only knows what the shop assistant thinks I’ve been up to.
“The long green velvet one,” says Alex helpfully. “That’ll look great with your hair. And anyway, just for the record, I normally like to be bought dinner before I see a girl without her clothes and have to go shopping with her!”
I consider the green dress. It’s strapless and floor length with layers of netting under the skirt. You can tell Susie picked it. Maybe I should get this for the staff Christmas party? It’s not that I’m trying to impress Simon or anything, but it might be fun to have a change…
“Look, I’m not going to lie to you,” Alex is saying a little awkwardly, interrupting my train of thought. “I’ve always known you were the girl my brother wrote about. At least, I’ve known that ever since I found myself in this peculiar situation. You have no idea how long I’d been trying to get your attention. I couldn’t believe my luck when you hit your head and could see me. It really was my lucky day!”
When it comes to lucky days, that one isn’t top of my list. It’s not even on my list.
Then a thought occurs to me. “You were stalking me?”
“How uncharitable! That’s not quite how I’d have put it. Listen, my brother isn’t like me. I’m a lot more outgoing and brash – maybe even a little tactless at times.”
“No. Really?” I say, and Alex laughs.
“Yeah, hard to believe, I know. I loved fronting the band and all the attention and that kind of shit that came with it, but Rafe, well... He’s really shy; he was happy to just write the music and stay in the background. To be honest he hated the fame, hence our huge row about signing a new contract. He always feels things deeply, which is why when he told me about that girl he’d met – you, Cleo – and how he knew she was the only one for him, I knew he meant every word.”
“Yeah, right. Is that why he never got in touch?” As soon as the words dive off my tongue I could kick myself, and hard. Great, Cleo. Well done. Now you sound really pathetic, still stewing about a guy who never called ten years after the event! Why I’m worrying about what my hallucination thinks is something I don’t want to dwell on. I have a horrible feeling that I’m starting to see Alex as a real person. And if that’s the case then it means I’ve accepted that ghosts really do exist. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that paradigm shift just yet. I may be standing in my knickers in the changing room of Topshop and talking to thin air, but I’m still clinging to the final remnants of my intellectual dignity.
“He lost your details,” Alex is saying. “I know it sounds like a lame excuse but he really did. Seriously, Cleo! He went crazy trying to find you. It drove me insane too. We must have spent hours staking out that station. I swear to God I almost took up trainspotting just to pass the time. And why the bloody hell didn’t you tell each other your names?”
“It just didn’t seem important,” I say, although it does sound bonkers now. He’d called me Christmas Girl. I guess we were far too busy kissing. Names, history, futures – none of that seemed to matter back then. But then it doesn’t, does it, when you’re nineteen? You live in the moment. It’s only now that I’m older that I find myself living more and more in the past.
“Well it might have saved ten years of heartache and ten years of Rafe wishing he could find you,” Alex says, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Jesus. You two deserve each other.”
I stare at him. Discovering that Rafe hadn’t just ignored me is almost as much of a shock as learning his identity.
“I’m not making it up,” Alex insists. “Rafe was sure if we gave it long enough you’d turn up eventually. He remembered that your family lived nearby. You never did show, though, and in the end he had to accept that you probably never would.”
“I was back in Egypt by then,” I explain. “My mum died and I took off pretty soon afterwards.” There hadn’t felt like much else to stay for. Let’s face it: I’ve pretty much stayed away ever since.
Alex nods, still with his eyes closed. “That figures. Anyway, long story cut short, Thorne was signed shortly after that and it all got pretty crazy. Rafe never forgot you, though. Our biggest chart hit was written about you – they reckon it even outranks Wham! now – and I know that every Christmas Eve without fail he went back to the station just in case.” He pauses. “At least, he used to. I don’t think he goes anywhere now apart from the off-licence.”
There’s a lump in my throat at this. It’s all water under the bridge now but I can’t help wondering what might have happened if we’d met again.
“So why were you looking for me?” I ask. Surely the wrong brother is crouched on the floor here?
“It was Rafe who made Thorne great. It was his talent that drove the band,” Alex explains. “His lyrics and his compositions made us
famous; I was just the front man, the Robbie to his Gary, if you like. Rafe never wanted the fame, but he put up with it because it was what I wanted. I knew I owed everything to him and I always said if there was one thing I could ever do it would be to help him find you. When I found myself…” He pauses.
“Dead?”
“Why mince words? Yeah, when I found myself dead I was drawn to you straight away. I guess I have to fulfil my promise before I can go wherever it is I’m supposed to go next.”
“To the light?” I suggest helpfully. Lilac Delaney, psychic to the stars, is always sending spirits into the light on Totally Spooked.
Alex splays his fingers to give me a pitying look through his hands. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you watch far too much crap telly for somebody who’s supposed to be intelligent. All I know is that I need to make sure my brother’s safe before I can do anything else. Maybe it’s my mission? I don’t know! No old man with a beard has popped up to tell me.”
I’m pulling my own clothes back on again. The mention of Lilac Delaney has given me a horrible jolt. At the back of my poor confused and injured brain I seem to recall that I made a very rash promise to Susie. A promise that I think I’m about to regret...
“Anyway, that’s my story,” Alex finishes, oblivious to the fact that I’ve just remembered I have an evening appointment with Britain’s most famous psychic. “Now do you understand why I need you to find Rafe for me? It’s important!”
I do understand, actually. Alex has to fulfil his promise to Rafe before he can rest. It’s classic stuff. Don’t all the best ghost stories go this way? My mind is working furiously because this isn’t an uncommon myth in ancient cultures either. Tombs are filled with writings concerning the soul’s journey through the afterlife, and customs the world over repeat this exact idea. Perhaps I just need to give in and go with it. Maybe this is my brain’s very complicated way of healing itself.
“So if I help your brother you’ll leave me alone?” I say slowly. “You’ll go away? My life can go back to normal?”
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