Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  “Can they do that?”

  I put my fork down. My appetite has vanished because, yes, it seems that they can. “It will be under the guise of career development, but in effect it’s a handy way to smooth over an awkward situation. I guess I either take the sabbatical or I could go and work elsewhere.”

  “Leave the museum? But you love your work!” Susie looks shocked. “But, then again, you love Egypt too.”

  I nod. “I do, and normally I’d be there like a shot – but this is different, Suse. It’s leaving under a cloud and there’s no way I want to do that. I have to clear my name and get my work back. I just need to figure out how.”

  We return to our food for a bit, both deep in thought. Susie puts forward a couple of ideas about being a honeytrap and getting Simon to confess, but since he’s already met her the plan soon gets derailed. She even offers to speak to the Professor and tell him that I never authorised her to part with the statue, but what would that prove? It’s still Simon’s word against mine.

  “Egypt it is, then,” Susie says gloomily as we scrape up the final smears of tiramisu.

  The sweet pudding curdles in my stomach. A whole year in Egypt. Once upon a time you wouldn’t have seen me for dust, but now I’m reluctant to leave England. There’s my father, for one thing. I don’t want to leave him behind just when we’ve started to rebuild our relationship. And then there’s Rafe…

  I’ve tried hard not to think about him today – I’ve needed my wits about me – but I just haven’t been able to stop myself. Even in the middle of a full-on career meltdown I’ve caught myself drifting away into thoughts of him: the way he held my face between his hands and kissed me as though he’d never let me go again, his mouth soft and full on mine. My fingers steal to my lips. It feels as if I’ve always known Rafe Thorne – which is ridiculous, given that we’ve probably spent less than twenty-four hours in each other’s company. But what if there is a person you’re meant to be with? How many of us ever get to recognise that person or be with them? It might be a fleeting encounter on a train or perhaps passing each other in a crowd; your eyes meet and you know with every fibre of your being that that person is the other part of you. That’s how I felt about Rafe on the snowy railway platform all those years ago, and that’s exactly how I felt about him last night.

  “Out with it.” Pudding finished and wine glass drained, Susie gives me a stern look. “Who is he?”

  “Who is who?” I try to bluff, but I’m a redhead so now I’m the colour of the velvet seat.

  Susie gives a cry of triumph. “The guy who’s put that soppy look on your face. Don’t try and deny it! I know you, Cleo Carpenter, and I’ve never once seen you look like this. And you rolled in this morning with a daft smile, your hair in a tangle and looking like you hadn’t slept all night. Don’t hold back on me! Spill!”

  My hair had been tangled because Rafe had spent hours threading my curls around his fingers and pressing kisses into them. I hadn’t slept all night either. And the daft smile? Everything to do with what we’d been doing while the rest of the world was sleeping. If I close my eyes I can still see his face silvered by the moonlight and feel his lips tracing the curve of my throat. Even all these hours on I can still sense his skin against mine and the rasp of his stubble against my neck, and shivers dance across my limbs.

  “Just somebody I used to know a long time ago,” I say.

  She rubs her hands together in glee. “I knew it! I am never wrong! So, Dr Oh-So-Secretive-Carpenter, when are you seeing him again?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t made any plans.”

  Aamon is under the table playing some involved game with the cat, and an icy draught whisks around us. At least I think that’s caused by Aamon. It might be the thought of not seeing Rafe again that chills me.

  “Well, duh! Call him and make some,” says Susie. “Honestly, Cleo, you are hopeless. If he’s the reason you’ve started to relax then he’s got my vote.”

  I suppose that in a roundabout way Rafe is the reason I’ve changed. Alex is certainly the reason my life has been totally disrupted.

  I pull a face. “You’re right, Suse, I am hopeless. I don’t even have his number.”

  “You’re going to wait for him to call you? Babe, we don’t have to sit by the phone anymore! We’re all equal now. Don’t play text chess; life’s far too short. Find his number and call him!”

  While Susie gives me the benefit of her wide and varied love life, filling me in on how to tell if a guy is into me, I pay the bill and then we stroll arm in arm along Floral Street and into the piazza. It’s bitterly cold tonight and everyone is wrapped up in thick coats and big scarves, but even the biting north wind can’t whip the smiles from the faces of the late-night shoppers. Before I can protest, Susie’s grabbing my hand and tugging me into various shops, where we end up buying all sorts of odds and ends that she thinks will be great presents, but which we both know she’ll end up keeping.

  We’re just leaving the covered market and heading for the Underground station when two buskers break into a rendition of “One Christmas Kiss”. Usually I run for the hills as soon as I hear those opening chords, but this time I stop and listen to every word until Covent Garden melts away and I’m standing back on the empty platform, circled by Rafe’s arms and with the snow silently drifting down. When the buskers finish to enthusiastic applause I find that my cheeks are wet.

  “Blimey,” says Susie, handing me a crumpled bit of tissue. “You have got it bad.”

  I dash the tears away. “Sorry. Bit of a weird day.” Week. Month. Delete as appropriate.

  “That song reminds me of something I saw trending on Twitter earlier,” she tells me as, arm in arm, we thread our way through the crowds. “It’s by a band called Thorne. I think I told you about them once? They came to an end when the lead singer died, remember?”

  I nod. How could I ever forget?

  “Apparently the lead singer’s brother, Rafe Thorne, who’s been pretty much a recluse since then, has just put a new song out as a free download. Everyone’s going mad for it and the press have freaked.” Susie fishes out her iPhone and scrolls to her Twitter feed. “It’s like Elvis popping back into the building and recording again. People are going crazy because Rafe Thorne is gorgeous!”

  I close my eyes and picture Rafe’s slow, stomach-flipping smile. Even when I open them again I can still see him.

  “Apparently it’s the fastest downloaded track this year. Everyone’s talking about it.” Her expression grows dreamy. “It’s a beautiful song, Cleo. It’s called ‘Sunrise Girl’. She saved him from despair and every day the sun rises in her smile. God, I’m happy if Dave puts the loo seat down. Whoever she is and wherever she is, she’s a lucky cow. He’s crazy about her.”

  Susie dives into the Underground station, but I’m rooted to the pavement with her words echoing round and round in my head. People and ghosts – I can hardly tell them apart these days – swirl past me, but I barely notice them any more than I notice the wind slicing into my face or feel the jostling elbows of the other commuters. Suddenly Simon, the museum and even all those months of lost research don’t seem to matter nearly as much as they did earlier. My heart is rising like a helium balloon. The message in this song couldn’t be any clearer: Rafe feels about me the same way that I feel about him. I’m tingling from head to foot. The twinkling lights and Christmas decorations don’t seem out of place now. I realise that the world is full of wonder and magic. How have I ever doubted this?

  “You did it, Alex,” I whisper into the cold night. “You really did it! Rafe Thorne is back on the music scene!”

  Chapter 25

  It’s no good. No matter how hard I try I just can’t seem to come up with a foolproof way to prove that Simon Welsh has lied, cheated and thieved his way to the Assistant Director’s job. Everything I think of falls at the first hurdle because there’s no evidence –anything I might say will just be interpreted as sour grapes. I spend the next four da
ys alternately racking my brains for a solution and then wondering why I haven’t heard from Rafe. At night I lie awake in the flat, watching the shadows swish across the ceilings when cars pass by, and reliving the night we spent together. Then, just to torture myself a little bit more, I listen to “Sunrise Girl”. Like practically everyone else in Britain, I’ve downloaded it. Unlike everyone else, though, I pore over the lyrics as a miser might pore over his gold; I analyse each line and every piece of imagery until my head spins. When I was in Covent Garden with Susie I was so sure there was a message in that song for me. Almost a week later and with no sign of Rafe, I’m not so certain. My judgment recently hasn’t been particularly great, has it?

  It’s late afternoon now and outside my office window London is swathed in gloom. The weather is still bitter and snow has been forecast, but as I try to focus on a paper I’m due to deliver, I feel even colder than the average person, since the cat insists on sitting on my feet while Aamon weaves rubber bands into his interpretation of a loom band. Sleet begins to patter against the windowpanes and in the public areas our visitors will be trailing damply across the foyer, steaming up the exhibits and crowding the coffee shop.

  I push the paper aside. It’s a lecture on Hatshepsut that I’ve delivered before, but I’ve had to rewrite it because my original is a victim of Simon’s trawl through the hard drive. Before I can help myself, I’m opening up Google and typing Rafe Thorne into the search engine. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’ve got an addiction to typing his name: this must be at least the fifth time today that I’ve abandoned my work to do this. I’ll never think of a way to catch Simon out while I’m mooning over Rafe like a lovesick fan.

  Hang on. Did I just say lovesick?

  I’m on the brink of minimising the screen, aghast at the workings of my subconscious mind, when I spot Alex, cross-legged on the floor and helping Aamon with his loom band.

  “You ought to at least get him some colourful ones,” he remarks, looping the rubber over his fingers with surprising skill. “I know you like sludge colours but these are dead boring – aren’t they, Aamon?”

  Aamon nods and says something that makes Alex laugh. Lord, it’s infuriating when people have secrets from you – and even more infuriating when it’s in a language that you’ve no hope of being able to understand.

  “What?” I say.

  “Nothing, nothing.” Still grinning like a loon, Alex looks very pleased with himself. “Well, nothing other than he says you’re far too busy looking at pictures of my brother to pay attention to much else.”

  I blush to the roots of my hair. “That’s total rubbish!”

  Alex raises an eyebrow. “Oh really? So if I looked at the history on your computer I wouldn’t see any searches related to Rafe? None at all?”

  “Certainly not,” I fib. Well, none apart from the search relating to the sky-high sales of the new single, the pieces in the online tabloids speculating as to the identity of the girl in the song, the ITV press release discussing the possibility of Rafe’s appearance on the next series of The X Factor, and the countless pictures of his brooding sharp-cheekboned face, that is. I’ve hardly searched for him at all.

  “You’re such a hopeless liar,” says Alex fondly. “You go bright red. Don’t ever play poker, for heaven’s sake. Still, if it’s any consolation, he’s been Googling you too.”

  “Really?” My heart cartwheels at this. Every night I’ve fallen asleep with an image of his face in my mind. It’s nice to think the feeling may be reciprocated.

  “Yes, really. I thought about typing your mobile number into his to help out, but it seemed a bit freaky.”

  I’m horrified. “Please don’t.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to leave it to fate then. God, it’s hard work playing Cupid,” Alex sighs. Loom band completed, he appears at the side of my desk and glances over my shoulder. A chill breeze ruffles my neatly stacked documents and scatters the paper clips.

  “Hey! What’s this?” Leaning over my shoulder, Alex points at the letter that now lies on the top of the pile. I’d tried my best to bury it in a fine attempt at reverse archaeology, but some things just won’t be hidden. “Faculty of Archaeology, Luxor University – Research Fellow Sabbatical, Dr C Carpenter,” he reads. “What’s all this? Are you leaving? Were you going to tell Rafe or just push off again?”

  He shoots me a furious look.

  “I never pushed off, as you so nicely put it, the first time around,” I point out hotly.

  “So what’s all this about then? The tomb of Senneferi? At the end of the Northern Line, is it? God, Cleo, you really haven’t learned anything at all, have you? It’s still career first and sod the rest of us – your dad, Pink Dreds, me, Rafe.”

  My head starts to pound. A headache has been dancing around my skull all day, or more accurately ever since the Prof knocked on my door earlier on to discuss my sabbatical.

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity, Cleo,” he’d said gently, placing the information on my desk. “I’ve had a chat with Professor Ikram and he’s very keen indeed to have you on board. They don’t often have somebody of your calibre on the team. This will open doors for you, I promise.”

  I hadn’t replied. I was seething because I knew exactly what this was: a convenient means of getting rid of a problem. However much the Professor might try to dress it up as a fantastic career move, he was effectively and firmly slamming shut the one door I’d been carefully inching open for months.

  “You’ve got such potential. You’d bring in research grants and you’re a wonderful lecturer. Maybe one day you’ll even be head of your own department,” he’d said. “This would only enhance your CV.”

  “That’s the reason you’ve suggested it? Or is it because you’ve decided I’m a head-injured liability?” I’d asked bitterly. “Simon stole my work, Paul. I know I can’t prove it – he’s clever enough to make sure of that – but I would hope you know me well enough to believe me.”

  The Prof had looked away, dug his hands into his pockets and shivered. “Goodness, this office is even colder than mine.”

  I’d said nothing. Henry Wellby had been standing practically nose-to-nose with the Prof yelling, “Listen to her, man! How on earth did an imbecile like you get to work in my museum?” but it wasn’t going to help.

  “I must see the maintenance department,” the Prof had said, half to himself, before turning back to me. “Cleo, try to view this sabbatical in the spirit it’s offered. You’ve had a very difficult time, you’ve been badly injured, and I really think some warmth and a change of scene are exactly what you need. Still, it’s your choice. Nobody’s forcing you to do anything, but in my opinion this is the best course of action.”

  I tuck the details of my banishment back into a neat pile and then – sneaky deed by sneaky deed – I tell Alex exactly what’s been going on. By the time I’ve finished, quite a crowd of ghosts have gathered around the desk, I’m wearing my coat to keep warm and there’s a great deal of outrage on my behalf.

  “So that’s it,” I finish bleakly. “Unless I can find a way to clear my name I’ll have to leave.” As I speak I picture my father all alone and Rafe struggling to piece himself back together, and grief tightens its vice around my chest.

  Alex’s eyes are dark with fury. “What a snake! I never liked him, Cleo, and now I know why. He’s been planning this for months and I distracted you so much that it gave him the perfect way in.” He starts to pace furiously. “There has to be a way to show him up for what he is.”

  “If there is I’ve yet to come up with it,” I sigh. “I’m going round and round in circles but he’s been far too devious. The Professor has well and truly been taken in. I think he’d only believe me if he heard it from Simon himself – and that’s never going to happen.”

  There’s a general discussion at this point. Henry Wellby is all for frightening Simon into a confession, a couple of Egyptian guards suggest torture, and even Aamon is chipp
ing in with great excitement. I appreciate their concern but there’s no point trying to fight this. The Prof has already made his mind up.

  I’m about to give up for the day when the old phone rings. Leaving the animated discussion to carry on without me, I pick it up. I’m expecting a summons to the Prof or one of Dawn’s dilemmas (“Cleo, I’ve put the wrong dates in the press release. Do you think it matters?”), so to discover that Rafe Thorne is my caller is a wonderful surprise.

  “Rafe! How on earth did you get this number?” I say, astonished. I probably sound like a fifteen-year-old, but right now I couldn’t care less. And anyway, when I was fifteen I was far too busy swotting for my GCSEs to talk to boys on the phone. I glance around to see if the others are listening in, but the room is totally empty. Even Alex has gone. How very tactful. And obvious.

  “I know you’re the one with the brains and the degrees, but even I can figure out that there can’t be too many Cleo Carpenters working at the Wellby Museum,” laughs Rafe. Although I can’t see him I know that the dimples are dancing in his cheeks and that a smile lights his eyes. My heart crumbles like vanilla sponge. “Anyway, the girl on the switchboard was ever so helpful.”

  I bet she was, I think to myself.

  “Congratulations on the new song,” I say. “Even a musical Philistine like me knows it’s doing brilliantly. It seems that you’re well and truly back on the music scene.”

  “Hmm, be careful what you wish for,” says Rafe thoughtfully.

  There’s a pause and then he adds, “You know I wrote it for you, don’t you?”

  My pulse skitters like stones skimmed across a pond, creating ripples of longing and excitement – and fear too.

  “Yes,” I say softly.

  The sleet has turned to snow now, whirling dizzyingly outside – swirling and spinning in perfect time with my hopes and fears. I watch it and know that something in me is spinning away too, out of control and out of sight.