When Amy stops, I shout in her ear, “Do you know if this place actually pays?”
“They probably pay a percentage of the door, which isn’t great. But Alastair does a lot of songwriting for other artists. That’s his main job. I don’t really know that much about it, but he must do all right to keep his daughter in private school, right?” Amy says with a shrug.
“His daughter?” The words come out in a whisper. Which is a good thing because I feel the color drain from my face, and even in the dark club, I think Amy would notice.
Alastair Wells has a daughter? Whose? How? When?
That would explain the domesticity of his cottage, but I didn’t see any evidence of a kid around. Of course, I didn’t look for evidence of a kid and if I had, who knows what I would have seen? I was half expecting a wife. Maybe. But a daughter?
The thought makes my head swim because this changes everything. No wonder Alastair writes songs for others instead of embracing the spotlight himself. Pushing him out there means pushing his daughter out there, too. I’ve seen the impact famous parents have on their kids and eventually the kids become celebrities too, whether they want to or not.
I don’t realize I’m digging my fingernails into my palm until Amy turns and says, “So I’m thinking… What’s wrong?”
The fact that Amy hardly knows me and is asking that question means I need to rearrange my expression ASAP. I turn up the corners of my mouth, but it doesn’t feel like a smile as I say, “I’m hot. It’s really hot in here.”
“Take off your cardy.” Amy keeps her gaze on me for another few seconds before a loud whistle makes her whip her head around.
I say a silent thank you to the whistle blower because it gives me time to keep turning the whole ‘daughter’ word over and over in my head. I know nothing about her, but I imagine her to be about seven with long brown hair and Alastair’s light green eyes. She’s gorgeous and a little shy, which is as much a byproduct of having Alastair as a father as anything else.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard to bring my thoughts to a screeching halt. Here I am romanticizing this kid I know nothing about and her father by association. Who I know a hell of a lot better than to romanticize in any way.
Except in the next minute when he steps onto the stage and the spotlight shines on him my heart swoops. Because Alastair Wells, performer, commands the room. His black jeans hang low on his hips and his short-sleeve blue T-shirt shows off a set of toned biceps and a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. He picks up his guitar from its stand on the stage and flashes a bright smile at the crowd before strumming the first chord.
His voice starts out low over the whistles and shouts and I try – I swear on my life – I try to be objective. But my heart dives like a pelican attacking a fish through my rib cage, and by the second song I admit it, if only to myself. I’m mesmerized. By the song. By the performance. And worst of all, by the man.
Chapter Thirteen
Alastair does one long set instead of the two I’m expecting. Which means I’m not quite ready when Amy yanks my arm to pull me towards the stage after the lights come up.
“Whoa. What are we doing?” I ask.
“Going to see your client? He was great, right?” Amy’s bouncing up and down like she can barely contain herself.
“He was amazing.” Which is exactly why I shouldn’t see him right now. Watching YouTube and Vaze is nothing compared to seeing him live and, even though my heart’s stopped dive bombing my insides, it’s still more fangirl ex-girlfriend than cool detached professional.
“I got some great footage.” Amy’s smile is wide. Her hand is still wrapped around my forearm.
I let her tug me forward. Something I should probably think further about, but don’t. I’d never approach Alastair on my own. Not feeling like I do right now. But bad idea or not, I’m in Amy’s hands. In every way.
Part of me knows I’m being ridiculous. I’ve had dinner with Beyoncé, for God’s sake, and Adam Levine has been to my Highgate house. By comparison, Alastair Wells is nobody.
But he’s somebody to me.
I hate that voice in my head. And not only because it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. He’s not somebody to me anymore. Alastair and I are ancient history, the end.
Amy veers around to the right of the stage and smiles wide at the rent-a-cop security guard standing beside the black velvet curtain. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but judging by her body language she’s telling him that we’re friends of Alastair’s and she’s been shooting a video. The guy’s beefy arms remain crossed over his chest and he shakes his head. Amy smiles harder, but he’s still not having it and I step forward, pulling my card out of my wallet.
“I’m Alastair Wells’ publicist. Is there a problem?” I hand the card to the security guard, who acts like I’m trying to hand him a dead spider.
“No problem, but I’m not authorized to let anyone backstage. Mr. Wells didna leave a list.” The security guard has a thick Yorkshire accent.
Now it’s my turn to smile brightly. “I’m his publicist. Why do I need to be on a list?” The security guard’s expression falters. Just for a second, but it’s enough for me to say, “Would it be better for you to escort us?”
“I canna do that.” The security guy looks down at my card in his hand again. “Ima let you through, but any trouble…”
I’m pretty sure he purposely isn’t finishing that sentence, though part of me wants him to. But I smile and nudge Amy as he pulls the black curtain to the side for us. Amy goes first and I follow close on her heels before the security guard can change his mind.
When the curtain closes behind us, the sounds of the bar mute like we’ve shut a door, and the temperature feels at least ten degrees colder. It’s a welcome relief and I take a deep breath in. “Wow, that’s so much better.”
Amy turns and says, “Don’t you do this all the time?”
“Usually I’m backstage to begin with. I hardly ever see a show from the trenches anymore.” To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I saw a full show, but I don’t want to tell Amy that. I have a feeling it would seriously ruin my credibility.
“But that’s where the magic happens.” The furrow between Amy’s brow makes me extra glad I kept that tidbit to myself. “Feeling the crowd and the vibe is half the fun.”
Fun? I haven’t thought of my job in terms of fun since the early days. Beyoncé is a client dinner. Adam Levine is a client meeting. Alastair Wells is a client onboarding. Something unrecognizable twists in my gut, but before I have a chance to identify it, I hear Amy call out, “Hey, Wells. Well done tonight.”
Alastair turns, lowering a bottle of water from his lips. It’s one of those insulated metal bottles instead of plastic, which I can’t help making a note of – eco-consciousness is good for anyone’s image - before the ex-girlfriend in me notices the sweat on his brow, the fact that his hair is pushed back, and there’s a splash of water down the front of his shirt. Like a treasure map that will disappear if you wait too long to follow it down to the button on his low-slung jeans.
I swallow hard and force my gaze upwards to meet Alastair’s eyes, calling out, “Hey. Great set.”
Alastair nods, but when he speaks he looks at Amy. “Thanks. I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“Well, how else was I going to catch video of you performing live?” Amy does the whole raised eyebrow thing, trying to look innocent.
Now Alastair’s gaze darts to me. “Why would you need video of me performing live?”
“Just in case.” I shrug. “You know.”
“I do know.” Alastair nods once. “But I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“And I haven’t done anything with the video yet.” This time it’s me trying to look innocent. Or at least less guilty. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“You forget, I know you.” The corner of Alastair’s mouth turns up like he might smile.
“Not anymore, Wells.” I half-heartedly roll
my eyes like my heart hasn’t started another assault in my chest. Even calling him Wells – on purpose, because he’s just another client remember??? – doesn’t really help.
“I see.” Alastair’s mouth settles back to normal, but is that hurt in his expression? He has no right…
“I’m going to go get another drink. Does anyone want anything?” Amy’s voice is too loud in my ear.
Which is my cue. I shake my head. “I should get going, actually. I have a few things to catch up on.”
“It’s 11:30 at night.” Amy says.
“I know.” I sigh. “But the US is still online. It’s only 3:30 in L.A.”
I have nothing pressing, but it wouldn’t hurt to catch up on some of the industry gossip. With Rex, Jed, and me all in the UK, it would be easy for us to miss something happening stateside.
“Oh, right.” Amy’s tone falters. “Well, we can go then.”
“No, you stay.” I smile and it’s genuine this time. “You have a night off. You should enjoy it, right?”
“I know, but I feel like –” Amy starts.
Alastair cuts her off. “I’ll take you back. I’m leaving in a few.”
“It’s fine –” I start.
“Have a seat. I need five minutes.” Alastair talks over me like I didn’t speak, pointing to a stool off to the side.
Amy’s back to bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Is that okay? If not, I’m happy to cab it back with you.”
It’s definitely not okay. But I can’t ask Amy to go with me back because I don’t want to go with Alastair. It’s not like she’s abandoning me to a stranger. If anything, I know him better than I know her.
Or at least I used to.
Before he became a semi-famous singer. Before he had a daughter.
I straighten my spine until I’m standing so straight my back feels like it might snap and give Amy a firm nod. “It’s not a problem. Maybe it will give us some time to get reacquainted.”
Chapter Fourteen
Reacquainted, my ass.
The first ten minutes I spend in the passenger seat of Alastair’s VW Golf are completely silent, save for the sound of the manual transmission shifting gears. I hate that he has a manual because it means his hand is closer to me on the gear shift. Not that I’m aware of his hand and those long, strong fingers. I’m not. Nor am I aware of the tattoo that snakes around his wrist like an invitation for my fingernail to follow it. Or the smell of sweat and soap that should be gross, but is somehow not.
Nope. The only thing I’m aware of is my ass cheek hanging on the edge of the seat because I’m as close to the door as possible, staring straight ahead as light rain starts spitting on the windshield. A full minute passes, then two – I know this because I’m looking at the clock on the dashboard – and, finally, I say, “Are you going to turn on the windshield wipers?”
“Ah, she speaks.” Alastair’s voice is too loud in the small car, even once the windshield wipers start slapping against the window.
“What does that mean?” I twist in my seat, pressing my back against the door. Sitting this way makes me uneasy because when I was a kid, Reanne fell out of the car because she was leaning against the door and hadn’t closed it properly. We were parked in the driveway and my mom had put the car in reverse but hadn’t actually started driving yet. So Reanne didn’t hurt herself, not really. But as the person sitting on the other side of the car watching her fall, it freaked me out. Still, it’s either face Alastair and get a read on his facial expression – giving me the advantage since he’s got to keep his eyes on the road. Or put us on equal footing by facing forward, too.
I keep my back against the door and double check my seat belt because proximity is bad enough. Equal footing feels like a downright disadvantage.
“Did you ask Amy to take the video tonight?” Alastair asks.
“Not exactly.” I pause for a few seconds before adding, “But I didn’t ask her not to either.”
I breathe in so hard that it feels like my chest might explode to keep from spewing out all of my thoughts about the music video and how we can use Amy’s footage. The surest way to shut Alastair down is to talk at him. Or at least it was. Better to err on the side of caution.
“Do I need a new music video? Is that what you’re saying?” Alastair asks.
He doesn’t sound defensive, which means this is the perfect opportunity for me to sell him. On all of it. Instead the words that come out of my mouth are unrelated. And one hundred percent personal. “You have a daughter.”
“Who told you that?” Alastair’s mouth tightens.
“Amy. She didn’t act like it was a secret.” My voice is as calm as if we were talking about the music video after all.
“It’s not.” Alastair stops at a red light and turns his eyes to me. “She’s not mine.”
“How do you have a daughter who’s not yours?” I furrow my brow.
“I mean, she’s mine now, but she’s not my biological child.” Alastair pauses long enough that the light changes. I stay quiet because I’m hoping the best way to get him to tell me the details is to not act interested in the details. Finally, he says, “My brother died seven years ago, and Sarah is his daughter. I’m technically her godfather, but it’s easier for all of us not to have to explain it all.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Liam died?” I remember Liam coming to visit Alastair in Ithaca. He was a corporate lawyer in real life, but when he was with Alastair he was fun. Funny. Larger than life. How do I not know this? I make a mental note to look through my file when I get back to my room. “How?”
“Pancreatic cancer. He was only thirty-six.” Alastair sighs. “Sarah’s ten now. She doesn’t remember him very well, but we try.”
“We?” Of course there’s a we. Alastair’s not been raising his niece on his own for the past seven years.
“We lived in Liverpool for a while, which was great for me, but not so great for Sarah. I ended up visiting Fenchurch with a mate a few years ago and it felt like the kind of place that would be right for Sarah, so we all made the move, including my mum.” Alastair shoots a glance at me. “She lives in the village, down the street from the Swan. We both look after Sarah, but I try not to take advantage too much.”
“What about Sarah’s mother?” That is not relief I’m feeling. Not. Not. Not.
“She left when Sarah was a baby. Being a mum wasn’t what she thought it would be.” Alastair’s tone echoes the angry twist of his lips. “Liam got in touch with her when he was sick and she made it clear she wasn’t interested, so he asked me if I’d take her when he passed.”
“Wow.” This is the kind of moment where I could reach out to touch Alastair’s arm or knee, but I don’t. I’m tempted. So tempted. But I don’t. “That’s pretty crazy.”
But it explains a lot.
“It was crazy at first.” Alastair shrugs. “Now it’s normal.”
“Wow.” I don’t have anything else to say and I’m not sure I could articulate it if I did. Liam is dead. Alastair is a dad. All of my grand plans are shit. That probably shouldn’t be where my mind goes next, but it does. I’m here to talk Alastair into letting me help him become the next big thing, but he can’t drop everything to raise his profile. There’s no such thing as an impromptu trip to London with a kid in the mix, not without major coordination. Not that it’s impossible, but it changes logistics for sure, and probably changes the image we want to sell, too.
My head is spinning so fast I don’t notice Alastair pulling up in front of the Swan with Two Necks until he says, “Are we still on for tomorrow at ten?”
“You still want to meet?” My head whips around.
“Unless you don’t. I said I was willing to have a conversation and I am.”
“Um, yeah. Sure. Can we do eleven? I have a few phone calls to make first.” I’ll be lucky if I make it up to my room before I’m on the phone with Rex about this, but Alastair doesn’t need to know that.
“Sure. But I have to p
ick up Sarah at school tomorrow, so we need to be done by three,” Alastair says and I nod because I was envisioning a couple of hours at the most. He continues, “And if Amy has footage from tonight, I’d love to see it.”
“Sure, of course.” Amy will be thrilled, especially if Alastair wants to go ahead with a video. “I’ll get a clip from her and post it to my Instagram too. Speaking of, you’re going to need to do a little bit of that yourself.”
“I thought we weren’t meeting until tomorrow?” Alastair raises his eyebrows.
“Sorry. Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“I guess.” There’s a world of judgment in Alastair’s tone.
Which stings enough for me to swing open the door because for a minute I forgot that this is what tore us apart in the first place. Alastair acts like judge and jury, accusing first, asking questions later. If at all. Before I push myself out of my seat, I say, “I need you to be able to explain your limitations to me tomorrow, based on the fact you have a child in your care. It will change the options we pursue and I don’t want to waste my time or yours putting together a plan which includes things you’re unable or unwilling to do.”
“Sarah is my daughter. She is not just a child in my care.” Alastair spits the words at me.
Exactly like I thought he would. Although getting the reaction I was going for isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be. But I’m in it now. I rise from my seat, then bend down and shrug. “Call it what you will, she’s still a limitation.”
I slam the door and turn my back, crossing the sidewalk to the Swan with Two Necks. I half expect Alastair to follow me. Instead, he revs the engine and does a quick U-turn, his little VW roaring off in the opposite direction. It’s only once I’ve climbed the stairs to my room that I admit the truth to myself. Dirty tactics are unprofessional, but based on my reaction to him when he was on stage, they’re the least unprofessional thing about my reaction to Alastair Wells.
Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1) Page 7