Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  “Can I see you again?”

  I coil the telephone flex around my finger. My heart is hammering so hard that I’m amazed he doesn’t hear it.

  “Cleo?” Rafe says. He sounds uncertain now. “Is that OK with you?”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course.” I take a deep breath. “When?”

  “I’m going to totally blow my cool now and probably break all the rules, but I really don’t care,” Rafe tells me. “I’ve tried to do the whole giving-you-space thing – I know how busy you are – but it’s driving me crazy. How does now suit you?”

  “Now?” My eyes widen. “Right now? Seriously?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious in my life. Or possibly any crazier! Yes, right now! I’m standing on the steps outside the museum. You can’t miss me, Cleo: I’m the man in a far-too-thin leather jacket wearing a stupid beanie hat, sprinkled in snow and slowly turning into an icicle while he waits for the most amazing woman he’s ever met. Don’t take too long, though; I think frostbite’s setting in.”

  He rings off but his laughter stays with me as I tear around the office, shutting down the computer, shrugging on my coat and ramming my hat onto my head. If my colleagues are surprised to see me fly past them, curls escaping from my hat as I leap down the main staircase and dodge the visitors, then they don’t say anything – but I feel their stares and I know that the moment I’m out of sight the gossip will be spreading. If they had any suspicions before that I’ve gone mad, then I’ve surely confirmed them now.

  And maybe I am mad? I’m certainly not behaving like myself: all I know is that I can’t wait a second longer to see Rafe Thorne again. Knowing he’s only moments away only makes the urgency sharper. I dash across the concourse, gasping my apologies to the visitors I’m bashing with my bag, and then I’m pushing my way through the door and out into the snowy London night. Car headlights and taillights bejewel the street and for a moment I’m dazzled and stand blinking in the cold.

  The air is sharp and the snow’s already settling on the steps, but I don’t feel the biting wind or the flurries of flakes that brush against my cheeks. I don’t notice anything except the man who’s waiting for me beneath the ornate lamppost. He’s dark haired, square jawed and unmistakably Rafe Thorne, my Christmas stranger. His battered leather jacket, bright red scarf, scuffed Timberlands and beanie hat might disguise him from the rest of the world, but I’d know him anywhere. For a few frozen moments in time we stare at one another, the world around fading away until all I can see is him. The soft lamplight warms his face, turning his violet eyes to deepest indigo and shadowing the high cheekbones and strong jaw. My breath catches in my throat. It’s as though the ten years since we first met have stood completely still.

  Rafe holds out his hand to me. I walk down the steps and he slips his arms around my waist, pulling me into him as gentle kisses fall onto my lips, my eyes and my throat. Then he unwinds his scarf and, looping it around my neck, draws me closer still, until our snow-dusted eyelashes are almost touching.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says.

  Chapter 26

  “You seem very happy this morning,” Dawn remarks, breezing into my office with a mug of coffee and a pile of folders. Her nose is still pink and her breath is rising in little clouds – which is hardly surprising, since the room is full of ghosts. I barely notice them anymore: I’m becoming used to the extra faces I see as I walk around the museum or the city. I think I might even miss Aamon and the cat now if they left.

  Now there’s something I never thought I’d say.

  “Mind you,” Dawn continues, putting the coffee on the desk and sloshing it everywhere, “I’d be happy too if I was being sent on a year’s paid holiday to the sun. You’re so lucky, Cleo! I’m well jel!”

  “Hmm,” I say. There’s no point telling Dawn this is a banishment rather than a reward, and there’s even less point telling her that I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of going to Luxor. The smile that’s remained on my lips ever since I saw Rafe waiting for me last night has nothing to do with my career.

  No, I decide firmly as I sip my drink and Dawn settles down on the edge on my desk, I’m going to find a way to clear my name. There’s no way I’m leaving a job I love, just because of Simon. If I was determined before, spending time with Rafe has hardened my resolve. There’s far too much to play for now. While Dawn rabbits on about where she may or may not book for next year’s holiday (Magaluf being so over, apparently), I let my mind drift back to yesterday…

  Rafe had curled my fingers snugly inside his and tucked our hands into the pocket of his jacket. His scarf had been soft against my skin and as we’d walked away from the museum I’d turned my face into the fabric, inhaling his scent. As though by an unspoken understanding, we’d walked through the streets matching footstep for footstep. Neither of us had said a word, but the gentle caress off his finger against my gloved palm and the way his gaze had never broken mine had been more eloquent than any speech. Rafe Thorne could have led me right across the city and I wouldn’t have protested; I’d been happy just to be close to him.

  Was happy the right word? As we’d turned into New Oxford Street, I’d decided that “happy” was far too simple an adjective to describe this deep contentment and ease. But how was it possible? What did I actually know about Rafe? Of course I knew the same things that anybody with access to the Internet could discover. I knew that he was thirty-one and one of the most talented songwriters on the planet. I knew he’d dated models (although I was trying not to think about them), and I knew he had the dark good looks of a fallen angel. But I felt that I knew more than this. I’d felt exactly the same ten years ago and nothing had changed. Was this the once-in-a-lifetime connection that people talk about – finding a soul mate, if you like? As Rafe had smiled down at me, a smile laced with both danger and promises, I’d been sure it was exactly that. None of it made sense or could be measured or tested or proven.

  Which was why I trusted it entirely.

  We’d walked like this until we’d finally reached Covent Garden. Strains of music had drifted with the snowflakes and applause had rippled as jugglers thrilled the crowd. A flower girl had run up to Rafe and offered him a posy, but of course he hadn’t seen her, any more than he’d seen the tall man in white gloves and grey suit who was always here too. At least Alex wasn’t about, I’d thought, feeling rather disloyal; two was company, after all.

  At that point Rafe had stopped so abruptly that I’d cannoned into him.

  “Sorry!” His hands had slipped to my waist and he’d pulled me tightly against him before dropping a kiss onto my temple. “I was just trying to get my bearings. It’s been a while since I was last here, but can you smell that? Isn’t it wonderful! I knew if we walked far enough we’d find it!”

  He’d sniffed the air hungrily and I’d laughed. The night air had been laced with the tang of malt vinegar, sharp enough to make my mouth water, and the unmistakable aroma of frying had beckoned us towards a chip shop, where warm buttery light spilled onto the pavement and picnic tables were crammed with customers – testament to the good food within.

  “Chips?”

  Rafe had nodded. “Of course chips! There’s nothing better than being outside and eating chips out of the paper.” Then he’d paused thoughtfully, giving me a slow sexy smile that had made my stomach flip. “Well, maybe there is one other thing that’s better, but eating chips in the fresh air comes a very close second. It’s the food of the gods!”

  “And hungry rock gods?” I’d teased.

  His arms had tightened around me. “Cleo, I’m not a rock god. I’m just an ordinary bloke who got lucky. I just wrote the songs. Alex was the star of the show.”

  “That’s not what Alex thinks: he says he was the Robbie to your Gary,” I’d said without thinking, and Rafe had stared at me, a frown furrowing his brow. I could have kicked myself. Rafe had no idea that I knew his brother. “I mean, that was what I read somewhere,” I’d added hasti
ly, wanting to smooth the gaffe over but also knowing that this was an opportunity to pass on Alex’s words. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to think you were writing again.”

  But Rafe had still been gazing down at me, his brows meeting in a puzzled expression. “That was word for word what Ally used to say. What interview did you say you saw that in?”

  I’d shrugged. “I can’t remember. Hey! Don’t make me confess that I’ve been Googling you! How uncool does that make me look?”

  “I don’t care about cool,” Rafe had said quietly. We’d been standing in the middle of the pavement while pedestrians flowed around us like the sea. He’d pulled me closer, his violet eyes holding mine. “Cleo, I’m not even sure I care about the music business any more. I love writing but I hate all the crap that comes with it: the pretentious bullshit and the false people. This is what I want. This is real, being here with you, right now. Not the big house and the silly car and all the rest of it. I’m not a rock god, Cleo, I’m just a man, standing in a bloody cold street and asking the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met to share some chips with him.”

  He’d taken my face in his hands and pressed our foreheads together.

  “The new song is doing so well,” I’d whispered. “The papers have been full of how you’re back again and how excited your management is.”

  “Would they be the same papers who loved writing about my spiral into despair?” Rafe had asked wryly. “And the same management company who didn’t want to know me two weeks ago?”

  He’d brushed his mouth against mine. Our breath had mingled and my heartbeat had broken into a gallop.

  “The past couple of weeks have been the most amazing of my life, Cleo, but not because of any of that; it’s because somehow life has brought you back to me again. I know it sounds crazy – you can laugh all you like – but I feel as though we were meant to meet again.” He’d paused and then added softly, “I have the strongest feeling that it’s what my brother wanted, too. I know that must sound insane and I can’t explain it, but I suddenly have the biggest sense of peace.”

  I’d thought of all the times Alex must have been so desperate to attract his brother’s attention, and I’d recalled his utter despair when we first met. I didn’t understand his journey but I was starting to see why he had to make it.

  I’d reached up onto my tiptoes to wind my arms around Rafe’s neck, then curled my fingers into his scarf and pulled him closer until we were just a kiss apart. Even in the shadows I’d seen a lightness in his eyes that wasn’t there the day I found him passed out at Mellisande.

  ‘I don’t think it’s crazy at all,” I’d told him. “In fact, I think you’re probably more right than you’ll ever know.”

  “Oi, you two! Stop snogging! Get a room!” This good-humoured remark from the juggler across the way had been enough to tug us both back into the real world.

  “Will getting chips do instead, mate?” Rafe had asked, putting his arm around me and pulling me tightly into his side. I’d had the feeling that if he could have zipped me into his coat he would have done.

  “If my missus was as pretty as her, I’d forget the chips and just get the room!” the juggler had called back, and Rafe had raised his eyebrows at me.

  “I fully intend to,” he’d said huskily and with an expression in his eyes that had made something delicious uncoil deep inside me. Then the corners of his mouth had twitched. “But chips first!”

  Rafe and I had eaten chips – piles of golden treasure, crunchy on the outside and piping hot and fluffy when we’d bitten into them – until our tongues had been sore from vinegar and our stomachs so full we could hardly move. As we’d eaten, we’d chatted about everything under the sun. For a moment I’d been tempted to tell Rafe about Simon and my problems at work, but not wanting to spoil the mood I’d held back. There would be plenty of time to talk about that; why should I give Simon a second more of my time? Once the chips had been devoured we’d strolled back to the piazza to watch the jugglers and the fire-eaters. When Rafe had kissed me as the snow began to fall again, I’d known I was in trouble...

  “So what are you wearing?”

  Dawn’s question, asked through a mouthful of soggy Rich Tea biscuits, rips me out of these thoughts and back into the present. I stare at her absent-mindedly, watching the crumbs fall to her cleavage; then I return to last night in the piazza, where I’d been kissing Rafe and a busker had been playing “One Christmas Kiss” in the background.

  “This time I won’t lose your number,” Rafe had promised once we were back outside my flat. He’d tapped it into his mobile. “There. It’s saved and when I call it you’ll have mine too. I’m not letting you slip away for a second time, Cleo Rose.”

  I’d glanced up at the flat. The sitting-room light was on, which meant Susie was at home.

  “Do you want to come up for…” I’d faltered because it had sounded too cheesy for words. “Coffee?”

  Rafe had laughed. “I’d rather come up for something far more exciting than coffee but I know you’ve an early start tomorrow. Anyhow, from what you’ve told me about your flatmate, we won’t get a minute to ourselves.”

  “That’s true. Susie’s a huge Thorne fan. She’ll probably mob you before you’ve even made it through the front door.”

  He’d grimaced. “My days of fighting off groupies are well and truly over. I’ll take the last train back to Bucks and save the battle for another day.”

  Then Rafe had tilted my chin up and kissed me so softly that I’d melted just like the snowflakes landing on the pavement.

  “There’s no rush, Cleo,” he’d murmured. “I’m not letting you go again. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  All the time in the world. I shiver at this delicious thought and then remember that I’m about to be banished to Egypt. Time is actually running out for us, unless I can find a way to make Simon confess. There has to be something…

  “Cleo! Hello! I asked you what you’re going to wear!”

  “Wear?” I echo. I’ve got no idea what she’s on about.

  “The museum Christmas party on Friday night!” She raises her eyes to heaven. “Even you can’t have forgotten that!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, even me?” I say. “On second thoughts, don’t answer that; I don’t think I want to know.”

  “I’ve got this gorgeous pink wrap dress,” Dawn is telling me excitedly. “I found it in Primark, but you’d never know. I’m going to Oxford Street later to find some shoes, if you want to come.”

  I don’t, but it’s kind of her to ask. If shopping with Susie was traumatic then a session in Oxford Street with the Primarni Queen will cost me years in therapy, and I’ll probably end up dressed like Katie Price’s less tasteful twin.

  “Thanks, Dawn, but I’m pretty busy tonight,” I say.

  “Well, the offer’s there if you change your mind.” Dawn slides from the desk. “Just don’t go forgetting to turn up to the party like you did last year. You missed a really good night. Security Bill passed out in the punch.”

  Ah, the good old traditional office Christmas party. Even crusty academics get excited at the thought of free booze and Pringles, and the department’s Christmas bash is one of the highlights of the year. Booze flows, there’s a tonne of food and everybody dresses up in their glad rags and behaves badly, or as badly as a bunch of academics can. Put it this way: nobody’s ever photocopied their backside as far as I know, but one year there was a massive argument between Simon’s predecessor and one of the junior staff over the interpretation of some hieroglyphics. Insults were thrown and quite a bit of food too. Yep, that’s about as exciting as it gets. Last year I did actually make the effort to dress up and attend, but I was sidetracked by a fascinating twist in my research and by the time I finally made it to the party everybody was plastered and getting ready to leave. Dawn was clutching the mistletoe and crying in a corner, Bill the punch-soaked security guard was snogging the Ancient Greece Department’s PA, and the
Prof was dancing happily to “Walk Like an Egyptian”.

  I cannot wait.

  “I’ll be there,” I promise, already thinking that I might live to regret this. Unless I can clear my name, the last thing I’ll feel like doing is partying or pretending to be excited about my sudden sabbatical. I’ll be more likely to take a leaf out of Security Bill’s book and throw myself in the punch. Or, even better, try to drown Simon in it.

  I rest my elbows on the desk and place my chin in my hands. I really don’t want to go away to Egypt, but neither do I want to stay here and watch Simon gloating. The Professor thinks I’m nuttier than the fruitcake in the museum tearoom. Everything I say and do only reinforces his opinion, and these paranormal experiences make me doubt myself too. If I carry on like this I’m scared that I really will start to go crazy.

  I bite my lip. There’s only one decision I can really make. It’s the hardest and most painful option, but one that at least means I’ll leave with my professional reputation intact. There’s no point in waiting to see what might happen next, because I’ll be in Egypt before you can say pyramid.

  My vision blurring, I open Word and start to type. Even though I can barely see, my fingers fly over the keys and before long a letter starts to take form. It’s simple and polite and it does the job.

  “My dear,” says Henry Wellby, reading over my shoulder (which I have to say is one very annoying habit), “are you certain this is the right decision? You surely can’t mean to let that scoundrel get away with it?”

  “I can’t prove what he did,” I say bleakly. “Unless you have an idea?”

  There’s the deathly sound of silence, apart from the whir of the printer as it spits the letter out. Henry Wellby has gone. See, I’m right. If one of the sharpest academic minds of the twentieth century is stumped then there really is no hope. I hunt high and low for a pen so that I can sign the letter – and then I discover that Aamon has hidden them all in the wastepaper basket.