Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  Chapter 18

  You know that wonderful feeling you get when the school summer holidays start and you lie in bed knowing that you don’t have to get up and have nothing to do for ages and ages? Well, this is exactly how I feel when I wake up the next morning. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do today. That makes a huge change!

  For a moment I’m a little disorientated to find myself back in my old single bed listening to the rumble of traffic outside as Taply-on-Thames wakes up for the day, rather than being in my flat and hearing Susie crashing about in the kitchen – but seconds later I remember the events of the day before, and everything falls into place again.

  I really ought to be at the museum getting ready for my interview and helping my team with the latest exhibits, not lying here in my teenage bedroom. I glance at the digital clock on the bedside table, the very same clock whose insistent beeping and flashing neon display drove me out from under the covers every morning until I left home, and I’m taken aback to see it’s almost midday.

  Midday? Seriously? I’m staggered at this, because I never sleep late nowadays. Since adulthood, my internal body clock has always prompted me to be out of bed and bustling around by six at the latest. It’s one of the (numerous) things about me that have driven many ex-boyfriends absolutely crazy – not to mention Susie, who could give Rip Van Winkle a run for his money.

  “For God’s sake, Cleo!” she’ll complain, appearing in the sitting room bleary-eyed on a Saturday morning, while I’m dashing around with the vacuum cleaner trying to do some chores before I nip into work for a few extra hours. “Why can’t you just chillax for a bit? It’s Saturday! It’s the sodding weekend!”

  But I’m not very good at “chillaxing”. I’m normally about as relaxed as a coiled spring, and I can’t stand the thought of lazing in bed. I’m a busy person with lots to do. I can’t afford to waste time snoozing.

  “There are other things to do in bed, besides sleep,” Suse will grumble, rubbing her eyes. “Read a book? Eat breakfast? Shag a gorgeous man’s brains out?”

  Since most of the gorgeous men Suse brings home have the same IQ as a particularly dim cabbage, I can’t believe shagging their brains out would take very long at all. And as for eating breakfast in bed? I had quite enough of that during my enforced stay in hospital. So, no. Cleo Carpenter likes to be up with the lark, getting things done and moving on with her day – unlike Susie, who’s right up there with John and Yoko for staging a bed-in.

  Anyway, my having slept for most of the morning is yet another unprecedented event to add to the growing list.

  Sunshine slips through the curtains and warms the ancient carpet. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. The long sleep has done me good; maybe Susie was onto something after all. I feel as though I’ve exhaled after holding my breath for a long, long time. Everything seems lighter – even my psyche’s refreshed. I don’t know what today will bring, but whatever happens I feel more than ready to face it.

  Let’s be honest, I decide as I jump out of bed and pad downstairs, nothing could be worse than yesterday’s meeting with Rafe Thorne. As I boil the kettle to make tea I relive the entire episode and my face feels hotter than the water I slosh onto my tea bag. I can hardly bear to think about the impression he has of me right now. I’ve gone from being the muse of his most famous hit to a housebreaker and possible kiss-and-tell girl in one easy move. Nice work.

  Try as I might I can’t stop my skin prickling with embarrassment when I recall the moment Rafe opened his eyes and found me in his house. Next to displaying my red spotty knickers to all and sundry in the Wellby Museum, this has to be the single most mortifying moment of my life.

  “Don’t feel bad. Rafe’s bloody difficult these days,” remarks Alex. He’s leaning against the oven and regarding me from beneath his floppy dark fringe. “You tried.”

  “Shit!” I practically leap out of my ancient Snoopy tee shirt, and boiling water sloshes all over the kitchen table. “Will you stop creeping up on me like that?”

  “Sorry,” says Alex. He doesn’t look it though. In fact he seems rather pleased with himself. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right after yesterday?”

  I grab some kitchen roll and do my best to staunch the flow of water now surrounding a pile of my father’s marking like a moat around a castle of exercise books. Ink is already starting to bleed across the pages and my frantic dabbing isn’t helping.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. “Totally embarrassed and humiliated, but otherwise fine.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Alex says kindly. “Rafe’s like that with everyone. No wonder his girlfriend dumped him. Not that she’s much loss.”

  I pause in my dabbing. “Wasn’t he dating some model?”

  Alex nods. “You’ve been doing your homework, I see. Well, I guess research is your thing. Yeah, Rafe was dating Natasha Lacey.”

  Even I’ve heard of Natasha Lacey. She’s a model who’s plastered over billboards everywhere, wearing bras that would fit Barbie and tossing her mane of honey-coloured hair. With legs as long as a racehorse’s, a bee-stung pout and teeth that would give dentists orgasms, she’s absolutely stunning. I bet Natasha Lacey never wears spotty knickers or sleeps in a tee shirt she bought in 1998.

  Come on, Cleo. Who cares what Rafe’s girlfriend looks like? He’s a rock star; of course he dates gorgeous models. It’s practically obligatory. Anyway, I bet Natasha Lacey can’t decipher hieroglyphics.

  Alex grimaces. “Natasha might look good, but her head’s as empty as a Ming vase. God knows what Rafe found to say to her.” Then he grins at me and shrugs. “I guess they weren’t about talking? Anyway, Rafe didn’t see much of her after the accident. She wasn’t into sticking around once the good times stopped and, much as it pains me to say it, I can see why. He isn’t easy to be with these days.”

  “That’s an understatement.” I lob the wad of soggy kitchen roll into the bin and pick up my tea. “Look, Alex, I’m really sorry about yesterday and I’m really sorry about Rafe too, but I don’t think there’s much I can do to help.”

  “So could I please push off and leave you in peace? Let everything go back to the way it was?”

  Actually, this was exactly what I’d been thinking.

  “It’s nothing personal,” I say. “It’s just that I’d like to stop seeing things now and get back to normal.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but as I’ve said before I don’t think it works like that. I can go away and leave you alone, but that won’t stop you seeing things. That hasn’t come from me: it’s in you.”

  I’m about to correct him when I recall the conversation I had at this very same table with my father only hours earlier. He’d told me that my mother had a gift. What if he’s right? What if the bang to my head has unlocked something that was lying dormant within me? If that’s true then life will never return to how it was before. Is that really such a bad thing? Yesterday I saw my mother in this kitchen, I know I did, and I know that she’s at peace now. I can feel it. Last night I slept the best sleep I’ve had for years, which has to be a positive. I look at Alex and wonder if maybe there’s a way I can come to balance these two parts of my life.

  Or maybe I could just find a bloody good shrink?

  “Anyway, aren’t you going to get dressed?” Alex is asking. He points to the kitchen clock. “Look at the time. It’s a lovely day outside. I thought it might be fun to go for a walk and, sexy as you look in that fetching nightie, you’ll probably freeze.”

  It’s gone midday, and I had been quite content just to stay indoors and enjoy the quiet while my father was at work, have a bath, catch a bit of afternoon telly and call the Prof to chat about when they’ll schedule my interview. I was quite inclined to stay in my tee shirt too, even if it is stretched out of shape and keeps slipping off my shoulder. I can’t remember the last time I had a duvet day. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had one: I’ve never wanted to bunk off work.

  It’s official.
I’m weird.

  “Don’t look like that.” Alex folds his arms and fixes me with a determined look. “Go and get dressed and then come for a walk. It’ll blow the cobwebs away.”

  “Why are you so determined to make me get up?” I grumble. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m hurt,” Alex says, placing a hand over his heart and adopting a wounded expression – but he can’t quite meet my eyes. He looks shifty to me. “What must it be like to be so distrusting? I just thought a walk would be nice.”

  I don’t believe him for a minute. I’m starting to get to know him, after all, and he’s definitely up to something. Still, the world outside the kitchen window does look all bright and glittery, and the thought of getting some fresh air is quite appealing. Maybe I’ll wander along the Thames as far as the lock and then grab a coffee? I could even visit Mum’s grave and have a quick tidy-up. Normally the thought of visiting the little churchyard fills me with dread, but today I’m rather looking forward to it. Perhaps I’ll even pop into the florists and buy some flowers.

  “Fine,” I say, putting my mug down with a thud. “I’ll go for a walk.”

  “Brilliant!” Alex looks pleased. “Wear something warm!” he calls after me as I stomp out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “And put some make-up on too. You don’t want to scare anyone!”

  I ignore that comment; although when I venture into the bathroom I must admit that my white face and deep red hair do make a bit of a scary contrast. Dumping the Snoopy tee shirt into the old wicker laundry bin that’s been unravelling for as long as I can remember, I jump into the shower and wake myself up with a blast of cold water. A good dollop of some faded-looking pineapple body wash – which I’m pretty certain was discontinued sometime in the nineties – and one hair wash later, I’m back in my bedroom. The world outside looks bright but chilly, and bearing this in mind I pull on my new skinny jeans, my soft green sweater and a thick pair of socks. A quick slick of lip-gloss, some mascara across my lashes and a brush pulled through my hair, and I’m good to go. My reflection doesn’t shatter the mirror, so Alex has nothing to be worried about; the good people of Taply won’t be terrified.

  I’m just checking my mobile in case Professor Hamilton has sent a message when there’s a hammering of knuckles on the front door. Grabbing my bag I fly down the stairs to answer it – and then almost fall down in shock when I see who’s on the doorstep.

  Now I understand why Alex was so desperate for me to get dressed and put some make-up on.

  “Hello, Cleo Rose Carpenter,” says Rafe Thorne softly. “Can we start again?”

  Chapter 19

  “What are you doing here?”

  OK, so this isn’t the most gracious way to greet a visitor but I can’t help myself. The last person I’m expecting to find on the doorstep is Rafe Thorne. For a split second I’m tempted to slam the door in his handsome face and bolt back upstairs and burrow under the duvet.

  “Don’t be mean,” says Alex bossily over my shoulder. “He’s made an effort to come all this way to see you. The least you can do is be polite.”

  Rafe has made an effort; it’s true. Yesterday’s stubble has been shaved away and his black hair is freshly washed and glossy as it brushes the shoulders of his battered leather jacket. He smells good too, of something citrusy and sharp, which is a distinct improvement on Eau de Stale Booze. A scarlet scarf is wound around his neck, and he’s wearing faded blue Levis and brown biker boots; the obligatory shades complete the casual rock-star-about-town look. When he pushes these back onto his head and stares down at me I notice that his striking violet eyes are no longer bright with anger but thoughtful.

  I guess that’s an improvement.

  “I hope I haven’t disturbed you? I thought about breaking in and creeping around but there’s no way I can compete with your cat-burglary skills,” Rafe teases. As he speaks his eyes crinkle at the corners, lines starring out towards his temples – reminders that there was once a time when he probably smiled a lot. “Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment has got nothing on you. By the way, why didn’t you wear the leather suit?”

  I ignore his teasing and fold my arms across my chest. Rafe might be amused and Alex is laughing like a drain, but I’m not finding it funny. When I think about yesterday’s meeting I feel hot all over. “I didn’t break in. I used a key.”

  “Of course. Forgive me. You used a key to let yourself in totally uninvited. I’m slightly more old-fashioned. I like to be asked in, or at the very least ring the doorbell.”

  “He’s just kidding,” Alex says hastily. “Rafe’s got a very dry sense of humour.”

  “Do you see me laughing?” I shoot back.

  Luckily Rafe assumes I’m talking to him.

  “Look, I’m ever so grateful really. Even though you were trespassing.”

  See. You try to do somebody a good turn and what do you get? Grief and hassle. No wonder I prefer being left alone in the museum.

  “Sorry,” I say stiffly. “I apologise for thinking you might have been in trouble and in need of help. I should have left you there.”

  Rafe raises his eyes to heaven. “Cleo, I’m teasing you!”

  “Don’t bother, fam,” sighs Alex. “She’s got no sense of humour some days.”

  Yep. And this day is one of them.

  “Look,” Rafe continues, stepping forwards and smiling at me, a slow smile that makes my insides knot even though I’m annoyed with him after yesterday. “I’m grateful, I really am. Nobody’s been bothered about whether I’m all right for so long now that I guess I’m out of practice. I don’t understand why you were there or how you’ve suddenly reappeared after all these years, but I’m touched you wanted to help. And I’m sorry I was less than receptive. I’ve come to thank you.”

  Yesterday’s embarrassing episode is now spooling through my mental cinema on a loop and I’m cringing more with every second that passes. I just want to draw a line under all this.

  “And I brought this back,” he adds, reaching into his pocket and pulling out my green hat. He holds it out at me hopefully. “You left it behind. I had to return it.”

  Thanks a lot, bobble hat. If it wasn’t for you I could still be slobbing around in my Snoopy tee shirt and doing my best to forget yesterday. Or maybe booking myself in for some intensive psychotherapy? Anything but standing face to face with Rafe Thorne.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, rather ungraciously. “You really shouldn’t have bothered though. It’s only from Primark.”

  Rafe grins. “Hey, don’t knock Primarni. Our stylist used to swear by the place.” He pauses and his brow furrows thoughtfully. “I have to ask, did you leave the hat behind on purpose?”

  I snatch it back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t. Why would I?”

  Rafe shrugs. “So that you had an excuse to come back? Fans do the weirdest things.”

  Fans? He thinks I’m a fan? Of all the bloody nerve! I’m not even going to dignify this comment with an answer, so instead I just glower at him. My glower has made the undergraduates I teach quail and ex-boyfriends quake, and is just about the only thing that makes Susie give in and clean the flat, so it’s generally very effective. Unfortunately though, it doesn’t seem to work on Rafe Thorne, who’s lolling against the doorframe with irritating insouciance.

  “You wanted to see me again.” It isn’t a question. “So you left your hat. I must admit a hat makes a pleasant change. It’s normally knickers or bras I have thrown at me, not bobble hats.” The smile widens into a grin. “Although I wouldn’t have complained if you’d felt the urge.”

  For some reason I now have a vivid mental image of me in Rafe’s drawing room peeling off my underwear and whirling it around my head like something from the Moulin Rouge, and my face is even hotter.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Rafe says kindly. “I’m flattered. You went to a lot of trouble to find me.”

  The fact that he’s taking pity on me is the final straw. There’s only so much humiliation
a girl can stand.

  “You actually think I’d want to see you again after your behaviour yesterday?” I say incredulously. “Have you been drinking again? What on earth makes you think I’d want you to come here?”

  Rafe winks. “Maybe because you typed your address onto my computer? I have to say that’s original, even though I could have done without having my lyrics messed with. I’m having enough bloody trouble writing as it is.” He shakes his head. “I must have been more drunk than I realised not to have seen you do it. Or did you type the address while I was asleep?”

  I stare at him. “What? Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I didn’t do that!”

  His dark brows lift. “You’re denying it?”

  “Of course I’m denying it. Because I didn’t do it!”

  There’s an awkward throat-clearing noise behind me.

  “Err, sorry,” says Alex somewhere behind me, sounding anything but. “That may have been me. It took an awful lot of energy. That’s why I didn’t come and find you last night. I was spent.”

  Oh great. So now I look completely deranged and there’s no way I can explain myself without sounding even more bonkers.

  Rafe pushes a lock of dark hair back from his well-defined face and regards me thoughtfully while I pray for the floor to open up and swallow me, which of course it refuses to do. His lithe body fills the door, his shoulders and chest tapering into a lean waist and hips. I look away.

  “OK, of course you didn’t, then,” says Rafe kindly when I fail to reply. He’s acting as if he’s taking pity on a deluded fan, which is pretty galling. “I must have just imagined it and found your address by magic. Yes. It must have appeared by magic.”

  “Maybe a ghost typed it?” suggests Alex. Not helpful.

  “Well?” Rafe is still waiting for an explanation. I have the feeling that unless I can come up with one I’ll be standing in the doorway for a while. “What’s your suggestion?”