by Gigi Blume
“Martinez. But that’s his last name. We all call him Martín for short.”
“Martín? As in Fluffy’s sidekick?”
I had to admit, this Martinez bloke didn’t look like a punk rocker. He had that Ricky Martin vibe going for him. But a hot guy wouldn’t help Harriet advance her career.
“One time,” continued Harriet, “he took a detour on his way to work to bring me boba from Pho King just because he heard I liked them. Isn’t that sweet?”
“It certainly is thoughtful, but not out of the ordinary. That’s just what co-workers do. Jaxson brings me a green smoothie every morning, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh.” Harriet blinked at me, thinking about what I said. “I guess you’d know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course I do.”
I shrugged, taking a sip of my drink and looking beyond Harriet, I noticed Martinez approach our table with the goofiest of grins.
“Good heavens. Don’t look now, but he’s coming our way. Just be sure not to make eye contact. You don’t want to lead him on.”
“I don’t?”
“Hi, Harriet,” he said, hovering over her. I didn’t quite know how to describe his voice. It was like Bart Simpson and a raccoon all rolled into one—if raccoons could talk.
“Do you like the drink? I call it Beso de Angel.”
“It’s yummy,” she said, batting her eyes. “Sounds so exotic.”
“It means kiss of an angel in Spanish. I tried to make it taste like those boba drinks you like.
She blushed, twirling her hair. Yes, friends, she was twirling her hair. I’d have to have a chat with her later on that. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
He shrugged. “Just a couple nights a week, but not for long. I was promoted at Unplugged, so...”
Harriet beamed at him. It was rather painful to watch because although they were working hard at conversation, one could tell it didn’t come naturally for them. Poor Harriet. I knew once she found her Mister Right, he’d have brilliant things to say, and she wouldn’t have to reach so desperately. I was already picturing her laughing and carrying on with Elton and his display of genius. He was a lyricist, after all. Martinez waffled along about something or other. It was slightly awkward.
“Have you had a chance to watch Poldark yet?” Harriet asked him, clearly stretching for more uncomfortable small talk. He groaned and smacked his forehead.
“Ah, no. I’ve been so busy with the band and working two jobs. But I will as soon as my schedule clears. I promise.”
He smiled awkwardly at me, and Harriet finally introduced us. Then he had to run off to sling some drinks Tom Cruise style. Every now and then, he’d flip a bottle and wink our way. Flashy.
“He’s an interesting fellow,” I said. “You recommended one of your favourite shows, and the man doesn’t have a care to watch even one episode for your sake.”
“I don’t mind. I know he’s busy.”
“You don’t have to make excuses for him, Harriet. It’s obvious what his priorities are, and I’m sorry to say, your interests aren’t among them.”
“I... suppose you’re right.” She stared down at her half-empty glass and frowned.
“Listen,” I said, resting my palm on her arm to comfort her. “You’ve outgrown this lifestyle. Just think of how you’ve spent your whole day—rubbing elbows with A-listers. You’re on your way, Harriet.” Truthfully, the whole PA thing was just a guise to help her land her first role—and now to help her catch Elton’s attention. Something told me, however, she already had.
“You really think so? I didn’t do anything.”
“It’s not about what you do, it’s about whose attention you catch. And I happen to know Elton Wardlow was looking at you.” I nodded slowly for emphasis and wagged my brows.
“Elton Wardlow noticed me? Really?”
“Yes. He asked who you were, and I was happy to tell him you’re an up-and-coming talent.”
“You said that about me?”
“Absolutely. I told him you studied musical theatre at one of L.A.’s best conservatories, and he said he’d love to hear you sing.”
Her jaw dropped. “Elton Wardlow wants to hear me sing? Oh, my goodness.” She set her shot glass down and took a few long swigs of water, fanning herself between sips. “What exactly did he say?”
“Well...” I thought back to find his words in my memory. “He said ‘she should sing for us sometime.’ And I know you might think this is my imagination, but he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“There’s no way.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. You’re so pretty, I’m almost jealous.” I leaned in over the table to whisper conspiratorially just for the dramatics of it. “While I was talking to Jaxson, I caught Elton staring just beyond me to where you were standing. And as we walked out the door, his head was turned so far over his shoulder to gawk at you, I thought he’d fall out of his chair.”
She shook her head. “I’m not that pretty.”
“Trust me. Guys go ga ga over gingers.”
She took a brief glance at Martinez chatting it up with the female clientele at the bar and looked back at me with a resolute smile.
“You’re such a good friend, Emma. I don’t know what to say.”
“Then I’ll say it for you.” I raised my glass in a salute. “Watch out, Tinseltown. Here comes Harriet Smith.”
I slurped the last drop of my Shirley Temple.
“Ready to go?” I asked, flagging down the waiter for our bill. “I have an idea I want to get to work on.”
5
EXTRAVAGANT PURCHASE
Jaxson
“What do you mean you’re writing a song?”
I sat on the piano bench next to Emma as she plunked out a few unconnected chords. She’d clunk through a few odd choices before settling on something she deemed worthy to jot down on the lined paper propped on her piano’s music shelf. If I were honest, I thought the instrument was there in her living room as a decoration more than anything. I couldn’t remember ever hearing her play it for the life of me.
“Just a little something for Harriet,” she said distractedly, scribbling on her sheet music. Her response confused me, but I didn’t indulge my curiosity by asking her to explain. I wasn’t here for that. To own the truth, I only wanted to sit next to her like this indefinitely. I ran my hand over the keys and played an arpeggio to accompany her—our fingers trickled together over the ivories, our knees touching every so often. A couple of times, the soft skin of her pinky brushed against mine as she tinkered with the notes. She wasn’t a virtuoso. But that didn’t matter. She was simply adorable—the way she jutted her tongue out of the corner of her lips as she concentrated. The way her brow would crinkle as she considered her next chord, and then when she played an off chord, the way she’d wrinkle her nose, trying out two or three variations until she found one she was satisfied with. Then she’d write it down, and I played along, accompanying her new creation with complementary grace notes.
“Do that again,” she said. I repeated the motif I’d just made up, and she squealed, jotting down the first note. Then she frowned.
“You did that too fast. I didn’t catch it. Can you transcribe it for me?”
“Sure.” I played it again, slower so it could fuse in my fingertips and scribbled the notes on the music. I never considered myself a composer or even a very good pianist, but I loved playing music with her, so I was happy to oblige. She sighed contentedly and tapped my knee with gratitude. Her touch was intended so innocently. Just two friends hanging out, poking around on the piano, having a platonic good time. The hand on my knee was a benign gesture for Emma—like a high-five. But the warmth of her palm seared through my trousers, and I couldn’t concentrate. My eyes grew foggy around the edges, fixating on her hand. I was a wreck—and if I were being honest with myself—a single-minded ratbag. I cleared my throat as if that would help any.
“I actually came here t
o give you some news,” I said, tearing myself from her and standing on the bent side of the piano. She hadn’t opened the lid, so I was able to lean my forearms lightly on the surface.
“Oh?” she replied, plonking single notes with her pointer finger. She wasn’t looking at the keyboard. She was looking at me. I could physically feel her playful sparkle galvanize my restless nerve cells. This woman would be the end of me. “Good news or bad news?”
“Well, both... kind of. Which do you want to hear first?”
She tilted her head to the side in thought. “Hmmm... good news first.”
I always wondered what possessed people to choose good news first. I was a bad news first kind of guy. I liked to end on a positive. But Emma was unpredictable. I imagined it was just a coin toss in her head, and she’d have chosen differently on a whim.
“I bought a nightclub.” There. I said what I came to say. I’d been keeping the news under wraps for some time—until I could get the details in place. I wanted it to be a big surprise for her. I had this vision of taking her there blindfolded for the big reveal. Maybe I’d pull on a rope connected to a canvas drape, thereby uncovering the new marquee with great fanfare. She’d gasp and reward me with a hug. Or even a kiss. Then we’d jaunt inside hand in hand to robust applause from our happy staff, congratulating the new co-owners of Karaoke Unplugged. Only with a new snappy name perhaps. I hadn’t figure it out that far. But the insane amount of work on the movie musical was all-consuming. It was probably not the best time to make an extravagant purchase.
Emma blinked with her jaw unhinged. She looked like a beautiful fish—the cartoon kind with long eyelashes. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t the reaction I’d envisioned.
“You what?” she snapped. Snapped. A snapper fish. “Why?”
“Well, uh...” I wasn’t prepared to have to explain myself. I was hoping for that hug. “Why not?”
She raised one brow. “Seriously?”
I remained silent. She shook her head in disbelief, her smile the beginnings of a laugh.
“Is this another one of your weird hobbies? Remember when you enrolled in flight school?”
I planted my hands on my hips. “For your information, I only need ten more flight hours to get my license.”
She blinked at me. “Really?”
I nodded. “I have my eye on a Cirrus SR-22.”
“Aaaanyway, nerd,” she snorted. “Do you really think the world needs one more celebrity-owned nightclub?”
“Just wait for the best part.” I dipped into my pocket and presented her with a key. “I want you to own fifty-percent.”
Her features sank into a frown as her gaze shifted from the key to me. She closed the fallboard on the piano and daintily picked herself up from the bench. “No, thank you.” Holding her head high, she padded out of the room. She was barefoot.
Bloody hell.
“No, thank you?” I repeated, following behind in her wake.
“No. Thank. You.” She took off into the kitchen and reached for the ingredients for an Italian soda. She loved those complimentary highball glasses from The Olde Spaghetti Factory and asked Rosario to find the same fruity syrups so she could replicate the drink at home.
“Thirsty?” She held up two glasses.
“Yes, thanks.” I watched her fill the glasses to the rim with ice, eyeballing the measurements for the syrup, soda water, and creamer. The white floater fused into the red liquid as it slowly gave way to gravity, producing a swirling marbling effect—like a lava lamp one could drink.
“Look at you,” I said with a broad smile. “You already have the fancy bartending skills.”
“I’ve had enough bartender talk for the day, thank you very much.” She finished preparing the Italian sodas with whipped cream and stainless-steel straws. We sipped in silence, enjoying the refreshing drink. The way she hummed with delight, I imagined she considered the conversation closed. I wasn’t of the same opinion.
“Do you want to hear the bad news now?” I asked gently. It wasn’t bad news per se, but she didn’t know that and had a sneaky way of deflecting, so she’d not have to hear it.
“That whole nightclub rubbish wasn’t the bad news?”
“No, Emma. That was the good news.”
She huffed. “Well, I suppose you’ll tell me anyway so might as well get on with it.”
See... I should have told her the bad news first—so she’d take the other part a little better.
“Karaoke Unplugged announced on Twitter they were going out of business.”
She blinked and pouted her bottom lip, absorbing the information in her mind. I knew she loved the place. It was a haven for performers of all sorts, and nobody cared how famous you were. Everybody went there to have fun and sing with the live band, and while there, you were just one of the crowd. I didn’t want Emma to lose one of her favourite places, and I knew with a fresh energy, we could turn the financials around. A spark of awareness lit Emma’s face.
“Ahhh. That’s what he was talking about.”
“He? Which he?” Had she known about this? Who was he?
“Just some bartender Harriet knows. He was bragging all about his promotion as if that could impress her.” She snorted, amused at the thought. “Wait a minute. He said he hadn’t met the new owners. You bought a karaoke bar and promoted a guy you’ve never met to general manager? Are you going mad, Jaxson Knightly?”
I sighed and explained how the two previous owners, while suddenly thrust into a comfortable retirement from the generous price I offered, no longer desired to run the bar as they had for fifteen years. I asked them to choose a reliable employee to manage the club. They recommended a Roberto Martinez who’d worked his way up from busboy to bar-back to mixologist over the course of several years. He was reliable and trustworthy, and the previous owners said he got along well with all the staff. I was hoping Emma had time on the weekend to come with me to meet him, but it seemed she already did.
She listened as I explained everything, slurping the last drop of her sweet drink but didn’t ask any more questions. I wasn’t entirely certain she was invested in what I had to say at all. Her eyes glazed over as I touched on the financial aspects, and I’m pretty sure that’s where I lost her completely. She rinsed her glass, put it in the dishwasher, and shrugged with one shoulder—like it was too much effort to brush me off with a two-shoulder shrug.
“I don’t know, Jax. I’m just too busy these days.”
Too busy with her matchmaking schemes, she meant to say. That was another reason I wanted to talk to her. She needed to leave things be with Elton before she made a huge mess. We needed the studio to pick us up, and I didn’t want any distractions.
“Busy, Emma?” I said with a hint of admonishment. “Or busybody?”
She dropped her jaw, baring her teeth. “I am not a busybody.”
“Then spare Elton Wardlow the cupid act.”
She huffed and snatched my unfinished soda, dumping the ice in the sink with a definitive clink. When she turned back around, she crossed her arms and stared me down. She was thinking of something snarky to throw at me, I just knew it. But as they often did, the words escaped her. I wasn’t sure if it was because my smile disarmed her, if she was considering my advice, or if she was conjuring up ways to continue what she wanted without letting me on. Probably the latter.
The doorbell rang, startling Emma from her thoughts, and she pushed herself off the counter. I glanced at my smartwatch. Too late for visitors (well, except me) nor could it be a delivery at this hour.
“Wait.” I caught her hand before she could leave the kitchen. “I’ll get it.”
“Really, Jaxson? I can answer my own front door. I’m not a child.”
“You’re also not a black belt in karate. It could be a crazy stalker. We’ll answer the door together.”
I knew I shouldn’t have acted so protective, hovering over her every move. But I promised her parents I’d watch out for her when she made the move to
Los Angeles from London after her twenty-first birthday. Over the years, as she grew into a strong, independent woman, I still felt some responsibility for her wellbeing even if the stoic benevolence I’d adopted shifted into idle jealousy should it be a gentleman caller at her doorstep. I lost count of all the times I tried to convince Emma to move to a gated neighbourhood in the Palisades, but she loved living at the beach and fell in love with her house at first sight.
The bell rang again. Impatient blighter, wasn’t he? I strode a step faster in pace, still holding her hand. I wanted to be the one to open the door. Just in case.
“Coming!” Emma cried out as we approached the foyer. That’s when we heard the muffled complaint on the other side of the double doors.
“I’ll likely catch my death out here at this rate,” barked the voice. Emma and I stopped in our tracks and gave each other a knowing look. It was none other than her mother.
6
GAL PALS
Emma
My mother glowered at me and Jaxson with one hand on her hip and the other on the handle of a rolling valise. “Are you going to stand there with your mouths open or will you let me in?”
Jaxson sprang into action, relieving her of that and another, larger suitcase at her feet but not before planting a welcome kiss.
“Hello, Mrs Woods.”
She took in the sight of him from head to toe, squinting suspiciously. “What are you doing here, Jaxson?”
“Checking in on our Emma.” He took the bags into the house, and she followed behind him, passing right by me as I held the door open. She reached up to Jaxson and pinched his cheek.
“Good chap.”
I turned to look outside to make sure there were no more surprises and saw the taxi drive away. She came alone.
“Mum... what’s going on?”
She turned, finally acknowledging me, and inclined her head, hyper-extending her arms dramatically toward me.
“Oh, darling Emma. Come give your mother a hug.”