Better Than the Real Thing
Author: Brooke Crawford
Date: 2025-12-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary
Description: Notting Hill meets Bridget Jones Baby in this whip-smart, funny, emotionally charged contemporary fiction about messy pasts, second chances and future families from a sparkling new voice. Melbourne teacher Netta Phillips is staring down the barrel of her fortieth birthday with months' worth of negative pregnancy tests behind her, her relationship in the bin and a mortgage she can't afford. Things really aren't going to plan. When she unexpectedly finds the childhood diary of notoriously private celebrity musician Morrison 'Mo' Maplestone, things get even messier. Mo's desperate to keep the dia
Publisher: HQ Fiction
Rights: Copyright © 2025 by Brooke Crawford

‘So romantic, so sexy, so fun. I devoured it.’ —Toni Jordan, author of Tenderfoot

‘A bittersweet, tender, funny story of loss and love and all the messiness in between. I was hooked from the start.’ —Tricia Stringer, author of The Road Trip

‘Sassy, smart and utterly charming. A five-star read.’ —Jodi Gibson, author of The Five Year Plan

‘Utterly charming – a perfect blend of heart, humour and hope.’ —Kimberley Freeman, author of The Secret Year of Zara Holt

‘You need two things in your beach bag this summer – sunscreen and this book! With its ‘Notting Hill’ vibe, Better than the Real Thing is a fabulous deep dive into sexy-but-messy love in midlife. Lie back and be swept away by Brooke Crawford’s sparkling prose and uncanny knack for taking us from heartbreak to hope in the space of a few pages. A perfect holiday read.’ —Cassie Hamer, author of The Stranger at the Table

‘Heartfelt, authentic and irresistibly sexy, Brooke Crawford’s debut novel has all the ingredients of a surefire hit. With captivating characters, a page-turning plot, and an ending that lingers long after the final sentence, this is a story readers will fall in love with.’ —Kate Horan, author of The Inheritance

‘Sexy, addictive and a heartfelt dose of midlife reality. You’ll be with Netta and Mo all the way. I inhaled this!’ —Maxine Fawcett, author of Everything is Perfect

‘As comforting as a cult-classic romcom flick, with main characters as worn-in and beloved as your favourite jeans, Better than the Real Thing delivers an intelligent, gritty, glitzy escape with a refreshingly modern happily-ever-after. A story to come back to again and again.’ —Anne Freeman, author of Me That You See

‘A handsome, rough around the edges hero, with a tortured past. A leading lady who well and truly deserves her happily ever after, if she’d just get out of her own way. What more could you want? A delightful, page-turning roller-coaster of a fairy tale, set in the crazy world of celebrity. A perfect beach read.’ —Fiona McKenzie Kekic, author of Eve Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

‘Brooke Crawford’s Better than the Real Thing is fresh, funny and fabulous! It has all the essential ingredients necessary for compelling contemporary romance – a flawed but relatable heroine, witty dialogue, a vibrant supporting cast, and (best of all) a book boyfriend to die for! But what sets this debut apart is its emotional rawness. I was moved to tears more than once. Crawford is a welcome addition to the genre and definitely a voice to watch. Five stars from me!’ —Lisa Ireland, author of The Studio Girls

‘Smart, sizzling, and impossible to put down. Set against the richly drawn backdrops of Melbourne and London, Better than the Real Thing is an emotionally layered story that perfectly blends wit, heartbreak, and warmth. Brooke Crawford brings complex, relatable characters to life, whose journeys of love and self-compassion linger long after the last page. This fresh take on mature relationships is a powerful reminder that starting over can lead to something better than you ever imagined.’ —Holly Brunnbauer, author of What Did I Miss?

‘Notting Hill meets The Holiday meets Bridget Jones. Better than the Real Thing is the perfect blend of laugh out loud humour, characters you hate to leave and writing that keeps you turning the page. This is a fantastic debut.’ —Pamela Cook, author of ‘The Ghost of Christmas Past’ in A Country Practice Christmas

‘A stunning debut that doesn’t shy away from the messiness of life and delivers a wonderfully modern happily ever after that hits all the right notes.’ —Emma Mugglestone, author of In the Long Run

‘Better than the Real Thing delivers everything you want from a romcom; all the feels, snort-out-loud observations, and the a-million-red-flags-but-still-completely-swoonworthy rockstar love interest, Morrison Maplestone. When Netta Phillips’ life in Melbourne implodes, a first-class trip to London seems like the best way to spend her Christmas holidays. She’ll drop off the top-secret diary belonging to hotter-than-hot world-famous musician, Mo Maplestone, collect enough cash to sort out her financial woes, and keep her past firmly in the past. Easy. But when she arrives in London, nothing turns out as planned, and Netta has to decide what her heart truly wants – and if she can allow herself the future she deserves. An assured and witty debut, Brooke Crawford effortlessly balances complex trauma with a love story you will be smiling about long after finishing the last sentence.’ —Marie-Louise Willis, author and editor

‘Better than the Real Thing was such a delicious treat of a read. Joyful, funny, effortless writing with characters I wish I knew in real life. My only regret is I read it too fast. I can’t wait to see what Brooke writes next.’ —Leesa Ronald, author of Power Moves

‘Better than the Real Thing captures all the heart and soul of a truly satisfying 90s rom com – the kind you watch over and over again for its comfort and warmth, and for the lingering uplifting messages of hope. It had me glued from the first chapter, compelled to storm through to unpick how the lives of Netta and Mo would knit together. Brooke’s writing is effervescent and vibrant, with a refreshingly modern take on love, happily ever after, and everything that shapes us as perfectly imperfect individuals in between. Brooke crafts characters full of charm and life, who feel like friends you’ve known forever and a day. What a true delight to have shared in Netta and Mo’s journey – if only for a weekend’s worth of reading! Brooke Crawford is one to watch in this space, and I for one can’t wait to see what she cooks up for us next!’ —Jenna Lo Bianco, author of Love, Al Dente

Photo credit: Jax, Gang of Babes Photography

BROOKE CRAWFORD is an emerging author of feel-good contemporary fiction, whose work has been recognised in writing competitions in Australia, New Zealand and the United States. Brooke won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Opal Award in 2024, has post-graduate qualifications in professional writing from Deakin University, and studied novel writing under the guidance of Australian author Josephine Moon. Having previously worked in public relations, creative account management, advertising and education, she now runs a successful copywriting business from her home in Melbourne, where she lives with her partner and their three children. Better than the Real Thing is her first novel.

www.harpercollins.com.au/hq

For Tim, my very own happily ever after

Contents

Chapter One: Netta

Chapter Two: Mo

Chapter Three: Netta

Chapter Four: Mo

Chapter Five: Netta

Chapter Six: Mo

Chapter Seven: Netta

Chapter Eight: Netta

Chapter Nine: Mo

Chapter Ten: Netta

Chapter Eleven: Netta

Chapter Twelve: Mo

Chapter Thirteen: Netta

Chapter Fourteen: Mo

Chapter Fifteen: Netta

Chapter Sixteen: Mo

Chapter Seventeen: Netta

Chapter Eighteen: Mo

Chapter Nineteen: Netta

Chapter Twenty: Mo

Chapter Twenty-One: Netta

Chapter Twenty-Two: Mo

Chapter Twenty-Three: Netta

Chapter Twenty-Four: Mo

Chapter Twenty-Five: Netta

Chapter Twenty-Six: Mo

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Netta

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Netta

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Mo

Chapter Thirty: Netta

Chapter Thirty-One: Mo

Chapter Thirty-Two: Netta

Chapter Thirty-Three: Netta

Chapter Thirty-Four: Mo

Chapter Thirty-Five: Netta

Chapter Thirty-Six: Netta

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Netta

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Mo

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Netta

Chapter Forty: Mo

Chapter Forty-One: Netta

Chapter Forty-Two: Mo

Chapter Forty-Three: Netta

Chapter Forty-Four: Mo

Chapter Forty-Five: Netta

Chapter Forty-Six: Netta

Chapter Forty-Seven: Mo

Chapter Forty-Eight: Netta

Chapter Forty-Nine: Mo

Chapter Fifty: Netta

Chapter Fifty-One: Netta

Chapter Fifty-Two: Mo

Chapter Fifty-Three: Netta

Chapter Fifty-Four: Netta

Chapter Fifty-Five: Mo

Chapter Fifty-Six: Netta

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Netta

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Netta

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Netta

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

NETTA

‘Impressive set of nipples on the big guy, there.’

Netta Phillips looked up from a pile of spelling tests to see Jim, the cleaner, standing at her open classroom door, eyeing off the cardboard Santa she’d stuck to it just that morning. ‘Seriously?’ She leaned over her desk and sighed. Sure enough, Santa was sporting two new additions drawn in thick black marker.

‘Kids, hey?’ said Jim. ‘Coulda been worse though, I guess. At least it’s only his top half that got the treatment.’ He poked his head into the classroom, looking around at the giant paper ornaments hanging from the beams and the tinsel swaying in the air-conditioner’s breeze. ‘Bit early for Christmas decorations anyway, isn’t it?’

Netta grinned. ‘Don’t be such a Grinch, Jim.’ She pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall behind her desk, shiny gold star stickers marking the term-four days that had already passed. ‘It’s less than a month till the big day, you know. The 3N Christmas Countdown is on.’

‘Right you are.’ Jim shot Santa a bemused side-eye. ‘Very festive. Anyway, I’m almost done. It’s time for you to skedaddle so I can lock up.’

Netta dropped her red pen to the desk and gave him two thumbs up. She was more than happy to have an excuse to cut and run— it was already almost five thirty and it’d been a ten-kinds-of-shit Friday, to put it mildly. She’d had a very tense meeting with Zara’s parents about how anxious Zara had seemed in the past few weeks, made even tenser by the fact her dad had brought along his new girlfriend, which, understandably, hadn’t gone down especially well with Zara’s mum. The aggression level had quickly risen from politely passive to that of a MAFS dinner party and the meeting had ended with Netta even more worried about her clearly struggling student. Then, during quiet reading time, a pigeon had flown into the classroom via an open window and defiled the big beanbag in the book corner with a colossal poo, causing total chaos among the kids. Her maths lesson—which she’d spent ages planning and thought would be fun—had royally tanked, and worst of all, poor little Tahli had turned up to school with no lunch again. Netta pulled out her top drawer to run a quick inventory on the stash of just-in-case snacks she kept there for Tahli, making a mental note to buy more crackers and fruit before Monday.

She grabbed her handbag and car keys from the desk and walked to the door feeling, as usual, as though she was leaving before she’d actually finished work. The responsibility she felt to her students and the never-ending nature of her to-do list meant that no matter how hard she worked, or how late she stayed, there was always more she could do. Netta loved her job, but she often felt as though it required two of her. She exhaled the frustration in a lung-emptying rush as she flicked the lights off and tore the newly nippled Santa from the classroom door, taking a moment to inspect the additions. They were actually pretty good; whoever had drawn them had even thought to include a few rogue hairs around their periphery.

‘You’re not the only one who’s had a rough day, mate,’ she said, scrunching Santa into a ball. ‘I wish a few stray nipple hairs were all I had to worry about.’ He landed in the recycling bin with a swoosh and Netta pulled the classroom door closed behind her.

She made her way through the empty school office and out into the warmth of the early evening, across the basketball court, over the four-square grids and past the play equipment towards her car. As she passed the kitchen garden her class tended once a week, she smiled with pride at the fundraising sign on the fence, the filled gauge showing they’d hit their target. Heading up the student philanthropy club was one of the best parts of Netta’s job. Last year the kids had raised money to buy books for a school in Nepal, and this year they’d raised nearly two thousand dollars for the Starlight Foundation.

When Netta reached the staff carpark it was empty aside from Jim’s ute and her old VW Beetle, its faded cherry red paintwork enthusiastically absorbing the almost-summer heat to turn the cabin into an oven, ready to slow roast her from Elwood to the inner west of Melbourne, where she lived with her partner, Pete. The bug’s ancient engine grumbled reluctantly to life and, in lieu of air con, Netta cranked the window down as she pulled out onto the street. She took the scenic route along the coast road towards St Kilda, past waterfront restaurants and bars heaving with people unfurling into the weekend, past the pier full of runners and tourists and lovers, past Catani Gardens, where giant palm trees exploded like green fireworks against the clear blue sky. The beach was already packed with leathery old men and lobstered backpackers and every kind of person in between, and the sea air hummed with the promise of fun.

A surge of nostalgia swept through Netta as the road swooped past St Kilda West where her old apartment was tucked a few blocks back from the beach: a vintage one-bedder with walls that could tell a hundred years’ worth of stories. She’d been so happy in that place, but when interest rates had gone nuts and her increased mortgage payments had stretched her wage so thin it was practically translucent, Pete had suggested she rent it out and move in with him. It had, in a financial sense at least, been a relief—having to sell the apartment would’ve broken her heart. Even now though, two years deep into living with Pete, she still missed it sometimes. But, as she often reminded herself, she’d been alone there. The apartment had been fine for younger, single Netta, but now she was in-a-committed-relationship-and-trying-for-a-baby Netta. She was almost forty and those single-girl days were behind her. And waking up next to Pete every day was lovely.

Forty-five minutes later Netta pulled into her driveway, drenched in perspiration and almost certainly partially cooked. She sprang from the car as it creaked into rest, eager to escape the furnace. Her dress had stuck to her in all the wrong places and she plucked at it, pulling it from the backs of her thighs and fanning it out from her chest. A pool of sweat trapped in her bra escaped and dribbled disgustingly down her stomach. She decided she’d beeline for the shower and then treat herself to one glass of the pinot gris she knew was waiting patiently for her in the fridge. She’d cut right back on drinking since they’d been trying to conceive but some Friday nights demanded a little liquid escape, and this one definitely wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

She gave the old bug a friendly pat on the bonnet and made her way through the garden, past its ornamental pear trees and militantly pruned box hedges, to the front door of the house—a classic fifties weatherboard Pete had renovated to within an inch of its life before they’d met. She discarded her sandals as she stepped into the house to let the cool floorboards soothe her feet. ‘Pete?’ she called. ‘You home?’

She was met with a weighty silence, broken only by the loud tick of the kitchen clock. Past six, and he still wasn’t home. Caught in traffic, probably. Or working late again. He’d seemed stressed this past month or so. He worked hard, Netta knew that, but she’d also sensed a little bit of distance between them lately. It was nothing, she was sure. Probably all in her head. The jaunty procession of deadshits she’d dated before Pete had done a very good job of making her hyper-wary of any change in relationship temperature. One of them—the undisputed king of the deadshits—had carved in her a scar of humiliation so deep she hadn’t been able to fully trust anyone for years until Pete had come along. He was different to the others. Safe. Reliable. Comfortably predictable. They were fine. It was time to stop looking over her shoulder and just relax.

‘Oh my God,’ said Netta out loud, catching sight of herself in the hallway mirror as the front door swung shut behind her. ‘Looking good, Phillips.’ Her hair was a mad mess of sweat and wind-whipped fuzz and her face had progressed well beyond a flush into full beetroot territory in the heat of the car. She looked like she’d fallen asleep in a sauna and been woken by a cattle prod. She needed a shower. Closely followed by that one precious glass of wine.

***

Drying off after the shower, Netta heard footsteps in the hallway and smiled. Pete was home. She slid into her dressing gown and opened the bathroom cabinet to find the hair brush, but her attention was caught first by an ovulation testing kit. She took it out and turned it over in her hands. It was probably a bit early, but it couldn’t hurt to check. She tore open the packet and held the handle between her teeth as she gathered up the fabric of her dressing gown and sat down on the toilet. She’d become something of a pro at peeing on testing sticks over the last few months—a niche addition to her skill set, admittedly—but her newfound expertise hadn’t helped much. For all the tests that had announced she was ovulating, there had been far too many declaring that, nope, she still wasn’t pregnant, thanks very much.

She washed her hands, brushed her hair and executed the increasingly complex skincare routine her face suddenly seemed to require while she waited for the result. But when the three minutes was up, she was met with an empty circle. Low fertility. No strategically timed sex ahoy.

Netta sighed and shoved the test into the bathroom bin, a familiar wave of impatience rising. That egg couldn’t hide out forever. She’d test again tomorrow, first thing.

Netta found Pete hunched over the computer in his tiny office, his face etched with the stress of the day, his paisley-patterned tie hanging loose around his neck and the first two buttons of his business-blue shirt open. His face—all strong jaw and pale, piercing eyes—was still the one Netta had fallen for, even if their nine-year age gap was becoming more evident as he neared fifty; his chiselled edges softening, flecks of silver appearing at his temples, his hair thinning at his crown. Netta felt herself relax a little at the sight of him, her tension retreating at the thought of curling up for a movie together and leaving the day behind.

Pete raised his eyes to Netta and leaned back into his ergonomic chair. He flashed her a brief hello smile. ‘Good day?’

Netta leaned against the doorframe. ‘Excremental.’

Pete grimaced distractedly, his fingers hovering over the keyboard like runners itching for the starting gun to go off. ‘You, ah, want to talk about it?’ His eyes flicked to his watch and back to Netta. He couldn’t have looked less keen to talk about it if he was bungee jumping out the window.

‘It’s okay, you look busy.’ Netta swallowed her urge to be wrapped up in his arms while she unloaded every detail of her trainwreck day. ‘I think I just want to drink about it, anyway,’ she said instead. ‘Fancy a couch wine when you’re done?’

Pete cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. ‘Do you mind if I just …’ He gestured towards the computer. ‘I’ll be at it till late, I think.’

Netta shook her head and forced a smile as she pulled the door closed behind her, trying to ignore how distinctly second best she felt. The siren song of the wine drew her straight to the kitchen but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the question that had once again hustled its way into her mind: what was going on with Pete? But the day had been tough enough without going down that rabbit hole too. She opened the fridge, pulled out the bottle and sighed. This one, lonely glass of wine she was allowing herself had some serious work to do.

Chapter Two

MO

The morning felt offensively bright even before Mo opened his eyes, so he kept them closed, bracing himself for what he’d find when he eventually opened them. The room was arctic, but he was clammy. Sweating out the night before no doubt—although no amount of sweat could save his liver from what he’d evidently done to the poor bastard. He took a slow breath in—one, two, three, four—and let it out—four, three, two, one.

The place smelled like it could do with a window open, the air laced with stale booze, an unfamiliar perfume (which was doing a poor job of masking another curious smell) and sex. His nakedness under the sheet was confirmation of the latter. No surprise there.

The chatter and traffic noise drifting in from outside announced he wasn’t in his own bedroom. London life buzzed by in place of the blissful silence he normally woke to and springs dug into his back, letting him know in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t his state-of-the-art mattress he was dying on.

He rolled away from the light and pressed his face into the pillow. His belly felt hollowed out—cavernous, like he hadn’t eaten in a week—but the foul taste of garlic and cheese carpeting his mouth meant he must’ve had something; breath this horrific didn’t make itself. He gingerly inspected his aching teeth with his tongue. He’d been grinding them in his sleep again. Unresolved stress, the dentist had told him. No shit.

Mo could hear even breathing to his left. Whoever it was wasn’t snoring, but close to it. Keeping one eye defiantly shut, he gingerly opened the other, squinting against the watery light flooding the room. On the bedside table was a bright pink, diamante-encrusted AirPod case and a tub of something fruity from The Body Shop. Neither bode well for the vintage of the woman behind him. He was forty-one, but the ages of the women he slept with hadn’t changed much in the last fifteen years. They probably wouldn’t even think about it if he wasn’t, you know, who he was.

A tiny dress lay on the floor next to the bed, crumpled, no doubt, in his haste to remove it. He prised his leaden head from the pillow and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his own clothes piled up against the wall near the door. This was a signature move of his, honed through repetition. It made getting out unseen and unheard much easier. He rolled out of bed and gently replaced the covers.

He stole a brief glance at the woman. Rachel, possibly. Beautiful. Honey blonde hair and strong features. Legs longer than should be legal. And too young for him. Of course. Maybe mid-twenties. Drenched in fake tan, which answered the question about the curious smell. Snippets of the evening started emerging through the fog and he recalled her thick Geordie accent and throaty laugh. She’d been fun, but he had to get out of there before she woke up. A clean exit, just in case she had any ideas about calling the paparazzi. He was supposed to be resurrecting his career, forging a new image, not confirming he was still the same model-shagging dirtbag he’d always been. Old habits. Old dog.

Mo tiptoed across the room, scooped up his clothes and went out into the silent lounge room. He pulled on his underwear and crouched, rummaging in the pockets of his jeans to find his phone. He shot a rapid-fire text message to his driver, then finished dressing: jeans, shirt, old bomber jacket.

He took one last look around the apartment, scanning for anything he might’ve left behind. The place was a mess. He padded around collecting discarded glasses and sat them next to the sink, righted the couch cushions, which had ended up strewn all over the place, and restacked the magazines they’d swept off the coffee table.

His guilt at sneaking away somewhat appeased, he pulled on his shoes and slipped out of the apartment to wait for his ride.

The door to the building had barely closed behind him when he heard someone shouting his name.

‘Mo! Over this way, mate!’

Mo looked up to see a lone photographer hiding behind a long lens on the other side of the road. He turned and tugged urgently on the door, but it’d locked behind him. Of course it fucking had. He found his sunglasses in his pocket and shoved them on as he turned back to the busy high street, already teeming with people who looked far less close to death-by-hangover than he was. Cafés full of morning people. Shops preparing to open. A busload of commuters disembarking at a stop halfway up the block. There was nowhere to go and it seemed even if there were, it was too late to hide anyway. He’d already been spotted by a huddle of women out the front of the closest café. One of them was pointing at him and another had her phone raised in his direction. Filming, no doubt. More people stopped, appraising him like he was some kind of inanimate object in a museum, not an actual sentient being. More phones were coming out of pockets. He attempted a smile but his face betrayed him, and that dipshit on the other side of the street was still snapping away like his life depended on it.

Where the fuck was his driver? She’d said five minutes. It had to have been that long already. Mo looked left and right, up and down the street, searching for the car. An older woman in a lavender puffer coat asked for a selfie with him and took it before he’d even had a chance to consent. Others snapped photos on their phones from a distance. This was the side of it he hated. The constant exposure. The endless intrusion.

Finally, the shiny black bonnet of the car came into view and Mo broke into a purposeful stride to intercept it. The photographer darted across the street, playing chicken with a bus so as not to lose his target, his scrawny legs annoyingly nimble in flappy cargo pants. Mo felt him scuffle up, crab-walking alongside him, snapping away at his profile.

Mo clenched his teeth. ‘That’s enough, mate.’

‘C’mon, Mo,’ wheedled the photographer. ‘Gimme a good shot. All publicity is good publicity, right?’

This was what they did best. They goaded. They provoked. They poked the bear until it roared for the camera. Mo’s inhale flared his nostrils, stoking the flames building in his chest. He swallowed hard against the urge to snuff the little prick out. He couldn’t let this clown get to him. A mistake here was exactly the sort of thing that could derail his career. Again.

The car was getting closer and Mo waved frantically at the driver to pull over. The front wheel mounted the kerb and he lengthened his stride to reach the door handle, the photographer still so close Mo could smell the instant coffee on his breath. Mo pulled the door open and as he barrelled into the passenger seat, the photographer slid behind the door, preventing him from slamming it closed. The lens was right in Mo’s face now, the shutter clicking frenetically, capturing every iteration of his rising anger.

‘Back off, mate.’ Mo’s voice was low and measured.

‘Ease up, Mo. You old has-beens can’t afford to be picky. You have to take what you can get these days, no?’

Mo grabbed the lens and jerked it down, pressing the camera into the photographer’s chest, pinning his back to the car door, making it swing open behind him. ‘I said, back off,’ he snarled, his hand still wrapped firmly around the lens.

‘C’mon now, Mo,’ weaselled the photographer, a maddening grin spreading across his face. ‘You know you fucking love it.’

Mo let go of the camera and as he did, the photographer flung himself backward into the gutter in a mess of arms and legs—an Oscar-worthy performance lapped up by the onlooking crowd, their phones held aloft to capture the whole exchange.

‘Thanks, man,’ said the photographer as he scrabbled to sit, that infuriating smile smeared across his face again. ‘You just paid for my next holiday.’

***

That evening, Mo stood in the shower and let the needles of steaming water punish his back. He’d been locked in a self-imposed cell of hungover hell all day. He hadn’t spent even a second of it working on the new album, either. The comeback album. Ugh. His brain was too fried to think straight, let alone in the curly lines needed to write music. His greatest achievement in the last twelve hours had been a restless sleep on the couch while Star Wars went on without him on the 85-inch flat screen. He’d woken feeling messy, inside and out, and had spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the enormous house like a vagrant in his own home.

He turned around and let the water pummel his face, his inked hands pushing his hair back and gathering it at the nape of his neck. Time for a cut. Maybe he’d just shave it all off again. Men could do shit like that and nobody cared. He knew for sure that if a woman in the spotlight did it, the trash mags would be running cooked-up cover stories about her mental breakdown before she’d even unplugged the clippers.

Mo hated those rags. Pages and pages of crap fuelled by photos taken by odious little chancers who saw celebrities as walking pay cheques. Just like that snake, today. The little shit wasn’t wrong, though—some celebrities actually did love the attention. Mo, on the other hand, was a notoriously closed book. An enigma, apparently. He smirked mirthlessly. There was no mystery here, just a lucky imposter who’d been in the right place at the right time, who was now hurtling towards middle age, trying to revive a career he wasn’t even sure could be resuscitated.

He rested his forehead against the kaleidoscope of hand-made Moroccan tiles. His younger brother, Mav, had nearly choked when he’d seen how much they’d cost, but Mo had felt so gloriously hidden from view when he’d holidayed in Marrakesh after the 2018 tour that he’d happily forked out to bring a little of that feeling home with him. They weren’t having that effect today though, not after last night. He’d fucked up. Epically. First drinking in public, then going home with Rachel, then getting pissed off with the pap in front of all those people. It was all so mortifyingly on-brand for him he could vomit.

A frustrated groan thundered deep in his chest. Last night should never have happened. It was supposed to have been a quick in-and-out London trip with Mav, but somehow (he knew how) they’d ended up at a little pub where he’d thought he’d be able to have a couple of beers unnoticed. But the second beer had quickly morphed into a third, which had paved the way for a scotch, and then another. Then Rachel had turned up and the rest of the night had raced towards an embarrassingly predictable conclusion.

Mo worked some shampoo into his hair, his fingertips digging angry zig-zags across his scalp. Mav had told him last night that he wanted to move out. Rent his own place, finally. Stand on his own two feet. He said Mo had given him everything his whole life and it was time to do something for himself. Mo, like an idiot, had drunkenly offered to just buy him an apartment instead, which, in hindsight, had been a spectacular miss of the mark.

Mo groaned and thumped his palm against the tiles. Yes, he’d given Mav a lot. Maybe too much. But if only Mav knew. Mo scrunched his eyes tight. If only he fucking knew what I took away. He felt the familiar murky anxiety rise in his gut, closed his eyes, and turned the hot water up to savage. He deserved it.

Chapter Three

NETTA

Netta woke on Saturday morning with hair that smelled a little like the takeaway pad Thai she’d had for dinner and a fresh new resolve. The night before, with the company of her eked-out solo glass of wine and a heavy dose of trash TV, she’d come to a comforting conclusion. Her past may have been full of dodgy men, but the one sleeping next to her, with his arm slung over her hip, was not one of them. What they had was worth trusting. Her tendency to analyse—to comb through things until nothing felt like it was one hundred per cent right—was not helpful. At all.

She extricated herself from Pete’s embrace and padded down the hallway to the bathroom to do another ovulation test and have a shower. As the room filled with the scent of her overpriced shampoo—the one that had promised longer, thicker hair but had thus far failed to deliver anything other than clean hair—she mentally went through some options for the weekend. She’d heard about a great farmers’ market in a cute country town an hour or so away. They could go and spend way too much on organic honey and eggs and then stop off at a posh country pub on the way home to stuff themselves with woodfired pizzas. They’d both enjoy that. All was not lost. Netta Phillips would not be beaten by a garden variety, and highly likely entirely imagined, relationship slump.

She stepped out of the shower and glanced at the stick. A flashing face smiled optimistically back at her. Rising fertility. Not peak yet, but it would be soon. Maybe even later today, if she was lucky. Netta allowed herself a flash of hope. This could be the weekend they finally conceived.

She quickly dressed and made her way to the kitchen to wrestle a coffee from their dinosaur of a machine, which, along with reliably underwhelming coffee, also served up an antagonising daily reminder of the golden St Kilda days when she’d had her pick of amazing cafés within a stumble of her front door. As usual, the memory tugged on her heart a little as she pulled a clean mug from the dishwasher and retrieved the milk from the fridge. Netta and her mum had hopped around rental homes for Netta’s entire childhood, so buying the apartment had felt like a monumental achievement, the stability of having her own place the ultimate luxury. At thirty-five, when she’d bought it, she’d decided men were out and radical independence was in. But then a couple of years later, she’d met Pete, and the old dream of not dying tragic and alone had come rushing back. He’d seemed so refreshingly grown-up that it’d been easy to skim over the nine-year age gap, ex-wife and two kids. He’d assured her that her heart was safe in his hands and the security of that feeling had been intoxicating.

‘Morning.’

Pete’s mumbly voice wrenched her from her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, rubbing his hair with one hand and grasping the top of the doorframe for a stretch with the other. He came into the kitchen and kissed Netta good morning, first on the lips and then on the forehead.

‘Sleep okay?’ asked Netta as he turned away to make a coffee.

‘Yeah, not bad.’

Netta waved her arms in the air. ‘Hey, it’s the weekend, baby!’

Pete regarded her from his post at the coffee machine. The look on his face wasn’t promising. He clearly didn’t think there was any need for the Ibiza arms. ‘I’ve got Hannah and Sam this weekend, remember?’ he said. ‘Their mother is off on some spa retreat or something. Probably spending half my annual child support to have a hose shoved up her arse. They’ll be here any minute.’

‘Oh. I don’t think I knew about that,’ said Netta. ‘The kids, that is, not the irrigation of Heather’s colon.’

Pete raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s been on the calendar for a couple of weeks.’

Netta smothered her exasperation with a smile. Pete lived and died by that bloody calendar. ‘Well, it’ll be nice to see them.’

Pete nodded mutely, his attention fixed on his phone.

‘Also, just so you know, I’m ovulating this weekend.’

‘Oh, come on, Netta,’ said Pete, not lifting his gaze. ‘You know how I feel about that when the kids are here.’

It had been months of trying now. Every ovulation for the last five cycles they’d had well-timed sex, and every time she’d remained profoundly unpregnant. It was beginning to feel urgent for Netta. Forty was so close she could practically see the collagen jumping ship from her skin and, from what she’d read, her eggs would be dwindling in both number and quality. They didn’t have time to mess around.

Netta valiantly kept the disappointment from her face and gave her hips a little shimmy. ‘We could go for a quickie now?’

Pete laughed. ‘Oh. You’re serious.’ He shook his head no and lifted his mug. ‘I’ve just made a coffee, Netta.’

***

By noon, Pete had the kids in the car ready to go out for lunch. Just the three of them. Netta waved goodbye as they backed down the driveway and swallowed the knot of disappointment that she hadn’t been asked to join. She adored Hannah and Sam and wanted to be closer to them, but Pete seemed quietly determined to keep his two worlds separate. Netta had respected it at first. She’d thought it adorably papa bear of him to want to protect them until he was sure he and Netta would go the distance. But she’d been living with him for two years now and they were trying for a baby—how much more of a sure thing did they need to be before he made her part of his family?

Netta closed the front door and paced around the house, restless. She was anxious this window for conceiving was going to slam shut in her face and it’d be a whole month before they’d have another chance. And beyond that, why would he have said no to a quickie? And for a coffee! The pods they had at the moment weren’t even that good! She distracted herself giving the kitchen benches an aggressive wipe down and shoving a load of washing into the machine, but the walls were closing in. She needed to get out of the house to get out of her head. She tugged her runners on, grabbed her sunnies and slammed the front door behind her. The footpaths of Altona North were about to get a pounding.

She stormed past old blonde brick houses in various states of repair interspersed with flashy townhouses that stood out like gold teeth among their humble neighbours. She sidestepped a rapidly melting Bubble O’ Bill ice cream on the footpath, flashing a sympathetic smile at the young mum comforting the little boy who’d dropped it, and resisted the urge to pluck olives from the trees that sprang from nearly every nature strip, some carefully netted, others surrounded by tight clusters of marigolds. Her favourite garden in the neighbourhood insisted she slow to admire it—every square centimetre crammed with vegies and fruits and flowers—while the one next door to it hurried her along, its front garden full of written-off cars giving off distinct potential-felon-lives-here vibes. Every step she took brought her back from the edge a little and as she settled into a rhythm, she searched for a new angle on Pete’s rejection. He just wasn’t a quickie kind of guy. He liked to take his time. Maybe his ‘no’ had actually been a ‘later’ and the coffee thing had been unrelated.

Netta’s phone pinged, demanding her attention.

What are you up to today? Let me live vicariously, I’m dying here.

Her best friend, Freya, who, despite always having been the wilder of the two of them, had somehow wound up being the one with a husband, three kids under the age of five—Maisie, Kit and baby Jed—and, by her own description, belly skin that resembled an elderly scrotum for her troubles.

Netta snapped a selfie, flashing the peace sign and poking out her tongue, the sun reflecting off her sunglasses, and sent it in answer. Walking the streets of suburbia, baby. Living large.

Lucky cow was quickly followed by an image of Freya’s ransacked lounge room, complete with what appeared to be the contents of someone’s nappy smeared on the wall. I’m too scared to check what that is. Is it too early to start drinking? Not asking for a friend.

Netta chuckled, visualising Freya tearing the cork from a wine bottle with her teeth as her legion of kids climbed her legs.

Another message from Freya: Hey, I’m flying solo on Wednesday night, can you come and be my wing woman for bedtime? I’ll shout takeaway.

Affirmative. I’ve got a book I’ll bring over for Maisie. I’ll send you a photo of it—let me know if she already has it.

Freya responded with a thumbs-up emoji. And then: It’s not poo on the wall! Nutella!

Netta laughed and slid her phone back into her pocket. She envied Freya her rowdy family, but she knew how much her friend missed the freedom and uninterrupted sleep and clean walls she still took for granted. Freedom and sleep that Netta would give up in a heartbeat if she was ever lucky enough to get pregnant. Absentmindedly, she rested a hand on her belly and imagined the tiny egg in there, just hanging out, hoping to be the one to make it.

When she got home an hour later, the house felt more hospitable. She went straight to the spare room to take a photo of Maisie’s book and send it to Freya as promised. The little room at the back of the house would be the baby’s one day and Netta had big ideas for its transformation. She glanced around the future nursery, imagining the walls in a soft shade of eggshell, one of those beautiful oval-shaped cots under the window and an overpriced rocking chair in the corner. She and Pete had already pulled up the carpet to expose the floorboards underneath. They’d have them polished up and get one of those beautiful multicoloured pompom rugs for the centre of the room. It was going to be so beautiful.

She opened the closet door and stepped in, stretching to reach the picture book where it sat on the top shelf with the other bits and pieces she periodically picked up for Freya’s kids: clothes, toys and books waiting to be grown into. As she lowered back to her heels, the floor gave a little beneath her and she stumbled backwards. She knelt down to investigate, finding a small section of floorboard was loose when she pressed on it. Curious, she hooked her fingernails under the edge and found that the short piece lifted out completely. Between the joists was an old notebook balanced on a cobweb-covered supporting beam. Netta lifted it from its hiding place and blew a layer of dust from its cover just as Pete’s key turned in the front door.

‘We’re home,’ he called.

Before she could think twice, Netta instinctively dropped the notebook back into its hiding place and replaced the board, quietly closing the wardrobe door. Vowing to come back and investigate further as soon as she could, she went into the hallway to see Pete and the kids.

‘Hi, guys! How was lunch?’

***

Later that night, the kids were in bed and Netta and Pete were revisiting Breaking Bad, but neither of them was really watching. Pete had been glued to his phone for most of the time and Netta had been so distracted by thoughts of the mysterious notebook under the floor in the baby’s room that she’d barely registered the television. She hadn’t mentioned her discovery to Pete yet, and the guilt and thrill of having a secret sat side by side in her stomach.

Someone had just died a horrible death on the screen when Pete flipped his phone face down on the couch and turned to her, a slight flush in his cheeks. ‘That quickie still up for grabs?’

Netta perked up. ‘But the kids are here.’

‘Yeah but …’ He ran a knuckle gently down Netta’s cheek. ‘Maybe we could do it quietly.’

Netta raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘You saying you wanna try to make a baby with me, Pete Nicholls?’

Pete was already standing, unbuttoning the neck of his polo shirt. The ovulation test’s smiling face flashed through Netta’s mind and a rush of hope swept through her, pushing all thoughts of the diary away. This could be it. She took Pete’s hand, leading him to the bedroom.

‘We can’t do it in there,’ said Pete. ‘The kids are in the next room. They might hear.’

This was getting even better. Netta couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex anywhere other than their bed. ‘Ooh, hot,’ she said, turning to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. ‘We haven’t had couch sex in forever.’

Pete looked at her as though she’d lost her very last marble. ‘We can’t do it on the couch either! If the kids get up, they’ll catch us straight away!’

‘Where then?’

Pete considered this for a moment. ‘Powder room.’

‘The toilet?’ Netta couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You want to have sex in the guest toilet?’

Pete shrugged. ‘It’s the only room in the house with a lock on the door.’

Netta paused, considering the proposition. She could have sex in a toilet. It’s not like it’d be the first time. They could pretend they were in a plane. Maybe it’d be sexy …

‘You’re on,’ she said, taking his hand again and placing it on her breast. He squeezed obligingly and warmth flooded Netta’s belly, landing between her legs at breakneck speed. She was never quicker to turn on than when she was ovulating.

The guest powder room was not what anyone would describe as spacious. Netta wedged herself between the wall and the toilet to give Pete room to squeeze in and close the door. He flicked the lock and turned the handle to check it was working, giving the door a vigorous rattle to test its strength.

Netta laughed. ‘I reckon we’re safe.’

‘Just making sure.’

Netta directed him to sit on the closed toilet lid and straddled him, enjoying his hands on her hips as she kissed his neck, feeling him harden beneath her. She moved her mouth to his and kissed him but he pulled away.

‘We’d better make this brief,’ he said. ‘I don’t want the kids waking up and finding us in here.’

‘Okay.’ Netta lifted herself off his lap and let him ease her pants down, stepping out of them as she took her T-shirt off to stand completely naked in front of him. Pete lifted his butt from the toilet seat, slid his pants and undies down to his ankles and sat down again, running his hands up the backs of Netta’s thighs, gently pulling her back. His mouth closed briefly around her left nipple but he took it away all too soon, distracted, presumably, by Netta lowering herself onto him.

‘Oh, God,’ he whispered, clutching at her hips, his eyes closed. ‘Oh, God.’

Netta rode him, once, twice, three times, holding his head to her chest with one hand, the other pressed against the wall to steady herself.

Pete released a deep moan and his hands slipped from her hips, his head now heavy on her chest.

Netta looked down at a close-range view of his bald patch, his back rising and falling with his ragged breath. ‘Already?’

‘Sorry.’ Pete tipped his face up to hers, his mouth slack. ‘Did you …?’

‘No. Not quite.’

‘Do you want me to, ah …’ He waggled his fingers at her, his eyebrows raised in query.

Netta shook her head and stood. ‘Nah, I’m alright.’ Was she, though? Sex with Pete had never exactly been Olympic level but it had always been nice. Always satisfying, if a little predictable. And it had never been as fast as that. She’d had sneezing fits that had lasted longer.

Pete stood and pulled his pants up, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. ‘That was amazing,’ he said, already reaching for the door. ‘I’ll let you get dressed.’

Chapter Four

MO

‘It’s been shared about a squillion times on social media, Mo. Not to mention the videos of the incident with the pap. It really doesn’t look great, does it? Especially given the rebrand we’re trying to do.’

Mo looked from his agent’s exasperated face, illuminated by the outdoor heaters in his gazebo, to the magazine on the table in front of him, and back again. ‘Well, no. It doesn’t. Obviously. But surely nobody believes anything in this piece of shit, Rhona.’ He paused to refill her tea cup. ‘Everyone knows the stories are all made up. Total fiction.’

He read the headline again. MO-DELISER MAPLESTONE BACK IN BUSINESS. Not a bad play on words, he could give them that. The double-page spread included photos of the photographer he hadn’t actually shoved looking theatrically forlorn alongside images of Mo with Rachel at the pub. Photos he didn’t even remember being taken, let alone smiling for. As he scanned the article for a second time, he had to admit that while the exaggeration was next level, this particular story wasn’t ‘all made up’. He had gone out with Mav in the wake of his moving-out bombshell and had too much to drink. He had gone home with Rachel-who-was-probablya-model. He hadn’t pushed the photographer, but he had let the little prick get a rise out of him. The reporter’s embellishments were wall-punchingly annoying but at its core, the story was true. Glossy, full-colour proof that he was still bound to the same bullshit patterns of behaviour. A psych would have a field day with him.

Rhona took a sip of tea. ‘Don’t be deluded, darling. Whether the magazine itself is a piece of shit or not is entirely irrelevant.’ A faded Edinburgh accent clung to her words, her narrowed eyes framed by electric-blue glasses. ‘Drunken photos of you with some twenty-something model off her tits at a pub? Morrison Maplestone getting agro with a pap? Of course it’s believable. And given the reputation we’re trying very hard to reframe, this—’ she jabbed a varnished fingernail at one of the photos, ‘—was all a big mistake.

‘And I know I don’t have to explain to you that the record company is watching you closely. They’ll pull the pin on the new album like that—’ she snapped her fingers, ‘—if they think you’re still a media nightmare. Pushing a photographer over was stupendously thick, given the circumstances. You need to learn from your mistakes, Mo. You have to play the game this time. And play it nice. You wanted this comeback, remember? And not just for your ego, you need it to fund the Play On expansion. True?’

‘I know very well what’s riding on it, Rhona,’ said Mo, exasperated. His secret charity, Play On, was his baby. He’d grown it from an idea to a fully-fledged operation that donated instruments and music equipment to under-funded schools. It was a cause he was hugely passionate about. Playing the guitar had been one of his only solaces as a kid—a place to escape to—and he wanted to pass that on in any way he could. His money was the backbone of Play On’s success but if he wanted to make his big dreams for an international expansion come true, he needed the cash injection from the new album. ‘I really didn’t shove him, you know. How can we smooth it over?’

‘Look, you’ve got the Christmas Eve Gala coming up in a few weeks.’ Rhona’s magenta hair flapped around her face in the cool breeze. ‘I think it’d be a good idea to take a date. Someone lovely and wholesome. Show yourself as being a stand-up guy. Why don’t we start there?’

‘I’m taking Mav,’ said Mo. ‘He’s pumped about it.’

Rhona shook her head. ‘Not this time, Mo. This time you need to turn up with an actual date, not your little brother. Someone real and age appropriate. Someone your female fans would like. Someone who shows them that you’ve evolved past this,’ she said, prodding the photo again.

Mo sighed. ‘Where am I supposed to find someone like that, Rhona?’

‘Honey, you’re Morrison Maplestone.’ She waggled her fingers in his direction. ‘Use all that man-magic of yours to find someone a bit different this time. Not a glamour girl, just someone nice and normal to show the world that you’ve hit Mo 2.0. And maybe stop abusing photographers in the street in the meantime.’

‘I told you I didn’t— Ergh. Okay, fine.’ Mo closed the magazine and slapped his palm over the cover. ‘I’ll find a date. I’ll also continue not physically assaulting photographers.’

Rhona patted his arm with one hand and prised the magazine from his grip with the other. ‘You don’t need to keep looking at this rubbish. I’ll take it home for the cats to piss on, hey?’

Mo couldn’t help but laugh. Rhona didn’t have any cats. ‘Seems like too good an end for it if you ask me,’ he said. ‘But sure, take it. I’ve seen enough.’

At that, Rhona stood, walked around the table, kissed him on the head and strode off towards her car, the magazine scrunched in her hand. ‘See you Thursday night for dinner,’ she called without looking back or waiting for an answer.

As he watched Rhona leave, Mo slumped further into his chair. He’d let her down. He’d let himself down. He couldn’t let the kids who stood to benefit from Play On down. Time was up on his bullshit. Big changes were needed, and this time, he had to stick to them.

Chapter Five

NETTA

It wasn’t until Wednesday evening that Netta was home alone again, and the notebook hiding under the floorboards had been burning a hole in her brain the entire time; she’d been dying to pull it out and investigate. Now, with the house finally empty and quiet—Pete at someone-from-work’s birthday drinks—she lifted the notebook from its hiding place for a second time, brushing a new film of dust from the cover.

She took the notebook to her bed and sat cross-legged on the doona. DO NOT READ was emblazoned across the front, partially obscured by a length of red twine wrapped around the cover to keep it closed. To keep it private. It wasn’t Pete’s handwriting, so she was sure it wasn’t his, and it looked far too old to belong to either of his kids. It was probably nothing, she realised. She’d built the notebook up in her head since Saturday and was about to have her bubble unceremoniously popped. Still, she set it down in front of her with a thrill of about-to-be-satisfied curiosity, her fingers suspended in a twitchy hover above the cover, held back only by her overachieving guilty conscience. Reading someone’s journal was the ultimate invasion of privacy, and Netta knew all too well how it felt to have one’s privacy invaded. But the book looked ancient. There was a statute of limitations on these things, wasn’t there? She shoved her hands between her thighs and the bed and bounced her knees up and down.

‘Ah, what could it hurt?’ she said, releasing a breath and her hands. Quickly, before her conscience could pull rank, she flipped the cover open to read the inscription.

This journal belongs to Morrison Maplestone, 1994.

‘Surely not.’

Netta ran her fingers over the scratchy handwriting. Morrison Maplestone wasn’t exactly a common name, and the Morrison Maplestone was famous. Like, really famous. She leaned over to grab her phone from the bedside table and typed the name into Google. Web pages, articles and photos flooded the screen. She clicked on the Wikipedia link. The page generously informed her that Morrison ‘Mo’ Maplestone was forty-one and while he was Australian, he’d called England home since his early twenties. Netta did a quick calculation. If he was forty-one now, he would’ve been eleven in 1994. If it really was his diary, it meant it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume he’d once lived in Pete’s house.

Holy. Shit.

Netta closed the book and pushed it out of reach, her curiosity still outmatched by her integrity. Just. She went back to the Wiki page to see if it held any clues about where he’d spent his childhood, but it focused on his music career and speculations about his private life, which, much to the media’s dismay, he’d been successful in keeping quiet for as long as he’d been famous. He’d never had a public relationship and despite being notorious for being seen with models, the only person he’d ever taken as his date to an award ceremony was his younger brother. This, of course, had only fuelled his unholy sex appeal, because who doesn’t love a mysterious, tattooed singer who’s also a devoted big brother and writes lyrics that simultaneously tear your heart out and rip your knickers off?

Netta picked up the book and cradled it in her hands, turning it over a few times. She was, admittedly, tempted. Very. Surely it was only the scribbles of a little boy, nothing that would need to be secret now, thirty years later, when he was objectively one of the most famous people in the world. He’d dropped off the radar a bit lately though, Netta noted, tapping the book on the doona. There hadn’t been any new Morrison Maplestone songs flogged to death on commercial radio for a couple of years at least. Still, this little book could potentially reveal personal information about him—a commodity he’d always kept in very short supply. And that probably meant it would be worth a fortune. Not that she would ever—No. She would never.

Netta released a captive breath and rubbed her palm over the cover. Her watch caught her eye—she was due at Freya’s house soon for wing-woman duty. She tightly rewound the twine, scooched off the bed and went to the wardrobe, stashing the book behind some jumpers, safely hidden until she figured out what to do with it.

***

‘I’m sorry, what now?’ Freya’s eyes were saucers. ‘Can you repeat that, please? Because it sounded like you just said you’d found Morrison Maplestone’s diary hidden under a fucking floorboard in your house.’

‘You heard right,’ said Netta.

‘Oh. My. God,’ exhaled Freya, leaning back heavily in her chair.

‘It has to be his, right? I mean, what are the chances of there being two Morrison Maplestones?’

‘Slim to none, I’d say,’ said Freya. ‘What did old Petey boy have to say about it?’

Netta paused. ‘I haven’t told him yet,’ she said. ‘I only just found out whose it was before I came here, and he was out.’

Freya pushed her empty bowl away, her eyes lit with excitement. ‘Did you read it? Please tell me you read it.’

Netta’s silence was punctuated by the crackle of the baby monitor and the steady drip of the kitchen tap. She shook her head.

‘Are you kidding me?’ Freya hissed. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it said “do not read” in big letters on the front! I just felt like it’d be a shitty thing to do.’

‘Netta, he’s a grown man now. Whatever he didn’t want anyone to read about when he was a kid would be a weak trickle of piss in the ocean compared to what he gets up to these days. He’s not going to care. He’s Morrison Maplestone!’

‘Exactly! Morrison Maplestone. The guy nobody knows anything about. He’s not even on social media! And you’ve seen how much of a grumpy bastard he can be in interviews. I don’t think he’s the sort of guy who’d take having his diary read lightly.’

‘It’s not like you’d have to tell him you’d read it,’ said Freya. ‘There’s also a pretty major ker-ching factor to consider here. Do you have any idea how much you could sell that thing for? It’d be worth a mint!’

Netta fixed her friend with a weary expression. ‘Freya, I’m not going to sell a kid’s private diary. That would be pretty low.’

‘What are you going to do with it then?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t worked that out yet. I guess I should try to give it back somehow?’

A smile crept across Freya’s face. ‘I could try and get the details of his manager.’

Netta leaned back in her chair and surveyed her friend over the table full of the kids’ stuff they hadn’t had the energy to clear away once they’d finally gotten them all to sleep. ‘Really? You in with the A-list now, are you?’

‘Ha ha.’ Freya straightened her pasta sauce–stained top over her now forever-rounded belly. ‘I may not look like someone with connections these days, but I know people who know people, if you get what I’m saying,’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

‘Who?’

‘Remember that guy I dated just before I met Matt?’

Netta wrinkled her nose. ‘The sound engineer with the tattoo on his head?’

‘Yeah, Wes. Turns out he’s working with some pretty big bands these days,’ said Freya. ‘I could ask him if he knows how we could find out.’

‘You sure you want to reconnect with that drip?’ said Netta. ‘Didn’t he wee all over your doormat when you broke up with him?’

‘Yeah, he did. But that was ten years ago. I’m sure he’s matured a bit by now.’

Netta’s eyebrows arched. ‘You’d hope.’

‘Should we see if we can find him on Facebook?’

Netta had seen that look on her friend’s face enough times to know that the train had already left the station and there was no way of stopping it. Either Freya would do it now, while Netta was at least present to vet the message, or she would do it later—unsupervised—and that, Netta knew from experience, would be the less ideal of the two options.

‘Go on,’ she said.

Freya lunged for her phone and tapped Wes’s name into Facebook, turning the phone to show Netta.

‘Well, what do you know?’ said Netta, squinting at his profile picture. ‘The twit lives.’

Freya opened up a new message. ‘Okay, ready. What should I say?’

After numerous drafts, they settled on: Hi Wes, long time no speak. Just wondering if you know how I can get my hands on the name of Morrison Maplestone’s manager—long story.

Freya placed the phone on the table. ‘And now, we wait,’ she said gravely.

PING!

‘Or maybe we don’t!’ She swiped the phone back and rolled her eyes as she read the message. ‘He said we should try googling it, babe.’

‘So still a dickhead, then?’

‘Well, you know what Confucius said. Once a dickhead, always a dickhead.’ Within seconds, Freya triumphantly slid her phone across the table to Netta. ‘No need to thank me.’

‘Rhona van der Wilden,’ read Netta.

‘Her email address is there too. We could email her right now!’ Freya looked wildly hopeful. ‘Can we?’

‘No, not tonight. I need to think about it. To be honest, given my experience with celebrities, I kind of wish I’d never found the diary in the first place. I don’t want to dip even the tip of a toenail back into that world again.’

Freya’s gaze softened. ‘Not celebrities,’ she said. ‘Celebrity. Singular. You can’t tar them all with the same brush as Mitch. And anyway, that slug wasn’t an arsehole because he was a celebrity, Netta. He was an arsehole because he was an amoral waste of space.’

Mitch. Mitch Carlton. One-time actor, ex-host of talent show Britain’s Brightest Star, and a household name in the UK. Years ago, he’d also been Netta’s boss when she’d lived in London. Just the sound of his name was enough to make her skin prickle with shame. The almost twenty years since she’d last seen him had done nothing to dampen his effect on her. If anything, they’d magnified it into something that she had to wilfully keep buried to save herself from being consumed by the humiliation of it all. The affair had been the biggest judgement fail of Netta’s life. The tabloids had eaten it up and had made her life hell in the aftermath. She’d paid for her mistake. Double. And then some. She’d fled London knowing she could never return.

Netta unwound her arms from her body, releasing them from the protective posture they’d instinctively taken at the mention of Mitch. ‘Yeah, well … I think maybe I should head home now anyway.’ She pushed her chair out and stood. ‘It’s getting late and Pete wants to go out for breakfast before work tomorrow.’

Netta gathered her handbag and keys from the crowded bench, silently berating herself for wondering why Pete was laying the nice-guy stuff on so thick lately. He hadn’t even taken her out to celebrate their last anniversary so this just-because breakfast date felt distinctly out of character, and he’d been unusually attentive since the weekend. But, Netta conceded, the days since the toilet sex had felt a bit off kilter, and he’d obviously sensed it too. It was sweet of him to be trying to get things back on track.

‘Oh, I remember doing lovely things like that,’ said Freya wistfully, walking her out. ‘I suggest getting as much café avo on toast in as possible before you have kids, Netts. Last time we attempted it was about a year ago and never again, I swear. We felt so bad about what Kit did to that high chair.’

Netta hugged her friend as they reached the front door. ‘Hopefully I can trust Pete not to shit himself at the table.’

‘Please. I wish Pete would do something that interesting,’ said Freya, laughing. ‘He’s more likely to lodge a formal complaint that there wasn’t enough fibre in his bircher.’

Netta pressed her lips together and snorted. ‘Be nice, Frey.’

‘I am nice. And Pete’s nice too. He’s just also a boring old fart sometimes.’ She winced when she saw Netta’s reaction. ‘I know he’s a good guy,’ she said, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s arm. ‘And he loves you, which means he’s also very clever and has impeccable taste. I’m just still in the stink with him about making you leave Matt’s fortieth early.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ Netta admitted. Matt was Freya’s husband, and his birthday party two years ago had been the first time Freya had had a kid-free weekend in forever. She and Netta had planned to have a Very Big Night to celebrate, but Pete had dragged Netta home just as the second round of shots had come out.

‘Anyway, bygones,’ said Freya, holding the door open. ‘Let me know when you email Rhona. I need the excitement.’

Netta settled into the silence of her car, clicked her seatbelt on and waved as Freya closed the door to her joyous, exhausting life. Freya wasn’t wrong. Pete could be a bit beige at times. But Netta knew him on a level Freya didn’t. He could also be funny and charming. He took charge when Netta wanted him to. He was the one who could tell the waiter there was a hair in her pasta or the mechanic that he was taking the piss with his fees. He was a fixer. A safe harbour. An anchor when things were rough and, hopefully, the father of her future baby. A baby that, fingers crossed, might already be growing inside her.

She started the engine and idled for a moment while she rummaged around in her handbag to double check she hadn’t left her phone on Freya’s kitchen bench. Finding it, she pulled it out and considered her options. It had felt good to tell Freya about the diary, but the initial excitement of finding it had morphed into an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. The thought of opening the door to the celebrity world again made Netta genuinely nauseous. The Mitch thing had put her off that whole scene for life, but at the same time, none of that was Morrison Maplestone’s fault. She would email Rhona van der Wilden, post the notebook back, and never think about it again. She unlocked her phone, tapped into Gmail and began to type.

Chapter Six

MO

Rhona and Don’s house was chaotic and busy and loud—everything Mo’s house wasn’t. He loved his Thursday night family dinners with them and their kids. Here, in the warm fug of their overworked kitchen, crowded around their dining table, he felt more at home than he did at his own place—like he was part of something bigger than himself. Like maybe he could forget about the incident with the photographer. Like the resurgence of his career might be as safe and as sure as he felt here. In Rhona’s house, and with Rhona’s family, he wasn’t Morrison Maplestone the Grammy award–winning musician, he was just Mo, and he had to scrape his plate like everybody else.

Tonight, the cheerfully mismatched crockery was paired with chopsticks and little bowls of soy sauce, and the Reality Bites soundtrack played softly in the background—Rhona’s favourite. Rhona set bamboo steamers full of Don-made dumplings on the table and sat down opposite Mo, the giant shoulder pad of her nautically inspired outfit brushing against her husband’s arm.

‘Hey, Uncle Mo, watch this!’ Fourteen-year-old Miles flicked a misshapen dumpling into the air with his chopsticks and attempted, unsuccessfully, to catch it again.

‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, Miles!’ cried his sixteen-year-old sister, Carly. She retrieved the splattered dumpling from her lap and flicked it back onto his plate. ‘These jeans are new, you idiot. If Dad can’t get this stain out, you’re totally buying me another pair.’

Don raised his eyebrows from across the table. ‘And why is it my job to wash your jeans? You’re old enough to wash them yourself. Or maybe Miles should do it, seeing as it was his lack of finesse that led to this truly ruinous situation in the first place.’ He selected a dumpling from his plate and expertly executed the trick, popping it into his mouth with an exaggerated flourish. ‘And,’ he said, swallowing, ‘maybe we could keep the profanity to a minimum, given we have company.’

Carly smirked. ‘It’s only Mo. He doesn’t care.’

‘I’ll have you know, young lady,’ said Mo, ‘that my ears are highly offended by such language and I am both shocked and appalled to hear it.’ Carly snorted and Mo’s face creased into a smile. ‘Just stop swearing so fucking much, okay? It’s not nice.’

Don chuckled and reached for another dumpling. ‘Rhona, keep your little friend under control, would you? He’s encouraging Carly’s inner chav.’

Rhona shrugged in response, held her hands up in a what-can-I-do pose, and downed the rest of her wine.

‘You’re right, Uncle Mo.’ Carly’s tone was solemn. ‘Swearing is bloody fucking shitting awful. I shall stop,’ she promised, hand on her heart and stifling a laugh. She turned her attention to Don. ‘But seriously, Dad, will you get the stain out of my jeans? Pleeeeease?’

Don rolled his eyes comically. ‘I will do my best, my flower, I will do my best. Now go and grab the next batch of dumplings out of the steamer, would you?’

‘I’ll get them,’ said Mo, pushing his chair out.

Rhona waved her wine glass at him.

‘I’ll grab the wine too.’ He grinned. ‘And some soap for Carly’s mouth.’

***

After dinner had been cleared up and he’d packed himself a container full of leftovers, Mo sat down with Rhona and Don at the table for one last wine. The candle at its centre was down to a drippy stub and the playlist had moved on to the Eurythmics, Annie Lennox’s voice gliding effortlessly over a backdrop of choppy synth.

Rhona rolled the stem of her glass through her fingers. ‘Hey, Mo, I know we made a promise not to talk shop at the dinner table, but I got an email today you might want to see.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘A woman from Australia wrote to me saying she thinks she might’ve found an old diary of yours. From when you were a kid.’

Mo’s heart careened and his blood pressure dropped. Grateful to be sitting down, he counted a silent inhale to four, held it for a second, and let it rush out again.

‘Mo? You okay? You’ve gone white as a sheet.’

‘Ah, yeah.’ He straightened in his seat and took what he hoped looked like a nonchalant swig of red. He forced a cough to clear the sudden tightness in his throat. ‘What did she say, exactly?’

Rhona extracted her phone from the back pocket of her sailor-style jeans, brought the email up on the screen and slid it across the table to Mo.

He hoped she couldn’t see the tremor in his hands as he picked it up and read the message silently, the words slicing through the sudden chaos in his brain like feedback screeching through a speaker.

QUERY

Netta Phillips <nettaphilly@gmail.com>

To: Rhona van der Wilden

Dear Rhona,

I hope you don’t mind me contacting you, but Google tells me you are Morrison Maplestone’s manager and I have recently found something that I believe belongs to him hidden in my house in Melbourne. It’s an old journal from 1994, and I wondered if you could please ask him what he would like me to do with it. I’m happy to post it to him if he would like it back, or I can dispose of it if he doesn’t want it—just thought I should check. Photo attached!

Kind regards,

Netta Phillips

He placed the phone soundlessly on the table. ‘You think she’s, ah, been to the press with it or anything?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Rhona. ‘But I’m sure we’d know about it by now if she had and I don’t think she would’ve bothered with the email if she was the sort to flash it around. She certainly doesn’t seem to be, anyway.’ Clocking Mo’s raised eyebrows, she added: ‘I did a little digging and found her on a school website. She’s a primary school teacher. Runs regular fundraisers to support kids’ charities. Looks like an ad for multivitamins. Very wholesome.’

Mo felt the seed of dread at his core expanding, ring by ring, into a dark whorl that filled his chest. ‘I’d like to get it back. I don’t want it out there. There’s stuff in it …’ He ran his hands through his hair and squeezed the back of his neck until his muscles protested under the pressure.

‘Like what, Mo? Is it stuff I need to know about if she does take it to the media?’

Mo looked at his friend, her concerned face, her obvious awareness of his sudden discomfort. He’d never told Rhona the whole truth about his messed-up childhood. About his beautiful, drug-addicted mother and her horrible, unnecessary death. He’d never told anyone. Even Mav, his own little brother, barely remembered their mum. Mav had only just turned four when she died, and in lieu of his own memories, Mo had fed him much more palatable, if mostly untrue, stories. And that’s how it had to stay. If the contents of the diary were exposed and Mav found out that Mo had kept the truth from him all these years … Well, Mo couldn’t bear to think about it. Losing Mav, or even just his trust, would kill him.

‘Not really,’ he lied, the dread expanding from his chest down to his belly. ‘But you know I don’t speak about my childhood, and I don’t want to have to start now just because someone’s found my diary from when I was eleven.’

There was a long moment of heavy silence before Don slid his chair out and left the room, giving his wife and Mo a chance to speak alone.

‘So,’ said Rhona, ‘you want it back?’

Mo dug a fingernail into the tip of his thumb until it hurt and nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘Say no more.’ Rhona and Mo had known each other for long enough for her to know pushing him for details would be an exercise in futility. ‘I’ll ask her to post it to me ASAP. It’ll be here within a week or so.’

‘No,’ said Mo, a little too quickly. ‘I don’t want to risk it getting lost. The post is hopeless and I don’t want a courier. It’s too … delicate.’

‘So, what do you want me to tell her? To jump on a plane and hand deliver it to you, my liege?’

Mo thought for a moment, ignoring the smartarse comment. ‘I can’t go to Australia myself,’ he said. ‘It’ll draw attention, and even if it didn’t, I have rehearsals and promos and fittings and all that shit for the gala. I’ll pay for her to come, first class—nice hotel, all that—and if she gives it to me and I can see that she hasn’t read it or flashed it around on the internet or anything, I’ll pay her, I don’t know, ten grand. Do you think that’s enough?’

Rhona straightened her glasses and gave Mo a hard, are-youfucking-kidding-me stare. ‘Do I think a free first-class flight, complimentary luxury accommodation and ten thousand pounds is enough to compensate someone for returning a book to a handsome celebrity?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Mo, what the hell is in that diary?’

Mo looked at her—his manager, his best friend, the person he trusted most in the world outside of his brother—and knew he could never bring himself to tell her the truth.

He scraped his chair back and stood. ‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘Just forward the email.’

Chapter Seven

NETTA

‘I can’t go.’

‘The hell you can’t, Netta!’ spat Freya. ‘Read it out to me again.’

‘Hang on a sec.’ Netta left the phone on her desk and darted through the maze of tables and chairs to snib the classroom door shut. Back at her desk, she wedged the phone between her shoulder and her ear and scrolled back to the top of Morrison’s email. It had lain hidden in plain sight among a deluge of advertising crap and Asos restock notifications since last Friday afternoon, his unfamiliar email address not having caught her attention. She coughed to clear her throat then read out loud.

NOTEBOOK

Morrison Maplestone <momap1984@gmail.com>

To: Netta Phillips

Dear Netta,

Thank you for reaching out and for being discreet about your discovery. I would like the book back but, for various reasons, I’m unable to travel to Australia at the moment, and I don’t trust the post. I know this is an unusual request, but I’m hoping you might be able to deliver it to me personally. I will, of course, cover your return travel to London—first class—and your accommodation and expenses for as long as you choose to stay. I would also like to offer ten thousand pounds as an incentive for not sharing the contents of the diary with the media.

Please let me know if this is a possibility and, if so, when you’re able to come to the UK.

Kind regards,

Morrison Maplestone

‘I can’t go because I have a job, Freya. I can’t casually take a week off when the summer holidays are just around the corner. And if I go after the term finishes, then I’d miss Christmas. And how would I explain that to Pete?’ she asked. ‘“Oh hi, Pete! I’ll see you in a week or so, I’m just flying to London now to return something I can’t show you to Morrison Maplestone. Have a nice Christmas!”’ Netta’s chair creaked as she pulled her legs up into a crossed position. ‘Somehow I don’t think he’d like that very much.’

Freya groaned. ‘Oh, but Netta, seriously! How many times in your life have you been offered a free first-class ticket to London? To anywhere? And you’ll probably even get to meet him!’

‘You know why I can’t go back there,’ Netta said quietly.

Netta was met by a rare silence at Freya’s end of the phone line before her friend spoke again, her tone gentler this time, as though she knew she was treading on shaky ground. ‘I know you said you’d never go back. But what if going back is exactly what you need to do to get some closure? And I bet everyone’s forgotten about it by now, anyway. I don’t think Mitch is even on the telly anymore.’

For a moment, anger flared in Netta’s chest and the urge to tell Freya to back off and mind her own business was almost impossible to suppress. Freya might’ve been one of the only people she’d confided in about Mitch, but that didn’t mean her friend had even the slightest idea what it had been like for her after the affair had blown up. The paparazzi had stalked her. The tabloids had torn her to shreds. She hadn’t been able to go anywhere without fear of being recognised. She’d even had to start using a different version of her name, for God’s sake. Nobody could possibly understand the pain of it without having been through it themselves.

Netta closed her eyes, drew in a long breath, and expelled it as slowly as she could. ‘I’m not going. End of story.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘One hundred per cent. Look, sorry, Freya, I have to go.’

Netta hung up before the threatening tears could spill but the familiar dirty weight had already settled on her shoulders, joined now by the additional burden of Morrison’s proposition. She felt ill—a swirling anxiety-fuelled nausea clouding her thoughts. But there was no decision to make. Not really. Because no amount of money could make a trip back to London worth it. She’d just have to work out another way of getting the diary back to him.

Reading over the email one last time—still stunned that there was an email from Morrison Maplestone in her inbox—she typed her reply.

***

As she drove home from work, Netta allowed herself to be buoyed by the fact that today was pregnancy test day. Thank God for early detection tests—who had the patience to wait until the day before their period was due? She spent the commute blissfully distracted by visions of herself pushing a pram around the botanical gardens. Curled up on the couch with Pete and the baby. Choosing little outfits. She had a good feeling about this one.

Pete wasn’t home from work when she arrived, but she went straight to the bathroom, too anxious to wait. He would understand, and if it was positive, she would pop the test on the kitchen bench where he always left his car keys so he’d see it as soon as he got home, with a little note saying, ‘I’m on my way, Daddy!’ Her heart almost burst at the thought of it.

She pulled a pregnancy test from the bathroom cabinet and held it reverently in both hands as she sent a wish out into the universe: Please let this be the day I see two lines. Morrison Maplestone could keep his money and first-class flights. All Netta wanted in the whole wide world was two glorious, blue, ‘you’re having a baby’ lines.

***

Pete found her on the couch in the shadowy lounge, staring at the switched-off television, when he arrived home a couple of hours later.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Went to the gym.’

Netta sniffed and nodded, not bothering to turn to face him. She heard him walk into the kitchen and the familiar clatter of his keys being dumped on the bench.

‘You’re quiet,’ he said, stepping into the lounge. ‘Everything okay?’

Netta held the pregnancy test up. ‘Nope.’

‘Oh.’

Pete came and sat beside her on the couch, taking the test from her hand, inspecting the lonely blue line that had all but leapt off the stick and punched Netta in the heart two hours earlier. He said nothing, but pulled her in and held her close, and the intimacy of the gesture cracked something open in Netta. She leaned into him as another torrent of hot tears came, seeping into Pete’s shoulder. Surely it shouldn’t still hurt this much the sixth time around? A callus should’ve grown, shouldn’t it, protecting her from repeated injury? But every time it happened, she shattered into smaller and smaller pieces, the disappointment and fear just as raw every time.

‘It’s okay.’ Pete stroked her hair away from her face and thumbed a tear from her cheek. ‘If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. This just wasn’t our month.’

‘It’s never our month, though, is it?’ Netta shook her head sadly, fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. ‘Maybe I’m just too old. I’m forty in a couple of months. I should go and get tests done. You too. Just to see what’s going on.’

‘We didn’t wait too long. It’ll be okay.’ He grabbed a cushion and leaned it against his leg, motioning for Netta to place her head on it, then pulled a blanket from the back of the couch. He arranged it over her, tucking her in with care. They sat together like that until the room was dim, Netta curled into a ball.

‘I need a shower,’ Pete said eventually, gesturing at his gym clothes. ‘Will you be alright for a few minutes? I can wait if you want.’

Netta shook her head and offered him a watery smile. ‘It’s fine. Go.’

Pete flicked the lamp on, bathing the room in a warm glow, and put the television remote within her reach. ‘Won’t be long.’

As she watched him leave the room, Netta took a deep, shuddery breath and clutched the blanket to her chest, her toes curling beneath it against the anguish coursing through her body. It wasn’t fair. Freya had gotten pregnant by accident the first time. By contrast, Netta had been diligent to the point of scientific about conception and it still hadn’t happened.

It was another sign, she thought, that she’d made the right decision about not going to England to return the diary. Her life was complicated enough; if she was ever going to have a baby, getting pregnant needed her undivided focus. Going back there and stirring up the past would be idiotically stressful, and acute stress was something she knew could affect conception.

She sat and pulled her knees up, making herself as small as she could, and picked up the remote. She took a deep, grounding breath, her lungs barely emptied when Pete’s phone chirped from the couch, where it had slid, undetected, from the pocket of his gym shorts.

A message lit up the screen.

I’ve been thinking about you too, gorgeous.

What? Netta snatched the phone up and read it again before the screen faded to black. Who the hell was Tracey?

A second message chimed through.

And I’ve been thinking about our chat a lot. If you’re not sure you still want a baby, you need to tell her.

Netta’s stomach nose-dived as her body swarmed with adrenalin, her skin suddenly covered in goosebumps. She sat stock still, the phone balanced on her now limp hand. Pete was having an affair. She stood abruptly, went to the kitchen and dumped his phone on the dining table.

She wasn’t pregnant.

Pete was being unfaithful.

This was why he’d been so nice lately. To counter his guilt.

She wrenched open the fridge door and reflexively pulled out an opened bottle of wine, desperate for any kind of buffer.

‘Wanna watch something before we go to bed?’ Pete asked, appearing at the kitchen door. ‘Ooh, I’ll have a wine if you’re pouring.’

Turning, Netta looked him dead in the eye and pushed his phone across the table with her forefinger. ‘You got a message,’ she said flatly. ‘Two, actually.’

‘They can wait. C’mon, bring the wine. Let’s watch another Breaking Bad.’

Netta replaced the wine and let the fridge door swing shut. ‘They’re from Tracey.’

A brief flash of terror commandeered Pete’s face before he regained composure. He swiped the phone from the table and punched in his code. His belly contracted with a sudden exhale as he read the messages. ‘I can explain.’

‘Please do.’ It seemed ludicrous that earlier that same evening, Netta had been waiting on the results of a pregnancy test, and now she was bracing to hear an affair confession. ‘Who’s Tracey?’

‘She’s from work. Nothing’s happened,’ he said, miserably. ‘I can promise you I haven’t touched her.’

‘But you want to?’

‘Tracey and I had a thing, ages ago, before I met you, and a few months ago she broke up with her partner and things have been a bit flirty between us since then, I guess. It’s just a bit of fun at work. We don’t see each other outside of the office.’

‘But you text?’

‘Yeah, occasionally.’

‘And you’ve told her you’re not sure about the baby?’

‘Not in those words, exactly,’ he said. ‘But I think maybe she’s put two and two together from a conversation we had the other day.’

Netta took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ‘And does two and two make four, Pete? Is it true?’

‘No. Yes. Sort of,’ he stammered. ‘It’s true that I’m not sure about it anymore.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Netta felt explosive, like there were only seconds to count down before she self-destructed. ‘I thought you wanted it as much as I do!’

‘I did!’ he said. ‘I thought I did. But then when it wasn’t happening, I started thinking …’ He trailed off, his eyes trained on the table. ‘Thinking that maybe if we couldn’t, it wouldn’t be so bad, you know? It might even be a good thing.’

Netta felt as though he’d slapped her across the cheek.

‘Having a baby is a big deal, Netta,’ he said, his tone pleading. ‘It’s hard. Everything changes. And I’m forty-eight. I guess I just feel like maybe I’ve done my time, you know? With Hannah and Sam.’

‘Christ, Pete, you make parenthood sound like prison!’

‘Trust me, Netta, it feels like that sometimes! You have no idea what it’s going to be like until you’re in it.’

‘But if that’s how you feel, why did you agree to try for a baby?’ said Netta, wrestling her voice into a level, measured tone. ‘What would you have done if I’d gotten pregnant? Run for the hills?’

‘No!’ Pete’s head hung over his bare chest. ‘I know trying is important to you. And if you get pregnant, I’ll do it, you know? Be a dad. I won’t leave you high and dry holding a baby. I guess …’ he paused, as though working out how to devastate her as tidily as possible. ‘I guess I just don’t want it as much as you do, that’s all.’

‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

Pete’s eyes met hers then flicked to a coffee stain on the table. He rubbed at it distractedly. ‘I don’t really know what to say.’

‘I want to see the text trail between you and Tracey.’ The words were out before Netta even knew they were on their way. She’d never pried into someone’s phone before, but there was too much at stake here and, quite frankly, fuck it. ‘From the start.’

Pete dropped heavily into a chair, his belly protruding over the top of his boxers, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. When he removed them, his expression gave him away— it was clear he already knew exactly how screwed he was. He straightened a little, scrolled up to the top of the message chain and pushed the phone across the table to Netta with a defeated sigh.

Doubt writhed in Netta’s stomach. Once she saw what she suspected she was going to, she would never be able to unsee it. She thumbed down through weeks’ worth of messages, bile rising in her throat with every innuendo, every mention of the things they used to do to each other, every revolting pet name Tracey called him. It was way past ‘a bit of fun at work’. This was straight-up betrayal, whether it had gotten physical or not. Pete, who had just moments ago been comforting her on the couch, who she’d thought was her safe harbour, who she’d been so sure would be the father of her baby, was no better than Mitch fucking Carlton.

She came to the end of the message chain with a jolt. ‘Gross, Pete,’ she said. ‘Is this why you were horny that night we did it in the toilet? Did you want sex with me because she sent you this?’ She turned the phone to show him the photo Tracey had sent while they’d been watching Breaking Bad. The curve of a breast, a hint of lace.

Pete’s colour drained. He shook his head. ‘No, Netta—’

‘Nope.’ She held her free hand up to him to stop and dropped the phone to the table. ‘Sleep on the couch. Or go and sleep at Tracey’s. I don’t care.’

She swept out of the kitchen and made it to the bedroom before the tears came, hot and uncontrollable, her barren body curled into a ball with her back against the door as her life—her future—crumbled around her.

Chapter Eight

NETTA

The next morning, before her eyes were even open, Netta felt Pete sit on the edge of the bed and reach for her under the sheet. His fingers trailed the side of her waist, over her hip and onto her thigh, the dry warmth of his palm pressing into her skin. For a split, sleepy second, she welcomed it, but as her awareness grew, the revelations of the previous night swooped through her mind like a grass fire, setting flames to her skin under his touch.

She shoved his hand away, rolled over and sat up to face him. He was dressed and ready for the office but looked pitiful and unslept, his face arranged into an expression of pathetic apology. A small box sat in the palm of his hand. He opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

‘Netta, will you marry me?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’ His hangdog expression was doing nothing to warm Netta’s. ‘I love you so much. I know I screwed up and I’m so sorry.’

Netta squinted her still-sleepy eyes at him. ‘So, you’re asking me to marry you because you messed up and I caught you out?’

‘No. I’ve had the ring for ages. There just hasn’t been the right time. I’ve been so busy with work and everything—’

‘And sexting with Tracey.’

Pete looked at her, unblinking, and snapped the ring box closed.

‘I think maybe it’s still not the right time to ask you to marry me.’ He lowered his gaze sheepishly. ‘I know you’re pissed off. And so you should be. You deserve better from me and I’ll give it to you, Netta, I promise.’

She scooted away from him and scrunched the doona to her chest. ‘If I hadn’t seen that message, how long would it have gone on? And how far would it have gone?’ she said. ‘Do you have any idea how stupid I feel?’

‘You’re not stupid, Netta. I am.’ He at least had the decency to look her in the eye for the admission. ‘You’re wonderful. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘Clearly I’m not wonderful enough, Pete.’ She gestured from him to her and back again. ‘Clearly, we aren’t enough for you. Because if we were, I don’t see why you’d need a Tracey.’

Pete shook his head. ‘That’s not true. You’re more than enough.’

Netta held his gaze and her tongue, for just long enough to make the biggest decision she’d made for a long time. ‘The thing is, Pete,’ she started, ‘you’ve made it pretty clear we want different things.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that if I think about what I want my life to look like in ten years’ time, it’s not this. It’s not me wondering if I should be checking your phone every time it beeps. It’s not me freaking out every time you’re late home, imagining you having sex with someone else. It’s definitely not me feeling sad that we never had a baby because you changed your mind. Or if we did have one, it’s not me being made to feel like I trapped you with it.’

‘Netta, what is this?’ Pete’s eyes flared. ‘Are you breaking up with me?’

Netta twisted her fingers into knots, unable to grasp the words she needed. She cast her gaze down to the blanket covering her lap and nodded.

‘Because you found a text message on my phone?’ His voice was sharper, its edges slicing through the tension.

‘Text messages,’ Netta corrected, looking up to him. ‘Plural.’

Pete huffed out a frustrated breath. ‘I know I messed up, but nothing actually happened. There’s no real reason to throw us away.’

‘Seriously?’

Pete held her gaze. ‘Nothing happened.’

Netta couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Those text messages were a long way from nothing in her books. ‘Come on, Pete, whether you touched her or not, none of it is okay. It’s still cheating.’

Pete released a quiet scoff. ‘Calling it cheating seems a bit much.’

‘I’m not going to get into semantics with you, Pete,’ said Netta. ‘It’s a question of integrity. Of commitment! Of honesty! You’re clearly not happy. And to be honest, I’d rather be alone than with someone who isn’t all in.’

‘Be reasonable, Netta! Life isn’t a romance novel.’ He said it like it was exhausting to explain. Like she was a child. ‘Life is, well—it’s life! It’s messy and boring and stressful and then, occasionally, some good stuff happens to balance out the shit. That’s just the way it is. I made a mistake. I regret it, but that’s life. I’m not perfect. Nothing is.’

‘That’s so depressing!’ Netta allowed herself to admit the full extent of what a sad old prick Pete could be. The way he constantly put a limit on fun. The way he boxed her up whenever the kids were around. The way he’d expected her to merge herself into his life while only ever making a token effort to become a part of her world, to get to know her friends, to take a proper interest in her career. ‘And before you say it,’ she continued, ‘I’m not a kid. I know nothing’s perfect. And I know life can be all of those things. But it can also be beautiful and funny and surprising in a good way.’ She paused to draw breath. ‘I can’t trust you anymore.’

‘Right.’ He slammed the ring box onto his bedside table. ‘I guess it’s pretty lucky you didn’t get pregnant then, isn’t it?’

‘I guess so.’

A black hole of silence formed between them, sucking the air out of Netta, scooping up nearly three years’ worth of love and hope and promise and compacting it all into this devastating sledgehammer of a moment.

‘Right. Well, I guess this is it then. Goodbye, Netta.’ He stood and thundered out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

The polite rumble of the Camry’s engine signalled his departure, leaving a void inside Netta’s chest. She felt hollowed out, brittle and huskish. Shaken like a rattle. She checked the time. It was still only seven o’clock.

She tucked her knees to her chest and squeezed them into a tight hug, staring at the door, where her work ID lanyard and keys hung on a hook with her hi-vis yard-duty vest. That’s who she had to be today. Netta the teacher. Netta the suddenly single, probably infertile, almost forty-year-old on the verge of an existential crisis would have to wait until three thirty.

***

Netta let herself into Freya’s house after work and found her friend in the front room, breastfeeding baby Jed on the worn-out couch. The day had stretched out forever, her heart pulling and straining as though strapped to a medieval rack, her limbs distractingly light, like they weren’t quite connected to her. The happy mask she’d determinedly fixed to her face had shattered as soon as she’d gotten back to the car after work, and she’d ugly-cried the entire way from school to Freya’s house in Newport. She looked like shit.

‘Oh my God,’ said Freya, taking in her friend’s puffy, tear-streaked face. ‘What’s going on? Sit, sit.’ She patted the couch and Netta sank down beside her in a jangle of classroom keys, briefly interrupting Jed’s noisy slurping. Freya wrapped her free arm around Netta’s shoulder. ‘What’s happened? Tell me.’

Netta took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Pete and I. We broke up.’

‘Oh, hon.’ Freya’s face crumpled in empathy. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’

Freya squeezed her tighter as Netta sniffed noisily and told her the whole sorry story, the fury and revulsion on Freya’s face growing with every detail.

‘That fucking snake!’ she said. ‘I’ll kill him!’

‘It’s not just Tracey, though. I’ve felt really lonely, lately. He’s always at work and when he’s home, he’s usually chained to the desk.’ Netta paused to allow Freya a snort of derision. ‘And him being so unbothered when the tests came back negative every month was starting to really hurt, because it killed me every time. Makes sense now, I guess. Tracey is just the cherry on top.’

‘Pretty big cherry.’

‘Yeah,’ Netta said miserably.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Freya. ‘You can’t stay in that house with him for another second.’

‘Oh God, I have no idea.’ Her living arrangements hadn’t even occurred to her amid the fog of the day. There was no way she could stay at Pete’s.

‘Why don’t you move back into your apartment?’ suggested Freya.

‘Honestly? I can’t afford to live there anymore,’ said Netta. ‘And even if I could, I’d have to give the tenants at least four weeks’ notice, and that would be a pretty harsh thing to do at this time of year when Christmas is just around the corner.’

Freya pulled her closer. ‘You can stay here with us in the crazy house until you work something out if you like.’

Netta smiled gratefully. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course! You can look after the plant morgue for me,’ Freya said, eyeing the fiddle leaf fig corpse in the corner of the room.

‘I think I’m in trouble, Frey. I can’t cover my mortgage on my own. Not since interest rates went up. I’m already paying the difference between the tenant’s rent and the weekly payments. Even if I just go and rent a crappy studio or a room in a share house somewhere, I won’t be able to pay my rent and make up the shortfall on the mortgage. I’ll probably have to sell it. I’m screwed, Freya. I’ve lost Pete. I’ve probably lost my chance at ever having a baby. And now I’m going to lose my beautiful little apartment too.’ Netta slumped deeper into the couch and closed her eyes. ‘A lottery win would be amazing right about now.’

‘Yeah, the lottery would be great,’ agreed Freya, switching Jed to her other breast. ‘Or, I don’t know—and this might sound nuts, but hear me out—what about if you got an offer of a lot of money from, say, Morrison Maplestone, to return a book to London? Oh, wait …’

Netta fixed her friend with a worn-out expression. ‘Don’t. I can’t do it. I can’t go back there.’

‘Not even if it meant you could keep the apartment?’

Netta felt she was wedged between a wall of fire and a bottomless cliff. Neither direction was going to end well. ‘I don’t know …’

‘Look, I know London is a no-go zone for you,’ said Freya softly. ‘But right now, I reckon you’ve got more to lose by not going. Maybe you need to weigh up what’s scarier.’

Netta knew Freya was right. But Freya also had no idea what going back to London would do to her. How it would curdle her straight back into the scrambled mess she’d been when she’d left. And right now, she was already about as messy as she could get without having a complete breakdown.

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ she said. ‘But it’s not that simple. Anyway, the lottery isn’t my only option, you know.’ Netta attempted a smile. ‘There’s always OnlyFans if things get desperate.’

Freya snorted. ‘Now there’s a good side hustle for a primary school teacher. You should definitely do that.’

Despite herself, Netta laughed. She rested her head on Freya’s shoulder and sighed, gently stroking the hair of the milk-sozzled baby nestled in her friend’s arms.

The brief moment of peace was shattered by Kit squealing from the next room and Maisie shrieking, ‘Mummy! Kit’s biting on my Barbie again so I whacked him!’

Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Last week he bit Elsa’s head right off and stuck it on Anna’s foot like a shoe. She has reason to be overprotective.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Netta, pushing herself out of the couch. Saving the day for two of her favourite little people was just the distraction she needed.

Chapter Nine

MO

There was a blurry, blissful moment of peace when Mo woke early on Friday. The room was dark and comfortably warm despite the cold December morning waiting outside, its feeble light no match for the heavy drapes cascading from the ceiling into a puddle of velvet on the floor in front of the huge bay window.

Still under his blanket, Mo stretched his tattooed arms above his head, rotated his wrists and flexed his guitar-weary fingers as his brain switched back into action. The smoky edges of his dream were still drifting away as reality washed back in, dropping him to his knees like a ninja wave. He groaned. The fucking diary. The woman who’d found it, Netta, had emailed him back to say she couldn’t return it in person and now he felt hogtied, powerless against what the diary would do to his house of cards if she decided to sell it.

He pressed his hands into his face and dug his callused fingertips into his eyebrows, dragging them to his temples. In his mind’s eye, he warily examined the notebook: its worn cover, the red twine he’d wrapped around it, the hiding place he’d left it in once he’d realised his mum might’ve seen it. After she’d died, he and Mav had been wrenched from the only world they knew and sent against their will to the first of many foster homes, ages away from the house they’d shared with their mum. Mo had been so deep in shock when he’d packed that awful day that he’d forgotten to take it with him. When he was old enough to drive, he’d borrowed a mate’s car and gone back to the house, once, to get it, but the woman who’d lived there then wouldn’t let him in, which, in hindsight, was probably fair enough. Not long after that, he’d legged it to the UK with Mav in tow. Far, far away from all of it. He’d hoped the shitty old dump had been knocked down by now—the diary destroyed along with it—but clearly he’d had no such fucking luck.

Instead, the diary had stayed concealed under the loose floorboard, and inside it, among his childish song lyrics and drawings of his dream skateboard, there were awful truths about his mother’s descent into addiction that Mav knew nothing of, and one page in particular Mo had regretted writing for every minute of the thirty years it had lain hidden. Words that had sat like a permanent stone in his gut. Words he knew in his heart had been the catalyst for his mother’s suicide. He desperately tried to drag his thoughts back to the edges of his consciousness where things were softer, but it was too late. The memory thrashed around in his head, torturing him all over again, finding new places to burn him.

He had enough friends who’d done therapy to know that a professional would probably tell him it wasn’t his fault. That what she’d done was a choice of her own, and not his responsibility. But his heart knew the truth. It had known it then. It still knew it now. And the years in between had let that knowing leach into every cell of his body, into every breath he took, into every relationship he dodged. Now, it was just too late to tell the truth. It would ruin Mav, and Mav was all he had left. Mo had painted beautiful memories of their mum for his brother to hold, and he was willing to carry the ugly reality to his grave. But if the diary found its way into the hands of the media, the secret wouldn’t be his anymore.

Mo unclenched his fists, pushed the blanket down to his hips and closed his eyes, one hand on his heart and the other resting low on his stomach. Breathe in for four, hold for four and release for four. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, his feet disappearing into the plush rug, and rubbed the heels of his hands up and down his thighs a few times. A run. A run would reset him. And then he had to pack this up for the day and focus on the new album.

He dressed quickly—shorts and a hoodie he’d stolen from Mav a decade ago—and pulled his runners and headphones on. The day was still waking as he pushed the back door open, the sky holding that secretive feeling it always did so early in the morning. He breathed the promise of it in, savouring the possibility that maybe he was the only person up to witness it exactly as it was, before life rushed in to disturb it.

The gravel of the long driveway crunched satisfyingly under his lengthening strides. He silently counted the trees flanking it to distract him from those first few minutes before his burning lungs realised that, actually, he wasn’t about to die, and instead just opened up and started enjoying the exertion. Mo turned up the volume on his headphones, keeping pace with the first song Spotify had selected from his list of favourites. Mav would have a field day if he ever found out it was usually Kylie’s voice that kept Mo company when he ran. But fuck it—her songs were the perfect escape from his head. They were up and vibey and the total opposite of his hard, driving style, and her voice was the antithesis of his gravelly baritone growl that Rolling Stone had once described as ‘the sound of raw anguish and want’. Whatever the fuck that meant.

The sixth-last tree was his cue to hit the gate remote. A tree later and he’d have to pause for the gate to be open enough for him to get through, and once he was at pace he had to stay there, or that was the end of it. He pounded through the gate and started down the narrow lane that meandered between his house and the village, winding past a few more gates like his, guarding big homes hiding behind huge wooded grounds or expansive manicured gardens. As he neared the village, the homes became more modest, the cars in the driveways less showy, the people more open. He passed the entry to the main street that contained the tiny pub he and Mav loved and the café that served better coffee than he’d ever found anywhere in London, and skirted the edge of the village until he reached the start of the forest trail that would swoop around and take him back home. The dense canopy dimmed the path and he felt his body click into a new gear as he passed the halfway mark of his route.

His phone dinged an email alert through his headphones. He slowed his gait to a walk and fished it out of his pocket.

Netta Phillips <nettaphilly@gmail.com>

To: Morrison Maplestone

Hi Morrison,

Things have changed and if the offer is still there, I’d be available to return the diary in a week and a half.

Yours sincerely,

Netta Phillips

Mo’s sweat ran cold. A thousand words bounced around his brain like flies in a jar, but his response needed only two of them.

Thank you.

Chapter Ten

NETTA

The sun sparkled off the water at Williamstown Beach as Netta and Freya strolled side by side, Saturday morning takeaway coffees in hand, with Maisie and Kit scooting ahead, their faces smeared with ice cream. Netta had barely slept since the break-up and while four nights awake with only her thoughts for company had left her feeling like a deranged rat in a wheel, it had given her a lot of time to weigh up her options.

Freya dipped her face to kiss the downy crown of baby Jed’s head as he snuggled against her chest in the carrier. ‘What made you change your mind?’ she asked.

‘I need the money for my mortgage,’ answered Netta flatly. ‘I can’t lose the apartment when I worked so hard for it. And if I am ever lucky enough to have a baby, I want them to have a stable home. I hated moving around so much as a kid. If I have to go to London to make that happen, then I will. And besides, if I sold it now, I’d never get back into the market.’

‘It’ll be nice to be back in your old place again.’ Freya gave Netta’s shoulder a reassuring pat. ‘I think you’re doing the right thing.’

‘Hope so.’ Netta squinted against the sun and took a sip of coffee. ‘I emailed the estate agent, asking them to give the tenants four weeks’ notice this morning. I feel bad about it, but what else can I do? And they’ll get Christmas and New Year’s there before they have to move.’

‘You shouldn’t feel bad. That’s just renting,’ said Freya. ‘They’ve had a good run there, and at the end of the day, it’s your place and you need it. They’ll be fine.’

Netta winced, guilt still gnawing at her. ‘I know, but—’

‘But nothing,’ said Freya. ‘I forbid you to feel another iota of guilt over this.’

Netta smiled. Freya knew her and her conscience all too well. ‘Noted.’

‘So, tell me the plan.’

‘Well, I guess I’ll do this crazy trip, collect the cash, come home and move back into the apartment once it’s empty. In the meantime, I’ll be your live-in babysitter. Maybe you and Matt can actually have some date nights.’

Freya looked misty-eyed. ‘You mean I can wear grown-up clothes again?’

Netta smiled. ‘Yes, nice ones. And maybe even a bra that doesn’t clip open at the front.’

‘Whoa. Fancy.’

‘Honestly, I just feel like I’m stuck in quicksand at the moment,’ said Netta, returning to the conversation. ‘I need something crazy like this to pull me out. Work has been so full on this year, trying to get pregnant has been a total rollercoaster, and now Pete and I …’

‘It really has been a tough year for you.’

‘Yep.’ Tough felt like an understatement. Netta felt like she’d been run back and forth along a cheese grater, left raw and bloodied, reduced to a pile of shards that she now had to somehow put back together. She’d had it all worked out: she and Pete would have a baby and live happily ever after in the little suburban weatherboard with the neat garden. The End. This sudden plot twist was jarring to say the least, a bomb under her existence to say the most.

‘But, and I hope it’s okay for me to be blunt here—’

‘Nothing’s ever stopped you before.’

‘I never really liked Pete.’

Netta laughed. ‘You say that as though you haven’t made it abundantly clear since the day we started dating.’

Freya gave a sheepish shrug. ‘I’m just saying, I know it hurts like hell right now. I know it’s shitty and depressing. I know Pete is a gigantic hairy ballsack of an excuse for a man. But maybe, in the long run, it might work out to be a good thing.’

They walked in silence for a few metres, Netta letting Freya’s words sink in, doing her best to ignore the envy she felt for her friend’s perfectly put-together life with Matt and the kids. The contrast with her own had never been more stark.

‘So,’ said Freya, her tone lightening, ‘have you told Mr Maplestone that you’ve changed your mind?’

Netta nodded, relieved to have a new train of thought to follow. ‘I have. His manager is booking my flights.’

‘Do you think they’ll work out who you are from your real name being on your passport? I’m assuming you had to give it to them for the booking?’

Netta shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Nobody in the UK knows me as Antoinette and my real name was never used in the media coverage. I was Annie back then. “Annie the Nanny”. I don’t think they’ll join the dots.’

‘And your hair is different now too.’

Netta nodded. ‘And, if Wikipedia is correct, Morrison didn’t move to the UK until the year after I came home, so he probably never even knew about it. It was major in the UK but it barely made the news here.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m still terrified someone will work it out, Freya. I’m so scared someone will recognise me.’

‘You’re being really brave.’ Freya passed her coffee to Netta so she could hoick Jed up a bit and adjust the carrier’s straps. ‘But I bet nobody even looks twice at you. It’ll be fine.’

Netta puffed out a pent-up breath as she passed Freya’s coffee back to her. ‘I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?’

‘So …’ A smile spread across Freya’s face. ‘Let’s distil this, shall we? Are you, Netta Phillips, actually telling me that you’re flying first class to the other side of the planet to meet the one and only Morrison Maplestone?’

‘I guess I am,’ Netta answered. ‘Holy shit.’

‘Holy shit indeed, my friend.’ Freya let out a low whistle as they picked up their pace to catch up with the kids.

‘Can we play on the sand, Mummy?’ asked Maisie as they approached.

‘Sure thing, honey,’ answered Freya. ‘This old mama needs a break anyway.’

Kit and Maisie dumped their scooters in the middle of the path and jumped off the bluestone wall down to the sand. Netta retrieved the scooters and sat down next to Freya, who was swaying in an effort to keep Jed asleep now that the soothing motion of her walking had stopped.

Netta took in her surroundings. The bin fire her life had become was so at odds with this idyllic setting that it was almost offensive. Happy families on the beach. Kids laughing. Seagulls squawking. The bloody sun shining. It was all so rude.

‘I know this might be too early,’ said Freya, ‘but this break-up of yours has been spectacularly timed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, you’re leaving the country next week to meet Morrison Maplestone, Netta. I mean, now that you’re single, you’ll be able to do all the sex with him.’ She waggled her eyebrows.

A snort exploded from Netta’s nose. ‘Oh my God. I’m not going to sleep with him! Get a grip! I don’t want anything to do with any celebrity, ever again. That particular lesson is not one I need to learn twice.’

‘Sleeping is the last thing I’d like to do with Morrison Maplestone,’ said Freya, ignoring Netta’s protests. ‘Sexing is what I’d like to do with him. But given I can’t and you can, you must. You simply must.’ She clutched Netta’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. ‘It is your solemn duty.’ She released her grip and took Netta’s hand in hers. ‘But seriously, maybe this whole thing has happened at the exact right time. Maybe—’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘—you found that diary for a reason.’

Netta closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun, breathed in its warmth, and turned to smile wryly at her friend. ‘Oh, yeah, sure. Maybe this whole ridiculous fiasco is written in my stars,’ she said, theatrically twinkling her fingers up at the sky.

Netta knew Freya was just teasing, but maybe she was on the money. Maybe Netta did need this trip to be able to move forward, and not just in the financial sense or to forget about Pete. She’d been ignoring her time in London—burying it—for years now, but that hadn’t made it go away. Maybe the future she wanted depended on facing the past she’d been trying to forget.

Chapter Eleven

NETTA

First-class travel was something Netta could get used to. Very, very easily. She’d farewelled her students as they skipped off into the Christmas holidays and had flown out horrifically early the next morning. Aside from the sharp splinters of broken heart still lodged painfully in her chest, the flight to London had been a very pretty cocktail of expensive wine and restaurant-worthy food. The armchair seat in her personal travel pod was outrageously comfortable and, to Netta’s delight, had a massage function. Any future flights in economy would be even more torturous now that she knew what was going on at the front of the plane.

As the aircraft began its descent into Heathrow, Netta stretched her arms and legs and ran her hands once again over the soft leather seat. Despite its comfort, she hadn’t slept much. She’d done her best to distract herself with movies but the melodrama her life had become had played on a loop in her mind with cinematic accuracy instead, every detail perfectly lit, every angle covered. It seemed the vast distance between her and home had made no difference to her head—it was still full of worry, still desperately grabbing for ways to pull her life back together. It was dizzying how quickly she’d gone from being in a relationship and trying for a baby to being single and sleeping on Freya’s couch.

As the plane nudged the runway, Netta gazed through the window at the grey weather shrouding Heathrow, its icy teeth already gnawing at her skin despite the cabin’s controlled temperature. The seatbelt sign turned off but Netta remained glued to her armchair, frozen by the magnitude of her return to London and the absurd reason for it. She watched as her fellow first-class passengers left the plane in clouds of expensive fragrance, then reached inside her handbag to reassure herself, for what was probably the hundredth time since she’d left Melbourne, that the diary hadn’t magically vaporised. A thrill raced through her as her fingers closed around it. What on earth did it contain that Morrison Maplestone would be willing to go to such lengths—and such huge expense—to have it returned unread?

‘Did you have a good flight, Miss Phillips?’

Netta was pulled from her thoughts by the gentle purr of the flight attendant’s voice, her face and hair mystifyingly still as immaculate as they had been at take-off.

‘Oh, yes! My first time in first class.’

‘Aha! You’ll never go back now,’ said the attendant with a wink. ‘They don’t have the good stuff back there. Now, let me help you with your bag. I’m sure you’re keen to get into London and start your Christmas holiday!’

Netta walked through the terminal to the baggage claim amid a soupy fog of dread, surreptitiously looking around as she waited for her suitcase to check if anyone had recognised her. Last time she’d been at Heathrow, she’d been running away. Being back again brought a sickening sense of déjà vu and she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Dragging her suitcase from the conveyor belt, Netta hurried to the arrivals gate.

Morrison had said there would be a driver at the airport to meet her, and sure enough, as soon as Netta passed through the gate, she saw a sign bearing her name above the crowd of people waiting to be reunited with their loved ones: empty-nest parents straining to catch a glimpse of their kids returning home for Christmas, lovers agonising through the last few seconds before they could kiss the lips they’d been missing so much, and children holding hand-painted signs welcoming their grandparents.

She nudged through the throngs towards the sign, to find the person holding it was a woman who looked nothing like the neatly suited driver Netta had been imagining. She was in her fifties, Netta guessed, her softly rounded face seemingly untouched by Botox and fillers, instead exuding an arresting quality that demanded far more attention than manufactured beauty. Impeccably sculpted brows arched over eyes that looked as though they’d miss nothing, and her hair was a deep shade of berry, its volume defying gravity and giving her short frame a good ten centimetres of extra height. She wore chunky glasses in a bright shade of blue and her earlobes were weighed down by a pair of giant earrings in the shape of the iconic Rolling Stones tongue. Her sharply tailored black blazer contrasted with the vintage NYC T-shirt she had on underneath, which she’d tucked into a pair of metallic silver cigarette pants that stopped at her ankles to showcase the chunky tartan loafers on her feet. She was magnificent.

‘Netta?’ The woman’s bangles jangled as she lowered the sign and tucked it under her arm.

Netta smiled nervously. ‘That’s me!’

‘I’m Rhona.’ She extended her bejewelled hand to shake Netta’s. ‘Mo thought it might be nicer if I came for you. Hope that’s okay.’

‘Oh, thank you. I would’ve been happy just to take the train. I hope you haven’t gone too far out of your way.’

‘Not at all. And no more talk of public transport. You’re a guest of Morrison, and that, my dear, comes with some advantages. Let’s get to the car, shall we?’

***

Netta settled into the buttery leather of the Merc’s passenger seat and reached for the bag at her feet. ‘Should I give you the diary now?’

‘No, no,’ Rhona said. ‘He wants to get it from you himself.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. I offered to drop it over to his house but he insisted it had to be him who collected it.’

‘I see.’

They sank into silence as Rhona negotiated her way out of Heathrow, Netta using the time to privately cave in at the thought of having to meet Morrison Maplestone in person, her racing heart egged on by the sudden rush of nerves.

‘So,’ said Rhona, ‘how was the flight?’

‘I’ve only ever flown economy so I was pretty blown away,’ said Netta, grateful for the distraction. ‘I mean, the space! It was nice not to have to origami myself into a tiny seat or have to climb over a chronic snorer to get to the toilet.’

Rhona grimaced and opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by her phone ringing loudly through the car speakers. ‘You rang?’ she answered in a put-on posh accent.

‘You answered,’ came the deep reply.

Holy shit. It was him. Netta’s heart rate stepped up to a pace she was sure couldn’t possibly be healthy.

‘I’m just calling to make sure you picked up the right Australian woman from the airport.’

‘Very funny. You’re on speaker, so behave,’ said Rhona, her voice back to normal. ‘Netta’s here with me. We’re on our way to the hotel.’

There was a brief moment of silence before Morrison cleared his throat. ‘Netta, hi. How was the flight?’

‘Um, it was great. Thanks.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Thanks for coming. I know it must seem like madness, but … Well, I appreciate it.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Netta said, desperately resuscitating her composure. Her blood had pooled in her toes, far, far away from her brain. ‘The notebook is safe and sound.’

Morrison paused again. ‘Would it be okay if I collected it in the morning? I’ll let you rest tonight. It’ll be late by the time you get to the hotel and you must be exhausted. I’ll come past at eleven?’

The last drops of blood keeping Netta alive joined their mates in her toes and she felt her face blanch. She turned her head to look at Rhona, whose eyes were fixed on the road, her mouth battling a smile.

‘Ah, yep. Okay.’ Netta had never heard her voice so high-pitched in her life. Morrison Maplestone would be forgiven for thinking he was dealing with a chipmunk. She swallowed and willed her vocal cords to relax. ‘That would be fine.’ Now her voice was coming out weirdly deep. Brilliant.

‘Great, I’ll see you then,’ he said. ‘Rhona, I’ll chat to you soon. I need to talk to you about the gala.’

‘Oh, goodie,’ chirped Rhona, ‘are you going to tell me you’ve done what we talked about?’

‘Ah, no. Not exactly.’

Rhona sighed dramatically. ‘You’re a pain in my arse, Morrison Maplestone.’

‘I love you too, Rhona.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just find someone. Please. The gala’s in five days, my friend. Five days! I’ve already told them you’ll be there plus one. A good one. As discussed! Comprende?’

‘I’m on it.’

The phone cut out and Netta closed her eyes briefly, regrouping. Taking a proper breath. Organising her thoughts. It would be fine! He’d just get the diary and go. It’d be over in a couple of minutes. Seconds maybe.

‘I love him dearly,’ said Rhona, ‘but he really is a pain in my arse.’

‘Have you been his manager for long?’

‘Long? I’ve been his manager forever!’ Rhona laughed. ‘I discovered him when he was twenty-three, busking at a Tube station. I heard his voice and knew straight away he was something special. He’s like family to me now.’

‘So,’ started Netta, ‘I’m not asking you to tell me what it is, but do you know why he’s so keen to have the diary back?’

Rhona glanced across at Netta, then back at the road. ‘You really haven’t read it, have you?’

‘No! Of course not! I couldn’t. I’d die from the guilt of it. Especially knowing how much he wants it back.’

‘Sounds like he’s very lucky it was you who found it then,’ said Rhona approvingly. ‘And to answer your question, no, I don’t know. He’s kept a very tight lid on it from the moment I told him about your email. I’m glad you were able to come and bring it to him, love. I hate seeing him so worried.’

‘Glad to,’ Netta lied. ‘Although, I have to say, I’m shitting bricks sideways, if you’ll excuse my French, about actually having to meet him. Just talking to him on the phone turned me into a blithering wreck.’

Rhona cackled. ‘Don’t worry. He might be famous, but he’s also just a guy. He’s not as cool or prickish as he makes out, I promise.’ She glanced briefly at Netta again. ‘Remind me how old you are?’

‘Thirty-nine. I’ll be forty in February.’

‘Hmm. And are you single or—’

‘Single.’

‘Kids?’

Netta paused. ‘No, no kids.’ Because my uterus is as useless as my taste in men.

‘Interesting,’ said Rhona.

‘Why?’

‘No reason. Just curious. Oh, would you look at that!’ she said as the sparkling lights of London began to gather around them. ‘This part of the drive never gets old.’

Netta gazed out at the edges of the city that had broken her whizzing past.

London. Of all the places in the world, why did it have to be London?

Chapter Twelve

MO

‘I’m on the way in,’ said Mo, his jaw tight, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.

‘Good, good,’ boomed Rhona over a swell of background noise. She sounded distracted, as though she only had one ear for Mo. ‘And then straight from the hotel to the interview, yes?’

Mo flinched at the mention of the interview. Today would be the first time he’d revealed his involvement in Play On. He still didn’t want to, but Rhona was adamant that it would earn him some reputation brownie points, and Play On was worth it. For the past five years, with Mav at the helm and Mo hidden in the background, the charity had provided instruments and musical equipment to disadvantaged schools all over the UK—more and more each year as it grew. Kids who might never have had an opportunity to learn an instrument were getting the chance, and the thought of that made Mo incredibly proud. If he couldn’t get things back on track image-wise and the record company pulled the deal, their plans to extend Play On’s reach to developing countries would be dead in the water. And that would break his heart. He couldn’t let it happen. Not for the kids’ sake, and not for Mav’s either.

‘Yep, straight there after,’ said Mo. ‘What’s all that noise, anyway? Where are you?’

‘Oh, sorry. I’m at the football. Miles’s team is getting absolutely bent over. It’s excruciating. Hang on, I’ll find somewhere a bit quieter.’ The pause in conversation was filled by the sound of Rhona’s breathing as she found a better spot. ‘There. Is that better?’

‘Much.’

‘So, you said you’re on the way to the hotel already? Don’t forget she’s in the primo room—The Queen suite—right at the top of the stairs.’

‘Yeah.’ Mo kept his eyes glued to the road as the traffic swelled around him. ‘Got it.’

A light sprinkling of rain scattered across the windscreen and he gave the wipers one swipe to clear his vision.

‘You’re nervous,’ said Rhona. It wasn’t a question. She knew him well enough to read his voice with scary precision.

‘Yeah. I am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘Did she seem okay to you last night?’

‘Netta? She seemed great, Mo. Seriously. I believe her that she hasn’t read your diary, and there aren’t many people who’d have the integrity to resist that sort of temptation. She seems like a genuinely good egg. In fact, I was thinking— ’ Rhona’s voice was replaced by a scuffling noise and distant cheering. ‘Oh my God, Mo! Miles just scored a goal! My son scored a goal!’

The line went dead and Mo chuckled to himself. Miles was the most uncoordinated kid he’d ever met in his life. Rhona would probably have the ball coated in 24-carat gold and custom-framed.

The mist of rain coating the windscreen picked up as the city swallowed the Jeep, and Mo flicked the wipers on again. He focused on their steady rhythm and deepened his breath in an attempt to ease the knots from his stomach as he slowed for a red light and mentally recited the facts he’d been clinging to for comfort:

1.It’s just a kid’s diary.

2.Netta hadn’t read it, which meant nobody had.

3.It was better to have it in his hands than hidden under a house on the other side of the world.

The traffic lurched forward with the green light and, ready for a distraction, Mo flicked the radio on. He was rewarded with Faith No More’s version of ‘Easy’, one of his top five favourites. He wasn’t a superstitious person, not by any measure, but even so, as Mike Patton’s unmistakable voice cruised through the speakers, the thought crossed his mind that the song could be a sign that everything was going to be just fine. Easy. Fingers crossed, anyway.

Mo passed the gelati-coloured terraces of Portobello Road and parked as close as he could to the hotel, which was thankfully located on the tail end of the street, several blocks from the buzzing market. Rhona, in her wisdom, had pre-arranged his visit with the manager, Xavier, who’d promised to offer as much privacy as possible. Mo unclicked his seatbelt, double-checked his phone was set to private and called the number Rhona had given him.

A glassy male voice answered. ‘Welcome to The Royal Crown, this is Xavier. How may I help?’

‘Hello, Xavier,’ said Mo. ‘I believe my manager, Rhona van der Wilden, has spoken to you?’

Xavier’s accent shed its clipped edges. ‘Is that you, Mr Maplestone?’

‘I’m a bit earlier than we discussed, sorry, mate.’

‘No problem at all, Mr Maplestone. The lobby’s clear. Our guests have all left the hotel for the morning. I’ll meet you at the door.’

Mo grabbed his beanie and pulled it down past his eyebrows, slid on his sunglasses and checked the street. The market was heaving in the distance and there were a few people browsing the shops across the road, but he was close enough to the hotel that if he made it quick, he should be able to get in without being spotted. He slid out of the Jeep, head down, and quickly cleared the distance between the car and the entrance, where Xavier was waiting for him at the door.

‘Hi, mate,’ said Mo as he went inside. ‘Thanks for doing this. Really appreciate it.’

‘No problem,’ said Xavier, closing the door behind them. ‘Your friend was lucky to get a room at such short notice. Last-minute cancellation.’

Mo followed Xavier over dark herringbone floorboards, past frame-filled walls to the bottom of a narrow staircase.

‘The Queen is the suite on the very top floor. No lift, I’m afraid, just the stairs. Old buildings, what can you do?’ said Xavier. ‘You okay to go on your own or would you like me to walk you up?’

‘Nah, I’ve got it,’ said Mo. The adrenalin fizzing through his veins was picking up pace, gathering in his chest. He cleared his throat. ‘I won’t be long. I just have to collect something and then I’m out.’

Xavier nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ He vanished and Mo took a steeling breath, inhaling the heady scent that hung in the air. Cinnamon and vanilla. Maybe. Whatever it was, it smelled expensive. Decadent. Comforting. He took the stairs quietly, two at a time, until he reached the top floor. He glanced at his watch—10:55am. He was only a little early. He strode along the dimly lit hallway to find Netta’s suite.

As he neared the door, his pace involuntarily slowed and his heart rate quickened. The moment had finally come. His past was about to catch up with him.

He came to a halt, raised his hand and knocked.

Chapter Thirteen

NETTA

An irritating banging tugged Netta from the depths of a delicious dream. Eyes still closed, she groggily registered her surroundings: the warmth of a cocoon of blankets, a divine cinnamony scent in the air and the distant sound of people chatting on the street outside. Sleep slipped further away and Netta pushed her sleeping mask up, momentarily confused by her surroundings. Elegantly panelled walls painted in soft duck-egg blue. Art Deco pendant lights hanging in a tiered trio beside the bed. A black-and-white striped blind pulled down over a tall window. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place as she recalled arriving at the hotel late the night before. The polished woman who’d greeted them at reception and the handsome young porter. Rhona walking her up the narrow staircase to her room and her hushed mention of the room allegedly only being available because Luke Evans had cancelled his booking at the last minute. Collapsing into bed, exhausted from the sleepless flight.

The banging started up again.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ mumbled Netta into her pillow.

‘Netta?’ called a male voice. ‘It’s Morrison.’

Shit! Netta wrenched her head off the pillow and grabbed at her phone—10:55am. She’d slept through her alarm and now, the two hours she’d allocated for the task of Getting Ready To Meet Morrison Maplestone were gone. She sat up abruptly and kicked the blanket off. ‘Um, just a minute!’

She dashed to the bathroom. The mirror was not her friend. Mad hair. Pillow creases scarring her left cheek. Chapped lips. Postmortem pallor. She needed a hell of a lot more than a chirpy ‘just a minute!’ to feel ready for this encounter. She dragged her hair up into a top knot and slipped a fluffy hotel robe over her pyjamas. Internal fortitude would have to do the rest.

‘Coming,’ she squeaked. She gripped the door handle and took a steadying breath. Behind the door was a man who belonged to a world she’d been burned by. No—scorched. Charred, even, to an emotionally damaged crisp. He was a portal she couldn’t let herself get sucked in by.

Boundaries, Netta. Boundaries. Give him the diary, get him the hell out, and forget it ever happened.

Heart hammering, she opened the door. Exasperatingly, he was somehow even more magnetic in real life. He wore a beanie pulled down over his forehead to his eyebrows, worn-in jeans and a soft, knitted jumper that showed just a glimpse of a tattoo curling over his collarbone, jet black against lightly tanned skin.

Netta cleared her throat to find her voice. ‘Hello.’

‘Netta. Hi,’ he said, holding up a bag. ‘Breakfast?’

‘Oh, that’s so nice of you,’ said Netta, her defences momentarily obliterated. ‘You really didn’t have to.’

‘Er, I didn’t, actually. I think this must be how they serve it here. It was hanging on your door handle.’ He smiled tightly, his cheeks creasing just enough to reveal the dimples hiding under the stubble, and thrust the bag towards her.

Netta took it from him and silently acknowledged the small piece of her that had just died of embarrassment. As if Morrison Maplestone would’ve bought her breakfast. Please.

‘Um, would you like to come in? I’m sorry I’m …’ She gestured vaguely at her face and dressing gown and winced. ‘I slept through my alarm. I meant to shower before you came over.’

Morrison’s chuckle sounded forced. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

Netta stood aside and let him in, resting her forehead briefly against the door as she closed it, praying for some semblance of composure to bestow itself upon her.

She turned to face him and smiled. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ She wanted him gone, now, but she could be polite. And it wasn’t like he’d say yes, anyway. He probably had a naked supermodel waiting for him in the car. ‘There’s an espresso machine. And …’ She peeked into the bag. ‘Ooh, look—pastries.’

The way Morrison’s fingers twisted around each other revealed his obvious itch for a quick escape. He clearly just wanted out, which was fine with Netta. Quicker the better.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re probably just wanting to get the diary and go, aren’t you? Hang on a sec.’ She scurried over to her handbag and fished it out.

His brow crumpled for a nanosecond at the sight of it, his whole body visibly tighter. ‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly, taking the notebook from Netta’s outstretched hand. His own hand trembled just enough for Netta to notice as he shoved the diary into his back pocket.

‘I put it in a zip-lock bag to keep it safe on the flight.’ Netta could feel her nerves picking up momentum and gathering in her throat, ready to either steal her voice completely or roll it into pellets to shoot, rapid fire, at him. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many books I’ve lost to leaky pens or broken water bottles in my handbag! It’s ridiculous—’

‘Thank you for coming all this way to bring it back to me.’

His voice was thick and as he sniffed, Netta hovered out of her body for a moment, thinking Morrison Maplestone might be about to cry in her hotel suite.

Morrison shook his head and exhaled loudly. ‘I know it must seem insane. But, some things … Ah, it’s hard to explain.’

‘You don’t have to explain anything to me,’ Netta said softly. ‘And I promise I haven’t read it.’

He looked at her as if weighing her honesty. His scrutiny was like a laser, peeling back the layers, until she blurted out, ‘Well, I did open it, even though it said do not read on the front, but it looked like it’d been there forever so I didn’t think there’d be any harm done. As soon as I saw your name on it, I wrapped it back up and that’s how it’s stayed. I haven’t read a word, I swear.’

‘You could’ve sold it,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘The vultures would’ve paid a fortune for it. More than I’m paying you to return it, I’d say.’

‘I know,’ said Netta. ‘But that’s not who I am. I know how important privacy is.’

‘Lucky me then. Thank you, Netta.’ His guard was back up now, his voice composed, his expression unreadable.

‘You’re welcome. Thank you for the first-class flight and this amazing suite,’ she said, looking around. ‘And for the money, of course. You have no idea how deep a hole it’s digging me out of.’

Morrison nodded and shrugged like she’d thanked him for holding a door open for her.

‘So … was that a no to coffee, then?’ asked Netta. ‘Do you just need to get going? I probably don’t know how to work the machine anyway. It’s a bean one.’

He hesitated and then smiled, lips together, his shoulders dropping a little further from his ears. ‘I can probably work it out.’

Netta’s stomach plummeted. Shit.

He slid his beanie off, revealing his mop of dark hair, and rubbed at the back of his neck. Now that his hat was gone, the full impact of his face was on display and Netta was momentarily winded by it. Dark eyebrows. Deep blue eyes. Defined cheekbones above slightly hollowed cheeks. A strong, darkly stubbled jaw. His nose was straight in that regal kind of way that ancient Greek sculptors seemed to have favoured, and his lips were enough to flood even a nun’s head with indecent thoughts, their corners curving up slightly, making him look as though he might be thinking something naughty. It was the sort of face that made your own lips part and your eyes forget how to blink. Netta guessed looking like that was like having some kind of genetically passed-down superpower.

‘How do you like it?’ he asked.

‘My coffee? Er, strong. With milk. No sugar. Thanks.’

‘Same as mine, then,’ he said. ‘Got it.’

Morrison gave her a cute little salute, but, mutinously, all Netta could see was the way his bicep protruded when he bent his elbow and the tattoo on the outer side of his wrist that she had an alarming urge to taste. She gathered her facial features and arranged them into what she hoped looked like a carefree smile. As though this was all totally fine. As though her heart rate wasn’t off the charts and she’d actually drawn breath in the last thirty seconds.

‘I might just go and get dressed,’ she said.

Locked in the bathroom, Netta leaned on the vanity. So much for her boundaries. She tore off her gown and pyjamas and pulled on her favourite jeans and an oversized knit—sleeves scrunched in an attempt to look effortlessly relaxed. She smoothed on some tinted moisturiser and cream blush and thanked her past self for spending $80 on a mani/pedi before she came instead of paying her stupid phone bill on time. The pillar box red she’d chosen popped against the vintage blue denim of her jeans and the pitch black of her jumper. There was something about having her nails painted that made her feel a little more put together—an especially welcome feeling when she was internally unravelling like a dropped stitch.

She surveyed herself in the mirror. Not bad for a two-minute job. She squirted some perfume at the back of her neck and gave her hair a quick brush, letting it fall loose over her shoulders. She stood back from the mirror and nodded a silent affirmation to herself. Internal fortitude, Netta. Be strong.

She followed the scent of coffee up the stairs to the lounge. A terracotta velvet couch was wedged in the corner next to a little kitchenette, and sliding glass doors opened to a big alfresco terrace with comfy outdoor armchairs and a daybed. The view of Portobello Road was postcard perfect and the rooftops of West London stretched to the horizon. Morrison was sitting on the couch, the plated croissants and two coffees on the low table in front of him.

Netta sat down and accepted the cup he offered, avoiding any finger-to-finger contact lest she spontaneously combust. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, taking a sip and reaching for a pastry. ‘Great coffee.’

He smiled tightly and nodded. ‘Little known fact: I used to be a barista when I first came to London. I have the steam scars to prove it.’ He held up his hand and turned it to reveal silvery patches among the inky details of his tattoos.

Netta scraped a croissant crumb from her lip with her top teeth. Even his scars were beautiful.

‘So, what are you planning on doing, now that you’re here?’ he asked, taking the second croissant from the plate. ‘We weren’t sure how long you’d be staying. Rhona booked the room for two weeks, but it’s yours for longer if you need it.’ He took a bite, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he chewed.

‘That’s really kind of you but I don’t think I’ll be staying that long,’ Netta said, dragging her eyes away. ‘Work doesn’t go back until the end of January but I need to move house, so I’d say it’ll be a quick trip.’

He took a mouthful of coffee and leaned back into the couch, holding the cup against his chest. ‘What do you do for work?’

‘I’m a teacher. Grade three.’

His eyes warmed and he smiled, revealing straight white teeth with one tantalisingly crooked incisor. He really was unfairly beautiful. ‘Teaching is such an important job.’

She laughed. ‘I feel like people say that to make us feel better about the fact we’re overworked and the pay’s a bit shit. But I agree with you—it’s really important. It’s just hard to keep the momentum up sometimes. There’s just so much to do, all the time.’

‘I bet.’ He nodded. ‘But I probably wouldn’t be a musician if it wasn’t for my primary school music teacher. He was a legend. He knew I needed something, so he gave me a guitar.’

Netta smiled awkwardly past a mouthful of pastry.

‘But, sorry,’ he said, ‘you were going to tell me what you have planned for your stay.’

‘Ah, well, to be honest, I haven’t made a lot of plans. I used to live here, a long time ago, and I really didn’t think I’d ever come back. If it wasn’t for your diary, I don’t think I would’ve. But you know, sometimes the universe has other plans, doesn’t it?’ She was rambling again. ‘Things are a bit of a mess at home so I’ll probably check out the Christmas markets, maybe see if some old friends are still around.’ That last part was a lie. She didn’t want to see anyone she’d known back then ever again. The humiliation still smarted and she didn’t want to face their pity or scorn, depending on which version of events they’d believed. Now that she wasn’t trying to get pregnant anymore, Christmas would be spent finding the bottom of a bottle of wine. And that would be just fine.

Morrison cleared his throat. ‘Right, well, I’d better get going.’ He stood and drained his coffee cup, took Netta’s from the table, and popped them both in the sink. ‘It was nice to meet you, Netta,’ he said, ‘and thanks again for returning the diary to me.’ He patted his back pocket and reached out to shake her hand.

As her palm pressed into the warmth of his, a liquid longing flowed from Netta’s fingers to every cell of her body. She’d felt this exact sensation before, at the beginning of every bad-idea relationship she’d ever attempted, starting with the mothership: Mitch. It was potent, and a guaranteed entree to a stonking great main course of regret.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, removing her hand and corralling her idiot hormones. ‘I hope it brings back happy memories.’

He stifled a snort and smiled wryly. ‘Enjoy your time in London. And go nuts with the room service or whatever. It’s on me.’

And with that, Morrison Maplestone left the building.

Chapter Fourteen

MO

Mo slid in behind the steering wheel and threw the diary onto the front passenger seat, yanking the car door shut behind him. He’d done it. He’d collected the damn diary, and it hadn’t killed him. His head was heavy against the headrest and he closed his eyes, drilling his focus down to the ebb and flow of his breath as it settled back into its normal rhythm.

Mo hadn’t dared look at the diary directly yet. Even having it—this morbid relic from his past—back in his possession was overwhelming. It was a symbol of a life he’d tried so hard to forget. Proof that he really had been that little boy once. That it wasn’t all just some horrible, fucked-up dream.

As he drove to the Play On office for the dreaded interview, his mind drifted from the diary to Netta. He believed her that she hadn’t read it. Rhona had been right, she was great. Smart. Down-to-earth. Looked around his age. She’d seemed a little nervous but she hadn’t made it weird like lots of people he met did. And she was gorgeous, in a beautifully natural way. No puffed-up lips or blindingly veneered teeth. In theory, she was exactly the sort of woman he should take to the gala. But Netta wasn’t just an ‘in theory’ ideal woman to help patch up his career. She was real, and the thought of using her, or anyone like her, felt all sorts of wrong. He couldn’t do it.

He focused on the road and did his best to sweep his head clear of the clutter. He just needed to get this bloody interview and photo shoot over and done with so he could go home and disintegrate in peace.

He pulled into the carpark and let himself in through the side door. It was a small office with a modest warehouse space for storing the instruments and preparing them to be delivered. The walls were covered in photos schools had sent in thanks, showing students performing and learning to play. There was one photo in particular—a long-haired kid hunched over an electric guitar—that reminded Mo so much of himself that it shook him a little every time he looked at it. The guitar his teacher had given him had changed his life. He hoped he could do the same for one of these kids.

‘Hey, bro,’ said Mav, popping his head around the warehouse door. His face was a softer version of Mo’s: his skin a little fairer, his jaw rounder, his eyes a gentler shade of blue. ‘You ready for your big moment?’

Mo groaned. ‘Don’t. You know how much I hate having to do this. This place was never meant to be a publicity opportunity.’

Mav’s cheeky grin softened. ‘I know, man. But I think this is a really good thing. It’ll be good for your rep and it’ll be good for Play On too. Having you officially attached to it might mean donations, and more moolah means we can buy more instruments.’

For the most part, despite being in his thirties, Mav was still an immature kid, but when it came to Play On, he took things very seriously. At first, he’d been out to prove he deserved the job and hadn’t only been employed because he was Mo’s brother. But it had quickly become a genuine passion for him. Visiting the schools and seeing the difference their donations made had given him direction and he’d put a ton of work into planning the expansion. Mo couldn’t let his own flailing career take that away from him.

‘You don’t think having me attached will be bad for the brand?’ said Mo.

‘Nah. You’re a rock star, dude.’ Mav grinned. ‘You can do seedy shit and then do a couple of good things and you’ll be sweet. And you do way more than a couple of good things. You just have to start letting people see them.’

‘I’m not that seedy.’

‘Not as much now that you’re borderline elderly, mate, but there’s still an element of seed … you modelising, pap-pushing, eternal bachelor.’ Mav winked and gave Mo a gentle shove. ‘Come on, the photographer’s set up already.’

Mo followed Mav out to the warehouse, where lights were set up in front of a stool and a fully loaded drum kit, a trio of guitars and a selection of woodwind instruments.

‘Mo, this is Dillon,’ said Mav, introducing him to a young guy clutching a notepad. ‘He’ll be interviewing us about Play On and—’ A woman with vivid pink hair piled on top of her head emerged from behind the white backdrop. ‘Trina here will be taking your photo. God knows how she’s going to make you look even halfway palatable, you ugly git.’

‘Hi!’ Trina grinned and held out her hand and Mo shook it in a daze, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. Trina’s hair felt like a spectacularly timed fuck you from the universe so soon after being reunited with the diary. His mum’s hair had been the exact same shade.

Mo shook the image of his mother away. He faked a smile and nodded hello to Trina and Dillon, trying hard to anchor himself in the present and not get submerged by the memory of his mum.

‘Right, Mo, let’s get you on the stool,’ said Trina. ‘Are you wanting to leave the beanie on?’

She snapped away, Mo in various positions and poses: wandering through the warehouse; with and without Mav. Mo did his best to look as enthusiastic as possible despite the sickening nostalgia sitting in his gut. Dillon asked all the right questions and, surprisingly, Mo actually enjoyed talking about the great work Play On did and his big plans for its future. It felt good to own it.

‘You okay, man?’ asked Mav once Trina and Dillon had left. ‘You seemed nervous.’

‘Trina—she reminded me of Mum. Threw me a bit, that’s all,’ said Mo. ‘I think it went okay, though. You’re doing an amazing job here, Mav. I’m so lucky to have you running the show. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure my shit doesn’t ruin the expansion plans.’

Mav pulled his brother into a rough hug. He’d been there through every second of Mo’s rise and descent; he got it more than anyone else did. ‘It’s all going to work out, Mo,’ he said. ‘The new album will be a smash and you’ll be back on top of the world before you know it.’

Mo drove home with the stereo off, marinating in the memories that had assailed him during the shoot. It had been his mum’s pink hair he’d been searching for the day before she died as he’d stood on the stage in front of the whole school at assembly, eleven years old, hugging his guitar to quell the nervous shakes. He’d searched the audience, not wanting to start until he found her. She’d promised him she’d be there. But there’d been no pink heads, and eventually, as the prep kids had started to get fidgety, Mr Hammond, the music teacher, had said the show would have to go on. Mo had performed his solo perfectly and the principal had slapped him on the back and told him that he ‘really had something there, son’ and everyone had clapped and cheered, but it had felt like nothing without his mum there. He’d wanted to show her how good he was, for her to be proud of him, saying to people ‘That’s my son!’ He’d wanted her to hear everyone clapping for him. He’d wanted her to care.

Mo shook his head to release the memory. Dust. It was all just dust now. And so was she.

Chapter Fifteen

NETTA

Netta stared up at the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. Seeing it again somehow made being back in London real. This wasn’t some crazy dream she might wake up from at any second. After Morrison had left, she’d decided to rip the band aid off and get out of the hotel. The park was only a short walk away and had seemed a safer place to begin her reintroduction to London than the hubbub of Portobello Market. It had been one of her favourite spots to escape to when she’d lived here—a serenely ordered oasis in the middle of the city’s hustle and bustle. But today, as she chatted to Freya on the phone, it felt less serene and more sinister, like the trees might be watching her and anyone walking past might recognise her as Annie the Nanny. The Long Water was as grey as the sky and the cold breeze swept a shiver through the bare oak and chestnut trees. She pulled her coat around her body with one hand and pressed the phone to her ear with the other.

‘I wish I was kidding, Freya,’ she said, choosing a path to follow. ‘I looked like a cadaver, except jetlagged as well as dead, so probably even a bit worse than your average corpse.’

‘Okay, so you looked like shit, got it,’ said Freya impatiently. ‘But tell me again about the part where you opened the door and Morrison Maplestone was standing there holding up a bag of croissants. Was it the best moment of your entire life? Because I can tell you right now, it’s up in my top five and I wasn’t even there.’

Netta laughed. ‘I mean, when you put it like that, yeah—it was pretty amazing. And he’s so gorgeous, Freya. Even better in real life, if you can believe it. Plus he makes a mean coffee.’

There was a moment of reverential silence as Freya digested this irresistible detail. ‘Was he …’ Freya hesitated, as though frightened of what the answer might be. ‘Was he a secret shortarse?’

‘No! He’s tall. Tallish, anyway. I reckon I was up to his shoulder.’

‘Did you check for sneaky platform shoes?’

‘Converse. Flat as a tack.’

Freya’s sigh conveyed her relief. ‘Thank God.’

‘I felt exactly the same,’ said Netta, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Height is hands-down the single most important asset a man can possess.’

‘You can be as politically correct as you want, Netta Phillips. When you’re a giraffe like me,’ Freya said, referring to her almost six-foot frame, ‘height is important. Half the male population writes you off because they don’t want a woman who’s taller. You don’t know how lucky you are. Shortness greatly expands one’s dating pool.’

‘And yet you’re the one with the great husband and I’m still swimming around solo.’ Netta picked up her pace a little to combat the cold, her breath making clouds of icy mist with every exhale.

‘Maybe you and Morrison will hook up,’ said Freya, an audible smile in her voice. ‘You two would make beautiful babies, you know. Beautiful little tattooed angels with gorgeous voices and dimples.’

Netta laughed. ‘Would my DNA be present in our children at all?’

‘Yes, of course. They would have your weirdly perfect feet.’

‘Well, we don’t need to be worrying too much about that,’ said Netta, slowing to a stop. ‘That whole world is toxic, so it’s a no thanks from me on having his mutant celebrity babies.’ She rested her palm against the mighty trunk of an ancient oak tree and tipped her face to marvel at its web of branches, juxtaposed against the sky’s silvery softness. There was something comforting about its solidity and size, the way it dwarfed her. It had been here long before the Mitch situation and would remain long after Netta—and everyone who knew anything about it—was dead and buried. A morbid thought, but weirdly reassuring all the same.

‘And aside from the very obvious fact that Morrison Maplestone would never even look twice at me,’ Netta continued, ‘I’ve decided to initiate an iron-clad man ban.’ She started walking again, the Round Pond and the palace coming into view.

‘Netta, listen to me,’ said Freya. ‘You will never be as young and attractive as you are right now. Don’t waste yourself just because Pete’s a prick. You should be out there having rebound sex like it’s 1999.’

‘My point, exactly,’ agreed Netta. ‘Not about the rebound sex, but I’m not going to waste myself on men anymore. The whole Pete fiasco has proven that when it comes to me, it doesn’t work with the bad boys and it doesn’t work with the good ones either. I’m better off on my own for a bit. Maybe forever.’

‘Alone forever sounds pretty bleak, if you ask me,’ said Freya. ‘And what about the whole baby thing? You kinda need a man for that.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t, actually. I’ve been reading up about assisted conception and there’s no reason I can’t just try that. One day. If I can afford it.’ Netta stopped at a park bench and perched on a narrow patch clear of bird poo. ‘And anyway, if I can’t make it work with someone who seemed as safe as Pete, then who can I make it work with?’

‘Hang on. What happened with Pete wasn’t your fault.’

‘I guess,’ said Netta, ‘but there has to be a reason why this always happens to me, doesn’t there? I’m the only common denominator in all of my failed relationships. It must be me.’

‘No, honey,’ said Freya. ‘It’s just that relationships are never right until you get the one that is. Otherwise, we’d all still be with the spotty little hornbags we pashed in high school.’

Netta couldn’t help laughing. ‘My high school boyfriend ate my entire pot of raspberry lip balm in maths once. He gave me the empty container back at the end of the lesson.’

‘And aren’t you glad that relationship didn’t work out now?’

‘Very.’

‘Well,’ said Freya, clearly about to impart some wisdom, ‘one day you’ll be glad that you and Pete didn’t work out because you’ll be with someone so much better, and you’ll see that it was never you that was the issue. It was the combination of flavours. Like how chocolate and beer are fine separately but not together, whereas you pair that chocolate with a nice glass of red wine and—BOOM! Match made in heaven. And then you find out the beer has hooked up with a packet of chips and the world makes sense.’ She stopped for breath. ‘You are a fine wine, my love. You just have to find your chocolate.’

‘You really do have a way with words, my friend,’ said Netta, smiling. ‘But I’m still not planning on finding my chocolate any time soon. This fine wine is going solo for the foreseeable.’

‘Fair enough.’ Freya sighed. ‘It’s late here, so I best head off to bed for my seven minutes of uninterrupted sleep before Jed wakes up for a feed. What are you up to for the rest of the day?’

‘Not sure. Every time I think of something I’d like to do, I talk myself out of it straight away because it’ll remind me of what happened with Mitch somehow.’ Netta stood and continued her stroll towards the Round Pond. ‘It’s so strange being here again. I feel really exposed, like in one of those dreams where you’re walking down the street and look down and realise you’re starkers. But nobody’s even looked twice at me yet—I must’ve aged beyond recognition. Maybe I’ll be brave and have a wander around town, maybe hit up my old favourite pub for lunch. Shop for some souvenirs for your little people.’

‘No dinner with a rock star planned then?’

‘No! Can you believe he didn’t even ask for my number?’ Netta’s voice was laden with jokey indignation but in truth, she was relieved she had no reason to have to see Morrison again. Despite the attraction she’d felt to him—she was only human after all—she’d been glad to see the back of him. The transaction was complete. The diary was back in his hands. The money was in her account. It was done and dusted.

‘Well then, if you ask me, he must be another stupid packet of chips,’ said Freya. ‘Even if he is smoking hot and not a secret shortarse.’

As Netta slid her phone back into her coat pocket, she cast her gaze around the park. It was beautiful—even in the freezing cold— not out to get her, as it had seemed to be before. Joggers shuffled by in beanies and gloves and mothers pushed bundled-up babies in expensive-looking prams. The chestnut trees stretched gracefully towards the sky and the grass glistened with a light dusting of frost, sparkling in the winter sun. Kids played and a tai chi group had just finished, the members chatting happily, calm and refreshed from their exercise. So far, it seemed, absolutely nobody was walking around with eyes peeled, hoping for a sighting of a nanny who’d broken up a celebrity marriage twenty years ago. Maybe being back here wouldn’t be as bad as she’d imagined.

Netta stopped and closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the sounds of the park, allowing herself two slow breaths. She was back in London and so far, she was okay. She was surviving the break-up with Pete despite the searing disappointment and heartbreaking betrayal. She’d protected herself against future pain with a watertight man ban that not even the likes of Morrison Maplestone would be able to breach. And maybe solo motherhood would be the answer to her longing for a baby.

Chapter Sixteen

MO

Gravel crunched under the Jeep’s tyres as Mo pulled into his driveway. The heavy gates closed automatically behind him, thunking solidly together in a way that made him instantly more relaxed. Like he was finally off duty. Invisible. He cruised through the guard of sentinel trees and pulled up near the back door, the absence of Mav’s car announcing he had the house to himself.

He entered through the mudroom, then walked through the spotless kitchen and into the lounge. It was his favourite room in the house, stuffed with worn-in couches and armchairs arranged around an oversized timber coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling windows hung with sheer drapes let in muted winter light from the garden beyond, and a huge fireplace flanked by neatly stacked firewood sat empty and cold. Mo arranged some wood in the grate and soon had the beginnings of a fire, flames gingerly licking at kindling sticks, urged on by his gentle blowing. As the fire took, he sat down on his favourite couch—an outrageously comfortable green velvet monster of a thing—and shucked his shoes off. He slid the diary from his back pocket, turned it over in his hands two, three times, then gently tossed it onto the coffee table. Sinking back into the deep cushions, he closed his eyes and focused on the comforting smell of the woodsmoke. The staccato crackle of the fire. The gentle tap of rain on the windows. His breath, deliberately even.

He felt stirred up. Like someone had cracked his head open and taken to its contents with a whisk. Years of stuff pushed down and confined to the faraway corners was suddenly free to whiz around his consciousness again, and all because of the fucking diary. And Netta, too, if he was being honest with himself. He’d felt weirdly exposed in her company, like his guarding walls weren’t quite tall enough and the crocodiles in the moat were on lunch. He’d never talked about any part of his childhood before, and yet the story about his music teacher had leapt from his mouth like a cartoon lemming off a cliff. And then, of course, just to fuck him up even more, there’d been the pink-haired photographer. He let his eyes close briefly, then jumped at the sound of his phone ringing.

‘Rhona,’ he answered.

‘Mission accomplished?’

‘Tom Cruise would be proud,’ he said, eyeing the book on the coffee table, still wrapped in the zip-lock bag Netta had put it in. ‘And the interview and photo shoot went well, I think. They said it’d be in the paper in a day or two.’

‘It was the right thing to do,’ Rhona said. ‘It’s about time the world knew you’re more than just a pretty voice and a bad mood. What did you think of Netta?’

‘She seemed nice. And I believe her that she hasn’t read the diary.’

‘Yeah, but what did you think of her? Is she someone you’d consider, I don’t know, going on a date with?’

‘I thought you said I wasn’t to be looking at the ladies at the moment.’ Mo crossed his ankles on the coffee table and stared into the growing fire, the fledgling flames sending flecks of gold up the chimney. ‘I was led to believe it would be bad for business.’

‘I was just thinking she’d be ideal as your date for the gala, don’t you think?’ Rhona asked. ‘She’s your age, intelligent, attractive—but not in a plastic, walking-filter kind of way—and as far as I could tell, she doesn’t have plans for Christmas Eve. It’s almost like the solution has fallen in your lap, Mo.’

Mo tipped his head back to rest it against the couch. ‘I thought that too,’ he said. ‘But my conclusion is a big no. Capital N.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to use her like that,’ he said, truthfully. ‘She’s not a PR stunt.’

‘But Mo, what if she wanted to go? I mean, she’d get the whole designer dress and hair and make-up experience. She’d be mixing with famous people—’

‘Many of whom are arseholes,’ Mo interrupted.

‘Many of whom are arseholes,’ Rhona agreed, ‘but many of whom are not. And it’ll be a great show. I bet she’d love it.’

‘I don’t know, Rhona, it doesn’t feel right.’

Rhona sighed impatiently. ‘Netta is perfect. She wouldn’t have to do the red carpet or anything if she doesn’t want to. Although it’d be much better if she did …’

‘Can I not do the red carpet if I don’t want to?’ asked Mo, his mouth curling into a smile.

‘Oh, bugger off, darling. You know you have to do it. You’re kind of a big deal.’

The smile in her voice softened Mo’s resolve a touch. ‘I’ll think about it, okay?’

‘Mo …’

Mo braced himself at the change in Rhona’s tone.

‘The record company have called us in for a meeting tomorrow morning. I think it’s fair to say the ice you’re contracted on is getting very thin. Image matters, and yours needs some serious massaging. That magazine article has gone viral, and the pushing over of the photographer really wasn’t helpful.’

Mo sighed. ‘I didn’t fucking push him, Rhona. He threw himself back onto the footpath to make it look like I had.’

‘I know, Mo. But perception is reality, and right now you’re not being perceived in the rosiest of lights. They’re ready to pull the contract. It’s a shitload of money to miss out on, and I know you had plans to use a lot of it for Play On.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘This is all such a load—’

‘Of shit. I know, I know.’

Mo rubbed his knuckles into his jaw.

‘I think taking your brother to the gala would solidify the impression that you don’t take women seriously,’ Rhona continued. ‘I know Netta’s only here for a short time and you’re not about to fall head over heels in love with her and get married and make lots of lovely babies—’

‘Definitely not,’ he interjected. ‘Not with anyone.’

‘I know. But given the circumstances and what’s at stake, it would be smart to have an age-appropriate woman next to you. Someone who looks real and relatable.’ She paused for a split second. ‘And it’s not so bad you know.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Falling in love,’ said Rhona. ‘You shouldn’t block it out forever, Mo. You’re missing out.’

Mo laid the palm of his hand over his heart, safe behind its bony cage, anchored by a deep knowing that giving it to someone just wasn’t something he could ever do. ‘Hmm, well, you never know. I heard a pig flew once.’

‘Hilarious,’ Rhona deadpanned. ‘Okay, I have to go. I’ll send you the meeting details for the morning, and we’re seeing you tomorrow night for dinner, yes?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

Rhona ended the call and Mo cast his eyes around the room. The plants looked like shit. He pushed himself off the couch, grabbed the ridiculous flamingo-shaped watering can Mav had given him for his birthday, and carted it to the kitchen to fill it with water. One by one, he watered the plants, all of them chosen for their ability to be resurrected from the brink of death when he forgot to water them for days on end: peace lilies, a monstera that was threatening to take over the world, and a devil’s ivy that he’d trained to creep over the top of the kitchen doorway.

The fire was crackling enthusiastically now, its glow giving the room a feeling of safety and comfort. Mo took a stick of incense from the box he kept on the mantel. He held it to the base of the fire and watched as it caught, gently blowing the baby flame out to let the scent of nag champa fill the room. His mum had burnt it on her good days and the smell of it still filled him with a sense of home. It was one of the only things from his childhood he wanted to hold onto.

He slumped back into the green couch. Mum. All of this, it all came back to her. The wave of the memory started to engulf him and he knew he was powerless to stop it, so he closed his eyes and braced for the impact.

He’d thought she was asleep at first. She often was, so seeing her prostrate across the bed was nothing unusual. It wasn’t strange to him that he’d had to grill the fish fingers so that he and Mav could eat, nor that it was him who tucked his little brother into bed that night instead of her. She’d been dead for seventeen hours before he’d realised that she wasn’t just asleep.

The facts of that day had haunted him every hour of his life since. That maybe, had he noticed earlier, he could have done something to help her. That he’d watched Blinky Bill with Mav in the room right next to their mother’s cooling corpse. That she had taken her last breath while little Mav was playing on his own in the front yard and Mo was at school.

It didn’t matter that he was so successful now, that he lived in a beautiful home, that he’d played to millions of people all around the world. None of that meant shit. Because deep inside, away from all the bright lights and celebrity ra-ra, he was still that eleven-yearold kid, watching from the doorway as the paramedic zipped up the bag, knowing it was all his fault.

Chapter Seventeen

NETTA

The cold was really starting to bite by the time Netta passed the Diana Memorial Playground, but the kids playing there didn’t seem to notice the weather. The parents of the older ones stood huddled in coats on the perimeter, staring balefully into the distance or absorbed by their phones. The parents of the younger ones watched over the sandpit, negotiated swing set politics, and, in one case, executed an awkward rescue mission to retrieve a little guy stuck halfway up the pirate ship’s mast.

She gazed through the fence at the joyously chaotic scene before her. Kids everywhere, smiles and snot and silliness, crying and shouting, laughing and cuddling. She loved it all. It felt treacherous, pathetic even, to admit it, but she knew the hardest part of breaking up with Pete was that she’d probably also broken up with the possibility of ever having a little nuclear family of her own.

She swallowed hard against the unwelcome lump growing in her throat and rallied. She didn’t need Pete to have a baby. She didn’t need a partner at all. That would just be putting her dream in someone else’s hands, instead of taking care of it herself. She smiled, comforted by the thought that her man ban didn’t necessarily have to mean a baby ban too.

‘The Queen!’

An elderly woman waving at her from a park bench caught Netta’s eye.

‘You’re staying in The Queen suite, aren’t you? At The Royal Crown?’ The woman was dressed in an ankle-length houndstooth coat teamed with a fur-trimmed hat, her make-up meticulous. A small dog was nestled in her handbag. ‘I’m Audrey,’ she said, extending her leather-gloved hand. ‘I’m staying in the ground-floor suite and spied you leaving this morning.’

‘Oh, yes, The Queen—that’s me!’ Netta stepped closer to accept Audrey’s handshake. ‘I’m Netta.’

Audrey shuffled over and patted the seat beside her. Netta sat down, flinching at the growl emanating from Audrey’s handbag.

‘Don’t mind Fletcher. He’s all bark and no bite,’ Audrey said. ‘Now, call me a busybody if you will, but I simply have to have the gossip!’

Netta’s heart sank faster than a brick in a bath. Audrey had recognised her—she’d want the dirt on Mitch. She braced herself against the lead filling her belly and scrambled for a response. She’d known it would happen sooner or later. Why hadn’t she practised what she’d say when it did?

‘I saw that dishy rock star, Morrison Maplestone, coming down the stairs this morning when I was on my way back from morning tea,’ whispered Audrey conspiratorially. ‘And seeing as there’s only one suite up there, I can only assume he was there to see you, my dear.’

Relief flooded Netta’s body. Not Mitch. Morrison! ‘Oh! Ah, yes, he was,’ she said. ‘But nothing juicy, he just had to grab something and then he left. No gossip, really.’

Audrey’s eyebrows disappeared under the fur trim of her hat. ‘Is that so?’

Netta nodded.

Audrey grinned, her whole face lit up with a look of delicious curiosity. ‘I’m intrigued about what you had that he wanted to grab.’

Netta mimed zipping her lips. ‘Just something of his that he needed back. Definitely none of my body parts, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’

Audrey rested her hand on Fletcher’s head. ‘Ah, well, that’s a shame. I know he’s young enough to be my grandson but, by Christ, that man is sex on legs!’

Netta snorted. ‘He is pretty easy on the eyes,’ she admitted. ‘But celebrities are a whole other breed, if you ask me.’

‘Some, but not all,’ said Audrey. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you. I’m off to sneak this little fellow back into the hotel. Maybe I’ll see you around the traps!’

Netta’s stomach rumbled as she watched Audrey set off, slowly, elegantly, down the path. She checked her watch. Her hunger was right on cue for lunch. She made her way out of the park to Bayswater Road, headed towards Notting Hill and turned left into Kensington Church Street. London was well and truly decked out for Christmas. Trees were strung with twinkling lights that would sparkle through the night, shopfronts and cafés were splashed in red and green, and, not too far away, Netta knew her old favourite pub, The Churchill Arms, was waiting to serve up a big dose of nostalgia. It was one of the parts of her London life she actually missed, and not just for its room-temperature beer and cosily cluttered decor. In spring and summer, the pub was covered from top to bottom in an avalanche of colour, a rainbow patchwork cloak of flowers spilling from hanging baskets, window boxes and pots arranged in a stunning cascade to give the impression, from a distance, that the blooms were growing out of the walls themselves. But at this time of year—Netta looked up—the pub was dressed in a winter coat of Christmas trees, at least a hundred, somehow fixed to the exterior walls, leaving just the timber window frames of the lower level and patches of the creamy paint of the upper levels visible. She picked up her pace and, as she got closer, the fairy lights hidden in the branches came into view and gave Netta a thrill. Even now, in broad daylight, it was spectacular, but the sight of the trees lit up at night time was truly magical—a happy London memory that had never left her. For the first time since she’d arrived, Netta felt something close to gladness that she’d come back. Her time living in London hadn’t been all bad; there had been plenty of good times before everything went wrong, and many of them had happened right here, in this pub, going round for round with her friends. And if there was anything that might get her out of her post break-up funk and into the Christmas spirit, it was a Christmas tree–covered building full of booze. Surely.

She came to a stop at the entrance, taking in the polished brass lettering of the sign above the windows, the illuminated ‘Merry Christmas’ above the corner door, and the laughter and clink of glasses coming from inside. Netta felt a warmth in her stomach, like a hug from her twenty-year-old self—a precious moment of reconnection to the girl she’d buried under a pile of shame and regret. She wasn’t ready to forgive her just yet, but being here again was reminding Netta just how young she’d been. Young and appropriately naïve.

She went inside the pub, allowing herself to be enveloped by the happy crowd, the air heavy with the intoxicating scent of beer and Thai food. As she waited at the bar, her phone buzzed inside her bag, announcing a text message.

Hi Netta. Rhona here. Would love to have you over for dinner tomorrow night if you’re free? You won’t get a table anywhere decent this time of year and my husband, Don, is a great cook! Let me know.

Surprised, Netta read the message again. It was a kind offer and she had no other plans. What was she going to do? Sit in the hotel suite by herself?

Hi Rhona—lovely to hear from you. Dinner sounds great. Let me know details.

Netta smiled to herself. She was doing so well. She was at her favourite pub. She was having dinner with Rhona, who she felt sure would be endlessly interesting to talk to—if you could judge someone’s personality by the clothes they wore—and not one single person had recognised her. Things were going much better than she’d feared.

Rhona’s reply was quickly followed by her address: Marylebone. She must be loaded. Netta was about to reply when another message flew in.

And just a heads up that Mo’s coming too. Should be a fun night!

Fuuuuuck. Netta had only just survived her first meeting with Morrison Maplestone. She’d thought that was it. Done and dusted. Sayonara. Diary handed over, blundering behaviour kept to a minimum. She wasn’t sure she could do it again. She wished she were stronger, but this was Morrison Maplestone Rhona was waving under her nose. Once voted sexiest man alive by People magazine. There was no way she’d be able to keep her cool around him for an extended period of time. And throw a wine or two into the mix and the chances she wouldn’t embarrass herself were less promising than those of the proverbial snowflake. Cringey memories of her behaviour at this dinner party would keep her awake at night for the rest of her life.

Netta read the message again. She couldn’t cancel now. That would be rude.

‘What can I get for you? Something to eat?’

Netta’s attention snapped from the phone screen to the young woman behind the bar.

‘I think I just need the wine list for now, thanks,’ said Netta, dropping her phone back into her bag. ‘I need a big old drink.’

Chapter Eighteen

MO

Mo woke groggy, still on the couch, his mind still hemmed in by the shadows that had invaded before he nodded off. The fire had dulled but its warmth lingered, the morning sun muted through heavy clouds. His head felt heavy as he pulled himself up to sit, the diary tucked safely under the cushion he’d been resting on. He slid it out of the bag, his fingers instantly familiar with the texture of the cover as he turned it over in his hands, unable yet to open it but immediately transported back to the time when it had changed his life.

They’d called it an overdose. Nobody had mentioned the word ‘suicide’ to him—he’d only been a kid, after all—but he wasn’t stupid. He’d known that taking too many drugs was something some people did deliberately, because his mum’s friend had done it—and she’d died too. On purpose. His mum had told him her friend had felt like nobody loved her. That nobody would miss her anyway. And then he’d gone and made his own mum, and Mav’s mum, feel exactly the same way. All because of this stupid diary.

After the ambulance arrived, the police turned up. Mo had haphazardly packed a bag of his things and another for Mav, and they’d followed a policewoman out of their house, not yet understanding that it would be the last time they would ever be there.

At the police station, they were guided through the reception area, down a hallway to a quiet room where they’d been given hot chocolate neither of them had felt able to drink. They had no idea what was about to happen but Morrison had wrapped his arms around his little brother and told him they would be okay. He didn’t know that, not for sure, but he knew that Mav needed him to make him feel safe. And after what he’d done, it was the absolute least he could do.

An eternity later, a woman had arrived. A policeman told Mo she was from DHS and that she would arrange somewhere for them to stay until they could locate next of kin to care for them. ‘There’s nobody,’ he’d said. ‘It’s always just been us and Mum.’

Mav, wide-eyed and wobbly lipped, had moulded himself around his brother’s frame, clinging to Mo like a koala to a branch. In that moment, Mo had felt simultaneously indestructible and completely and utterly shit-scared. His heart had bounced between the anguish of losing his mother and the terrifying possibility of being separated from his brother too. But he’d also known, with absolute clarity, that he was Mav’s only protector now—it was his job—and that responsibility had filled him with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed.

‘We have to stay together,’ he’d said to the woman, puffing his chest out and raising his chin. ‘I’m not going anywhere without him.’

The desolation of that day sat just as heavily on Mo now, thirty years later, as it had then. The free fall of having no control was something he remembered acutely. The fear of it. The anger and frustration of having no real say in what happened, just because he was a kid. The sinking realisation that no extended family meant there was no other option than foster care.

Mo took a deep breath and pushed himself off the couch. He took the diary to his bedroom and stuffed it in the back of a drawer, hidden again. He couldn’t get stuck down that burrow today. He had to prepare himself for the meeting with the record company and turn up strong. He was Morrison Maplestone, for fuck’s sake. He’d won a Grammy! And he needed this contract. Play On needed it. He wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.

***

The meeting wasn’t going well. Mo had been told, in no uncertain terms, that the new album had to be on time or earlier and that it had better be the best fucking thing he’d ever made in his life or the contract was off. The words ‘losing relevance’ had been thrown around by a snotty kid practically young enough to be his son. Photos of him and that pap had been shown on a screen (‘it doesn’t matter what really happened, Mo—all that matters are the optics’) and the kid had made a point of the viral stats for the ‘Mo-deliser’ article. It was excruciating. And to make it worse, he had nothing to show them. The album he was working on was nothing but smoke and broken mirrors so far. He had to come up with something concrete or he was screwed. It seemed being Morrison Maplestone wasn’t quite enough anymore.

‘We’ve got strategies in play,’ Rhona said. ‘Mo’s going public about his charity work, finally, and he’ll be taking a proper date to the Christmas Eve Gala.’ She flashed Mo a pointed look.

‘It’s a start,’ said the head executive. ‘But it’s not enough. No more bullshit in the media, Mo. No more outbursts with the paps, perceived or otherwise, and no more drunken photos with twenty-year-old models. It’s getting old.’

Humiliation burned in Mo’s belly. ‘Got it.’

As they left, he stopped in the lobby, weighed down by the knowledge that it wasn’t just his career on the line, but Rhona’s too. Hit hard by the realisation that once again, just like that day at the police station, he really didn’t have much of a choice about what he had to do next. ‘Rhona?’

‘Yeah?’ she said. She looked exhausted.

‘I’m going to ask Netta to come to the gala with me.’

Rhona rewarded him with a pat on the chest. ‘Good move,’ she said. ‘Lucky I’ve already invited her to dinner tonight, hey? You can ask her then.’

Chapter Nineteen

NETTA

Rhona’s double-storey terrace was distinguished from the identical homes on either side by its turquoise front door, upon which a woodpecker-shaped knocker sat at Netta’s eye level, inviting her to announce her arrival. The brass bird and the bright, summery hue of the door made her smile despite the nerves crimping her belly. She’d kept herself busy all day—a long walk, a poke around the market and a jetlag-induced afternoon nap—but nothing had been able to keep the thought of seeing Morrison again from her mind.

Within moments of Netta’s hesitant rat-a-tat-tat, Rhona swung the door open with a flourish and ushered her in, welcoming her with a hug and a haze of citrusy perfume. Netta looked over Rhona’s shoulder as she released her from the squeeze. The house had already knocked her socks off and she’d barely taken two steps inside. The hallway was laid with beautiful timber floorboards the colour of honey and the walls were lined with bold modern art: canvases textured with brushstrokes. No printed reproductions here. High ceilings. A tall archway. A timber staircase. Quirky pendant lights casting a warm ambience over it all. It was beautiful.

‘You didn’t have to bring anything, but this will be lovely, thank you.’ Rhona took the bottle of pinot noir from Netta’s chilled hands and set it on the hall table. ‘Let me take your coat.’

Netta slipped out of her jacket and self-consciously tugged her hem a little further down her thighs. Rhona was decked out in a sparkling, ankle-length kaftan. Netta felt decidedly undercooked in her knitted dress and leather knee-high boots.

‘You look great,’ said Rhona. She hung Netta’s coat on the hat rack near the front door and collected the wine. ‘Come on in. I hope you didn’t get too wet on your way over. I really should’ve just come to pick you up.’

Netta followed Rhona down the hallway, past a beautiful formal lounge lit by an enormous Christmas tree to a big open-plan space, where exposed brick walls rose through a double-height void to the soaring roofline and floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to a fairy-lit garden. Netta swept her gaze around the cavernous space, taking in the long dining table and huge kitchen with deep forest green cabinetry, thick timber benchtops and tiles in various shades of pearl. ‘Oh my God, Rhona, this place is incredible.’

Rhona smiled. ‘We love it here.’

‘Who wouldn’t? It’s an eight-page spread in Home Beautiful.’

‘Don!’ Rhona shouted up to the mezzanine level above. ‘Netta’s here!’

A balding head popped over the railing. ‘Hello there! Welcome!’ Don’s face creased into an easy smile. Netta liked him instantly.

‘Netta, Don. Don, Netta,’ said Rhona. ‘The kids are both face first in their iPads somewhere, I’d say. They’ll surface once they smell the food.’

‘How many do you have?’ asked Netta.

‘Two. Miles and Carly.’ A smile twitched at her lips. ‘They’re teenagers now but they were beautiful once,’ she said drily.

‘Ladies!’ boomed Don, suddenly appearing in the kitchen. ‘Let me get you both a drink!’ He was long-limbed, lean and bespectacled—and dressed head-to-toe in denim.

‘We’re going to need one to get past that outfit, darling,’ Rhona said. ‘Double denim on a fifty-six-year-old man is …’ She trailed off and shook her head.

‘Well, I was going to wear the sparkly kaftan, but you got to it first. What’s a man to do, love?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Okay, are we feeling a red or a white tonight?’

‘Netta brought a pinot,’ said Rhona, swiping it from the bench.

‘Wonderful!’ Don took three luxuriously large wine glasses from the cupboard, expertly removed the cork from the bottle and poured them all a rubber-wristed measure.

‘Thanks so much for having me over, Rhona—and you too, Don,’ said Netta as she accepted a glass.

Don opened the fridge door and started taking out an army of covered plates. ‘Is this your first time in London?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘No,’ answered Netta, watching as plates of sliced mushrooms, slivers of capsicum, fresh prawns, grated cheese, olives and herbs started to crowd the kitchen bench. ‘I used to live here, a long time ago. It feels quite … strange, to be back, to be honest.’

More plates landed on the bench: prosciutto, little balls of mozzarella, strips of roasted eggplant, artichokes.

‘How far back does that fridge go?’ marvelled Netta. ‘It’s like a clown car!’

‘I have a very disciplined packing technique,’ said Don, seriously. ‘You’d be surprised how much you can fit into a fridge if you’re strategic.’

Rhona rolled her eyes. ‘The kitchen is Don’s kingdom. I was banished long ago for disrespecting the dishwasher-stacking regime.’

A bowl of red sauce and a big ball of pizza dough were the final additions to the bench.

‘It’s pizza night,’ announced Don, slapping his palm to the dough. ‘I hope you’re a fan, because otherwise we’re a bit fucked, I’m afraid.’ He locked eyes with Netta.

She laughed. ‘Who doesn’t like pizza?’

‘Psychopaths!’ shouted a young female voice from upstairs.

Netta swung her gaze to Rhona. ‘Carly?’

‘She’s a shy flower,’ Rhona said, laughing. ‘Struggles to speak her mind.’

‘So, tell me, Netta. Why does it feel strange to be back in London?’ asked Don.

Netta paused. Now wasn’t the time for honesty. ‘It’s just been so long—almost twenty years—everything feels the same and so, so different.’

‘Twenty years!’ exclaimed Don. ‘But surely you were but a zygote twenty years ago!’

Netta snorted, her hand flying to her mouth to catch the wine she had yet to swallow. ‘Oh, you’re good,’ she said. ‘I was twenty.’

‘Well then, you’re old enough now to help me roll the pizza dough,’ said Don. He looked up to the mezzanine, where Miles and Carly remained unseen. ‘SEEING AS MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD CHILDREN WON’T HELP.’

Netta pushed up her sleeves and washed her hands in the huge sink. ‘Where do you want me, chef?’

Don pointed to a bench on the other side of the kitchen, where a row of six pizza trays and a rolling pin lay waiting. He divided the dough into equal portions and dropped a piece onto each tray. ‘There’s some flour in the bowl just there so it doesn’t stick.’

Netta sprinkled some flour over each piece of dough, and, of course, all over the front of her black dress. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, trying to dust her belly with one hand while wielding the rolling pin in the other.

‘Here.’ Don threw her a dry tea towel.

She snatched it mid-air, catching it just as the woodpecker declared another arrival at the front door.

Rhona disappeared from the kitchen to answer it and Netta busied herself making an even bigger mess of her dress, the towel doing nothing other than spreading the flour into a bigger, infinitely more noticeable smudge.

Heavy footsteps followed Rhona’s back down the hall to the kitchen and a familiar voice greeted Don behind Netta’s back, causing her stomach to drop so fast and so far it felt like it was holding hands with her colon.

Morrison had arrived.

Chapter Twenty

MO

Even though Mo knew Netta had been invited to dinner, it was somehow still a surprise to see her ensconced in Rhona’s kitchen. But there she was, rolling out pizza dough in a little black dress and sexy boots.

Netta turned around slowly, still holding the rolling pin. She was covered in flour. ‘Oh, hello again,’ she said.

‘I didn’t realise it was that kind of party.’ The left side of Mo’s mouth hitched into a half grin as he rubbed the back of his index finger under his nose.

Netta’s hand flew up to the tip of her nose, which was dusted in white flour. Her cheeks bloomed crimson as she frantically swiped at it with a tea towel and Mo regretted the joke instantly. Not only would she think he was rude for not leading with ‘hello’ like a normal human, now she’d probably think he was some kind of drug pig too. Perfect.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What I should have said was: hello, Netta, nice to see you again.’

‘Yes.’ Netta’s hand hovered over her nose self-consciously. ‘It’s nice to see you again too.’

‘Show me.’ Don gently pulled Netta’s hand away from her face. ‘Clean as a whistle. And we haven’t had that kind of party for quite some time now, Mr Maplestone,’ he added. ‘How are you, mate?’

Mo’s shoulders softened a touch as Don passed him a glass and motioned for him to pour himself a wine from the bottle of pinot on the bench. ‘Not bad, man. This all looks amazing,’ he said.

‘Like I said to Netta here, I hope you like pizza, because if you don’t, you’re going to be hungry.’

Mo grinned. ‘Who doesn’t like pizza?’

‘Psychopaths!’ shouted Carly again from the top level.

‘Does that mean you won’t be having any then?’ Mo called back.

‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’ Carly’s head appeared over the mezzanine railing.

‘Hi, Carly.’

‘Hi, Mo.’

‘Tell Miles to come down, Carly,’ called Don. ‘It’s time to make the pizzas.’

The kids clattered down the stairs and were introduced to Netta while Mo scooped them into hugs. Carly was wearing her favourite jeans again, Mo noted. Don’s laundry skills had obviously passed the test.

Don handed everyone a pizza tray and they all crowded around the bench to pile them up with toppings.

‘Rhona, can you help me take them out to the pizza oven?’ asked Don when they were done.

In a flurry of sequins and denim, expertly carrying three trays each, they made their way through the huge glass doors to the back garden, where a brick woodfire oven sat squat in the far corner, already burning.

Mo looked at Netta across the bench. She was midway through a decent gulp of wine. ‘Did you know I was going to be here tonight?’

She swallowed hastily. ‘Yes, Rhona did mention it.’

‘The thing is, I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, suddenly nervous. ‘There’s something I want to ask—’

‘Christ, it’s cold out there!’ interrupted Rhona, bustling back inside. ‘My nips are so frozen they could poke holes in my kaftan, seriously!’

‘Muuuum!’ cried Carly. ‘You’re so embarrassing!’

Rhona ignored her and motioned for Mo and Netta to join her in the front room, where a fire was roaring away within the marble fireplace and the Christmas tree filled the air with the fresh scent of pine.

‘So, I’m guessing you’re wondering why you’re here, Netta,’ Rhona said as they settled themselves on the overstuffed couches.

‘I thought I was here for dinner,’ said Netta with a nervous laugh. ‘Is there another reason?’

Rhona shifted her gaze to Mo. ‘Mo?’

He stole a quick glance at Netta. She looked decidedly nervous. He took a deep, here-goes-nothing breath. ‘The thing is, I need a date for the Christmas Eve Gala,’ he said.

‘Okay …’ answered Netta. ‘And what does that have to do with me, exactly?’

‘Well, it’s just that …’ Mo steadied his voice. ‘I know this might be weird, but I was hoping maybe you would come with me. As my partner for the night. Not for free, of course. I’d pay you.’

Netta’s eyes popped.

‘It’s not like that!’ Mo suddenly realised how his proposition had sounded. ‘All you’d have to do is the red carpet and sit next to me during the show,’ Mo said. ‘Nothing else. Kind of like an escort, I guess, if you wanted to put a label on it, but less weird. Hopefully.’

Netta’s face suggested she didn’t think his use of the word ‘escort’ was any less weird than tits on a bull.

‘Christ, Mo.’ Rhona rolled her eyes. ‘Should I go and get the shovel so you can dig yourself out of that one? Escort? Really?’

‘Yeah, fair enough. Poor choice of word. Sorry,’ said Mo, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. ‘I’m just not sure how to explain it. What it boils down to is that I’ve had some pretty bad press lately and the record company is threatening to renege on my contract and—’

‘What Mo’s trying to say,’ interrupted Rhona, ‘is that having someone lovely, like you, Netta, with him at the gala would be a good look for him at the moment, and he’s more than willing to pay you for your time, in the same way he’d have to pay for any type of marketing or publicity support. He needs to patch his reputation up a bit or things are looking like they’ll go south very quickly.’

Netta’s eyes crinkled and she released a half-hearted laugh. ‘Sorry. Is this a joke?’

‘No, I’m serious,’ said Mo. ‘You’d be doing me a huge favour. There’s a lot riding on the new album’s success. I can’t lose the contract.’

Netta’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure you have a queue of women you could take who you wouldn’t have to pay.’

Mo hesitated, his cheeks warming. ‘That’s the thing. I don’t, really. I was stupid when I was younger. I got known for only dating women who looked like models or whatever and even then, never really getting into any sort of relationship. And then recently I got drunk and made the same old mistake, and now it’s all over the internet and I’m being peddled as a middle-aged, has-been modeliser who also pushes paparazzi photographers around. It’s not exactly the best look when I’m trying to resurrect my career with a comeback album.’ He rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘I don’t know if you saw the photos, but I definitely didn’t push him, by the way. The guy deserves a star on Hollywood Boulevard.’

‘He’s only ever taken his brother to big events,’ said Rhona, ‘so we thought it would be good PR to have a nice, lovely, age-appropriate date by his side this time. Figuratively flip all the haters the bird and hopefully put a stop to the chatter. Let them move on to the next poor target.’

‘And why have you only ever taken your brother?’ Netta served the question straight to Mo.

Mo flushed. ‘It’s just easier, I guess,’ he said. ‘A lot of women— Argh, it makes me sound like a wanker, but a lot of women just like the idea of me, if you get what I mean.’

‘And you think taking me this time would be helpful for your career?’

‘I think you’d be great. If you’re willing, of course.’

‘But I’m just … normal,’ said Netta. ‘I’m a school teacher, not a model or a celebrity or anything.’

‘But that’s exactly what makes you so perfect,’ said Rhona.

‘Right.’ Netta hesitated. ‘I’m not sure …’ She shifted her weight and re-crossed her legs.

Mo looked at his hands. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s a weird request.’

‘How much—’ Netta cut herself off, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘How much would you be paid?’ interjected Rhona. ‘Five thousand pounds. Right, Mo?’

Mo nodded. ‘Unless you think it should be more, Netta?’

‘God, no!’ said Netta. ‘That’s a huge amount of money as it is.’

She stared into the fire, her lips pressed together as though trying to keep what she wanted to say from escaping. Which, Mo figured, probably meant she was trying to find a polite way to say, No fucking way, you creep.

‘It’s okay,’ Mo said. ‘Forget about it. Sorry. I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.’

‘I’m not uncomfortable,’ she said. ‘I just feel a bit …’

‘Ambushed?’ joked Mo, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Netta half smiled and released a ‘hah’ that might’ve been a laugh but was likely an agreement that, yes, actually, he had ambushed her.

‘No, not ambushed,’ she said. ‘Just … on the spot, or something. And doing something like that … well, I just don’t know if I could do it. But it’s not like I don’t need the money.’

‘Pizza!’ shouted Don, from the kitchen. ‘Would the committee members care to join us?’

‘Ah,’ said Rhona, ‘we have been summoned.’ As she stood, the firelight bounced off her disco-ball kaftan, sending little beams of light skittering across the walls. ‘We can finish this later.’

Again, Netta looked as though she was about to say something, but stopped herself. An almost imperceptible shake of her head didn’t escape Mo’s notice. It strummed at his conscience. He’d made things very, very awkward. He could see it written all over her face.

Chapter Twenty-One

NETTA

Morrison’s question monopolised every corner of Netta’s mind as she re-entered the kitchen. That sort of money would mean she didn’t have to wait to try for a baby on her own. An extra five thousand pounds would mean she could keep the apartment and get started with assisted conception straight away. And at her age, every day counted. But at what cost? She’d kept her head down for nearly twenty years, and here she was being asked to walk a red carpet with one of the world’s most well-known celebrities. She would draw less attention if she stripped off and streaked through Harrods.

Seeing the table set and ready, she did her best to shelve the conundrum as she reoriented herself in the kitchen. The kids were at the bench pouring glasses of Pepsi, fighting quietly about who’d gotten more. Carly was shorter than her brother, despite being the older one. Her hair was cropped short and bleached white, her face a younger version of Rhona’s—softly curved and beautiful— her nose sporting a fine silver ring. Miles was tall—lanky like his dad—and in that not-a-boy-not-a-man phase that meant he looked inherently awkward in his skin. Netta thought them both adorable even as they bickered; clearly, her maternal instincts had kicked into overdrive. The smoky aroma of pizza laced the air and the table was decked out beautifully with eclectically mismatched crockery in every colour under the sun. Long candles flickered from over-thetop candlesticks and bunches of winter heather had been stuffed into coloured glass vases.

‘Oh, Don,’ she said. ‘This is stunning! Like something from a magazine!’

‘Dinner is serious business in this house, my love,’ Don said, pulling a chair out for her.

She sat and gratefully accepted the wine he’d already poured for her—a crisp white that would pair well with the prawn pizza waiting on her plate.

The kids slipped into their seats and Rhona and Don took theirs, leaving the chair right next to Netta for Morrison. As he pulled the chair out, his face folded into a quick, almost bashful, smile—a split-second expression that was still more than enough to dial Netta’s pulse up to sprint mode. She quickly averted her gaze. She couldn’t get distracted by the way his cells happened to be arranged. It was just a face. Everybody had one.

He sat down, grabbed the cloth napkin by his plate and smoothed it over his lap. He smiled tightly at her, the crease in his cheek deepening, and looked down at his pizza. ‘Actually looks pretty good for something I made.’

Don unleashed a dramatic cough from the other end of the table.

‘Okay, something I assembled,’ Morrison corrected himself, smiling.

Netta covertly watched him lift a slice and take a bite. Eating pizza with Morrison Maplestone was categorically absurd. Being offered cash to go on a glamourous date with him was even more so. Not to mention how counter-productive this whole thing— whatever it was—was to the man ban. Swearing off men and then getting embroiled with Morrison Maplestone was like giving up wine and then accepting a job as a sommelier.

‘How’s your pizza, Netta?’ asked Rhona.

‘Oh!’ said Netta. ‘I haven’t even tried it yet.’ Feeling Morrison’s eyes trained on her, she took a slice of perilously loaded pizza and stooped her head to catch its drooping point in her mouth. Just as it reached her tongue, the cheese and prawns she’d merrily piled up gave in to gravity and slid onto the bridge of her nose, splashing sauce over her cheeks. There it was, the event that would keep her awake for the rest of her life. Netta closed her eyes and prayed for death.

Morrison snorted beside her and before she knew it, she felt his napkin—the one that had just been laid across his crotch of all bloody places—being carefully wiped across her face, his hand separated from her skin by nothing but a piece of linen.

He laughed. ‘How’d you manage that? First it was flour and now gourmet pizza toppings. Your nose is into everything.’

Netta groaned. ‘I have a problem,’ she said, opening her eyes to meet his as he took his hand away. ‘My face is very attracted to foodstuffs. It’s genetic. I can’t help it.’

His eyes sparkled with a held-in laugh. ‘Is there a charity I can donate to or something?’

‘There should be.’

Another chuckle escaped him and she couldn’t help but join in. His response had been perfect. He’d laughed and he’d helped. If he’d been too concerned, it would’ve been vomitous. If he’d just laughed, it would’ve been cruel. He’d nailed it.

The rest of dinner was more fun than Netta had imagined it would be. Rhona and Don made her feel like she’d been a part of the fold forever, and spending time with their kids had offered her a window to what her own future with teenagers could be like if she was ever lucky enough to become a mum one day. They all helped to clear up after dinner and once the kitchen was back in order, Morrison was hustled away by Miles, who needed help with a guitar piece he was trying to learn for a school concert.

As they disappeared upstairs, Rhona passed Netta a cup of steaming camomile tea and they sat at the bare table while Don went outside to ‘check on the fire’.

Netta took a cautious first sip and turned to Rhona. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Thank you, Netta,’ Rhona replied. ‘Things are a bit precarious for Mo at the moment. It’s looking unlikely that he’ll be able to deliver the songs for the new album on time and his record label is serious about dropping him. They’re pricks. He’s made them so much money over the years but they’ve got newbies coming up and Mo’s getting old in celebrity years. They’re more interested in who’s got the most TikTok followers these days. Mo doesn’t even have Facebook.’ She raised her eyebrows over the top of her glasses. ‘A reputation slump is the last thing he needs. It could be the straw that breaks the recording deal’s back.’

‘Right.’

‘Plus, I can tell he likes you, Netta,’ said Rhona. ‘It might be a fun night for you. Not to mention financially rewarding.’

Netta shifted uncomfortably in her seat, cast her gaze down at the table and let out a deep sigh. Any normal person would jump at the chance for a night out with Morrison Maplestone. Rhona probably couldn’t believe she hadn’t leapt at it. For a terrifying second, Netta teetered on the edge of telling Rhona why she couldn’t go—about Mitch—but just as the words were about to spill, she pulled them back in. There were plenty of other perfectly plausible reasons to say no to the proposition without exposing herself as Annie the Nanny.

‘You can see how it’s a bit of a weird situation to be in, though, right?’ Netta said. ‘I mean, this whole thing with returning the diary has been strange enough, but this takes it to another level.’

Rhona nodded. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’

‘And things are pretty precarious for me at the moment, too,’ said Netta. ‘I broke up with my partner just before I came here. He was … unfaithful. We’d been trying to have a baby, so …’

Rhona leaned forward and placed her hand over Netta’s, the gesture causing Netta’s throat to thicken. When she spoke again, she had to fight to keep the wobble from her voice.

‘I just don’t know if I can handle being in the public eye when I’m already feeling so raw from the break-up. I’ve seen how hard women get roasted online. If I’m photographed with Morrison the trolls will go to town on me. I won’t be pretty enough or I’ll be too old or too thin or too fat, or my outfit will be wrong in some way. I’m already pretty fragile, Rhona. I think maybe it’s for the best if I just keep myself to myself.’ None of it was a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

‘Come here.’

Rhona wrapped Netta in a huge, motherly hug and Netta melted into her sparkly shoulder for a moment before Rhona took her by the forearms and looked her straight in the eyes.

‘You’ll get your happy ending, Netta. Before I met Don … Well, let’s just say my dating life wasn’t all sunshine and woodfired pizzas. And listen, the trolls are going to troll because they’re sad little fuckers with nothing better to do. They’re like armpit wrinkles—best ignored. Giving them attention won’t make them go away, it’ll just make you sad. But you shouldn’t let them stop you from having this amazing experience—or the money, for that matter. The trolls, that is. I’m sure your armpits are still lovely.’

Netta raised her eyebrows. ‘Armpit wrinkles?’

‘They’re a thing. Trust me,’ said Rhona with a grimace. ‘And another thing. If you’re looking for a world-class eff you for your ex, being photographed in a designer dress and full hair and make-up with Morrison Maplestone on your arm would be one iconic move.’

Netta laughed and wiped a rogue tear from her left eye. Rhona pulled her close again.

‘Hey!’ shouted Morrison from above. ‘I thought I was your favourite!’

‘Of course you did,’ said Rhona, still holding Netta tight.

‘Let me win you back. Come up and listen to your son play,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find he’s positively blossomed under my expert guitary guidance.’

Rhona took Netta by the hand. ‘Looks like you’re in for dinner and a show!’ she said, leading her to the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Two

MO

Rhona shut the door behind Mo and Netta as they left. They hovered on the front step, Mo rubbing his hands together against the cold, their breath making steamy clouds in the night air.

‘I can give you a lift back to the hotel if you’d like?’ he offered. ‘It’s pretty late to be catching the bus.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. No problem at all,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of a drive to get home so an extra twenty minutes is nothing.’

‘That’d be great,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Morrison.’ She wrapped her jacket tight around her body with one hand and fished a knitted hat from her bag with the other, briefly letting the coat go to slide it over her hair.

‘Mo,’ he said. ‘Just call me Mo.’

‘Okay,’ she said with a brief smile. ‘Well, thanks then, Mo.’

‘The car’s just over there.’ Mo pointed his keys at the Jeep and beeped it unlocked. ‘Let’s go.’

He opened the passenger door for Netta and waited for her to get in before closing it and making his way around to the driver’s side. He took a beat before he opened his door, acknowledging the unfamiliar feeling of butterflies smashing around in his belly. He slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the seatbelt across his body, checking that Netta’s was on too before firing the engine. Its throaty rumble seemed even louder than usual in the icy silence.

‘This is nice,’ said Netta, looking around the cabin as they pulled away from the kerb. ‘It suits you.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ he said, pleased. He loved the Jeep. ‘Do you have a car, back home?’

‘Ah, well, I drive a very lovely old 1971 Volkswagen Beetle,’ she said. ‘Cherry red.’

He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Now that’s cool,’ he said. ‘Do you drive it or push it, mostly?’

‘Ha, ha,’ she said drily. ‘For your information, I only have to push it a couple of times a week. It was my mum’s and I’ll never part with it. Probably when it falls apart, I’ll have the pieces framed and hang them around the house.’

Mo chuckled.

‘Or apartment, I should say,’ she continued. ‘My partner and I broke up just before I left, so it’s back to apartment life for me.’

‘It didn’t have anything to do with you coming here, did it?’ Mo said. ‘The break-up?’

‘No, no. It was … Well, it was a lot of things, I guess,’ said Netta. ‘Ultimately, we just weren’t right for each other.’

Mo raised an eyebrow at her. ‘That sounds very diplomatic.’

‘Well, that and he turned out to be a … Oh, I don’t even know what to say,’ she said. ‘It all just turned out to be a huge mess.’

They were silent for a while as Marylebone slid into Paddington, the streetlights smeared like watercolours on the wet road as they made their way to Notting Hill.

‘Dinner was nice,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Rhona and Don are great.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’ he said with a grin of affection for his friends. ‘They loved you, too, you know. You were a big hit. They’ll probably try to adopt you if you’re not careful.’

He caught her smiling to herself out of the corner of his eye. She was so cute in that hat. She was cute full stop. He cleared his throat as though doing so would clear the thought from his mind too, and turned into Portobello Road, void of its daytime colour and throngs of people. A few windows remained lit, glowing signs of life on the otherwise sleeping road. The Royal Crown came into view and Mo pulled over, stopping near the front door.

Netta turned to him as she unclicked her seatbelt. ‘I’ll think about the gala.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, studying her face. ‘As the record company said to me this morning, I need to manage my “optics”.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I know it must seem ridiculous, but having you by my side might help change the narrative, or at least give the media something else to talk about, and I really need this record to go through.’

‘Look, to be honest, I think the whole thing sounds nuts and the thought of me being there making any difference at all seems like a very big stretch,’ Netta said, bluntly. ‘But there’s something I could use the money for, and it’s time sensitive, so if I wait until I can afford it myself, then it might be too late. It’s just … I’m not sure I’d cope with being in the spotlight.’

Mo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and nodded in understanding. ‘There’ll be cameras in your face and a lot of wankery to be honest. We’ll probably end up in the paper the next day—’

Netta nodded. ‘I know.’

‘It’s a whole machine, this career. Lots of moving parts.’ As the words left him, it struck him how tired he sounded. He was tired. Of it all. ‘I need to at least try and keep the ship afloat a bit longer. The fans are expecting another album. I don’t want to let them down. And Rhona’s worked so hard for me. I don’t want to let her down, either. Plus there’s this other thing, something really important, that relies on my financial support. I can’t let it die just because of optics.’

He rested his head back and turned to look at Netta. Her brow was creased in thought. Or worry. Or very possibly a bottomless well of disdain for him and his stupid celebrity problems. Her hand hovered on the door handle, ready to eject.

‘And you really think taking me to the gala would help?’

‘I do. It’d be the first time I’ve taken a woman to anything. And you’re … perfect.’ He felt heat rise in his cheeks. ‘You’d make me look pretty bloody good.’

Netta hesitated, her frown deepening. ‘The thing is, I might not be the best choice if the whole point is to make you look wholesome.’

Mo raised his eyebrows in question.

‘There’s something I need to tell you first.’ Her face was pinched, as though the words were painful to get out. ‘Once you hear it, you might change your mind.’

Mo’s curiosity was an itch he had no choice but to scratch. ‘Is there a bar in there or something?’ He tipped his head towards the hotel entrance. ‘I’ve got time if you want to talk now.’

‘No. No bar.’ She levelled her gaze at him like she was conducting a risk assessment. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes gave them an unnerving quality—like she could see straight into him.

‘You can come up to the suite,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s too cold out here.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

NETTA

Netta climbed the stairs to her suite, silently justifying her snap decision to tell Mo the truth about why she couldn’t go to the gala with him. He was different to how she’d had him pegged; there was a vulnerability about him she hadn’t been expecting, an endearing awkwardness she definitely hadn’t seen coming. He was funny. And seeing him with Rhona and her family had shown him as a real person, not just a handsome fame-bot with a silver spoon shoved in every orifice. She felt she could be real with him. And anyway, all that aside, once he heard about Mitch, he’d retract his request and she wouldn’t have to have that awkward ‘no thanks’ conversation at all. It would be Mo’s decision instead. She wouldn’t have to ruminate on how she’d passed on enough money to fund assisted conception—she could just pin it on Mo’s retraction and move forward with her life, regret-free. Theoretically, anyway. And if he told Rhona about Mitch, well—so what? She’d be back in Australia before she knew it and this whole thing would be just another life experience to file in the archives.

While pondering this, Netta was also acutely aware that Mo, who was two steps behind her on the stairs, had a very close-range view of her rear end. She didn’t know whether to sway her hips a little or keep her climb militantly unsexy. She settled for swinging her bag to the back of her body to conceal her bum as much as possible, just on the off chance he might be looking. Not that he would be. From all reports his taste leaned far more towards the Victoria’s Secret variety.

Reaching the top of the narrow staircase was a relief, her butt cheeks instantly released from their involuntary clench. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, inhaling the lingering scent of cinnamon and vanilla. She was going to miss this place and its lovely smells when she went home.

She turned to see Mo hesitating by the door. ‘Come in,’ she said, sliding her boots off. ‘Let’s go up and sit. I’ll make us some tea.’

Mo closed the door behind him and went upstairs to the lounge, closely followed by Netta. The view was beautiful at night. Lit windows and streetlights sparkled through the frosted air, the rooftops backlit by the soft glow of the winter moon.

‘It must be so nice sitting out there in summer,’ Mo remarked, staring out through the glass. ‘It’s a shame you can’t enjoy it at this time of year.’

‘Yeah, especially when the inside of the suite is so disgusting.’

He smiled. ‘Glad you like it.’ He settled himself on the couch while Netta put the kettle on and arranged two mugs with tea bags, ready to be filled.

She leaned awkwardly against the bench. ‘So …’

‘This is weird, huh?’ he said, over the rumble of the kettle.

‘A bit.’ Netta fidgeted with the tea bags and turned the mugs so the handles were facing the same way. ‘You know,’ she said, breaking into a grin, ‘my best friend Freya would die if she knew you were in my hotel room right now. I can almost hear her screaming at me to jump your bones while I have the chance.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Netta froze, one hand halfway to the kettle and the other pressed to her belly. ‘Um, oh, you see, I’m kind of on a man ban at the moment—’

His not-unkind laughter cut her off. ‘I’m just joking, Netta! I’m not that much of a creep. I’m just here so we can talk, like you said.’ He smiled and arranged his legs into a figure four, his right ankle on his left knee. ‘What’s a man ban, anyway?’

‘I think it’s fairly self-explanatory,’ Netta said curtly, feeling the edges of her soul fray with embarrassment. ‘And anyway, even if I wasn’t on one, you’re not my type.’ She’d never told a fatter, hairier lie in her life.

He nodded magnanimously. ‘Fair enough.’ To his credit, he didn’t seem shocked or offended in the slightest. His quiet confidence was so annoyingly and inconveniently attractive.

‘Okay,’ he said as she set the cups of tea on the table and joined him on the couch. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Okay.’ Netta took a moment to collate her thoughts. ‘Firstly, I want you to know that this isn’t easy for me to talk about.’

He stayed silent, encouraging her to continue.

‘It’s not something I’m proud of, but if you’re going to be seen publicly with me, then it’s something you need to know about.’

‘Whatever you tell me will stay in the vault,’ he assured her, his hand on his heart. ‘Privacy is kind of a thing for me. I get it.’

Netta nodded and briefly closed her eyes to prepare herself. ‘When I’d just turned twenty,’ she started, ‘I moved to London. I didn’t really have any idea what I wanted to do with my life, and my mum had recently passed away …’

Mo leaned back slightly, his gaze softer. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

Netta nodded her thanks. ‘I’d been looking after her, and I didn’t have a plan for what to do after … well, you know. I guess I just picked a spot to run away to and bought a ticket.’

Mo stayed silent. Already bored, probably.

‘Sorry. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,’ said Netta, regretting her decision to open up to him. She could just say no, for goodness’ sake! She was a grown woman! ‘You don’t want to hear my sob story. Don’t worry about it.’

‘No,’ he said softly, those laser blue eyes once again peeling back her layers until she felt he could see inside her head. His Adam’s apple contracted with a hard swallow. ‘I want to hear it. Tell me.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

MO

Mo could feel the dread and anxiety vibrating from Netta next to him on the couch, turned to him but not looking at him. By proxy, he felt nervous too. Hearing she’d also lost her mum had ignited an instant sense of kinship and connection—a rare feeling for Mo, and one that felt precious. Like something to be handled with care. It made the air in the room feel heavier, the space between them shorter. ‘There’s no pressure, obviously. But if you want to tell me, I’d like to hear it.’

She nodded and Mo felt a rush of relief, even gratitude maybe, that she deemed him worthy of her trust. In his line of work, he was never short of people clamouring to be near him, but was starved of people who could be real with him. Sometimes he felt like his fame had made him seem less human. Separate, somehow.

‘When I got here,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know anyone, and I couldn’t pull a beer to save myself so I couldn’t just go and get a job in a bar like most Aussies do. I ended up signing with a nanny agency instead and did a couple of short-term, live-in jobs. I like kids, so it was fun for me, and it gave me a place to stay. It was ideal. Then, after a few weeks, I was sent to an interview for a longer term job at a big house in Chelsea. I had to sign an NDA when I got there. It was all very mysterious. And exciting, too, I guess.’ Netta’s eyes briefly met Mo’s before dropping back to the tea cooling in her cup. ‘The house was next level—it was obvious whoever was interviewing me must be a big deal. There were a few of us there, lined up on chairs in the hallway, like we were waiting for an audition. Which I guess we were, really.’

She raised her eyes again and Mo nodded for her to continue.

‘When it was my turn,’ Netta said, ‘I was taken into a big sitting room and there on the couch was Liza Carlton.’

‘The actress? She used to be married to Mitch Carlton, didn’t she? The guy from Britain’s Brightest Star?’ Mo was unable to hide his disdain. The guy was a cockhead. Arrogant. Talentless. Famous for being rude and discouraging.

Netta flushed. ‘Yep.’

‘Go on.’ Mo could feel his hackles rising already. Any story involving Mitch Carlton was never going to be good. The guy probably couldn’t even spell the word ‘integrity’.

‘The interview went well, and a couple of days later, the agency called to tell me I had the job if I wanted it. I’d be looking after their two young children full time, I’d have a room at their house, and I’d travel with them when they went away on family holidays. It sounded like a dream come true, Mo. It all seemed so glamourous.’

‘So, you took the job, I’m guessing?’

‘Yeah, I did. I couldn’t sign the contract fast enough.’

‘And then?’

‘It started off small. He’d compliment me on what I was wearing, or tell me I looked pretty with my hair a certain way. I was so naïve. I thought he was just being kind, at first. He was so handsome, and he was older and powerful. And he was known for being such a prick to everyone, but he was so nice to me. I’m so ashamed now, but at the time, it was intoxicating. I developed a full-on crush on him. I actually thought I was in love with him.’ Her hands twisted in her lap. ‘It sounds so stupid, I know.’

‘It doesn’t sound stupid,’ he said, his heart squeezing at Netta’s obvious discomfort; her pink cheeks, the cringe clouding her face. ‘You were young, you’d just lost your mum. You were vulnerable.’

She smiled gratefully at him, her eyes shining. Mo was struck in that moment, like a lightning rod in a storm, by just how beautiful Netta was. How soft and open a face could be when someone was being real—it wasn’t something he got to see very often.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. ‘Liza was away quite a lot, filming on location or whatever, and Mitch started telling me things about their marriage. About how they weren’t really happy. That it was all just for show.’

Mo’s gut clenched. He knew exactly where this was going.

‘He started making little moves, here and there,’ Netta continued. ‘Innocent enough at first, I guess. He’d touch my hand or brush my hair away from my face. Stuff like that. Then one day, he gave me a necklace, and when I asked him what it was for, he said it was so I could have something to remember him by when he was at work.’

She paused for a sip of tea, the slight tremor in her hand as she lowered the cup a telltale sign of how difficult it was for her to tell Mo the story.

‘Liza had always been a little frosty with me so it was easy to believe the things he was telling me about their marriage,’ Netta continued. ‘He started to divulge more and more—stuff I shouldn’t have known. Thinking back now, it was so inappropriate to be sharing such personal information with a staff member, but at the time, I thought it meant that he trusted me, and maybe that he liked me, if you know what I mean. I felt so sorry for him … ugh.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘No.’ Netta looked as though a rancid taste had leapt into her mouth. ‘I’m hearing myself say all this stuff out loud and realising how unbelievably stupid I was to fall for it all. He barely even had to try.’

‘Don’t pin this on yourself, Netta,’ Mo said. ‘From what I’ve heard so far, it’s all on him.’

Netta took a deep breath. ‘It gets worse.’

Mo tightened his grip on the handle of his mug, wishing it was Mitch Carlton’s neck. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

‘I’ve come this far.’ Netta shrugged. ‘So, one night he came home upset. He’d been drinking, and he was crying and carrying on in the kitchen. I asked him what was going on, and he told me that Liza was having an affair and that they were getting a divorce. He seemed devastated, Mo. Genuinely. And of course, bleeding heart that I am, my instinct was to comfort him. He asked if he could have a hug and I gave him one.’ She paused to shake her head admonishingly. ‘And then before I knew it, he kissed me. And, Mo, I kissed him back. Because I wanted to, and because I thought the light was green. I thought if Liza was doing the dirty on him and they were breaking up, then I wasn’t technically doing anything wrong—if you take the whole boss–employee factor out of the equation.’

‘And even then, it would’ve been him being inappropriate, not you,’ Mo said.

‘Yeah. Well, things quickly became even less appropriate, if you get what I mean.’

Mo pressed his lips together and nodded, doing his best not to picture her with that complete waste of oxygen.

‘It went on for a while. Liza was away, working on location, and when she came home, she worked it out pretty quickly. I am not wired for subterfuge, it seems.’ Netta smiled self-consciously. ‘She had a photographer follow me one day and he got photos of Mitch with his hand on my bum, whispering in my ear. The photo went nuts. It was everywhere. I was the “home-wrecking nanny”. My job was gone, of course, and then Mitch did a tell-all interview about it and said I’d pre-meditated the whole thing. That I’d lied to him. That it was me who’d told him that Liza was having an affair and that he’d been so shattered that he’d let me seduce him when he was a broken man. He blamed it all on me.’

Mo shook his head, baffled by the way some men thought they could treat women. He hadn’t been an angel himself, obviously, but he’d always, always been honest.

‘I couldn’t go anywhere without a photographer trailing me,’ Netta added. ‘Or someone screaming at me that I was a slut.’

‘I hate that word,’ said Mo.

‘Me too. But it wasn’t the worst thing I got called, believe me. You know how loved Liza is—people seemed personally offended that I’d hurt her. And because I’d signed an NDA when I accepted the job, I couldn’t defend myself without breaking the agreement. I could barely afford a coffee in those days, let alone legal fees. It was so awful, Mo.’

‘That greasy fuck,’ said Mo. ‘Was Liza even having an affair?’

‘No! I think that was one of the worst bits about it. He’d orchestrated the whole thing. He manipulated me and I fell for it all like an idiot. Hook, line and sinker.’

‘First of all, you weren’t an idiot. You were young and he took advantage of his “status”,’ he said, making air quotes. ‘Secondly, the weasel let you take the fall for it and then went on his merry way. Am I right?’

Netta nodded. ‘Yep. Liza actually did end up divorcing him, as you know, but it all just slid off him like water off a duck’s back. Most people believed his stupid story, and the people who didn’t, didn’t care either way. I was just collateral damage. The disposable nanny. I left London straight after and went back to Melbourne.’

‘I’ve met him, you know,’ Mo said. ‘I was a guest judge on his shitty show a few years back.’

‘What was your take on him?’

‘Pure dick. So puffed up with his own self-importance.’ Mo fought the urge to reach for Netta’s hand, settling for what he hoped was meaningful eye contact instead. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Netta. I hope you know that. None of it.’

Netta cast her gaze down to her lap, but Mo could see her face had crumpled. When she looked up again her eyes were glassy with tears, but her expression was stoic.

‘So, there it is. My big story.’

‘Thank you for trusting me with it.’

Netta sighed deeply. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything, but I’m worried if I go to the gala, someone will recognise me and they’ll dig it up again, which would honestly break me to pieces. And you’d get swept up in it too, which seems counter-productive, given the whole point of taking me is to lessen your existing shitstorm. So, I guess what I’m saying is, I understand if you want to retract your offer. It’s probably not a good idea for either of us, given the circumstances. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone who’d make the whole thing a lot easier.’

She had a point. It was messy, no question. But sitting there with her, in that moment, Mo knew he’d choose her messy over someone else’s easy any day. ‘You know what, Netta?’ he said. ‘Mitch Carlton, the magazines … all of them can get fucked. Let’s just go. Have a good time, hey?’

Netta looked surprised by his response. She’d clearly been expecting him to back away from her like she was a ticking bomb—like she was damaged goods, sure to cause another dent in his already pummelled reputation. But it was the opposite. Her opening up to him had been like a blast of fresh air. He found himself hoping for her to just say ‘yes’.

Her brow folded into an irresistible frown. ‘I don’t know, Mo,’ she said. ‘I’ve played it quiet for nineteen years. I’ve spent thousands of dollars on therapy. Even my social media accounts are under a made-up name. You can’t imagine what holding onto such a big secret does to you.’

Mo swallowed. Little did she know.

‘But I feel like I’m on the other side of it now,’ she continued. ‘I just don’t know if it’s worth the risk of opening that particular Pandora’s box all over again. But I’m torn, because I really do need the money.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘I hope that’s not crass to say.’

‘Not at all,’ Mo said, the reminder that this was a business proposition suddenly making his growing fondness for Netta feel misplaced. ‘This is business—it’s only fair you be paid. You help me, I help you.’

Netta nodded, her face closed. ‘Right. Well, I’ll think about it.’

Mo stood to leave. He wanted to hug her goodbye. Or maybe a handshake would be more appropriate. ‘Have you got your phone on you?’ he asked instead. ‘Let me give you my number. You can call me when you’ve made your decision.’

As she entered the digits into her phone, Mo’s heart pinballed. He could count the number of people he’d entrusted his number to on one hand. He just hoped he was right about Netta.

Chapter Twenty-Five

NETTA

Netta woke late, and messy. Her head was strewn with the debris of last night’s confession to Mo, his proposal sitting in the middle of it all like a boulder. She’d stayed up deep into the night, researching the costs of different assisted conception treatments—which varied wildly—and had come to the conclusion that if she didn’t take him up on his offer, she’d pretty much have to choose between trying for a baby and keeping the apartment. Either she said yes to Mo and his money and exposed herself to the media—set flames to the work she’d done to heal from the Mitch fiasco—or she said no and saved for having a baby herself, which would take ages. And at her age, and with her track record of not getting pregnant, waiting too long would be a gamble.

And then there was Mo himself. She was hardly going to act on it, but she couldn’t deny her attraction to him. He’d been so easy to talk to about Mitch, which was an unexpected—but welcome—discovery. He seemed like a genuinely good guy, but her instincts hadn’t exactly been spot-on in that area in the past, and regardless of how nice Mo was or wasn’t, she wasn’t sure she was keen on being used to brighten up his murky image. It was all so fake. And weird. Then again, the money he’d offered was a Jurassic-sized bone from the universe, thrown directly at her feet just when she needed it.

The debate wore a circular track in her brain as she stared at the ceiling, still cocooned in the warmth of the hotel bed, still one step removed from the reality of her situation, Mo’s number still burning a hole in her phone.

A dire caffeine deficit eventually dragged her from the bed. She didn’t have the bandwidth for deciphering the coffee machine so she showered, dressed and went out into the chilly morning, tugging her hat down over her ears as she walked to the café a few doors down from the hotel. The sky was a deep bruise of threatening rain but the vibe on Portobello Road was pure festive joy. The market’s buzz could be heard blocks away and the crowd of shoppers straggled down past the hotel, carrying the ubiquitous Notting Hill shopping bags stuffed with treats and trinkets. The thrill of it pepped Netta up a little. She might be lugging around one of the biggest decisions she’d ever have to make, but it was still Christmas, and despite everything, the magic of it always held her up a little, above real life and all its mess.

The café was busy, its checkerboard walls festooned with Christmas decorations, the scent of ginger and sugar waltzing with the aroma of coffee through the cheery din. Christmas carols hummed under the chatter of friends catching up for a quick holiday cuppa, colleagues grumbling about still working this close to Christmas and parents treating kids with hot chocolates and pancakes to fill the torturous gap between the end of the school term and the big day. Netta looked around. Not a single free table. She joined the snaking line to order a takeaway instead.

‘Netta! Netta, over here!’

She spun around and leaned back to see past the line’s tail to find Audrey, the woman from the park, waving at her from a table on the other side of the café. She was wearing an impeccable pink and green outfit that matched the café’s décor.

‘Come, sit!’ Audrey called, gesturing to the empty seat at her table.

Too polite to decline, Netta left the line and weaved her way through the crowd to join her.

Audrey folded her newspaper and smiled at Netta. ‘Good morning, dear. What a lovely surprise to see you again!’

‘And you!’ said Netta. ‘Looks like you were lucky to manage a table.’

‘Fletcher and I always get a table.’ She reached down and Netta saw Fletcher happily working his way through a gingerbread man– shaped dog biscuit on the floor. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Audrey. ‘This place is dog-friendly. No smuggling needed here.’

Audrey called over a waiter, who took Netta’s order for an explosively strong coffee, and as he left their table, she drew a circle in the air around Netta’s face with her index finger. ‘I’m sensing some stress. Something happened with your rock star?’

Netta smiled. ‘He’s definitely not my rock star, but I did see him again last night.’

Audrey’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And?’

‘I’m in a bit of a pickle,’ admitted Netta. ‘He’s asked me to do … I don’t know, I guess it’s a job? And I really need the money he’s offering, but doing it would be majorly compromising. I don’t know what to do.’

Audrey’s expression was unreadable. ‘I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re not talking about being some kind of drug mule or the like.’

Netta snorted. ‘Oh my God, no! Ha! He’s just asked me to do something to help him out. He wants me to go to an event with him—like a date, but fake, obviously. And he’s offered me a fair bit of money to do it.’

‘And do you need the money?’

‘I do.’ Netta had an overwhelming urge to tell Audrey everything, to offload the weight to an objective third party. ‘I want to have a baby, but I’m on my own,’ she confided. ‘And I don’t have the money to pay for—’

‘IVF et cetera?’ Audrey finished.

‘Exactly.’

Audrey looked wistful. ‘I wish I’d tried it,’ she said. ‘It was so new back then and by the time I felt like I could trust it, my eggs were already hard boiled. We tried for a long time, but I went through menopause early, sadly. My husband and I, God rest his gorgeous soul, we desperately wanted a family.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Netta.

‘It’s okay. We still had a wonderful life, full of travel and dogs.’ She smiled and scooped Fletcher up onto her lap. ‘But if you truly want a baby, and you have an opportunity that might make it possible, then I’d tell you to go for it, Netta. It’s a hard desire to let go of.’

Audrey’s story settled on Netta like snow, its chill curling around her heart. She didn’t want to have to let go like Audrey had. ‘It’s just that I had a very bad experience with a celebrity once,’ she said. ‘So getting involved with another one feels dangerous. And being seen in public with Mo would be … madness, frankly.’

‘Oh, yes, Mitch Carlton, right?’ Audrey stirred her tea with one hand and scratched Fletcher’s little head with the other.

Netta was agog. ‘You know about that?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve got a bit of a brain for faces, so I recognised you right off the bat. I didn’t mention it because I thought you’d rather the past in the past and all that. That’s where it belongs, after all.’

Netta’s stomach burned. ‘I … I …’

‘I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Mr Carlton through work a few times back in the day, around the same time the affair hit the news,’ Audrey explained. ‘Highly unpleasant individual, that one, so I didn’t believe a word of his ridiculous story. But I’ve known enough celebrities to know that most are quite decent—if a little spoiled—so I very much doubt your rock star slithers as low to the ground as Mitch. Perhaps you might think about getting to know Morrison a little before you decide what sort of a person he is.’

‘Okay, consider my curiosity officially piqued,’ said Netta, stunned by this glimpse into Audrey’s past. She dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned forward. ‘Are you famous?’

‘Me? Lord, no!’ said Audrey. ‘I was a make-up artist for the BBC for years though, so I’ve met my fair share of big names.’

‘That must’ve been an amazing job,’ said Netta. ‘When you weren’t dealing with the likes of Mitch, anyway.’

‘It was,’ said Audrey, smiling. ‘Fast and glamourous. Tough and exhausting. It was my life for a long time. And if it taught me anything, it’s that celebrities are just people—some lovely, some awful, like all of us—so if you feel like you can trust this fellow and you need the money he’s offering for a chance at having a baby, then maybe you should at least consider his proposal.’

‘I’m worried it’ll open a door to the past and I’ll be the slutty nanny again.’

‘I doubt that’s ever really what you were, my girl.’ Audrey patted Netta’s hand. ‘Seems far more likely you just made an error in judgement with a man in possession of exactly no scruples.’

‘That’s an understatement.’

‘And now you’re in a situation where you have to choose whether that error gets to dictate the rest of your life.’ Audrey gave her a pointed look, her perfectly made-up features quickly softening into an expression of compassion. ‘Or not.’

‘I hear you. But it’s not that easy, Audrey. I don’t know what to do. I feel like a clock’s counting down and I have to disarm a bomb, but I don’t know whether to sever the blue wire or the red one.’ Netta slumped. ‘If I make the wrong choice, I could destroy everything.’

The waiter arrived at the table with Netta’s coffee and Audrey gave Netta’s hand an affectionate pat before she pushed herself up from her chair. ‘I’d love to stay and chat, dear, but I’ve got a shopping trip with the merry widows to get to,’ she said.

‘The merry widows?’

‘Oh, it’s just a silly thing we’ve started saying,’ said Audrey with a laugh. ‘Every Christmas I come and stay in the city to spend the holiday with my two best girlfriends. We’ve all lost our husbands now, you see,’ she explained. ‘We go to the theatre, buy clothes, have Christmas lunch at Claridge’s. Horribly extravagant of course but if you can’t blow your money when you’re eighty-four, when can you?

‘Perhaps I should leave you this,’ she added, pushing her folded newspaper towards Netta. ‘There’s a story in the entertainment section I think you should read while that coffee blows your head off. Might help you with the red-wire, blue-wire problem.’ She patted Netta on the shoulder as she squeezed between the tables. ‘Hold fast to your dreams, Netta. Nobody else will.’

Netta waved goodbye as Audrey left the café, silently hoping she would be as impressive as Audrey at that age—she made being an octogenarian seem like something to look forward to. Netta took a sip of her masochistically strong coffee and opened the newspaper, rifling through to the entertainment section.

PLAY ON! MORRISON MAPLESTONE’S HIDDEN HEART OF GOLD was the headline and underneath was a photo of Mo looking predictably handsome, surrounded by instruments. The story detailed Mo’s secret charity work providing musical equipment to underprivileged schools all over the country and funding the wages of music teachers. They’d interviewed kids who’d benefited, principals and teachers who raved about the difference Mo’s donations had made to their music programs and student engagement, and Mo, who talked about how learning an instrument and enjoying music supports mental health and wellbeing and helps kids with literacy and numeracy. How education should be fair and equitable and how music was an essential part of the curriculum, not a luxury.

Netta sat back in her seat, her coffee cooled and forgotten. In the article, Mo had talked about his plans to expand Play On into developing countries. Maybe that’s what he’d been talking about last night when he said there was something important that relied on his financial support; maybe it was the expansion of Play On that depended on this new record deal. Netta tapped her fingertips, one by one, on the newspaper, absorbing this new information. This philanthropic side of Mo was an unexpected discovery. And it was hot. It also made it clearer which wire to cut, if accepting his offer might play a small part in making sure the expansion went ahead—Audrey had been right about that. She retrieved her phone from her handbag, her stomach already turning cartwheels at the prospect of who she was about to call.

He answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Mo, it’s Netta.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Hi.’

‘I just saw the article in the paper,’ she said. ‘Play On sounds amazing.’

‘Ah, yeah. Thanks,’ he said.

‘I haven’t decided yet, about the gala,’ said Netta, nerves sending a crackle of electricity through her entire body at what she was about to say. ‘But I was thinking, maybe we could hang out this morning and see how it goes?’ Netta’s heart stopped. She had not just asked Morrison Maplestone on a date. This was just a business strategy. Nothing more. ‘After all,’ she hurried to explain, ‘if I do decide to go, nobody’s going to buy it if we don’t enjoy each other’s company. Maybe we need a test run.’

‘I’m kind of already— Actually, could you be in Shepherd’s Bush in half an hour?’ he asked.

‘I think so.’ Netta took an instantly regrettable gulp of cold coffee.

‘Great,’ said Mo. ‘I’ll text you the address.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

MO

Mo scuffed the toe of his ancient Dr Martens against the carpet and checked his watch. Nine fifty-five. Netta would be arriving soon and, at the thought of seeing her again, the butterflies from last night were playing an enthusiastic encore in his belly. There was something about her—lots of somethings, actually—and the anticipation of seeing her again sent a buzz of nervous energy through him. Last night, he’d felt more seen than he had for a long time, and the thrill of it was a little confusing given he’d spent so much of his life hiding behind a persona. But she also made him feel like he could relax a little. Breathe. Be himself. Being with her had made him feel like he’d taken his sunglasses off—everything had looked a little different. Brighter.

There was a knock at the door before it opened. The receptionist of the escape room smiled nervously at him as he stuck his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, Mr Maplestone, I’m Callum— we met at reception. Your, er, teammate is here.’ He pushed the door open to reveal Netta standing behind him, a huge handbag slung over her shoulder and that knitted hat on her head again, a takeaway coffee in each hand.

‘An escape room?’ She held a coffee out to Mo. ‘Have you booked the whole place?’

‘Yeah, I did.’ Mo puffed out his cheeks and scratched the back of his neck. ‘I know it’s weird. It’s just a thing I do when I’m stressed out. Helps me focus,’ he said. ‘Or something like that, anyway.’ He didn’t know why, but the finite nature of the challenge seemed to soothe him. The black and white, right or wrong of it was so different to his life in the public eye. Out there, his success depended on so many factors beyond his control. In an escape room, it was all on him, and he liked that.

He took a sip of coffee. She’d remembered how he liked it, and for some reason that small kindness felt profound

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to chug those coffees,’ interrupted Callum. ‘No food or drink allowed in the escape room.’

Netta had already taken a box from her handbag. ‘Oh, no snacks?’

‘Normally it’s no snacks.’ Callum was clearly uncomfortable with having to assert authority. ‘But I’ll make an exception for you, Mr Maplestone,’ he said. ‘My mum and granny absolutely love your music, they do. Mum had “Music Box” playing when I was born, so technically, your voice is the first one I ever heard. Isn’t that weird?’

Netta raised an eyebrow as she offered Mo a cookie. ‘Wasn’t that song about—’

‘It was a song about a music box,’ said Mo, cutting her off with a quick grin. ‘And that’s lovely, mate. Tell your mum I’m honoured.’

‘Music Box’ had been one of Mo’s first big hits and its lyrics had set off a long debate among his fans about whether or not it was a euphemism for something that was probably not that appropriate to have provided the soundtrack to the birth of a baby. Or possibly, now that he thought about it, was very appropriate.

‘Okay, so your game is set to begin in ten minutes,’ Callum continued. ‘Your Games Master will be with you soon to talk you through the challenge. I’ll see you when you’re done.’ He flashed them a sly grin. ‘If you escape, that is.’

As Callum shut the door behind him, Mo turned to Netta, his nerves crackling. ‘So, you haven’t decided not to come to the gala?’

‘Definitely still thinking about it.’

‘The whole fake date thing is kind of weird,’ admitted Mo. ‘Even for me.’

‘Super tropey.’ She grinned. ‘Like we’re in one of those cheesy romance movies where they have to pretend to be a couple to win an inheritance, or get a promotion or something. This—’ she gestured around them at the escape room signage, ‘—would absolutely be the start of a montage.’

Mo snorted. ‘Ha! Yeah. I guess I’ll have to throw some snow at you at some point and maybe you’ll wipe ice cream off my face and then we’ll fall in love even though we really, really don’t want to.’

‘But not before we go for a bike ride around a lake where one of us falls in, but like—adorably,’ said Netta. ‘And then another romantic interest will come along for one of us, but it won’t work out because even though they’re absolutely perfect, they’re not the one our hearts really want.’

‘Yeah, because true love conquers all, right?’ Mo demolished the rest of his cookie.

‘If only,’ said Netta, shaking her head. ‘Imagine if life was really like that.’

‘I’d have to carry a bucket with me at all times.’

‘Good morning, players!’ boomed a voice from behind them. Mo and Netta turned to see the Games Master, who was clearly just Callum dressed up as a bearded wizard, standing behind them. ‘Your challenge awaits. In a moment I will escort you to the Magic Shop, where you will be surrounded by wonder and mystery.’

Mo looked at Netta. She was trying her hardest not to laugh, a cookie crumb clinging to her bottom lip. Her very, very nice bottom lip.

‘The wizard has cast a dastardly spell on the village and has vanished, leaving the townsfolk to live a miserable existence,’ announced Callum. ‘It is your mission to return the village to the happy place it once was. When you’re inside the room, the doors will be locked. The only way out is to find the clues to break the spell. Do you accept this quest?’

Mo and Netta nodded solemnly.

‘Very well,’ Callum said. ‘Follow me.’

‘And let the montage begin,’ Mo whispered.

Netta’s giggle faded quickly once the escape room’s door shut firmly behind them. ‘Whoa, this is— Wow,’ she said, looking around. She turned and tested the door. ‘We’re really locked in here, huh?’

Mo nodded and cast his eyes around the dimly lit room. Floor-to-ceiling timber panels lined the walls and shelves were loaded with dusty spell books, jars filled with potions and strange pieces of equipment. A gilded cage contained a live rabbit and a clothes rack held a selection of velvet robes. On the counter sat an old-fashioned cash register and a stuffed parrot, and behind the counter was a narrow door, partially covered by a beaded curtain. On a low table, crystals and gems in bowls vied for space with glass balls and clusters of coloured feathers, and a rack displayed a shiny selection of silver lamps and jugs. Tarot cards lay scattered on the floor. Banners bearing strange symbols hung from the ceiling. Fat candles in every colour were dotted around the shop and soft music played in the background.

‘Is that a window over there?’ asked Netta, pointing to a curtain on the other side of the room. ‘Maybe we could let some air in?’

‘Let’s have a look.’

Mo stepped over a pile of magic carpets to reach it, and as he pulled the curtain back, a wooden shutter was revealed, open just enough to allow a peek through. He closed one eye and pressed the other to the opening to see the ‘view’ of the village scorned by the wizard. A woman appeared to be pleading for help in front of an apothecary and the street around her was littered with sleeping townsfolk, all out cold on the footpath.

‘It’s not a real window,’ he said to Netta, drawing back. ‘Take a look. I think it’s a clue.’

Netta peered through the crack. ‘This is the result of the spell he cast on the town?’

‘I guess so. Either that or everyone’s been going a bit too hard on the mead.’

Netta’s grin came and went quickly. ‘Okay,’ she said, her cheeks flushed. ‘I guess we should split up to look for clues if we’re ever going to get out of here.’

Mo looked around, taking in the clutter and chaos of the shop. ‘May the force be with us.’

A huge grandfather clocked ding-donged to let them know that five minutes had passed already.

Twenty minutes later, they’d discovered three of the five clues they’d need to find the wizard and save the villagers from eternal sleep, and Netta was starting to look highly uncomfortable, her face flustered and her breathing shallow.

‘You okay?’ asked Mo.

‘I thought I was over it.’

‘Over what?’

She looked up at him as though only just remembering he was there. ‘When I was a kid, my cousin locked me in a wardrobe and it scared the crap out of me. Made me a bit claustrophobic for a while. This hasn’t happened for ages—I’m so sorry.’ She pressed her palm to her chest. ‘I feel like I can’t breathe properly,’ she said, sinking to the floor, tucking her legs in and resting her forehead on her knees. ‘I really need to get out of here.’

Mo crouched down beside Netta, wondering briefly if he should hug her but settling for a pat on her back. Remembering the emergency exit button he’d noticed next to the locked door, he stood and strode across the room to the intercom and rang the buzzer. Once, twice, three times. No answer.

‘I think our mate Callum might’ve taken a smoko.’

Netta was deep breathing now, her eyes fixed on the carpet in front of her feet, her hands clasped tightly around her knees.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mo. ‘I’ll get us out of here.’

They’d already worked out the wizard had cast the spell because of a broken heart. He’d fallen for the woman they’d seen through the window, and her rejection had broken his heart so completely, he’d sent everyone in the village except for her into an eternal sleep so that she could feel his loneliness for herself. Talk about revenge.

Mo gave Netta a tentative rub on the back. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he said, and stepped towards the shop counter, slipping behind it to look for clues. The narrow door behind it was ajar, and he peeked in to see an upholstered chair and a small side table. A leather-bound book sat on the table, the light from a brass lamp shining directly on its cover. He grabbed it, flicking through pages filled with loopy calligraphy in thick black ink until the very last page, where the ink changed to red and the words read: The tune is sweet and she is the key to break the spell of eternal sleep. The tune is sweet? Mo focused on the music that had been playing incessantly during their search, the same classical piece over and over, and racked his brain. He hummed along with the melody to access his deeper musical memories, the ones buried under his own songs. It was Beethoven, he was sure of it. Für Elise. He searched the room for a piano or a keyboard in case he had to play the song to get them out, but there were none. The only thing he could find with keys was an old typewriter hidden in the back corner, surrounded by dragon statues and bunches of dried herbs.

‘Worth a shot,’ he muttered to himself. ‘“She is the key”.’

He clacked out E L I S E on the ancient keys and the door to the escape room clicked open.

Mo ran to Netta’s side. ‘We’re out. Let’s go.’

She wrapped an arm around him as he helped her up, her legs wobbly as they made their way from the room.

‘Congratulations!’ boomed Callum, standing right outside the door, his beard askew and a distinct smell of weed emanating from his cloak. ‘You have broken the spell! The townspeople are saved!’

‘What the fuck, Callum?’ hissed Mo. ‘Where were you when I pressed the emergency intercom?’ He tipped his head towards Netta. ‘We needed out fifteen minutes ago, mate.’

‘Oh,’ said Callum, taking in Netta’s obvious brokenness. ‘Shit. I’m so sorry.’ He held a piece of paper out to them like a peace offering. ‘Would you still like your certificate?’

‘I’ll take it,’ piped up Netta, standing straighter. ‘I reckon we earned it.’

Mo gave Callum a hard sideways glance and stopped short of the front door to send a text message, its reply coming almost instantly. ‘All clear outside,’ he said in explanation. ‘My driver’s waiting. I use her when I’m in the city. Parking’s a bitch so I leave the Jeep at the car service depot and she takes me from there. Means I can get straight to the door of wherever I’m going without being seen, usually.’ He pushed the door open and held it for her. ‘Probably makes me seem like a bit of a diva.’

They went outside into the weak winter sunlight. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Netta said, clutching the certificate, the colour returning to her face. ‘Very embarrassed.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Mo. ‘I’ve had a panic attack before. They’re no joke.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Right before I went on stage in Tokyo a few years ago. It was brutal. I thought I was dying.’ He gestured to the shiny black parked car. ‘My driver can take you straight back to the hotel if you like.’

Netta shook her head. ‘I think I need a drink after that. Medically.’

‘Well, in that case, I know just the place,’ said Mo. He looked around at the emptied back street the escape room was tucked away in. If they were quick, they should be able to make it to the restaurant he was thinking of without attracting too much attention. ‘It’s just around the corner. We can walk if you need some fresh air?’ He slid his beanie and glasses on and hooked out his arm so she could slip her hand through. It settled easily in the crook of his elbow and it felt good. Too good.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

NETTA

They fell into an easy silence as they walked down the back streets, the razor edges of Netta’s panic growing duller with every step. Mo’s admission about Tokyo had taken any embarrassment she may have felt otherwise out of the equation. It was a comfort knowing he understood. She hadn’t had a panic attack for years and years before today—so long that she’d assumed she’d just outgrown it. But that room had been so small and cluttered and airless and locked. And, she guessed, if that fear was ever going to return, it’d choose a time when she was already operating on a default mode of high anxiety. She was lucky it hadn’t happened on the plane.

‘So, a wardrobe, huh?’ said Mo.

‘I was in my Narnia phase,’ Netta said simply. ‘And he was a little turd. I was in there for ages.’

‘Childhood, hey?’ said Mo, his tone sombre. ‘It’s a jungle.’

He pulled his elbow in, bringing Netta’s hand closer to his body. Having her hand tucked snugly against him felt wanton and yet also strangely natural, and it struck her that if anyone saw them walking along together, they would probably assume they were a couple. In that moment, she had to fight hard against her age-old tendency to mentally flip forward to a full-blown fantasy relationship. It was a bad habit that had seen her get involved with the wrong guys too many times. And escape-room heroism and philanthropy and inherent kindness aside, this man, with his reputation and tattoos and secrets, was a classic ‘pre-Pete Netta’ choice. Otherwise known as a terrible, terrible idea.

She loosened her grip and slipped her arm free, feigning an itchy cheek. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Bianchi’s.’

‘Italian, I’m guessing?’

‘Italian on steroids,’ he said with a smile. ‘With the best meatballs in the world. It’s an institution, but it’s kinda tucked away, so it’s one of those you-go-if-you-know places, but not in a wanky way. It’s very traditional. You’ll see what I mean when we get there. It’s not far now.’

They rounded a corner and he pointed to an understated glass shopfront on the other side of the street. ‘There it is.’

A simple sign bearing the restaurant’s name sat above an awning protecting the footpath out the front, where a couple of older gentlemen sat playing cards on a table littered with espresso cups. Netta and Mo crossed the road and, as they neared the door, one of the men lifted his head and smiled at Mo.

‘Buongiorno, Mo!’ he said, then struggled to his feet and reached to shake Mo’s hand.

Mo hurried to his side and wrapped his arm around his back. ‘Buongiorno, Stefano!’ he said. ‘Sit, sit.’

‘And who is this?’

‘This is my friend, Netta,’ Mo said. ‘I’ve brought her to experience Gianna’s life-changing meatballs. Netta, this is Stefano, the owner of Bianchi’s.’

Stefano brought his fingertips to his lips and kissed them. ‘Buonissime, Netta. You will love them. Gianna’s polpette are the best in London! Now, get yourselves in out of the cold. GiGi will have your special table for you, Mo.’

Mo smiled his thanks and held the door open for Netta. The restaurant was warm and scented with a heady mix of coffee and garlic and rich tomato sauce. A bar ran its length and people sat at it, drinking espresso and wine and eating from small white plates. The walls were hung with photos of the shop spanning decades, portraits of members of the Bianchi family and framed vintage advertisements for coffee machines, faded with age but effortlessly cool in an actually retro way. A mix of English and Italian conversation filled the room, occasionally interrupted by the hiss of the coffee machine or the clanking of crockery. Netta, who had a deep disdain for fancy restaurants, was in heaven.

Nobody looked twice at Mo as he nudged his way through the crowd to the kitchen door. He knocked gently before opening it just enough to poke his head through.

‘Gianna?’

‘Morrison!’

A woman, sixty-ish, appeared from behind the kitchen counter. She was big-bosomed and red-lipped, her bottle-dark hair swept into an impossible pile on the top of her head. Her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

‘Ciao, bello!’ she exclaimed, a smile lighting her whole face. She bustled out from behind the counter, drying her hands on her apron, and wrapped Mo in a hug. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you, naughty boy.’ She patted him affectionately on the cheek. ‘And who have you brought to meet me?’ Pushing Mo aside, she clasped her hands to her chest and grinned. ‘Eh, Mo, she is beautiful!’

Gianna scooped Netta into the squeeziest hug Netta had ever received from a total stranger and then held her back to examine her again, grasping her shoulders. ‘Welcome,’ she said, warmly. ‘I am Gianna, and you are the first girlfriend this man has ever brought to my kitchen!’

‘This is Netta,’ said Mo with a wry smile. ‘My friend.’

‘Yes, yes. Friend,’ repeated Gianna, winking at Netta. ‘Come, sit.’ She gestured to the lone, white-clothed table in the corner, positioned in full view of the kitchen and already set with cutlery and two plates. ‘Now, what can I get you?’ she asked as they settled into their seats. ‘Some pasta for starters?’

‘I think we’ll go straight to mains …?’ Mo raised his eyebrows at Netta in question.

She nodded in agreement. ‘I don’t think I can wait a whole course to try these amazing meatballs I’ve been hearing about.’

‘The usual it is!’ said Gianna.

‘And I think we both need a drink, too?’ Mo looked at Netta again for confirmation.

‘Yes please,’ nodded Netta, smiling at Gianna. ‘A wine would be great.’

As if by magic, Gianna produced two glasses and generously filled them with a deep red wine. As Netta raised her glass for a sip, a basket of warm bread appeared on the table, then Gianna was gone again, back behind the stove, moving with fluid efficiency, stirring, tasting, chopping as effortlessly as breathing.

Mo closed his eyes as he enjoyed his first mouthful of the rich red wine.

‘This is awesome,’ said Netta, reaching for the bread.

Mo swallowed and his eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘This place is too good to share.’

‘So, you’re a regular then?’

‘Not regular enough!’ shouted Gianna from within a plume of steam.

Mo smiled, his dimple creasing into a deep line that ran the length of his stubbled cheek. ‘Yeah, I come here a bit. I even have my own special spot,’ he said jokingly, patting the table. ‘Gianna tells me it’s only for me, but I have my suspicions.’

Moments later, Gianna reappeared with a white ceramic dish loaded with steaming hot meatballs in a richly fragrant tomato sugo. ‘Le nostre polpette famose!’ She placed the dish on the table and spun on her heel, quickly returning with plates bearing steamed green beans, roasted potatoes and plump olives. Finally, she placed a bowl of freshly shaved parmesan in the centre of the table. ‘Just a little bit,’ she instructed, pressing her thumb and forefinger together.

Mo gestured for Netta to serve herself first. She spooned three meatballs onto her plate and, as she reached forward to grab some parmesan, Mo’s fingers brushed against hers as he reached for the meatballs. ‘Sorry,’ he said, immediately retracting his hand.

Netta’s inhale was, embarrassingly, audibly sharp. Mo’s touch was every bit as electrifying as she’d predicted it would be—a lightning zing from her knuckle to every cell. Even her scalp felt suddenly turned on.

Tamping her hormones down, Netta flashed him a vanilla smile and scattered the cheese on top of her meal, the smell of it making her stomach ache with hunger. She stabbed a meatball with her fork and lifted it to her mouth, stopping to savour its comforting aroma. As she took her first taste, her eyes involuntarily closed, as though her brain had to shut off an entire sense to deal with the deliciousness. When she opened them, Mo was watching her.

‘Good?’

‘So, so good,’ she said. ‘Like, next-level amazing.’

‘I thought you’d like it here,’ he said, smiling.

‘This tastes like curling up on the couch in front of an open fire feels,’ sighed Netta contentedly, loading up another forkful.

‘Supreme comfort food,’ agreed Mo. ‘The Ugg boots of food.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Netta, wide-eyed. ‘Imagine eating this on the couch in front of an open fire, wearing Ugg boots.’

‘Stop flirting with me,’ he groaned. ‘That’s some sexy talk right there.’

Netta flushed crimson and took an indecent mouthful of wine, swallowing with an almighty gulp. ‘Okay,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Tell me more about Play On. What’s the deal?’

‘I started it up a few years ago,’ said Mo. ‘It’s my way of giving back, I guess. I never wanted to go public with it but my hands are tied. We have big plans for an international expansion that rely on my comeback. And I want to start a music school and set up a scholarship program to help people afford to study to become a music teacher, so there’s a lot depending on the income from the new album. But the whole comeback thing is in limbo until I can get my public image into shape. Rhona and I thought maybe publicising some of the good stuff I do would be a smart move, at this point.’

‘I think what you’re doing is amazing,’ said Netta. ‘People should know about your involvement with Play On.’

Mo looked torn. ‘Maybe. Hopefully.’

‘And you’re right. Music is an essential part of the curriculum. I see firsthand at work how much the kids love it.’

Netta scooped another meatball onto her plate, turning her decision over and over. Balancing the pros and cons. The money to try for a baby. The crippling fear of exposure. The raging, uncontrollable, sinking ship of her attraction to Mo. The potential of Play On and the travesty it would be if Mo couldn’t go ahead with his plans. An answer charged through her fog of indecision, trampling her doubts into the ground.

‘I’d like to accept your offer,’ she said quickly, before she talked herself out of it again. ‘I’ll go to the gala with you. Sounds like there’s a lot at stake. For both of us.’

Mo dropped his fork and his head, exhaling hard. When he lifted his gaze to meet Netta’s, relief shone from every glorious crease and hollow of his face. ‘Thank you, Netta.’ He placed his hand over his heart. ‘Seriously.’

***

When they emerged from the restaurant the sleek black car was parked out the front, spattered with the raindrops that had fallen steadily while Netta and Mo had been swaddled in the warmth of Gianna’s kitchen.

‘That’s my driver,’ said Mo, nodding to the car. ‘I’ve got the final rehearsal for the gala to get to. She can drop you home, or … you could come watch, if you want?’

‘No, I’d rather go back to the hotel and read,’ Netta deadpanned before breaking into a grin. ‘Of course I want to come; are you kidding?’

Mo released a sharp exhale. ‘Right then, I’m officially nervous now!’

Netta rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

Mo raised his eyebrows and shrugged as he opened the back door for Netta. She slid across the seat, making room for him to get in behind her.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Maplestone,’ said the driver with a brief glance over her shoulder.

‘Hi, Jac. This is Netta.’ He checked the time. ‘We’ve got half an hour to get to The Royal Albert Hall. Think we can make it?’

‘Traffic is category nine, sir,’ Jac said in a manner more suited to a military scenario. ‘But if we take the back streets, we might just make it.’

The car weaved through traffic, finding hidden back streets and secret routes that Netta had never seen before. As she stared out the window at London whizzing by, it hit her that she actually missed it. She missed this place. She’d loved living here, breathing its energy and culture and history. She’d felt so at home—until everything exploded.

‘You’re quiet,’ said Mo. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ Netta turned to look at him. ‘I was just thinking how much I’ve missed London.’

‘It is cool. I couldn’t live here, though. I need quiet and space or my head gets a bit hectic. My internals tend to start matching my environment, if you get what I mean. I’ve got a place in a little village about an hour away. It’s great. My brother, Mav, lives with me.’ He smiled sadly. ‘He’ll be moving out soon, I think.’

‘You don’t want him to?’

‘No. I really don’t. But he’s thirty-four. He’s his own man. It’s probably time I set him free.’

‘You sure he’s not a bit young to be out in the big bad world by himself? Is he even toilet trained yet?’

Mo laughed. ‘He’ll be alright. He’s a good kid. Just had a bit of a rough start, I guess. But he’s finding his feet now—doing a great job at Play On. It’s good that he’s spreading his wings.’ Mo sounded like he was trying to console himself.

‘We’ll be arriving soon, Mr Maplestone.’ Jac tapped an earpiece sitting in her left ear. ‘I’ve been instructed to drop you at the stage door. There’s security and a tented entrance. You’ll be able to get out of the car and into the venue without any bother, I’d expect.’

Netta’s body stiffened.

‘Oh, God. I should’ve thought,’ Mo said, realisation dawning on his face. ‘You don’t have to come.’

Netta took a deep, I-can-do-this breath. ‘No, it’s okay. Might as well build up the armour before the gala, hey?’

Mo gave her hand a quick squeeze, the heat of his fingers once again sending ripples through her body. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But just in case …’ He slid off his jacket and passed it to her. ‘You can put this over your head if you like.’

Netta wrapped Mo’s jacket around her shoulders as the car pulled up to the cloaked entry. The scent of his cologne mingled with his warmth, cocooning her in an unexpected feeling of safety. Jac opened the door and, as Netta pulled the jacket up to cover her face and felt Mo’s reassuring hand on the small of her back, she realised she felt dangerously bulletproof.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

NETTA

Netta sat in the cavernous circular auditorium of The Royal Albert Hall and tipped her head back to marvel at its intricately decorated domed ceiling. The acoustic discs hanging from it looked like whimsical mushrooms and added a sense of other-worldliness. An opulent sea of red velvet and gilt sprawled out beneath, where thousands of seats curved around to meet the stage and rose up five levels behind her. At the rear of the stage stood a huge organ, with pipes of varying lengths arranged to look like a giant crown. The whole theatre was a buzzing hive of activity. Guys navigated rigging to get the angle of the lights just so. Sound technicians pored over a giant mixing desk. Musicians climbed in and out of the orchestra pit.

Netta’s skin tingled with awestruck goosebumps. The very air she was breathing seemed to be charged with magic. She rubbed her hands along her seat and wondered how many people had sat in it before her, released from reality for a while by a fantasy played out on the stage. The Royal Albert Hall had hosted some of the greatest artists in history, and Mo was about to become one of them. His jacket lay across her lap, and when Netta was sure nobody was watching, she slid down in her seat and lifted it to her nose, drawing in the scent of him. It wasn’t just his cologne she could smell, it was the day they’d had together. It was just him. It was probably also the distinct smell of trouble. She folded the jacket and laid it on the seat next to her, far enough away for her treacherous olfactory senses to calm the hell down.

A flash of sequins at the stage entrance caught Netta’s eye. She leaned out of her seat a bit to get a better look at the tall, lithe woman whose butt her sparkly dress was barely concealing. Long, tanned legs appeared, totally unselfconsciously, from the hemline and disappeared into stilettoed ankle boots. A waterfall of dark hair swished across her back as she swung her hips subtly from side to side, her arms hidden from view in front of her body. A hand appeared on her waist and as the woman moved her body to face the stage, Netta saw that the hand in question belonged to Mo. He was smiling and shaking his head at something the woman was saying, trying to move towards the stage but halted by her playful persistence. She pressed herself into him, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck as he removed his hand and pulled out of her embrace.

As Mo strode from the darkness of the tunnel onto the stage, the woman moved into the light for just long enough for Netta to see who it was. Lorena Long. Christ. She’d been the lead singer of a huge girl band a few years back. And she was so freaking beautiful. Netta groaned, recoiling as humiliation flamed in her chest. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but a tiny, private part of her had started to believe that maybe Mo was attracted to her, too. There had been signs, she’d been sure of it. The little touches here and there. Their easy banter. The way he’d worked so hard to get her out of the escape room when she’d melted down. She had—so stupidly she could die from the embarrassment of it—talked herself into thinking that maybe she was the one who was holding back. Ha! Little had she known that he’d had Lorena Long waiting in the wings the whole time. Literally. Netta was merely a means to an end for Mo. A publicity tool.

Mo made his way to the front and centre of the stage, one hand gripping the mic stand and the other resting casually on top of the microphone. He looked so at ease. So at home in the spotlight. The drummer began counting them in and Lorena blew him a kiss, taking a step back into the shadows to watch.

Netta trudged through her memories as the opening bars of the song rolled out from the stage, inspecting each one for evidence that she was right to feel led on. But, under a microscope, there wasn’t much to see. Her imagination had just conned her into thinking there was more to Mo’s kindness and their growing ease in each other’s company, and she’d fallen for it like a cartoon anvil. She writhed with mortification. None of it had been real life. In real life, she was wading through the wreckage of her break-up with Pete. She was drowning in her job. And she was almost forty, still childless, and could only afford to live in her own apartment because Mo had paid her to deliver the diary.

Mo’s voice cruised through the sound system, crooning the first verse of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, teasing and raw, flooding the hall with his unmistakable timbre. Netta was instantly transfixed. Only Mo could make that song sound like foreplay. His moves were easy and graceful, the lights bouncing off his forearms as he gripped the mic stand and made the song his own. As he launched into the second verse with growing intensity, Netta gathered her bag and his jacket onto her lap, contemplating her options.

His quick glance over his shoulder to Lorena as he sang the chorus was a harpoon plunging straight through Netta’s fantasy, leaving it bleeding and mangled in her chest.

She stood, ready to take her burning cheeks and leave, but stopped herself. She wasn’t in this for Mo’s affection. She was in it because she wanted a baby, and going to the gala with him was her ticket to trying. She sat down and endured the rest of the song, attempting (and failing) not to laser focus on Lorena’s dance moves behind the stage.

The song finished and the people dotted around the auditorium all stopped what they were doing to clap. Mo had been great. He held up a thumb in thanks to the sound guys and vanished from the stage, the darkness enveloping him a moment too late for Netta to miss Lorena throwing her toned arms around his neck.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

MO

Mo searched for Netta in the theatre, eyes tracking over the arena of empty seats, a red velvet haystack and a needle he couldn’t find. Fucking Lorena had bailed him up for ages after they’d finished rehearsing. She was persistent, he’d give her that, but he wasn’t interested. She was the razzle and dazzle of show business, and he was the reluctant underbelly of it. She was coke and cocktails and endless after-parties. He was a neat whiskey and a swift exit. He swept his eyes along another row. Maybe Netta had gotten tired of waiting and had just gone back to the hotel. His phone buzzed a message alert in his back pocket. Rhona. He furrowed his brow at the screen.

Something for you at Netta’s hotel.

‘Mo.’

He looked up to see Netta walking down the aisle towards him. He was surprised at how relieved he was that she was still there.

‘Got your jacket,’ she said, holding it out to him. Her voice was guarded, like it was leaning back from him, and her body language was hemmed in, as though she was holding herself at a safe distance. Maybe his performance had been even lamer than he’d thought.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I’m so sorry you had to sit through that. I can’t believe I agreed to sing that fucking song. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘I love that song. Everyone loves that song.’ She smiled, but something was missing from it. Some secret ingredient that made it real. ‘You were great.’

Her ‘great’ seemed a little put on, and he wondered if it was more than just the song that had caused this sudden change in her demeanour. He nodded his thanks and shrugged his jacket on. ‘Rhona just messaged. Said there’s something for me at your hotel.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go, then.’

***

The rain was pelting down as the car pulled up to the hotel’s front entrance. The crowded restaurants lining Portobello Road were hidden behind steamed-up windows and Christmas carols floated through the cold air from somewhere full of a lot more Christmas spirit than Mo. A deep sense of unease sat heavily in his gut. Something was definitely off with Netta and the last thing he needed, or wanted, was for her to back out of the gala.

Drenched from the dash from the car to the lobby, Mo climbed the narrow staircase behind her, pulling his wet jumper away from his body and swiping the water from his face with his hands. Netta bustled the door open then closed it behind him. A brown paper bag sat at the foot of her bed.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘An umbrella in the car would probably be a good idea.’

Netta gathered her drowned hair from her shoulders and shivered. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be a bad idea.’

Water pooled on the floorboards around Mo’s feet. ‘I know this might be weird,’ he said, ‘but have you got something I could change into? Everything’s sticking to me.’

Netta’s gaze lingered on his chest for a moment before she cleared her throat. ‘I think I can rustle something up.’

She vanished and Mo took another step into the room, inhaling the scent he was quickly beginning to associate with Netta in the same way incense reminded him of his mum.

‘Here,’ she said, thrusting a handful of items at him. ‘You can get changed in the bathroom.’

Mo let himself into the bathroom and closed the door. He wrestled his wet jeans and jumper off and shook open the first item Netta had given him—a pair of checked flannelette pyjama pants—and pulled them on. They stopped about four inches above his ankles and gave him the look of a clown who’d lost his giant shoes. The top—a stretchy, long-sleeved, striped T-shirt—did fuck all to diminish that impression. It strained across his back and clung to his chest, the sleeves reaching only partway down his forearms. He considered himself in the full-length mirror. What a rock star.

Netta pressed her lips together and snorted as he emerged from the bathroom. ‘You should keep those. They look way better on you than they do on me.’

He looked down at himself and nodded. ‘Yeah, I was actually thinking I might borrow them for the gala. I think the three-quarter length could really be the start of something.’ He struck a Zoolander-esque pose. He wanted to make her laugh, to break through the barrier between them that seemed to have gone up in the space of a song.

‘It’s definitely something,’ she said. No laugh, but Mo sensed the ice melt a little at the flicker of amusement in her eyes.

Netta had changed into black leggings and a jumper and had scraped her wet hair back into a low ponytail. Her mascara had lost against the rain, but the shadows it had made under her eyes were kind of hot. Mo swallowed, hard. He shifted his focus to the bag on the bed.

‘Is that the delivery?’

‘Oh, yeah, I think so. Here.’ She passed him the paper bag, stapled closed at the top.

Mo tore the bag open. Inside, a note from Rhona was wrapped around a small box.

N and M,

So happy to hear you guys are going to the gala together. Thought this might help you get to know each other a little in the meantime.

Rhona x

‘I messaged her to let her know,’ Mo said in explanation. He tore the note away to find a box of cards and held them up for Netta to see.

‘Ice Breaker?’ she groaned. ‘Don’t tell me it’s one of those stupid get-to-know-you question games.’

‘This is a very Rhona move,’ said Mo.

‘I think,’ Netta said, taking the box from his hands and flipping it to read the rules, ‘that this will require a pre-drink and possibly several during-drinks.’

‘Agreed.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘But don’t you have somewhere else you’d rather be after that rehearsal?’

‘What do you mean?’

She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘It just seemed like you were—Ah, it doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business.’

‘There’s nowhere else I need to be,’ he said, ‘and nothing else I’d rather be wearing.’ He struck another ridiculous pose and her half laugh was better than nothing but still not quite what he’d been going for. They’d been so easy together at Bianchi’s. He had to get things back on track.

The phone beside her bed rang and she strode over to answer it. ‘Hello?’ Confusion clouded her face, knitting her brow into an actual frown, not a weird Botox squint. It was beautiful. ‘Okay, yes. Please send it up. Thanks.’

‘What was that about?’ Mo asked as she hung up.

‘Seems Rhona has more than one surprise for us tonight.’

Moments later, a knock at the door was followed by an enormous delivery of food and a six pack of beer.

‘Yes!’ said Mo, punching the air before he could stop himself. ‘Indian! Ah, Rhona’s the best.’ He pulled out containers of rice, bags of piping hot naan, three different curries, little pots of chutneys and raita, and a bag of crunchy papadams. He spread the feast over the table while Netta opened a beer for each of them.

‘Right,’ Mo said, with far more authority than a man in his outfit could afford. ‘First we feast and then we play the stupid card game. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

Chapter Thirty

NETTA

Netta and Mo sat cross-legged on the floor with the deck of cards between them.

‘So, how does this work?’ Mo gestured at the cards and lifted his beer to his mouth.

Netta looked away before the bottle made contact with his lips. He might be seeing Lorena, but that mouth of his still had a stranglehold on her. She examined a chip in her nail polish to break the circuit. ‘I’m guessing we just ask each other the questions on the cards and reveal our innermost thoughts and emotional scars to each other.’

Mo looked mortified.

‘I’m joking,’ she said. ‘It’s probably just stupid stuff, like what your favourite food is and what you’d wish for if you found a genie in a bottle.’

‘A lamp.’

‘You’d wish for a lamp?’

‘No!’ He laughed. ‘The genie would be in a lamp. Not a bottle. A message would be in a bottle.’ He started hammering a beat on his knees as he sang the chorus to ‘Message In A Bottle’ by The Police. Netta joined in on the last line.

‘Hey, you can sing!’ His smile of admiration revealed the depths of his dimples, his perfect lips and those teeth of his sending a shot of warmth through Netta that settled defiantly south. Lorena Long was a lucky cow.

‘In the shower maybe.’ She took a big gulp of beer and lifted the first card from the pile. ‘Righto. Prepare to bare your soul.’

Mo straightened like a schoolkid on his best behaviour, ready to do some gold-star listening.

‘Okay,’ said Netta, looking up from the card. ‘When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?’

‘That’s easy. I wanted to be a rock star.’ He spread his arms wide, as if displaying the evidence of his childhood wish come true.

‘Really?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. I wanted to be a train driver. What about you?’

‘A vet. And a check-out chick. Your turn.’

Mo took the next card. ‘What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?’

With you, today, at Bianchi’s. Except it hadn’t been a date, had it? Especially now she knew Lorena was on the scene. ‘Hmm.’ Netta rifled through her memory. ‘There was one, years ago. It was summer and I’d just moved into my apartment in St Kilda. I’d met this guy at one of the bars on Fitzroy Street. He asked for my number and the next night we went to the Espy for drinks and then afterwards we walked down to the end of St Kilda Pier and saw phosphorescence in the water. We wrote our names in the wet sand and they glowed. It was pretty magical.’

‘And did it get serious?’

‘Oh, no.’ Netta rocked back and let out a half laugh. ‘He turned out to be a not-so-closeted cokehead. It got messy very quickly. But the date was nice. Okay, your turn. What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?’

Mo’s brow furrowed in a way that made Netta’s stupid heart bounce. This thing—this all-consuming, gut-melting, brain-fading sensation—was always going to happen. Her man ban might stop her from acting on it, but it had no power to stop the effect he had on her body, or the way he seemed to be living rent-free in her head now, intertwined with every single one of her thoughts, his voice in constant conversation with her inner monologue.

‘To be honest, I haven’t really been on many dates,’ he said. ‘And the ones I have been on have been pretty shit. Definitely no glowing sand, although probably more than a few cokeheads, I’d say.’

‘Surely you’ve had a good date at least once.’

Mo held her gaze. ‘You’re right, I have. Quite recently, actually. But I don’t think she thought it was a date, so it probably doesn’t count.’

‘Alright, my turn.’ Netta slid the next card from the top of the pile. ‘Ooh, this is juicier. What’s your biggest regret?’

‘That’s easy,’ said Mo. ‘Agreeing to sing a Mariah Carey song at the Christmas Eve Gala.’

Netta tipped her head to the side and raked the card along her knuckles. ‘Come on. Gimme a real one.’

Mo’s face darkened, his eyes suddenly stormy under downcast lashes. ‘I have lots,’ he said tightly. ‘But the biggest one … it’s not something I talk about.’

His obvious discomfort was a presence in the room, urging Netta to move on. ‘You already know mine.’

A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Driving a 1971 VW Beetle?’

Okay, so he was fine again. ‘Ha, ha,’ Netta said drily. ‘I’d drive it across Australia and back again—even if I had to push it for half the way—if it would erase the Mitch fiasco. That’s my biggest regret. I doubt anything will ever top it, to be honest.’

Mo’s eyes softened. He unfolded a leg and gently nudged her knee with his foot. ‘It really wasn’t your fault. I hope karma shrinks his balls.’

Netta burst into laughter, her hand instinctively landing on her knee where he’d touched her, trying to contain the feeling. ‘Alright. Your turn to ask a question.’

Mo took a card. ‘What’s the thing you want most in life?’

Netta smiled and bit her lower lip. He was with Lorena Long; she had nothing to lose by telling him the truth. She took a deep breath and let the words gather in her mouth, ready for release. ‘I want a baby,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking about … I’m thinking about using the money you’re paying me to go to the gala with you to help pay for fertility treatments so I can have a chance at doing it on my own. I don’t know how much it’ll cost, but what you’ve offered will give me a good start.’

Mo rocked back a little, his eyes different, like he was seeing her for the first time with a new haircut. ‘You’d be a great mum.’

‘It was never my intention to go it alone.’ A lump grew in Netta’s throat. ‘We tried for months, me and Pete.’

‘Pete’s the guy you broke up with before you came here?’

‘Yeah. But it just never happened. And then I found out that he’d never really wanted a baby in the first place and that he was having a weird thing with a woman from his office, so …’ She looked up to find Mo staring at her intently.

‘Pete sounds like he might need a bit of karmic ball shrinking too, if you ask me.’

Netta attempted a smile, but she was all out. ‘It was good for a while, I think. I don’t know. My relationships never seem to work.’ She shrugged lightly, as though it was no big deal. As though it wasn’t the biggest deal and she wasn’t blisteringly aware that she was about to turn forty alone and would probably stay alone forever. ‘I must be defective.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Mo. ‘Maybe it’s just your taste in men that’s defective.’

‘There’s no maybe about that, mate,’ she said, keen to swivel the spotlight around. ‘What about you? What’s the thing you want most?’

Mo took a deep breath and an even deeper swig of beer. ‘Freedom.’

‘From what?’

‘From everything.’ He looked unsure of himself, like the words he needed were there but he didn’t trust them. ‘There’s stuff I can’t escape from, in here,’ he said, eventually, tapping his temple. ‘And then there’s the “perks” of the job. It’d be nice to be able to go out without being followed or photographed. I guess you got a taste of that too, so you know what I mean.’

Netta nodded. ‘At least it was only for a while, for me. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live like that all the time.’

He shrugged. ‘People think that when you have money, you have freedom. And I guess that’s true in lots of ways, but when your money comes from fame, there’s a price.’

They held a gaze that Netta had to break. She couldn’t let her empathy turn into another reason to fall for him. She glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s make this the last one; it’s getting late and you have a bit of a drive to get home. Or are you staying in the city tonight?’

‘Nope, home for me. I’ve got Jac on standby out the front.’

Netta smelled bullshit. Mo and Lorena had looked like a hands-down promise. Perhaps Mo had sensed her burgeoning crush and was protecting her feelings by keeping his beautiful lips firmly zipped about the sexathon he was off to next. She sighed inwardly and drew a card.

‘Ooh, this one’s a bit intense.’

‘Hit me.’

‘Tell me about a time you lost something you loved.’

Mo set his empty beer bottle on the floor beside him. ‘Yeah, you know what? I think I’m done for the night. You’re right. It’s late.’

‘Okay.’ Netta scrambled awkwardly to her feet and took Mo’s clothes from the chair he’d hung them on. ‘These are dry.’

‘Thanks.’ He disappeared into the bathroom and quickly reappeared, dressed in his jeans and jumper. ‘Sorry to leave so abruptly,’ he said, grabbing his jacket. ‘I just, ah … I just remembered that Jac clocks off in a couple of hours, so I need to go now.’

He hugged Netta goodbye. Her arms hung by her sides, frozen by the feeling of his wrapped around her.

‘Er, okay then,’ he said, straightening. ‘I’ll buzz you in the morning.’

He strode out of the room and closed the door behind him, Netta still standing like a statue, wondering whether it was her or the question that had scared him off. Maybe he was just desperate to get to Lorena. And who could blame him? She was probably waiting for him, wrapped up like a Christmas present in three thousand dollar lingerie. And, Netta guessed, Lorena’s arms probably knew exactly what to do when he hugged her.

Netta wandered miserably into the bathroom to brush her teeth. The pyjamas he’d been wearing were folded neatly on the vanity, the striped top sitting on the flannelette pants. She picked them up and hugged them to her chest. They smelled like cologne and curry and beer and Mo-ness.

Oh, shit. She had it bad.

This was a disaster.

Chapter Thirty-One

MO

The next morning, Mo woke to the same cloud of confusion he’d gone to bed with. Netta. Netta. Netta. Was she all he could think about these days? He rolled over, buried his head under the pillow and let out a low groan of frustration.

Yesterday. What the fuck had that been all about? He’d thought they’d had such a good time at Bianchi’s—it had felt like a date— but she’d been so distant after the rehearsal. And then, oh God, that mortifying attempt to hug her as he left the hotel room. She hadn’t even remotely hugged him back. She’d just stood there, motionless, like she was trying to wish herself out of her own body. Maybe he’d read it all wrong and she just straight up wasn’t interested—she was just in it for the money.

He kicked back the blankets and sat, stretching his arms above his head and then out to the sides, squeezing his shoulder blades together. He’d been so close, last night, to telling her about what had happened with his mum. Netta had this way about her that swung a sledgehammer at his walls without her even having to try.

He threw on a windcheater and shuffled to the kitchen. Mav sat at the bench, halfway through a coffee.

‘Morning,’ Mo mumbled.

Mav gave him an up-and-down appraisal. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Where were you last night?’ Mav curled his left hand into a tunnel and poked his right index finger in and out of the hole.

Mo laughed. ‘Don’t be juvenile. I wasn’t with anyone. Not like that, anyway.’

Mav raised his eyebrows inquisitively, reluctantly putting an end to the hand sex.

‘I was with Netta yesterday,’ said Mo. ‘She—we—thought it’d be a good idea for us to get to know each other a bit before the gala.’

‘What’s she like? I mean, apart from being the imposter who took my ticket?’

Mo waited till the coffee grinder had finished its carry on before he answered. ‘She’s … different.’

‘Like …’ Mav tapped his forehead.

‘No! I mean she’s not the type of woman I usually meet.’

A grin spread across Mav’s face. ‘You mean she’s not into you?’

Mo pressed the button and watched as the coffee dripped into his cup. There was no way to answer that question without sounding like a self-absorbed dickhead.

Mav laughed. ‘Well, I can see how that could be confusing for you, mate.’

‘It’s not just that. She just seems, I don’t know, different,’ he said again. ‘I feel weird around her. I have to keep stopping myself from telling her everything I’ve ever thought.’

‘Oh my God.’ Mav stared at his brother. ‘You’re into her!’ ‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘Nope.’

‘We’ll see.’ Mav’s grin was so broad it almost swallowed his face. ‘What’s her deal, anyway? I’ve been replaced by this mystery woman and I don’t even know how you met.’

Mo hesitated. As far as Mav was concerned, the diary didn’t exist, so the truth was off the cards. ‘She’s a friend of a friend of Rhona’s,’ he lied. ‘She’s Australian. She’ll be heading back to Melbourne not long after Christmas, I think.’

‘Better work fast then, buddy. Shouldn’t be anything too far out of your skill set.’

What Mav failed to realise was that when it came to women, Mo hadn’t really needed to develop a ‘skill set’. They’d always just come to him. He knew how to work things after that point, but he’d never had to win someone’s interest before.

‘I’m not going to do anything,’ he said, pouring warmed milk into his coffee. ‘She’s not the sort to be interested in someone like me.’

‘What? A rich, famous celebrity isn’t good enough for her? I guess she would have to be a bit of a saint to get past that hideous face of yours.’ Mav feigned a look of disgust. He wiped toast crumbs from his lap and stood. ‘Anyway, I’m off into the city. Actually, there’s no chance I could borrow the Jeep today, is there? My battery’s dead.’

Mo rolled his eyes. ‘Leave the lights on again?’

Mav shrugged and flashed the innocent smile Mo had been falling for since he was a kid.

‘I have to go to the city today, too,’ Mo said. ‘You can take the Jeep, but you’ll have to drop me off. I can use Jac to get around once I’m there.’

Mo watched as his brother skidded out of the kitchen Risky Business style. He retrieved Mav’s abandoned coffee cup from the counter and checked the clock. Eight forty-five. He should probably call Netta. He grabbed his phone from the charger and hit call.

‘Hello?’ She sounded groggy.

‘Oh, shit, sorry. I’m making a habit of waking you up. I was just calling about today. You still free to hang out?’ He sounded desperate.

‘Um, yeah?’ Shuffling sounds suggested she was sitting up in bed. ‘Unless you have other things to do. I’m easy.’

‘I have to go to my final suit fitting this afternoon,’ he began, ‘but the morning is pretty free.’ He took a quick sip of coffee. ‘There’s this tiny cinema I go to sometimes that shows old black and white movies. I just sneak in after the lights have gone down. I think you’d like it.’

‘Okay,’ said Netta. ‘As long as there’s popcorn, I’m happy.’

Mo ended the call and leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the phone while he waited for his heartbeat to resume its normal steady rhythm and the adrenalin to drain away. Why did he feel like a teenager who’d just worked up the balls to ask a girl on a date? He put the phone down and reached for the dustpan to clean up the crumbs his brother had left on the floor, distracting himself from the truth blooming in his chest. He felt like a teenager because the last time he’d felt like this, he’d been a teenager, with a monumental crush on Vanessa Montgomery from his year nine biology class.

This was a disaster.

Morrison Maplestone had a motherfucking crush.

Chapter Thirty-Two

NETTA

Netta and Mo emerged bleary-eyed from the cinema into the late, grey morning, Netta brushing rogue pieces of popcorn from the front of her jumper.

‘I can’t believe you hadn’t seen Miracle on 34th Street before.’ Mo plucked a piece of popcorn from Netta’s hair and flicked it into a bin. ‘It’s one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time.’

‘It’s no Die Hard though, is it?’ she said, straight-faced, before breaking into a grin. ‘But seriously, thanks for inviting me. I absolutely loved it.’ She stepped out from the cinema’s empty lobby onto the equally empty footpath and looked left and right. ‘All clear.’

Mo joined her, pulling his jacket collar up to block the icy wind and tugging his beanie down to his sunglasses. ‘We’ve got a little time until I need to call Jac to get to the suit fitting,’ he said. ‘Come with me, there’s something cool nearby you might like.’

They walked briskly around the corner and down a couple of blocks to find a tall stone fence. Mo reached the wrought-iron gate first and held it open for Netta—another little act of chivalry to add to the list. She went through the gate, taking in the beautiful park spread out before her. Bluestone paths weaved their way through towering trees and garden beds, all arranged around a huge stone fountain at the centre.

‘Oh, wow,’ she gasped. ‘It’s like a secret garden!’

‘It’s better in the warmer weather,’ said Mo, jamming his hands into his pockets. ‘The fountain is running then and obviously there are more, you know, leaves and stuff.’

‘I don’t know, I kind of like it like this.’ The frost had settled on bare branches and hardy evergreens stood defiant against the chill. ‘Look over there,’ Netta said, pointing. ‘Someone’s decorated it for Christmas!’ She jogged over to a tiny fir tree strung with tinsel and handmade decorations. ‘Oh, this is gorgeous. I love this time of year so much.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever decorated a Christmas tree,’ Mo said.

Netta straightened. ‘What? Why?’

He rubbed the back of his neck, a move Netta was beginning to recognise as a sign he was uncomfortable. ‘I mean, maybe I did when I was really little, but if I did, I can’t remember it. My mum wasn’t really into Christmas.’

‘Religious reasons?’

‘No, she was just—’ Mo paused. ‘I don’t know. She just wasn’t your average mum, I guess.’

Netta clocked the veil of melancholy settling over Mo’s face. ‘Wasn’t?’

‘Yeah. She, ah, passed away when I was a kid.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mo.’

He broke her gaze and pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said, reading a text message waiting on the screen. ‘Jac can’t come until after the fitting and all the other cars are booked. We’ll have to cab it.’ Mo’s face clouded as looked from his phone to Netta. ‘Actually, I’ve just realised … the designer’s studio is in Chelsea. You probably don’t want to go there, do you? Seeing as it’s where Mitch lived?’

Netta was silent for a moment, drawing a deep breath of icy air. He was right, Chelsea wouldn’t be her first choice of destination. It was the scene of her undoing, her greatest humiliation—under any other circumstances she’d rather a trip to a sewage treatment facility. But these weren’t ‘other circumstances’—this was the chance to see Mo trying on a designer suit. Mitch had stolen years from her. He’d stolen London from her. But there was no way Netta was going to let him steal this from her too.

She looked up at Mo, touched that he’d considered her feelings but determined not to give them—or Mitch—the satisfaction. ‘I’ll be fine.’

***

Twenty minutes later, after several failed attempts to flag down a taxi and numerous unanswered calls to Mav, Netta suggested they catch the train.

‘I don’t know, Netta,’ Mo said haltingly. ‘I haven’t been on the Tube in years. There’s nowhere to go if someone recognises me.’

‘It’s only a few stops to South Kensington Station and then a short walk from there into Chelsea.’

Mo tapped his hand against the side of his thigh and frowned.

Netta reached up and tugged his beanie down a little further, her thumbs igniting as her knuckles dragged down to his stubbled jaw. Collecting herself, she unwound her scarf and pressed it to his chest. ‘If you wear this and pull it up over your chin a bit, I don’t think anyone will be able to recognise you.’

Mo looped the scarf around his neck. ‘Okay. Fuck. Let’s do it, I guess.’

***

The carriage was packed full of Christmas shoppers and festive day drinkers, and despite Mo’s disguise, it only took a few minutes before he was noticed.

‘No, it’s not. It can’t be! Morrison Maplestone’s hardly going to be on the bloody Tube, is he?’ Netta heard someone behind her say.

‘It’s him, I’m telling you. Look at the tattoo on his hand. Go on, ask him. I dare you.’

The woman leaned in, nudging herself between Netta and Mo. ‘Er, ’scuse me, sorry for intruding,’ she said discreetly, ‘but my friend here thinks you’re Morrison Maplestone.’

It wasn’t a question, so Mo didn’t treat it as one. He kept his face turned to the floor, his body visibly tightening. ‘Does she?’

‘Are you?’

As if on cue, the scarf slipped down to reveal his mouth. And there was no mistaking that mouth.

‘Oh my God! It’s only Morrison bleeding Maplestone on the Tube!’ the woman shrieked, her hand pressed to her chest.

Mo straightened, instantly on high alert, and grabbed Netta’s hand, clasping it close to his hip. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Stay close, okay?’

The hum of voices hushed and a hundred heads turned in their direction. Netta felt like a deer frozen by a highway’s worth of headlights. She could only imagine how Mo felt. The woman hugged him around his middle—quite aggressively, if you asked Netta—and for every person struck mute with shock, there were two shouting his name—or calling him one; it seemed not everyone was a fan. Mo remained calm and gracious, but his increasing grip on Netta’s hand told her he was hating every second.

Just as a group of women started singing one of his songs loudly, drunkenly, at the back of the carriage, the train slowed for its stop at South Kensington, and Netta pulled Mo towards the door so they’d be ready to leap out and leg it as soon as it opened. When the doors slid open they cleared the gap and hurried along the platform to the exit, followed by a group of commuters, who swarmed around Mo like bees to a lavender bush. He slowed to a stop and turned to them, dropping Netta’s hand.

‘Hi, guys. Nice to see you all but we’re kind of in a rush to get to an appointment I’m afraid.’

Netta checked her watch. He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t far to the studio on Fulham Road but his fitting was scheduled for two o’clock and it was already quarter to. According to Mo, Valerie was known for her moods. She didn’t need him to wear her suit to boost her profile, so if he wasn’t there on time, it wouldn’t be surprising for her to just bin it and lock the door.

‘Can we just have a quick photo, Mo?’ said one of the fans. Mo’s smile was too shallow for his dimple to make an appearance. ‘Sure.’

He posed with each of them and then moved quickly back to Netta, mouthing, Sorry.

Netta dipped her head as he approached, scared of being caught on camera.

As if sensing her fear, Mo turned to the crowd again. ‘No more photos, guys. Thanks.’ He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders as they made their way to the exit, followed by the group, who seemed unsatisfied with the photos, and now wanted to know where he was going, too.

Netta looked up at Mo’s set expression and obvious weariness and realised his arm around her shoulder wasn’t just for her benefit. ‘How far is it from here?’ she asked.

‘Couple of blocks. They’ll probably follow us there, but they won’t be able to come in and see me strip off or anything.’

The corners of his lips twitched and Netta’s heart skipped several beats. Was she going to see him strip off? Sweet Jesus.

She took her eyes off Mo and shrugged out from under his arm in case he could feel the desire ping-ponging around her body. As she did, she looked up to take in her surroundings. Chelsea was glorious at Christmastime. Shops and impressive houses dripped with tasteful designer wreaths and lights, and lavish decorations screamed ‘rich people do Christmas better!’ But despite the curated magic, the realisation that she was about to walk straight past Mitch’s street buckled Netta’s knees and filled her stomach with cement.

She stopped, the following gaggles swallowing her in their pursuit of Mo, who took a few beats to realise she was no longer by his side.

‘You okay?’ he called.

Netta shook her head, her face feeling so drained of blood she was sure he would be able to see her bones.

He strode back to her, the fans parting like the Red Sea in his wake. His face was etched with concern, his eyebrows knitted together below his beanie. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘That’s where he lived. Two blocks that way.’ Netta pointed. ‘Sorry, I know I said it would be okay …’

Mo nodded. ‘What about if we just make it to Valerie’s—which is just around this corner, not past dickwad’s street—and then I’ll have Jac come to pick us up afterwards. You can close your eyes and I’ll guide you to the car so you don’t have to look at this …’ He raised his hands and gestured around him at the picture-perfect Christmas scene.

‘This hellish pit of rancid memories?’ Netta finished.

‘Exactly.’

She checked her watch. It was five to. He couldn’t wait for her to work through whatever it was that was happening to her. Besides, if she told Freya she’d passed on the chance to see Mo trying on a suit, her life wouldn’t be worth living.

She took a deep, fortifying breath and channelled Beyonce. She wouldn’t let this shit get the better of her, so neither would Netta. ‘Let’s go.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

NETTA

Both Valerie Salt and her studio were the embodiment of pure minimalist cool, so naturally Netta felt like a hot mess by comparison. The walls were a tasteful shade of sage, the floors were dark polished concrete and the only piece of furniture in the room was a lowline couch upholstered in tan leather. In front of the couch was a crisp white drape and behind that crisp white drape, Mo was getting changed into the beautiful black suit Valerie had designed for him.

Netta sat awkwardly on the couch, clutching a bone china tea cup containing herbal tea that smelled like potting mix. At least the sense of dread she’d felt on the way had had the manners to wait for her out on the street. Here, held within Valerie’s studio, she felt mercifully separate from the world outside. She took a sip of tea and recoiled. It didn’t just smell like potting mix.

Valerie and her assistant, both dressed in head-to-toe black and impossibly hip glasses, stood to Netta’s right, waiting for Mo to emerge. The clank of his belt buckle hitting the floor and the shuffling of fabric from within the dressing room hinted at his clotheslessness behind the curtain and Netta shifted on the couch, suppressing a jolt of desire.

‘How’s it going in there, Mr Maplestone?’ asked Valerie in her low, measured voice. ‘Would you like my assistant to help you into the suit?’

‘Ah, no. I think I can manage on my own.’

Netta held back a smile as Valerie’s assistant, who’d looked quite keen on the idea of helping Mo get dressed, wandered away to the other room in a droop of disappointment.

She took another tiny sip of the tea to be polite and choked as Mo swept the drape back to reveal his fine, suited self. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders and tapered to follow the line of his back. The pants—well, Netta had no idea that pants could be so sexy. The waistline sat at the perfect level to make any hotblooded person wonder what was underneath, and the crisp white shirt tucked into it set off his tanned skin and showed just enough of the tattoo creeping from his chest to his left collarbone to make undoing the buttons to see the whole thing unbearably tempting.

Netta swallowed hard.

Valerie cast an approving eye over the outfit. ‘How does it feel?’

‘Like a million bucks,’ said Mo, smiling.

‘And the lining? You like it?’

Mo lifted one side of the jacket to reveal a glorious silk tartan in rich hues of red and green. He grinned. ‘Very Christmassy. Thanks, Valerie, you’re a marvel.’

Valerie almost smiled. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Take it off and I’ll have it wrapped up so you can take it with you today.’

Valerie walked away and Mo turned to Netta. ‘Is it okay, you think?’ He held his arms out and looked down at himself. ‘Not too showy?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Netta. ‘Honestly, you should probably think about wearing suits more often.’

Mo laughed. ‘What? My standard old jeans and jumper not doing it for you?’

The truth was, Mo in a leotard would do it for her, but her attraction to him was so excruciatingly predictable. Women like Netta lusting after him, cooking up grand delusions of something more, would be as boringly common to him as night following day.

‘I’m just saying, it’s a very nice upgrade.’

‘How’s the tea?’ he asked with a smirk, gesturing towards her still-full cup.

Netta checked Valerie wasn’t returning then leaned towards Mo. ‘It tastes like dirty grass or something,’ she whispered, wrinkling her nose. ‘But, like, expensive dirty grass.’

‘I should’ve warned you about it before we came,’ Mo said. ‘It’s terrible, but I’m actually pretty sure it’s the only thing Valerie’s consumed since the nineties.’

‘That would explain her thinness.’

Mo grinned. ‘And her mood.’

He disappeared behind the curtain again and Netta got up and paced around the studio to dissuade her insubordinate traitor of a brain from whizzing up a delicious visual of Mo peeling off the suit. After all, it would be Lorena tearing it off him after the gala, not Netta. Once the gala was over and done with, Netta—and whatever this thing was—would be too.

Valerie returned and whisked the suit away from Mo as he emerged from the dressing room in his normal clothes.

‘Car’s already out front,’ he said as they walked towards the door.

Valerie reappeared with the suit tucked safely inside a heavy canvas bag. ‘Take it out and hang it as soon as you’re home,’ she said. ‘Let it breathe. Let it absorb your energy so it is at one with you on the night.’

‘Right. Will do. Thanks, Valerie.’ He turned to Netta, the left corner of his mouth hiking into a smile. ‘You ready? Or do you want to finish your tea first?’

***

Netta and Mo had made it halfway from Valerie’s door to the waiting car when the photographers came running, appearing from their hiding places like swarming cockroaches. The flashes of light were blinding and Netta instinctively raised the back of her hand to shield her eyes, covering her face. Then the shouting started.

‘Who’s this then, Mo? Your girl?’ said one.

‘You going to show us your suit, Mo? Can you confirm you’ll be wearing Valerie Salt at the gala?’ said another.

‘Mo, over here!’

‘Hey, love, give us a smile!’

‘She’s not your usual type, is she, Mo?’

Mo pulled Netta close as he pushed through the scrum of photographers clamouring to get a shot of him. Clamouring even harder to get a shot of Netta. She felt bile rise in her throat. She’d been here before, chased by paparazzi, called vile names just so they could photograph her reaction. She kept her head down, her hands still cupped around her face, and resisted the urge to use her elbows, fists, fingernails to get them the fuck off her. She could feel the hot, cigarette-tainted breath of one close to her face and she reached out blindly to nudge him out of her personal space, the palm of her hand connecting with his chin.

‘Don’t do that,’ murmured Mo in her ear. ‘Just ignore them. Look like you don’t care.’

But she did care. Being back in Chelsea was triggering enough. Being back in Chelsea and hounded by paparazzi was Netta’s worst nightmare.

Mo pulled her in front of him, his torso pressed against her back and his arm reaching in front of her to open the car door. He gently encouraged her inside and, once she was in and safe, Netta looked up to see him giving the photographers exactly what they wanted. His middle finger.

Chapter Thirty-Four

MO

Camera lenses knocked against the car window and palms pressed prints onto the glass as the car carefully edged away from the kerb before rocketing down the street. Mo’s regret at flipping his finger at the photographers was drowned by a wave of worry when he looked at Netta, slumped on the other side of the back seat, her arms wrapped across her front and her hands pressed tightly to her ribs.

‘I’m so sorry about that,’ he said quietly. ‘Those women must’ve made a call to one of the magazines or posted a photo, and they’ve tracked me down. They lurk online, you know. Wait for hashtags to pop up. It’s gross. I’m so sorry, Netta. Are you okay?’

Netta shook her head and turned to stare out the window. ‘Do you think they saw me?’ Her voice was thin.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, truthfully. ‘I think you did a pretty good job of keeping your head down. It should be fine.’ It wouldn’t be fine, he knew that. They always found an angle.

‘I just want to go home.’

Mo planted his hand on the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Jac, can you take us straight to Netta’s hotel, please?’

‘No, I mean, I want to go home,’ Netta said. ‘To Melbourne.’

‘Oh.’ Mo sat back and nodded slowly.

‘I don’t need first class. I’ll sit in the baggage hold if I have to. I just want to get out of here. I’ve done what I needed to do. You’ve got your mysterious diary.’ She sounded angry now, but whether it was at him or herself was unclear. ‘I should’ve known this would happen. It’s just way too close to the bone. I want to be gone before the photos come out.’

‘Netta, they’ll be out already,’ Mo said, flatly. ‘Things move fast with these guys. They don’t waste any time.’

Netta covered her mouth with her hand and hugged herself tightly with her other arm. She looked miserable. Worse than miserable. Guilt yanked at Mo’s heart. All of this was because of him and the bloody diary. As if it hadn’t already caused enough fucking damage.

‘I’ll call Rhona,’ he said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’

Rhona answered on the first ring.

‘We’ve got a bit of a problem, Rhones,’ Mo said. He had an overwhelming urge to reach over and hold Netta’s hand. He balled his fist and tapped it on his thigh instead, staring out the window like the solution to this mess might be out there somewhere. ‘There were photographers after the fitting. Can we come over? We need to work something out for Netta.’

He hung up and turned his head to look at Netta. ‘You okay to go to Rhona’s for a bit?’

She nodded numbly.

‘Change of destination, Jac,’ said Mo.

‘No problem, Mr Maplestone.’ Jac tapped Rhona’s address into the GPS. ‘We should get there in about fifteen minutes.’

Mo wanted desperately to comfort Netta, but the failed hug the night before still stung. And if she’d felt uncomfortable then, she sure as hell wouldn’t want one now. Not after what had just happened.

Netta wiped tears from her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry about the gala. I know it was important to you and that I said I’d go. But I was wrong to think I could. Who was I kidding?’

‘There would’ve been a lot of photographers there too. The red carpet—’

‘I know. I was such an idiot to say yes. I just wanted so badly to be over it, but—’ She severed her sentence and took a deep breath. ‘But I can’t do it. This whole scene is like … like poison.’

Mo did his best to hide the crushing disappointment leaching through his body, wrapping itself around his bones and clawing at his heart. He should’ve known. This life of his—it just wasn’t for sharing.

Netta had closed her eyes, both arms wrapped around her body as though she thought she might disintegrate if she didn’t hold herself tight enough. He sat back in the seat and swallowed hard. He’d ruined her. He had no date for the gala tomorrow night. And he’d just wound up the paps. Again. What a fucking mess.

***

Rhona was waiting at the door when they arrived, her phone clasped in her hand. ‘Hello, you two,’ she said, bustling them inside.

‘I can’t do the gala anymore, Rhona,’ said Netta. ‘That, back there, was too much.’ Her tone was determined, but her face was apologetic, as though she thought she’d done something wrong. ‘I want to go home, like, now.’

Rhona wrapped Netta in a hug and gave Mo a pointed look over Netta’s shoulder. ‘Come on. Come into the office.’

They gathered around Rhona’s computer. She had a tab open for each of the major social media platforms, all of which were flooded with images of Mo and Netta battling their way from Valerie’s studio door to the car.

Rhona scrolled through the photos. ‘Well,’ she said, squinting as she examined each one, ‘you can’t see your face in any of them, Netta, so I don’t think the trolls will have much to work with, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Netta’s relief was palpable. Her features relaxed and her shoulders dropped as she let out a hard exhale.

‘But,’ Rhona continued, ‘some of them don’t look so great for you, Mo.’

Mo tensed as he leaned in to look. In one of the images, it seemed as though he was pushing Netta. Another made it look like she was flinching away from him. And of course, they’d all managed to capture him flipping his middle finger. Headlines like Mo MANHANDLES MYSTERY WOMAN were everywhere.

He blanched. ‘I wasn’t rough with you, was I, Netta?’

‘No! Not at all!’ Netta looked as horrified as Mo felt. ‘I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t freaked out, you wouldn’t have had to guide me to the car or touch me at all.’

Rhona clucked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is nobody’s fault. And even if it was, it doesn’t matter now, anyway. All we can do is manage the damage.’

‘I’m glad your face isn’t visible in any of the photos, Netta,’ said Mo. ‘That’s one positive.’

‘I still want to go home.’

‘Are you sure, Netta?’ asked Rhona. ‘I’ve arranged for a fabulous hair and make-up artist and one of my favourite stylists is all set to come to the hotel with a whole heap of dresses for you to choose from.’

Netta shook her head. ‘I made a big mistake saying I’d go in the first place. I’m sorry, Rhona, I didn’t tell you the whole story when I came over for dinner. I thought I could just go to the gala and it would be some kind of closure or something, but I was wrong. I just want to get out of here.’

‘Closure?’ Rhona looked confused. ‘What do you mean? What “whole story” are you talking about?’ She looked from Netta to Mo and back again. ‘Is there something I need to know?’

Before Netta could respond, Rhona’s mobile rang. She frowned at the name on the screen. ‘Ergh. What does this parasite want?’ She swished out of the room to take the call in private, leaving Mo and Netta with the photos on the screen.

‘It really does look like I’m hurting you,’ said Mo. ‘Did I? Hurt you?’

Netta looked at him, her eyes watery but resolute. ‘No. You didn’t. If you hadn’t helped me to the car so quickly, I would’ve been frozen to the spot. But it’s made it so much worse for you.’

Rhona swept back into the office. ‘That was Charlie Tunbridge from UK Yeah.’ She directed two fingers to her mouth, miming a gag. ‘Their photographer got a photo that shows your face, Netta. And they know who you are.’ She turned her phone to show them the photo. ‘Love, why didn’t you tell me about the Mitch Carlton scandal?’

‘She told me,’ said Mo. ‘I knew about it.’

‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’

‘It wasn’t my place.’

Rhona turned her attention to Netta, her gaze softening. ‘You had a different name back then, is that right?’

Netta nodded. ‘Yes. Well, not technically. You might’ve seen, when you booked flights, my legal name is Antoinette, but I’ve never used it. My mum always called me Annie, so that’s what I went by when I worked for the Carltons. Annie the Nanny. The tabloids had a field day with the rhyme, trust me.’

‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Mo. ‘That prick is so full of shit.’

‘Oh, I know he is,’ said Rhona. ‘I just wish I’d known so I could have protected you, Netta. I would never have even suggested the gala if I’d known about this. Talk about rubbing salt into a wound. I think back to that conversation at the dinner party that night and I could kick myself. I practically pushed you into it.’

‘What are they going to do with the photo?’ asked Mo.

‘Nothing. Or everything. It depends on us,’ said Rhona. ‘They want to cut a deal.’

‘What do you mean?’ Netta sounded terrified.

‘Okay, before I tell you, I want you to understand how ruthless these arseholes are. If we say no to the deal, they’re going to dredge up every last bit of the scandal and repackage it, wrap it up in a cute little bow and send it out into the world again—except this time, there’ll be the added bonus of being able to tie you to Mo as well. Mitch is C-list these days, so he’ll fucking love it. He’ll do anything to get his face into the papers and up his profile a bit. It’s gross, but it’s reality. Mo, on the other hand? This is a development he really doesn’t need.’

‘This isn’t about me,’ said Mo.

‘Of course it is, Mo,’ said Rhona. ‘Do you think the paps were outside Valerie’s for Netta? She’s just been caught in your slipstream. And all because you went on the fucking Tube and got spotted. Surprise, surprise. Am I right?’

‘That was my idea,’ Netta whispered.

‘But I agreed,’ said Mo. ‘This is on me.’

Rhona considered them both. ‘The deal is, they won’t publish the photos of Netta’s face right now if we give them exclusive red carpet photos of the two of you together at the gala and Netta gives them an interview with her side of the Carlton story. They’ve been wanting to bury him ever since he said their magazine wasn’t good enough to wipe his arse with that time he was on The Graham Norton Show. They’ll be highly sympathetic to you, Netta. It’s worth considering. Did you sign an NDA when you worked for the Carltons?’

‘I did,’ said Netta. ‘But it was only for the term of my employment and ten years after, so it’s expired now.’

‘But how will it work?’ asked Mo. ‘There’ll be a ton of photographers on the carpet. How can we give them an exclusive?’

‘They’ll set it up at a separate location. It’ll look like you’re arriving together in their photos, but you’ll do the real carpet on your own, Mo, and Netta will be inside waiting for you.’

‘Why would I still have to go to the show?’ asked Netta.

‘Because they’ll want photos from the event too. They know they can’t get exclusives on those, but they’re happy if they can get the red carpet shots and an interview. That’s enough for them to hold the photos from today.’

‘But what’s the difference?’ Netta sounded miserable. ‘Either way, I’m going to be outed as the homewrecking nanny again.’

‘Exactly,’ said Rhona. She gave Netta’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘But at least this way, you’ll be in control of the story. You’ll be outed as a woman on top.’

Netta was silent for a moment, staring at her hands before her gaze rebounded to Rhona. ‘And what about for Mo?’ she asked. ‘Will it be better or worse for him to be seen with me at the gala?’

‘Honestly? At this point, I don’t really know. These photos where it looks like he’s being rough with you don’t sit well.’ She turned to Mo. ‘The record label is ready to make you walk the plank and this won’t help one bit. But it’d probably be easier to move past it all if you’re seen being a gentleman with Netta at the gala.’

‘This isn’t about me,’ said Mo. ‘Netta isn’t responsible for my image problems.’

‘No, she’s not. But maybe this is a mutually beneficial opportunity. The nanny thing is about to come back to life either way. At least if you take the deal, Netta, you’ll be able to put a positive spin on things. Or, at the very least, a truthful spin. I have to let him know by six tonight so they can set up the carpet shots.’

Netta nodded and looked at Mo. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you need to make this decision on your own,’ he said. ‘Don’t think about anything other than what’s best for you. I’ll be okay either way.’

‘I just want to head back to the hotel and think it through.’ She looked exhausted, her eyes dimmed, and Mo’s arms ached to hug her, for her to rest her head on his chest. What the fuck was happening to him?

‘I’ll drive you back to the hotel,’ said Rhona. ‘And you,’ she said, looking at Mo, ‘need to go home now too. Get some rest. You’ll need to be at your megawatt best tomorrow night. Teflon, baby, like none of this shit has stuck. Okay?’

‘Got it.’

‘Where to, Mr Maplestone?’ asked Jac as Mo settled back into the car.

‘Home,’ he said, resting his head against the window. As the car pulled silently onto the street, Mo watched Netta slide into the passenger seat of Rhona’s Merc. His heart drooped. This was why he didn’t do relationships. He was toxic.

Chapter Thirty-Five

NETTA

Netta burst through the hotel doors into the reception area, narrowly avoiding bumping into Audrey, who appeared to be on her way out to do something glamourous, wearing a slash of crimson lipstick, a creamy felt fedora and a caramel-coloured fur coat.

‘Audrey!’ said Netta, pulling up short. ‘Sorry, I—’

‘Good grief!’ Audrey’s hand flew to her chest. ‘You’re in a hurry!’ She collected herself and took her oversized black sunglasses off, her shrewd eyes narrowed at Netta. ‘You’ve been crying. What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. I’m alright.’

‘Pig’s bottom.’ Audrey took a step closer. ‘Did that Maplestone fellow do something?’

‘No, but …’ A sob escaped from Netta, a strangled squeak of a sound quickly muffled by Audrey’s furry shoulder as she pulled Netta in for a hug. ‘Is this … real?’ asked Netta, drawing away.

‘Of course not!’ said Audrey, stroking the fur. ‘It’s premium faux, darling. Fletcher would be horrified if I was walking around wearing an animal.’

‘Where are you off to, anyway?’ asked Netta, keen to keep the focus away from herself. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘We were just off to cocktail hour with the widows, but this,’ Audrey said, gesturing at Netta’s face, ‘won’t do at all. The old soaks will just have to get started without me. Come to my room.’ She took Netta’s hand and marched her past the reception desk and down the short hallway to her suite. Fletcher yipped from inside her bag as she reached into it for her room key.

‘Are you allowed to have a dog in here?’

Audrey paused. ‘Well, nobody’s specifically said I can’t have him here.’ She pushed the door to her room open and guided Netta inside. A timber-clad nook housed a gold velvet couch on one side of the huge cumulous cloud of a bed and on the other, French doors opened to a tiny patio. Audrey lifted Fletcher from her bag and set him on the floor.

‘This is nice,’ said Netta, taking a seat on the couch.

Audrey settled into the armchair opposite Netta and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Tell me. What’s got you so upset?’

Netta hesitated. ‘Everything has just, I don’t know … exploded. It’s a long story.’

‘My favourite kind.’

‘I was with Mo today,’ Netta began, ‘and the paparazzi came and now there are photos of us online. It was awful. It just took me back to … well, you know. You can’t see my face in any of them, but one of the magazines has one where I’m recognisable and they know who I am.’

‘As in, Annie the Nanny?’

‘Yeah.’ Netta slid further down the couch. ‘And they’re threatening to release them if I don’t agree to a deal.’ Netta filled Audrey in on the plan to accompany Mo to the gala and the magazine’s proposal.

‘So,’ Audrey said, ‘you can either say no to the deal and have no control over the way the photo is handled, or you do take the deal and finally get to tell your side of the story?’

‘That’s the nuts and bolts of it.’

‘And if you don’t go to the gala, then the money you were going to use to try and have a baby would be off the table, I assume?’

Netta nodded.

‘Seems like there’s not really that much of a decision to be made,’ said Audrey. ‘I think this is a moment where you have to say to hell with what anyone else thinks of you and boil it down to what you want for yourself.’ She rested her elbows on the table between them. ‘Which is a baby, right?’

Netta nodded.

‘Well, then, you must do it for your baby, mustn’t you?’

Netta couldn’t resist a smile. ‘That’s emotional blackmail.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I just don’t want to dig it all up again.’

‘The digging has already been done,’ said Audrey. ‘You might as well make the most of it, or you’ll just end up being a victim all over again.’

Netta didn’t have a response to that. She knew Audrey was right.

‘Plus,’ Audrey’s eyes twinkled and she clapped her hands together, ‘all this drama aside, going to the gala would be magical. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. And with that dishy man on your arm, no less!’

‘A dishy man who’s very loudly spoken for. He and I, it’s all just for show.’ Netta checked her watch. ‘Thanks for the chat, Audrey. You’ve saved me from a sinkhole of second-guessing. I’d better go and call Rhona. Seal my fate.’

‘Good woman. You go and show them what you’re made of,’ said Audrey. ‘And come and show me your outfit before you leave.’

Netta marched up the stairs to her suite, breathing a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. Talking things through with Audrey had distilled her thoughts. The swirling sediment clouding her logic had settled and the path forward was clear. Strewn with potholes and rabbit traps, but clear enough. She pulled her phone from her bag and called Rhona.

‘Netta?’

‘Rhona, hi. Look, I’ve had a think about it. I’m going to take the deal.’

‘Okay.’ The relief in Rhona’s voice was unmistakable. ‘That’s great. I’ll call Charlie back and set it up. The glam team will be with you at noon tomorrow and Mo’s limo will pick you up at six. I’ll be there to make sure everything goes to plan and Charlie doesn’t try to squeeze any more out of you than you’ve agreed to. Also, I made some calls—Mitch isn’t on the gala guest list. I thought maybe you might’ve been worried about that.’

Netta felt a knot of anxiety loosen just a little. At least she could take that fear off her mind. ‘Thanks, Rhona.’

‘For what it’s worth, Netta, I think you’ve made the right call.’

Netta perched on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. ‘I guess we’re about to find out, aren’t we?’

Chapter Thirty-Six

NETTA

‘So, are we going for sleek femme fatale?’ Marieke, the stylist, held up a fitted, floor-length, one-shouldered, electric blue velvet dress. ‘Or are we going to deck you out like a Christmas tree?’ She wrestled a second dress, covered in sequins and fringing, from the rack.

‘I love them both,’ said Netta from her post on the bed, where she was wrapped in a hotel robe, her hair and make-up already done. ‘But I think I need something a little less out there.’

‘Hmm, okay,’ mused Marieke. ‘How about this?’ She unzipped another cloth bag and pulled out a red satin slip dress.

‘I think I’ll have enough scarlet woman vibes going on,’ said Netta. ‘I think I need something simple. Classic. Definitely not red.’

‘Aha. I have just the thing.’ Marieke tugged a bulging bag from the rack and laid it on the bed. Carefully, she unzipped it to reveal the softly shining folds of a voluminous black dress. She pulled it out and held it up, shaking it gently to release the layers of the underskirt. ‘It’s vintage Chanel,’ she said, turning it to show Netta the scooped back.

‘It’s stunning,’ breathed Netta. Her insides were a washing machine, the thought of stepping into the spotlight spinning them dry at warp speed. But, even so, this day of makeover magic had been a dream come true—the wedding day treatment she’d never had. And the dress was incredible. ‘Do you think it’ll fit me?’

Marieke motioned for her to stand up. ‘Only one way to find out!’

Netta stripped off the robe and let Marieke help her into the dress.

‘Like. A. Glove,’ said the stylist as she zipped the bodice over Netta’s waist. She stepped back and cast an approving eye over Netta. ‘It just needs …’ She scurried away to her huge kit bag and returned with a pair of spectacular earrings and a sparkling bracelet.

Netta put the jewellery on and went to the mirror. She gasped. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I look …’

‘Beautiful,’ finished Marieke.

Netta’s hair had been set into old Hollywood waves and her make-up was understated and classic, her complexion creamy and her lips rosy pink. She looked so different, like the very best version of herself had finally been excavated: a shinier, sparklier Netta Phillips. The styling team had given her a sharp outline, where normally she kept the edges blurred to fit in, to not draw attention. But now, looking at her reflection, Netta had to concede that Marieke was right. She did look beautiful.

Marieke smiled, assessing her handiwork. ‘I’d say Morrison Maplestone is going to be outshone tonight.’

Netta scoffed. ‘Hardly. His suit is pretty amazing and the rest of him isn’t exactly awful.’

‘Yeah, but he’s still not a knockout woman in vintage Chanel, now, is he?’ Marieke stepped back to examine Netta’s outfit once again. ‘Shoes,’ she said. She opened a suitcase full of boxes and rifled through them until she found what she was looking for. ‘These should work. Let’s try.’

Netta slid her feet into the velvet peep-toe heels and teetered a little. ‘I’m not used to wearing shoes this high anymore.’

‘You’ll be right,’ said Marieke. ‘I just want to …’ She vanished head-first into her kit bag again and emerged with two glittering brooches. ‘Take them off for a tick,’ she instructed.

Netta slid out of the shoes and watched as Marieke clipped the ornaments to them.

‘There,’ said Marieke, smiling. ‘Perfection.’

Netta slid back into the shoes and held one foot out to admire them.

‘You look fabulous,’ said Marieke. ‘My work here is done.’

‘You’re like a fairy godmother,’ Netta said, taking in her reflection once more. ‘I feel like Cinderella.’

Marieke grinned broadly. ‘It’s not all the dress, you know. Oh, I forgot something. Rhona asked me to give you this.’ From her handbag she produced a bottle of Bollinger. ‘Here. She said one glass to relax before you leave, the rest to celebrate when you get home.’

Netta poured herself a glass as soon as Marieke was gone. Mo would arrive soon, but she had long enough for some liquid courage. She took the glass back over to the mirror. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so perfectly put-together before. If she couldn’t face the music looking like this, there was no hope.

She took a sip of champagne and straightened, giving herself a steely glare in the mirror. ‘You’ve got this,’ she said aloud. Marieke had shown her some go-to red-carpet poses and she took a few moments to practise them. She felt idiotic but had to admit, even the craziest one was better than her standard huge-grin-and-awkward-hands pose.

Her phone rang from inside the rhinestone-encrusted clutch Marieke had left for her to use.

‘Mo,’ she said, her pulse galloping. ‘Are you here?’

‘I am. You ready?’

Oh God, that voice.

‘As I’ll ever be. I’ll come down.’

‘No, no—wait there,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up.’

Netta put the phone back into her bag and clipped it shut. She spritzed some perfume into the air and walked through it as she swallowed the last mouthful of Bolly in her glass. Her lungs suddenly felt too small. This moment, she realised, was a far cry from the first time she’d opened that door to him, when she was in a dressing gown and still half asleep. It was impossible to believe it had only been four days ago.

His knock was a quick double tap. Netta took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping back to let him in. ‘Hi.’

Mo didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there, unblinking, his lips parted. ‘Netta,’ he breathed. ‘You look …’

‘Like a proper grown-up?’

‘You look beautiful.’

Netta’s cheeks bloomed under her make-up. ‘So do you.’

That was an understatement. He’d gone from hot to scorching and looked every bit the celebrity. His suit had definitely become ‘at one’ with him, as Valerie had suggested. His hair had been combed into submission and his stubble tamed. And he smelled incredible. Netta could practically feel her ovaries going into overdrive, pumping out every egg she had left like machine guns. She squeezed her thighs together, mercifully hidden under the full skirt of her dress.

‘Should we go?’

‘Nah, let’s just stay here and get pizza,’ Netta joked.

‘Ha! I wish. C’mon, let’s get this thing over and done with.’ He stepped back as Netta swooshed through the doorway, then offered her his elbow. ‘Madam, your chariot awaits.’

As they reached the lobby, Netta remembered her promise to Audrey. ‘One sec,’ she said. ‘I promised my friend I’d show her my outfit before we left.’ She left Mo waiting while she made her way to Audrey’s room.

‘Oh, Netta!’ Audrey cried as she opened the door. ‘You look absolutely radiant! Stunning! You’ll be the most beautiful woman there. I’d put money on it.’

Netta grinned. ‘I’d better get going. Just wanted to show you.’

Audrey dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Is your rock star here?’ ‘He’s in the lobby.’

‘Oh, we mustn’t keep him waiting! I’ll walk with you. Make sure you get there okay.’ Audrey closed the door behind her.

Mo turned as they approached.

‘Audrey Farrington,’ announced Audrey, extending her hand to Mo. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Netta stifled a laugh. Forget Beyonce, next time she needed courage, she was channelling Audrey.

‘Morrison,’ said Mo, smiling and taking Audrey’s hand. ‘And I’m pleased to meet you too.’

Audrey fixed him with a shrewd glare. ‘You’ll take good care of this precious woman tonight.’

‘I certainly will.’

***

Outside, a small crowd had gathered around the limo.

‘The stretch always brings out the rubber-neckers,’ Mo murmured as he peered through the hotel’s door. ‘But no paps. They’ll already be hovering around The Royal Albert Hall like mosquitos.’ He slipped his jacket off and handed it to Netta. ‘Still, might be best to cover up in case someone out there gets a shot and posts it. We don’t want anything getting out early and pissing Charlie off.’

Netta hooked the jacket over her head, being careful not to ruin her hair, and let Mo guide her to the car. The driver opened the door for them in a comically fluid motion and shut it with a reassuring clunk once they were safely inside.

‘You can come out now,’ said Mo with a smile in his voice. ‘Tinted windows.’

Netta removed the jacket and handed it to him, self-consciously smoothing her hair.

‘Still perfect,’ said Mo.

Netta’s heart flipped and heat rose in her cheeks again. In the quiet of the car, with only centimetres between her and Mo, she felt a new visitor in her belly. Excitement. She’d not been expecting that. Foreboding dread and crippling fear? Sure. But excitement had not been on the radar. Netta felt fortified by Mo’s company, despite heading directly for the lion’s den. She smiled. Maybe tonight might be good, after all.

‘So, Rhona’s going to meet us there,’ said Mo as the car pulled away. His knee moved closer to her as he turned to speak, reducing the centimetres to millimetres. ‘UK Yeah has set up a pretend red carpet for our photos. I know, it’s weird. But whatever. Then you’ll go inside with Rhona and I’ll go and do the real red carpet, and I’ll meet you inside after. We’ll be together all night, except when I’m on stage, slaughtering my career with that fucking song.’ He rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘You can stay in the audience to watch, or you can come backstage with me and watch from there. Whatever you’d rather.’

‘Okay.’

‘You nervous?’

‘Yep.’

‘Me too.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. I’m always nervous about going on stage. And red carpets kill me. But, you know …’

‘It’s all part of the job?’

‘Exactly.’

The driver took the back route to The Royal Albert Hall, avoiding the glut of sleek cars lined up to deposit shiny celebrities at the red carpet where a horde of photographers and reporters lay in wait, ready to capture every arrival. The car swooped around the southern side and slowed near the loading bay, turning to make the three-level descent into the underbelly of the grand hall. Netta stared out the window in awe. The huge underground space was full of trucks and staff, buzzing around like single-minded worker bees. Rhona, magnificent in a mint-green three-piece suit, was waiting for them near a huge mural depicting The Royal Albert Hall surrounded by iconic performers, Jimi Hendrix at the centre. The car came to a gentle halt and Mo rolled his window down.

‘Howdy.’

‘We’re good to go up there; it’s all set up in one of the big dressing rooms,’ said Rhona, peeking through the opening. ‘Netta! You look stunning!’

Mo cleared his throat pointedly.

‘Yes, yes. You look lovely too,’ said Rhona, shaking her head.

‘Now come on, let’s get up there and get it done.’ Rhona opened Netta’s door and closed it after she and Mo were both out of the car. ‘This way.’

She bustled ahead through a labyrinth of passages and doorways, showing them down a curved corridor to an intersecting room on the left. Inside, the red carpet set-up they’d seen at the front had been replicated in front of huge lights and a photographer. Netta blinked. It seemed even weirder now that she could see the scheme in real life.

‘Morrison, Netta,’ boomed a man striding in their direction. ‘Charlie Tunbridge, UK Yeah. Let’s make this happen, shall we? We want to make it as natural as possible. Mo, you know the deal. Just pretend you’re doing the real thing and we should get our shots pretty quickly.’

A young stylist hurried them to the start of the carpet. ‘We’ll get some shots of you walking onto the mark,’ she said, adjusting Netta’s hair. ‘And then, when you’re on the mark, we’ll get a few poses there too.’

Mo held his hand out for Netta’s. His engulfed hers, wrapping it in warmth and easing the runaway tremors. He gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Look around a bit while we’re walking,’ he said. ‘Like people are trying to get your attention.’

He stepped out onto the carpet. The rapid-fire flash of the camera blinded Netta, but she did her best to look like this craziness—walking down a fake red carpet, holding Morrison Maplestone’s hand, wearing a Chanel gown—was normal. They hit the mark and Mo scooped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. Netta instinctively placed her hand on his lapel and looked over her shoulder.

‘That’s it, guys. Great,’ called Charlie. ‘Now look at each other, pretend someone’s just said something funny. Let’s get a little in-joke vibe going on.’

Netta’s face was closer to Mo’s than it had ever been. His breath was warm and minty as he laughed and Netta had a desperate urge to feel it on her neck.

‘Alright, looking good, kids,’ boomed Charlie. ‘Let’s get a couple of you looking at Netta’s outfit, Mo. That’s it. Perfect.’

Mo held Netta’s hand and stepped back, admiring her dress for the camera. He lifted her hand and moved closer, bringing it to his lips. His kiss landed on the back of her hand like a butterfly. Light. Beautiful. Gone too quickly.

‘Oh, yes! That’s the stuff.’ Charlie was on his feet. ‘Could we get a proper kiss, guys? The readers will eat it up.’

Mo looked at Netta, his eyes deliciously darkened. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered.

Netta’s chest burned with adrenalin, her limbs fizzing. ‘What do you think? You’re the one with the—’

‘I think yes.’

Mo’s voice had lowered again and it resonated in Netta’s chest, shortening her breath as she nodded her agreement.

His dimple deepened as he dipped his face to Netta’s. He kept her butterfly-kissed hand clasped in his, anchoring her, before resting his other hand on her hip. Netta’s heart bashed against her ribs, crowding her starved lungs as she tipped her mouth to his.

The world stopped spinning for a moment as they stayed like that, noses almost touching, breath mingling, lips close.

‘That’s it, nice and quick, guys,’ barked Charlie. ‘It’s just a photo, not a porno.’

Netta’s face creased into laughter and as her lips parted, Mo met them with his. His hand tightened on her hip and she melted, returning a kiss that felt like a hell of a lot more than just a pose. She instinctively raised her free hand to the side of his face, her fingers finding the hollow behind his jaw, the delicious rasp of his stubble under her palm and the scent of his cologne on his pulse sending a flood of want through every nerve in her body. His kiss caressed her top lip, and her hand moved to his chest, his moving to the small of her back, pulling her into him. His mouth was warm and soft on hers, their bodies drawn together as the camera flashed, capturing the image but not the moment. Not the feeling. Not even a thousand words would be enough to describe it.

‘Righto, that’ll do. Let’s take a quick break,’ called Charlie. ‘I’ll just have a look through what we’ve got. One sec.’

Netta was the first to pull away.

Mo looked dazed, quickly removing his hand from her back. ‘Sorry,’ he said, flustered. ‘I— Was that too much?’

Netta gulped and shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She broke his gaze and smoothed her dress to give her shaking hands something to do. Looking up, she caught Rhona staring at her and Mo, one eyebrow raised almost to her hairline and her mouth arranged into a thrilled O.

‘Yep. Yep. We’ve got it, people.’ Charlie sat behind a laptop, his face pinched in concentration as he scrolled through the photos. ‘Let’s wrap it up. Thanks, Morrison. Netta. That was great.’ He strode over to them, still standing on the mark. ‘We’ll get these online straight away. Bloody camera phones in the pocket of every bugger and their mother have slaughtered the whole notion of an exclusive. We can’t risk anyone sneaking anything onto social media before us. Now, Netta, about the interview. We’d like to get it done as soon as possible. Obviously tomorrow is Christmas Day so that’s out, but our writer can come to you on the twenty-sixth if that suits?’

‘Um, yeah. That’ll be fine,’ said Netta, measuring her breaths in an attempt to recover from the kiss. Mo left her side to look at the photos with Rhona and Netta lowered her voice to say, ‘The article, it’ll be my side of the story? Just mine?’

‘Netta, I can’t wait to make it rain shit on Carlton. The story will be all yours, and we’ll look after you. But don’t hold back, okay? We need all the juice. Capiche?’

Netta nodded. ‘Got it.’

‘Netta!’ Rhona was waving her over. ‘Let’s go inside and find your seat. Mo’s off to do the real red carpet. I’ll sit with you till he gets back.’

Mo’s face creased into a smile, the lines fanning out from his eyes almost meeting his dimple. ‘The photos are beautiful.’ He held Netta’s gaze for a beat. ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

NETTA

The hall was even more breathtaking than the last time Netta had been there. It was softly lit and cavernous, filling with beautiful people wearing beautiful things. Classical piano music filled the air and mingled with perfumes, happy hellos and excited murmurs. Netta felt tiny as she followed Rhona to her seat.

‘Here we are.’ Rhona held her hand out to indicate where Netta should sit. ‘Mo will be here soon. He’s not on till the second half, so you’ll be able to watch from here until the interval and then he’ll have to go backstage to prepare,’ she said, settling into Mo’s seat. ‘That was quite a kiss back there.’

Netta looked up to see Mo standing in the aisle. ‘Don’t get too comfy,’ he said, flashing Rhona a grin. ‘You’re in my seat, lady. Up ya get.’

‘That was quick!’ Rhona said. ‘Did you sprint down the carpet?’

‘Like Usain Bolt.’

Rhona stood and said her goodbyes, pecked Mo on the side of his head, shot Netta one last cheeky grin and disappeared to find her own seat.

Mo sank down beside Netta, his shoulder pressing against hers, the fabric of his sleeve electrifying her bare skin.

‘So,’ he said, his gaze trained straight ahead. ‘I guess we kissed.’

‘I guess we did.’

Mo nodded, his lips pressed together, as Netta tapped her fingers, one by one, on her clutch. She wondered what Lorena would have to say about it when the photos came out. She imagined the pitchfork-wielding posse of sequinned celebrities she’d rally to chase her out of London and far, far away from Mo and his mouth. Netta wondered even more if Mo was conflicted about it or if the kiss had been as world-ending for him as it had been for her, the voltage high enough to brush his conscience aside.

‘How are you feeling about it?’ Mo cleared his throat and looked across at her. ‘About the shoot and being here, I mean.’

‘I’m glad the photos are done and I’m looking forward to the show,’ she said, tipping her head towards the stage. ‘I’m trying not to think any further ahead than that.’

Mo shifted in his seat and his knee pressed briefly against Netta’s, sending a jolt of desire straight up her thigh. That kiss had really flipped a switch. The feeling settling into her body was like the animal urge to scoff the entire packet of Tim Tams after eating the first one; her urge to binge on Mo now that she’d had a little hit seemed unleashable. She looked around the grand hall to distract herself. Most of the seats were full, and as the lights began to dim, bells began a rhythmic jangle from the orchestra pit and a booming ‘Ho Ho Ho’ erupted through the sound system to rapturous applause. The orchestra broke into a jaunty version of ‘Jingle Bells’, and a troupe of dancers, dressed in sparkling elf costumes, came trotting out from the tunnel at the back of the stage.

Netta tucked her elbows into her sides and clapped her hands in pure, unadulterated glee. She felt Mo looking down at her and she met his gaze, unable to wipe the delight from her face.

‘So, you’re a Christmas person, huh?’ he said.

‘Hardcore,’ she replied. ‘And I love this event. I look it up online and watch it every year. Actually being here—’ she bit her bottom lip and shook her head in wonder, ‘—it’s blowing my mind a bit.’

The first half of the gala was a magnificent blur of celebrity singers, comedians and dance acts. With each performance, the Christmas spirit in the room grew and lifted Netta above the drama and angst of the lead-up. This was fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light.

Just before intermission, an usher appeared at Mo’s side with ninja stealth. ‘Good evening, Mr Maplestone,’ he whispered. ‘It’s time to head backstage.’

Mo turned to Netta. ‘You coming?’

‘Hell, yes.’ She stood and smoothed the skirt of her dress. ‘Let’s go.’

Half an hour later, after watching Mo go through his warm-ups and a briefing with the stage manager, Netta found herself next to him, hidden in the shadows at the stage entry as the host delivered his spiel.

‘Our next performer needs no introduction. Especially to the ladies in the room.’ Mo rolled his eyes at Netta as a whoop swept around the audience. ‘He’s the tattooed naughty boy from Australia, hit maker extraordinaire, an unforgettable voice. Please welcome Mr Morrison Maplestone!’

The crowd cheered as Mo strode confidently onto the stage and took the mic. The orchestra rang out the opening bars of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ and as the audience ramped up the cheering, Mo rewarded them with a languid smile, pulling his body close to the mic stand. Netta watched, entranced by his stage persona. It was rough and smooth at the same time, his voice a gravelly firepit but his body fluid and free. There was nothing choreographed about his moves, instead it was as though the music moved through him as naturally as water running through a creek bed, following its twists and turns without effort.

Netta sensed someone step into the space beside her.

‘’Scuse me, love.’ Lorena Long towered over her in a shimmering gold dress, sky-high heels propping up her already sky-high legs. ‘You win a competition or something? Win a backstage pass, did you?’

Netta’s desire for Mo was replaced by an oily slick of guilt, sliding down her throat and roiling in her belly. ‘Er, no, not exactly.’

Her answer was ignored by Lorena, who’d already moved in front of her to get a better look at Mo out on the stage. She swayed her hips in a way Netta would have no hope of imitating. Netta’s hips only went side to side; Lorena’s seemed to have a few extra joints, which felt like an unfair advantage, given she already had a body seemingly made entirely of Pilates and egg whites. Netta shuffled sideways to reclaim her view, and as she did, Mo looked over his shoulder. He caught her eye briefly before his gaze migrated north to Lorena’s, where it lingered with intensity before he snapped his attention back to his rapt audience and sang the hell out of that Mariah song.

Netta shrank back. Their kiss had been for show, nothing more. A shameless publicity stunt. And one he was paying her for, at that. She moved further back from the stage and brushed her fingers against her lips. The tingle was still there but now it had been joined by the burn of mortification.

The song finished and as the audience applauded, Mo took a deep bow and made his way off stage. Lorena stepped forward and wrapped herself around him, and Netta took Mo’s hands on Lorena’s sequinned waist as her cue to leave. Heart sinking and humiliation rocketing, she turned and walked quickly to the heavy stage door and pulled, using her whole bodyweight to drag it open. She weaved her way back through the throngs of stagehands and make-up artists and started along the curved hallway flanked by dressing rooms and adorned on either side by framed photos of the performers who’d graced the stage over the years.

Up ahead, a door opened and a man came out, his back to Netta. Even from behind, she could see he was under the influence of something. His shoulder bounced off the wall and as he stumbled, Netta’s guard went up—alone in a hallway with a wasted man wasn’t her idea of safety. She slowed and followed him at a distance back out to the auditorium, where the audience was clapping for a dance act. The man squatted in the aisle to tie his shoelace, his fingers fumbling uselessly. He gave up and as he stood, he glanced behind him.

‘Well, fuck me dead,’ he slurred, spinning wonkily on his heel to face Netta. ‘If it isn’t Annie the Nanny.’

Netta’s stomach dropped. Mitch.

‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ His eyes were murky pools and a telltale white crumb clung to the nose hair protruding from his left nostril.

‘What—what are you doing here?’ Netta stuttered. ‘You weren’t on the guest list.’

He scoffed. ‘Guest list, shmest list.’ He jabbed at his chest. ‘I know people. What the fuck are you doing here?’

Netta paused a moment and took stock, gored by his transformation. Mitch hadn’t aged well. His once handsome face was sunken, his skin dull and his jawline hinting at jowliness. The rakish sex appeal that had lured her twenty-year-old self had been replaced by a greasy, past-it quality that emanated from his stretched-out pores, the stoop of his posture, his overpowering cologne. He was revolting.

She straightened. ‘I’m here with—’

‘She’s here with me,’ Mo said, approaching from behind Netta.

‘Ha! That’d be right,’ sneered Mitch, sending a lazy glance Mo’s way before sliding his gaze back down to Netta. ‘She’s a right little starfucker, this one. Aren’t you, Annie?’

Adrenalin coursed through Netta, pinning her to the spot as Mo pushed past her, his nostrils flared and body tensed.

‘Say that again, mate. I dare you.’

Mitch looked Mo dead in the eye. ‘I said that she’s a right little starfucker.’

Mo took a step towards Mitch, his fingers flexing and curling by his hip. Netta scooped her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged.

He turned to look at her and she shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth it. And he’s off his head—look at him.’

Mo relented and took a step back from Mitch, whose mud-pit eyes had turned to Netta, a reptilian smile slithering across his face as he looked her up and down.

‘You look good, Annie.’ His voice oozed from him like toxic waste. ‘Good to see you haven’t let yourself go.’

Netta stepped in front of Mo, positioning herself between them, one hand behind her to keep Mo at bay. ‘I wish I could say the same about you, Mitch.’ She fought to remain calm and collected against the adrenalin as it built, dissolving her insides. ‘But it seems your looks are finally starting to match your personality.’

Mitch smirked and swiped his tongue over his chapped lips, his jaw clenching with the rhythmic grinding of his teeth. ‘I’m still getting plenty.’

Netta’s skin crawled. ‘You’re repellent, Mitch. The biggest mistake of my life.’ She was suddenly so grateful to be doing the interview. Charlie Tunbridge had done her a huge favour. He was right, it was time to make it rain shit on Mitch.

Mitch held her gaze unblinkingly, wavering on his coke-addled legs. His tongue fidgeted at one of his teeth. ‘You used to love it, Annie. I still remember what you like, you know. Remember that time we did it in the kitchen?’ He lowered his gaze to her breasts and let it linger, before tracking back to her face and taking a step closer, his breath an assault of cigarettes and whiskey.

Netta took a step away, her back finding Mo’s chest as he stood solid and reassuring behind her, his hand on her hip.

‘Oh, you’ve gotten shy now, have you?’ Mitch said. ‘That’s new.’

‘Oh, no, Mitch. I’ve got plenty to say about you,’ said Netta. ‘You’ll see.’

A look of confusion flashed over Mitch’s face before he shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Whatever.’ He looked at Mo. ‘Have fun with that one, mate. I sure did.’

‘I know what you did to her, you fucking arsehole,’ Mo hissed.

Mitch rolled his eyes and grinned. ‘But has she told you what she used to do to me?’ He raised his hand, his fingers reaching for Netta’s jaw.

Mo instinctively lifted his hand to stop him but before he could, Netta grabbed Mitch’s wrist and pushed it away, repulsed to the core at the thought of being touched by him. Mitch, whose upright stature was astonishing given the amount of cocaine it seemed he’d done, stumbled backwards, Netta’s shove helped along by the gentle downward slope of the aisle. He landed crab-like on the rose-coloured carpet.

By now audience members were standing to gawk, waxed eyebrows arched sky high and whispers tucked behind manicured fingers. A disembodied voice shouted, ‘Someone’s finally done it!’ from deep within the theatre, setting off a ripple of hushed, through-the-nose laughter.

Mitch had lowered his bottom to the floor, making no attempt to get up, his dead eyes flicking between Netta and Mo like a challenge.

Mo bent down to him. ‘You’re a piece of shit, mate,’ he said quietly.

Netta felt something in her chest loosen and all the pieces of herself that had been dislodged by Mitch all those years ago dropped back into place like a game of Tetris. She took Mo’s hand in hers and pulled, and he turned and caught her eye. He’d probably never know the power of what had just happened. She’d finally done what she hadn’t been able to do all those years ago when she was too young to know how completely and objectively wronged she’d been. She looked down at Mitch one last time and then up to the sea of laser-focused eyes paying witness to their every move.

‘We should go.’

Mo squeezed her hand. ‘You okay?’

Netta nodded. ‘Yep.’

Mo stepped around Mitch, still splayed dramatically on the carpet, and led Netta away towards the exit.

Netta’s phone vibrated in her clutch as they hurried from the auditorium into the curved hallway. ‘Rhona?’

‘Meet me in the limo at the front.’ Rhona was puffing. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

Netta and Mo burst out through the foyer into the frosted night air—and straight into a blinding wall of cameras.

‘Fuck.’ Mo dragged her back inside.

‘It’s okay.’

He held Netta’s gaze. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m good.’ She was more than good. She was invincible. ‘Rhona said she’d be out there.’

They pushed their way back through the door to a line of identical limos. Netta’s heart raced as she scanned back and forth, wondering which one was their target.

‘Netta! Mo!’ Rhona’s shriek rose above the shouts of the photographers trying to get their attention from the other side of the barricade, her head and shoulders sticking through the open sunroof of a limo a few cars down from the entrance.

Netta gathered her skirt and tucked herself close to Mo as they ran to the car. He ushered her in first and then slid in behind her.

‘Just go. Go!’ said Rhona to the driver, who pulled out emotionlessly, as though this sort of thing happened to him every day. ‘They don’t know what just went down in there,’ she said, gesturing at the photographers out the window, ‘or you two would be mincemeat by now.’

Netta gulped, the true enormity of what had just happened dawning, the electric buzz draining away.

‘But someone inside will have posted a video of it already, so it’s only a matter of time,’ Rhona continued. ‘Wanna tell me what happened?’

Mo fixed her with a pointed look. ‘Take a wild guess.’

Rhona pressed her lips together and nodded, patting Netta’s hand. ‘I did check the guest list. He wasn’t on it. I’m so sorry, Netta.’

Netta checked in with herself. She felt … good. Light. Like she’d just dropped a dead weight she’d been carting around for almost two decades. She’d held Mitch in her mind as he’d been in 2005, complete with the magnetic power he’d wielded over her, for all that time. She’d allowed his presence to grow bigger and bigger, but in reality, he’d shrunk to a caricature whose only effect on her older, wiser self was to initiate her gag reflex. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I think it was actually kind of good for me to see him like that.’

Mo half smiled. ‘What? On his arse with a giant coke booger hanging off his nose?’

‘You can’t go home now, Mo,’ said Rhona over Netta’s snort. ‘Once the paps get their claws into this they’ll be all over your place like flies on manure. And you know someone will have gotten a photo of you standing over him at the end there. They’ll twist that to imply it was you who pushed him.’

‘Nobody pushed him, Rhona,’ said Mo. ‘He was so fucking high it was a miracle he could stand at all. Netta just batted his hand away before he could get his coked-up claws on her.’

‘I know,’ said Rhona. ‘But optics. Remember?’

Mo let out a sigh of frustration and shook his head.

‘Should we go to the hotel instead?’ asked Netta.

‘No, no. They’ll find you there,’ said Rhona. ‘You need to get out of town. We’ll swing past my house. You two can take my car and hole up at our cottage in Margate for a couple of days. We decided not to Airbnb it over Christmas in case we wanted to go down. It’s a bit of a drive but it’s very private.’

‘You up for a beach mini-break?’ Mo asked Netta.

She nodded without hesitation. They’d just walked through fire together and, partly because of Mo, Netta didn’t feel burned. Being separated from him—regardless of the Lorena situation—seemed completely out of the question.

‘Probably not quite the Christmas either of you had in mind,’ said Rhona, ‘but desperate times and all that.’

‘Is this going to be bad for Mo? The Mitch thing?’ asked Netta.

‘I don’t think it’s going to help,’ said Rhona. Her eyes were soft as she looked at Mo. ‘But he’s always been one to stand by the people he loves. Haven’t you, Mo?’

Mo flushed and cleared his throat. ‘He’s a prick.’

Rhona nodded in agreement, her smile loaded. It was obvious she thought there was something bubbling between Netta and Mo. Maybe she didn’t know about Lorena Long, because there was no way anyone would think Netta could compete with that.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

MO

Netta and Mo had been strangely silent since they’d left Rhona’s. Nobody had mentioned the elephant in the car. Neither of them had even looked sideways at it. It had been almost two hours of hush punctuated only by the occasional awkward observation about something or other they’d driven past, any real conversation gagged by a tangible feeling of limbo. It was like that moment at the top of a Ferris wheel, swinging back and forth before the inevitable descent, half feeling like maybe you’ll plummet to your death and half like you could stay up there forever and just forget the ground, and all its real-world problems, even existed.

Social media had exploded with videos and photos of the Mitch incident only moments after they’d made their getaway in the limo. Mo didn’t resent being caught up in it, though. Not for a second. Netta hadn’t deserved the years of pain she’d lived with at the hands of Mitch cockhead Carlton, and she’d been magnificent. Someone with her history could justifiably have crumbled in that situation, frozen into submission by Mitch’s beady fucking stare, but she’d been strong. Classy.

Regardless, he knew it wasn’t a good look for him to have been involved. His optics were currently subterranean, he guessed. ‘Maybe I should call Mav and tell him I’m not going to be around for Christmas,’ he said, as much to himself as to Netta, just to break the silence.

Netta shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat and groaned. ‘I’m so sorry for getting you caught up in all my rubbish.’

‘Don’t be,’ he said, glancing sideways at her. ‘I’m glad you had a chance to confront him. You did great.’

‘It’s not just tonight, though, is it? There’s a very clear chain of events that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t come to the UK. You wouldn’t be in this media mess or missing Christmas with your brother.’

Mo shook his head, relieved the quiet had finally been shattered. ‘I was already on the downward slope before you came,’ he said. ‘If it wasn’t this, they’d have found something else. It’s just my turn. This is how it works.’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘It’s really not your fault,’ he said. ‘I could’ve just told you to post the diary. And if anyone should feel bad about anything, it’s me. If I hadn’t asked you to come to London, then your history with Mitch would’ve stayed in its grave.’

Mo could still feel the warmth of Netta’s hand on his jaw, the pressure of her lips on his. That kiss was as permanent as any of his tattoos.

Netta took a moment before she spoke again. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ she said, ‘but I’m actually glad it was exhumed. I didn’t stand up for myself back then, and all these years since, I’ve let the memory of him have so much power over me. And now, after tonight, something’s different. I feel, I don’t know, free or something. I want to go back in time and hug my twenty-year-old self. Tell her to let go of it all, then and there, so she can feel the way I do right now without having to wait so long. Does that sound crazy?’

‘No. I just wish you hadn’t had to wear it for nearly twenty years.’ Mo’s fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, fighting the urge to reach over and take her hand. The kiss— Fucking hell, that kiss. He was unravelled.

‘It’s getting pretty late. Maybe you should call Mav.’

Mo nodded and passed her his phone. ‘The code’s one nine oh four six three,’ he said. ‘Can you call him and put him on speaker?’

Netta scrolled through Mo’s contacts and hit call when she found Mav’s name.

‘Bro!’ Mav shouted over background din. ‘Fucking hell, man. I was just about to call you. Someone just showed me a video of you and Netta with that old guy at the gala.’

Mo cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m calling about, actually. It’s a bit of a mess. Rhona’s sent me packing for a couple of nights so I’m not going to be around for Christmas. I’m sorry, mate.’

There was a pause at Mav’s end of the phone line. ‘Are you, ah, with Netta, by any chance? I saw some red carpet photos on Insta that—’

‘Yep,’ hurried Mo. ‘And you’re on speaker.’ His tone was pointed enough for even Mav to pick up on. He hoped.

‘I see.’

Mo could hear Mav’s smile. Little shit.

‘Nice to phone-meet you, Netta.’

‘Hi, Mav,’ she said. ‘Sorry about all of this. It’s kind of my fault.’

‘Don’t be.’ His voice was jovial. He was probably very pissed. ‘I’m out in the city tonight and there’s a lot of Christmas cheer going around. Doubt I’d make it home anyway, to be honest.’

‘Maybe stay away from the house for a bit, mate,’ said Mo. ‘The paps will be at the front gate for a few days, I’d say.’

‘All good. Hey, I’ve gotta go,’ said Mav. ‘And Mo? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

‘Got it.’

‘And Netta?’

Oh no.

‘I hope Santa still finds you tonight, but if not, I’m sure Mo has something in his sack he’d like to—’

Mo snatched the phone from Netta and hung up. His cheeks flamed. That cheeky little fucker. ‘Sorry about him.’ He glanced sideways to gauge her reaction. ‘He was born without a filter.’

Netta’s smile started in her eyes before it reached her mouth. ‘Kind of the opposite of you, then.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘From what I can tell, your filter wouldn’t let a quark through on a skinny day.’

‘A quark?’

‘It’s a … thing. Smaller than an atom. The smallest thing in the world.’

He digested her observation. ‘You think I hold everything in?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Yeah, I guess I do. Mostly,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I wish I was more like Mav, but then sometimes his big mouth is a liability. I don’t know which is worse.’

‘Maybe somewhere in the middle might be nice,’ Netta said. ‘It can’t be easy holding back all the time.’

Mo choked on his breath. She’d worked him out so quickly. So easily.

‘Then again,’ she said, ‘being compelled to crack jokes about your brother’s scrotum to a total stranger might also have its challenges.’

‘Yeah, poor little Mav. We should light a candle for him tonight.’

Netta’s laugh settled on Mo like confetti. ‘How much further is it to the cottage?’ she asked.

He checked the clock. ‘About half an hour. You’ll like it, I think. It’s nice. Cosy. There’s a fireplace.’

Mo glanced at her again, his gaze catching on her lips as they returned from another of her easy smiles. She hadn’t mentioned the kiss. Maybe it wasn’t the cataclysmic event for her that it had been for him. He turned the radio on to muffle his mind and the car flooded with the sound of Bing Crosby singing another fucking Christmas song.

‘Oh, I love this one!’ Netta sang along, swaying, her hands tapping the beat on her knees. Before he knew it—and well before he could believe it—Mo had joined in. And it felt good. She felt good. How the hell was he supposed to keep a lid on how he felt, trapped in a fucking firelit cottage by the sea? He might as well be taking her to the set of a Hallmark Christmas movie.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the contraction of his forearms a physical reminder of his strength. He could get through two days without making a fool of himself.

He visualised his quark-proof filter and made the tiny spaces even smaller.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

NETTA

‘This is it.’

Even in the dark, the cottage looked like something from a postcard, its stone walls comfortingly solid behind a high, ivy-clad fence. Mo killed the engine and unclicked his seatbelt, reaching into the back seat to retrieve the bag of mystery supplies Rhona had hastily packed for them.

‘Let’s get in and get the fire going.’

The icy wind tore at Netta’s dress as she raced from the car to the front door. A security light sparked to life as she approached, swathing the cottage in gold. A naked climbing rose clung to its walls, snaking its way around the white-framed windows, and a pair of garden chairs sat to the left of the entrance, overlooking the small front yard. A brass knocker adorned the front door that had been painted a glossy black and the briny smell of the ocean hung in the frost. Mo fished the key from his pocket and opened the door, flicking the light on as Netta hurried in behind him. Smooth flagstone floors stretched out under their feet and a voluptuous navy couch sat, draped invitingly with blankets, facing a huge fireplace.

‘Fuck me.’ Mo rubbed his hands together and brought them to his mouth to blow warm breath into them. ‘It’s arctic in here. I’ll have a go at the fire.’ He slid his suit jacket off and draped it around Netta’s shoulders. His body heat clung to the tartan lining and she wrapped it tightly around her.

He set to work, expertly stacking wood from the pile next to the fireplace into the hearth. Netta watched his back move under the crisp white fabric of his shirt, pulling tight, revealing the breadth of his shoulders, the delicious narrowing to his hips. As the fire took, he blew on the flame and soon it was licking the timber hungrily, crackling its ascent to a full-blown fire. A-sex-in-front-of-the-fire kind of fire. Forget waterboarding—this was torture.

Mo stood, dusting off his hands. ‘Tour?’

Netta nodded and followed him through to a small but picture-perfect kitchen with cupboards painted a deep teal, glossy timber benchtops and tiles a bright shade of beetroot. Shiny pots hung from hooks and the overhead glass cabinet displayed a mish-mash of crockery.

‘Kitchen.’ Mo swept his hand around the room like a game show host. ‘Bathroom is just through there and the bedrooms are upstairs.’

Netta climbed the stairs behind Mo, wrestling her skirt into submission against the narrow staircase. One room held a double bed dressed in expensive-looking linen and the other a set of bunks.

‘I’ll take the bunks. You can have the big bed. It’ll warm up in here once the fire’s been going for a while,’ he said, seeing Netta pull his jacket tighter around her shoulders. ‘Why don’t we put some warmer clothes on? God only knows what Rhona’s packed.’

He skipped down the stairs and reappeared with the bag, plonking it on the bed. ‘Fucking hell, Rhona,’ he said under his breath as he rifled through its contents. He lifted out a novelty Christmas jumper and a pair of bright red Adidas tracksuit pants. ‘Looks like this is my costume.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She’ll be lying in bed pissing herself about this. Let’s see what you’ve got.’ He passed Netta a long cashmere cardigan in an alarming shade of purple, a vintage Blondie T-shirt and a long, Lurex tube skirt.

‘Anything else in there?’ Netta hugged her outfit to her chest.

‘Socks. Crisps, chips, whatever you want to call them. Wine. Chocolate. Matching pyjamas—fuck’s sake.’ Mo rolled his eyes again. ‘And Rhona said we can help ourselves to the bathroom cupboard. They leave new toothbrushes and stuff in there for Airbnb guests.’ He quickly zipped up the bag and hiked it onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll get changed in the other room.’

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Netta slid gratefully from her high heels, her arches orgasmic with relief. She shrugged out of Mo’s suit jacket and took one last look down at herself in the dress. God, it was beautiful. She ran her hands over the fabric and twisted her hips, swishing the skirt around her bare legs as her frozen fingers fumbled with the zip, struggling to pull it down. She brought her hands to her mouth and warmed them with her breath but her second attempt revealed a kill-me-now truth: it wasn’t her fingers that were the problem, it was the zip. The very, very stuck zip.

‘Meet you downstairs.’ Mo’s voice was deep and resonant through the closed door.

‘Okay!’ Netta tried the zip again. Shit.

She wriggled her shoulders free from the straps and tried to pull the dress down, but it was so beautifully fitted, the best she could manage was partial boob exposure—anything lower than that was trapped by meticulous designer tailoring and the stupid bloody fucking zip. She was sweating now, despite the chilled air, her pulse quickening, her neck prickling with heat. She stooped to gather the skirt and tried lifting it over her head, but was once again halted at her ribs. She tugged the skirt back down and adjusted the bodice over her bra, leaving the straps dangling under her armpits. She might just have to wear the dress for the rest of her life.

‘Netta, you coming?’ Mo’s voice called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’ve poured you a wine.’

‘Coming!’ Netta tried the zip again. ‘Actually … I think I need some help. I can’t get the dress off.’ She willed the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

There was a long pause before Mo answered. ‘Er, yep. Okay.’

He knocked quietly and entered the room as though approaching a sleeping tiger. The ridiculous outfit he wore did nothing to dampen his appeal.

‘The zip is stuck,’ she said miserably. ‘I can’t get it off any other way.’

‘Right.’ Mo sat on the edge of the bed and spread his knees wide. ‘C’mere.’

Netta positioned herself between his legs and lifted her arm to reveal the zip, keeping her other arm clamped over her chest to stop the dress from falling.

Mo’s fingers explored the zip, his face a picture of concentration. ‘I can see where it’s stuck,’ he said. He pushed his sleeves up, revealing strong, inky forearms. ‘It’s caught a tiny piece of the material. I think I’ll be able to get it out.’

Netta held her breath as he massaged the fabric, his fingertips achingly close to her breast. Every cell of her body was on alert as she tried to corral her breathing. The last thing she needed was for him to notice what this was doing to her. She looked away as he worked, concentrating on the vintage Bally print hanging on the wall and definitely not thinking about the kiss on the red carpet. Or how much she wanted to kiss him again. The dress tightened on her rib cage as he gently pulled at the zip, opening it a touch then stopping, agonisingly, at the curve of her waist, his skin almost, but never quite, making contact with hers.

‘There. Got it.’

‘Thank you.’ Netta moved away and held the dress in place as he stood, keeping his eyes determinedly averted as he made his way back to the door.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll, ah, see you downstairs.’

The door clicked shut behind him and Netta closed her eyes for a moment, screwing her face up to absorb the desire Mo’s almost-touch had released. She stepped out of the gown and laid it carefully on the bed, took off her pinching strapless bra and slipped the skirt and Blondie T-shirt on. The cardigan was luxuriously warm as she slid her arms into the sleeves. She was much comfier, but also fairly confident she looked like a lunatic.

She found a hanger in the wardrobe and hung the dress, then checked her appearance in the gilded mirror leaning against the wall. Her hair still looked great and her make-up was miraculously still in place thanks to the industrial strength products. But the outfit was … well, it was something that only Rhona could pull off. She wrapped the cardigan tightly across her front to conceal her bralessness. She would have to do.

From the top of the stairs, she could see Mo sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand. A second glass was waiting on the table alongside a packet of chips and a block of chocolate. Outfit aside, if there was such a thing as perfection, she was about to walk right into it.

‘Hey.’ He smiled as she took a spot on the couch next to him. ‘I took the liberty,’ he said, passing her the wine.

‘Thank you. This is basically medicinal at this point,’ she said, taking a sip. ‘I could die that you had to get me out of the dress.’

‘It was nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘Hey, this’ll make you feel better.’ He stood and reached inside the neckline of Don’s Christmas jumper, his fingers searching for something behind his neck. ‘Ready?’

Netta nodded and then lights flashed all over the knitted Christmas tree. She burst into laughter. ‘Oh my God!’

‘That’s not all.’ He reached behind his head again and the jumper launched into a tinny rendition of ‘O Christmas Tree’.

‘What the hell?’ Netta was doubled over laughing. ‘Where do you even buy something like that?’

Mo shrugged and grinned as he sat back down. ‘Rhona and Christmas are pretty tight. She does it bigger and better every year.’

‘Were you and Mav supposed to be there tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, but it’s okay,’ he said. ‘This will be nice too.’ He held her gaze for a second and then looked away, clearing his throat. ‘Chips or chocolate?’

‘Red wine needs chocolate,’ said Netta.

‘Indeed it does.’

Mo grabbed the block from the table, tore the wrapper open and held it out to her. Netta snapped a row off and gave it to Mo, and then took another row for herself.

‘It doesn’t get much better than hazelnut chocolate and red wine.’ She settled back into the couch and admired the fire. ‘You did a good job there.’

A comfortable silence descended as they unwound, finally still after the whirlwind. Netta began to relax, allowing herself to sink further into the couch, tucking her feet beneath her as the fire splashed light across the dim room and the comforting smell of smoke mingled with the aroma of the shiraz.

‘Quite a night, hey?’ she said.

Mo nodded silently and took a sip of wine.

‘I’m sorry it ended up like this,’ she said. ‘I really do feel like it’s my fault. If I hadn’t gone with you, you’d probably be at some fancy after-party right now with—’

‘I’m not.’ His voice was low.

‘You’re not what?’

‘Sorry that it ended up like this.’ He lifted his gaze from the fire to meet hers.

‘But what about …’ Netta hesitated.

‘This is perfect. Apart from this, obviously.’ He gestured at his outfit. ‘I could live without this part of it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Netta. ‘You actually pull that jumper off pretty well.’

‘The purple’s quite good on you, too. You look like Grimace’s beautiful sister.’ He touched the soft sleeve of the cardigan, his fingertips kissing the back of her hand as he pulled away.

Netta’s skin exploded with want at his touch, her heart racing so fast she was certain he’d be able to see it through her clothes. Their eyes met and the growing black pools in Mo’s blue eyes made her wonder if, maybe, he’d felt the same thing.

He took a deep breath and set his wine glass on the table. ‘Netta, I …’ He rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, his gaze fixed on the floor between his feet. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ But Netta was not okay. Her insides were a tornado and her skin was on fire. She’d never wanted to kiss anyone so much in her life. ‘Lorena’s probably sticking pins into a voodoo doll of me right now.’

‘Lorena?’ Mo looked confused.

Netta raised her eyebrows. ‘Lorena Long?’

‘Yeah, I know who you mean. But why would she be doing that?’

‘Because by now she’s probably seen the photo of our fake kiss on the red carpet and because now you’re here with me, instead of with her. I’m sure you’d rather it was her here with you, too.’

Mo hooked his arm over the back of the couch and turned his body to her. ‘Why?’

Netta fidgeted with the cushion she’d pulled into her lap. ‘Because you’re together, aren’t you?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I saw you in the stage entry during the rehearsal and after your performance tonight.’

Mo shook his head. ‘I’m not with Lorena.’

Netta gave him a look so pointy it could take an eye out. ‘You guys looked pretty cosy to me. And you look great together. She’s beautiful … you’re beautiful …’

Mo paused, as though choosing his words carefully before speaking. ‘Lorena has been … trying for a while. With me, I mean. I’m not interested, but she’s always there. And she’s not backward in coming forward, if you know what I mean. I’ve told her I’m not up for it but I think she thinks that if she keeps chipping away, I’ll come around.’

‘Right.’ Netta backtracked through her memories of Lorena and Mo together. It had been Lorena who’d initiated contact both times.

‘And she is beautiful,’ continued Mo, ‘but not … not as beautiful as you. Not by miles.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry.’ Mo looked mortified. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘You think I’m beautiful?’

Mo rose from the couch and went to the fire, stoking it despite its roaring flame. Netta watched him take a deep breath, his broad chest rising beneath the ludicrous jumper she could no longer see the funny side of.

‘I think you’re more than beautiful,’ he said, the deep gravel of his voice setting Netta alight. ‘And that kiss …’ He shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. ‘There was nothing fake about it for me. It was incredible.’

For a moment, Netta was struck mute. By his words, by the sight of him in front of the fire, by the warm glow of wine in her belly and the desire racing around her veins. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to. Fuck. Now I’ve made it weird. I’m so sorry.’

Netta sat in silence, aware that this was one of those sliding door moments. Aware that her judgement in these situations was often very questionable in hindsight. Aware that her body had been overriding her head since the moment Mo had come to her hotel room that morning. She took another swig of wine and put her glass on the coffee table.

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

Mo looked her straight in the eye. ‘Yes.’

‘Because it would be pretty shitty to say that to me just because we’re stuck here together and Lorena’s not here.’

‘I told you, I have no interest in Lorena,’ he said earnestly. ‘She’s—she’s not a patch on you, Netta. I’ve been trying so hard to keep it in because I know you’ve just had a break-up and you probably think I’m a dirtbag with women everywhere. I’m not, by the way. Plus, you’ve told me you’re on that man ban or whatever you call it. Just forget I said anything.’ He rubbed the back of his neck, setting off the music and lights again. ‘Saved by the jumper, hey?’ His face creased into a sheepish smile. ‘I might just go to bed. Let’s start tomorrow afresh. Friends?’ He looked hopeful as he stood, stretching his hand out to shake Netta’s.

A decision landed defiantly in Netta’s mind and there was no question about whether or not to walk through the door before it slid shut in front of her. She took his hand and stood, looking up into his beautiful, beautiful face as her body brushed up against his. Her other hand found his chest, warm and firm under her palm. A look of delighted surprise flashed over his features and melted Netta even more. There was no going back now. The man ban was toast.

‘I’ve been feeling the same way,’ she said hesitantly. The rush of relief on his face pushed her nerves aside and she took his hand, guiding it to her hip as she stretched up onto her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest, her hips to his. She couldn’t quite believe how bold she was being, but this feeling, this force, was unstoppable.

His lips parted as she moved her face closer, his hand holding the back of her head, fingers woven into her hair as their lips met. Netta disappeared into the heat of the kiss, entirely engulfed. His mouth moved with hers as though it had been made for this exact moment and his guitar-callused fingertips traveled to the nape of her neck, lingering for a moment before trailing down her spine to the dip of her lower back.

He moved his lips to her ear. ‘Netta.’ His whisper was ragged, his breath hot and tormenting as his kiss dipped to her neck.

Netta ran her hands down his torso, stealing under his jumper to find the soft skin beneath, her fingertips sliding around to his lower back and under the waistband of his pants. He groaned and pressed his body into hers, his desire for her hard against her belly. He cupped her face in his hands once more, and kissed her again, this time with urgency, his lips charged. She ran her hands up the length of his back, his muscles tightening under her touch, and around to his chest. The smattering of hair covering his pecs sent a thrill through her entire body. She couldn’t remember ever being so overcome with longing before. She needed this more than she needed air.

He slid her hands out from under his jumper and kissed her fingers, his lips grazing her knuckles one by one. Her head tipped back at the unexpected pleasure of such a simple, but wildly intimate, gesture. When his lips left her hand, Netta shrugged off the cardigan and let it drop to the floor. His thumbs drew slow circles over her hip bones and she lifted her arms, inviting him to take her T-shirt off. He bunched the fabric in his hands and pulled her to him, kissing her again, before sliding it slowly over her head and throwing it over his shoulder, drawing a sharp breath as his gaze settled on her bare breasts.

‘Oh my God, Netta.’

She took his hand and guided it, the warmth of his palm on her breast sending heat through her body. He grabbed her bottom, pulling her in close to him, kissing her hard.

‘Take this off,’ she said, tugging at his jumper. ‘I want to see you.’

He peeled it off, revealing his torso—a rippled canvas painted with tattoos. Netta traced her fingers along them.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ His eyes searched hers for a green light.

‘Yes,’ she said, not breaking eye contact as she tugged the pants past his hips and let them drop to the floor. He stepped out of them, his skin glowing in the firelight, and pulled Netta in closer. His hands followed her spine south and slid beneath her skirt and knickers, pushing them both down, his hands cupping her cheeks as the last of her clothes fell away, leaving her naked in his arms. She moaned as he squeezed her butt and bit her gently on the neck, his fingers trailing further down and under, finding her ready.

A growl vibrated from his chest. ‘Fuck, Netta. I want you so much.’

He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, his breath hot on her skin. He lay her back on the couch, leaning over her, moving his lips to her neck, her breasts, her stomach, while his hands ran slowly up her thighs from her knees to her hips. His mouth settled between her legs and she arched her back as his tongue found her.

‘Oh, God, I’m already too close,’ she said after a few moments, already nearing the brink, her hands in his hair, pushing him gently away. ‘Have you got anything?’

‘Don’t move a muscle; there might be something in the guest cupboard.’ He kissed her and disappeared to the bathroom, returning with a foil packet. He tore it open and took the condom out. ‘You’re sure about this?’

She nodded. ‘Put it on.’

He knelt before her and ran his tongue along her one more time, slowly, feather-lightly, before sliding the condom on. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him as he pushed himself inside her. His weight pinned her to the couch and she wrapped her legs tightly around his hips as they moved against hers, his chest grazing her breasts. Netta tipped her head back in pleasure and he pressed his lips into the hollow under her jaw.

‘I want to be on top,’ she whispered.

He slid his arm under her back and flipped them over, sitting on the couch with Netta over him. He clasped her hips in his hands as she rode him, his head tipped over the back of the couch momentarily before meeting her gaze.

‘Oh fuck, you’re incredible,’ he said. ‘I can’t hold on much longer.’

‘Me either.’

Netta’s face crumpled with her crescendo as Mo gripped her hips, the low, guttural sound escaping from him telling her he was right there with her. She melted into him and he wrapped his arms around her, his head resting on her shoulder.

‘That was …’

‘Mind-blowing.’

‘Yeah.’ She exhaled into his neck, enjoying the feeling of his fingertips tracing languid circles on her back before she moved to sit next to him, curling into his side. He dragged one of the blankets off the back of the couch, arranging it over her body and stroking her hair.

‘I feel dizzy,’ Netta said. It was a monumental understatement—she felt chemically altered. As though her cells had shifted and evolved into some blissfully higher state of being. Thirty-nine years old, and never once had sex felt like that.

‘I do too,’ he said. ‘But I’d better go and deal with this situation.’ He stood, a hand over his groin, and disappeared to the bathroom.

When he reappeared, he was wearing a grin and a bathrobe, a second one laid across his hands like a sacred offering. ‘We’ve just had sex on their couch, so we may as well wear their dressing gowns too.’

Netta’s laugh morphed into a guilty groan. ‘Oh God, poor Rhona. Would she die if she knew?’ She accepted a robe and stood to slide it on.

‘Nah.’ Mo smiled. ‘I kinda get the feeling she’s been hoping something might happen with us.’ Mo sat and reached for the wine bottle. ‘Another?’

‘I feel like I need something stronger after that.’

‘I’ll go see what they’ve got hidden away.’

As Mo walked out of the lounge, Netta closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing would ever be the same after that. Nothing.

For better or worse, the sliding door had shut behind her.

Chapter Forty

MO

Deep into the next morning, Mo woke with his lips on Netta’s shoulder, his knees tucked in behind hers, his body moulded around her like they’d been custom fitted. He couldn’t see her face, but her gentle, even breath told him she was still sleeping. Her softness was a balm he hadn’t realised he’d been missing his whole life. God, she was beautiful.

This was the point where he’d normally take the opportunity to steal away unnoticed, but with Netta, he was held there, happily, by a force he hadn’t experienced before. There were no clothes piled neatly by the door and he didn’t even know—or care—where his phone was. He let his eyes close again and breathed her in. Something in him had opened last night. He’d never had sex like that in his life. That first, urgent, mind-blowing time on the couch, and then again, slower, softer, when they’d made it to bed. He’d wanted it to never end.

He gently brushed her hair from her sleeping face and kissed the tip of her shoulder. She stirred against him, her hips pressing backwards. She laid her hand on his hip, tipping her head back, inviting him to kiss the soft line of her neck, gasping as his mouth met her skin. She rolled wordlessly onto her back and Mo ran his hand over the curve of her waist and trailed his fingers along her leg, stopping at her knee to return, unhurried, along the soft skin of her inner thigh. She took his hand and guided it, closing her eyes as he stroked her.

They made love that morning. It was something way beyond sex—as far as Mo was concerned anyway. Deeper. They disappeared into each other, until the sheer force of their attraction exploded as he held her close, blown away at how he’d managed to live forty-one years without ever experiencing this feeling.

‘Happy Christmas,’ she whispered, eventually.

He squeezed her tighter. ‘Happy Christmas, Netta.’

She laughed, intertwining her fingers with his. ‘That’s the best start to Christmas Day I’ve ever had. Santa’s got no hope of impressing me, ever, from here on in. You’ve ruined me.’

‘And me.’ He rolled onto his back, scooping her over with him. Her head rested in the crook between his shoulder and his chest, her arm slung over his body, her fingers exploring his hip bone. A hollow rumble echoed from his stomach. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘You?’

Netta nodded. ‘There’s bound to be a pub around here somewhere doing Christmas lunch.’ She released herself from his embrace to reach for her phone. ‘Here,’ she said after a quick search. ‘The Castlegate.’ She turned the screen to show him. ‘I’ll head over there and see if we can get something take away.’

Mo smiled, gratefully. ‘I wish I could go for us, but—’

‘It’s okay. I know.’ She kissed him—on his lips, on his neck—before she got out of bed and walked, naked, down the stairs to the bathroom.

Mo heard the shower turn on and her shriek at the ice-cold water before the boiler took over. He chuckled and laid his head back into the pillow, all of him—body, mind and soul—content and completely present in the moment. Not ruminating about the past. Not worrying about the future. He allowed himself a couple of minutes to breathe, locking the memory of being with Netta into long term, then got up, dressed, made the bed and headed downstairs to reset the fire.

‘Okay,’ Netta announced as she emerged from the bathroom, ‘I’ll pop over there now. Hopefully won’t be too long.’

Mo kissed her at the door and waved her off as she drove away in Rhona’s Merc. He closed the door behind him and pressed his back against it, an unfamiliar feeling washing over him. Naked. She made him feel naked. Not in the literal sense—although that had been beautiful—but metaphorically. She made him feel like he couldn’t hide, which was saying something, given he’d spent most of his life doing exactly that. He’d built a wall around himself and, seemingly with no effort at all, she’d been knocking it down brick by brick.

The real kicker was that he was okay with it. In fact, the overwhelming feeling tugging at him now was to tear the rest of the fucking thing down himself. To finally let go. His biggest secret had brought her to him, and he was going to share it with her. It wasn’t even a choice anymore, it was a need. A ferocious, burning need to show her who he really was. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his whole life. If she was going to want him back, he needed it to be for real. The only way to do that was to tell her the truth.

Chapter Forty-One

NETTA

‘Do you want more pudding?’ Netta offered the container to Mo over the table strewn with takeaway dishes. The smell of gravy and roasted vegetables mingled with the brandied scent of the dessert and the woodsmoke from the fire. The record player was playing Etta James softly from the lounge. This was as close to heaven as Netta had ever felt.

‘I couldn’t,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘I feel like I’ve eaten an overweight horse. Maybe two.’

Netta put the container down and rubbed her belly. ‘Me too. I really should’ve stopped at the third helping. Things got out of hand.’

Mo reached for the half-full wine bottle on the table. ‘Got room for another glass?’

Netta smiled and held out her glass as he raised the bottle and poured her a generous helping of pinot. ‘Let’s clean this up later,’ she said. ‘I think I need to lie down fireside and focus on digesting for a while.’

Mo stood and followed her. He sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and motioned wordlessly for her to rest her head in his lap. They stayed like that for a few moments, Mo stroking Netta’s hair, their easy, drawn-out silence perforated only by the crackle of the fire.

‘Netta?’ said Mo, eventually.

‘Yeah?’

‘I want to tell you about the diary.’ His voice faltered as he spoke, as though he wasn’t really sure he wanted to at all.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know. But I … I feel like I need to.’

She sat up and turned to him. ‘Okay.’

His face was ashen, despite the fire’s glow. He squeezed the tips of his left fingers between his right thumb and forefinger, systematically, over and over again, his brow knitted together into twin valleys between his eyes. He’d crossed his legs and it struck Netta how vulnerable he seemed. Like a little boy preparing to confess something he knew he’d be in trouble for.

‘I used to live in Pete’s house, when I was a kid,’ he began. ‘With my mum and Mav.’

This information still felt impossible to Netta—that the road to this moment had been paved decades before. ‘What was she like, your mum?’

Mo’s expression was unreadable. ‘She was … everything. She was wonderful and terrible and talented and wasted. She was an incredible painter. An artist.’ He lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘She was also an addict. I didn’t realise it at the time, but now …’ He tucked his chin into his chest, his mouth reduced to a thin line.

‘Was it … bad? For you and Mav, with her addiction?’

He nodded. ‘Sometimes it was, but sometimes she was amazing. When she was good, she was, like, radiant. She had this gravitational pull that just drew people in. People wanted to be in her orbit. She was smart and funny and really beautiful. She dyed her hair mad colours and had a piercing here.’ He pointed to his septum. ‘And she had tattoos all over her arms—flowers and leaves, a butterfly. She used to let me colour them in with texta.’

Netta’s heart bloomed at the visual of little Mo, earnestly colouring his mum’s arms. ‘Is that why you have so many?’

‘Maybe, yeah. My first one was for her.’ He lifted his jumper and pointed to the tight cluster of flowers in the middle of his chest. ‘Jasmine. That was her name, but everyone called her Jazz.’

Netta brushed the tattoo with her fingers. ‘Right on your heart.’

‘Yeah.’ He let the jumper drop.

‘What was it like when things were bad?’

‘She’d just, I don’t know, vanish. She’d still be there, but she was gone. She’d stay in her room for days on end and sleep a lot. I had to look after Mav when she was like that. He was still so little.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Scared. Angry.’

‘Wasn’t there someone who could’ve helped? Another adult?’

Mo shook his head. ‘Mav and I don’t know who our dads are. Our birth certificates only list Mum’s name. And Mum was an only child and her parents were gone by the time things got really bad.’

‘You could’ve told a teacher.’

Mo moved his gaze from the wall to Netta. ‘No, I couldn’t. I knew what would happen. They would’ve reported it and Mav and I would’ve been taken away from Mum, so I just stepped up as best I could.’

‘So, the diary?’

‘It’s proof.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of what she was really like. I wrote in it when she was in her bad spells, and I was eleven, so I didn’t exactly hold back. I can’t let Mav see it. Ever. I’ve never told him the truth about her. I don’t want him to know what she was really like when he’s grown up thinking she was perfect.’

Mo swallowed hard. ‘It’s also proof that it was my fault Mum died.’ He dropped his face into his hands and took three long breaths. ‘She read something—something awful—that I wrote about her, and then she killed herself.’

The weight of his admission swung between them like a pendulum.

‘Oh, Mo.’ Netta wanted to wrap her arms around him, to comfort him. ‘You were just a little boy. It’s not your fault.’

He shook his head violently. ‘It was, Netta. I was so angry with her because she hadn’t turned up to watch me perform at school. She’d promised me she’d come. I was so nervous and I just wanted her there, you know?’

Netta nodded.

‘When I got home, she was smoking weed in the lounge room with some loser guy. She didn’t even ask me how it’d gone. I went into my room and wrote something terrible about her in my journal. The next day when I got home from school, it was open on that page on my bed, so I knew she’d read it.’

Netta touched his knee. ‘What did you write?’

Mo closed his eyes and took a deep breath, every muscle in his face fighting tears. ‘I said that I wished she was dead because me and Mav would be better off without her. It wasn’t true, but I was so angry, Netta. There’d just been so many times when she’d let me down, and that performance was so important to me. I’d been practising for ages. God, it all seems so stupid now. I was such a little idiot.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ said Netta. ‘You were a little boy who needed his mum.’

‘I was a little boy who killed his mum.’

Netta shook her head sadly. ‘No, Mo, you couldn’t have. Tell me what happened.’

Mo took a deep breath. ‘When I saw that she’d read the diary, I panicked and hid it in my secret hiding place under the loose floorboard, where you found it. She’d been asleep when I got home from school that day and she was still sleeping when it was starting to get dark, so I made me and Mav some dinner and we both went to bed. The next morning she wasn’t up when I was getting ready, but I’d cooled off a bit and I wanted to say sorry to her for what I wrote. I went into her room and tried to wake her up, but I couldn’t.’

Netta’s eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her lips together to contain the sob waiting to escape. ‘Was she—’

Mo nodded. ‘She was so cold. I called an ambulance straight away but it was way too late.’

‘Do you know how she died?’

‘There were pills and stuff next to the bed. I heard the paramedics saying “suspected accidental overdose” and things like that. But I knew—I knew—it wasn’t an accident. I knew she’d done it on purpose.’

‘Because of what you wrote?’

‘Yeah.’

An ache carved through Netta’s chest at the crack in Mo’s voice.

‘And then, straight after,’ he said, pulling himself together, ‘the cops took me and Mav to the police station and we spent the next seven years being bounced around different foster homes.’

‘Was it awful?’

‘You don’t want to know.’ Mo’s expression was grave. ‘As soon as I turned eighteen, I took guardianship over Mav and we got out on our own. I worked and saved until we could come over here. I just had to get as far away from it all as I could. And Mav needed a fresh start. His childhood was so shitty.’

‘So you’ve been looking after him his whole life, pretty much?’

‘It’s the least I could do,’ said Mo. ‘If it wasn’t for me, none of it would’ve happened.’

‘Mo, it wasn’t your fault.’

‘It was,’ he said, his certainty cemented into his jaw. ‘She was sensitive. She really felt things, more than most people do. She’d see sad things on the news and be in floods of tears. She would’ve read those words and spiralled. I know it.’

‘But, Mo, you were just a kid,’ Netta said. ‘Kids get angry with their parents all the time. She would’ve known you still loved her. You wouldn’t have been angry with her in the first place if you didn’t.’

Mo was silent, staring at the floor, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

‘Mo, look at me.’ Netta dipped her head to make eye contact with him. ‘Mo.’

Finally, his shadowed eyes met hers.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said.

‘But—’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she repeated gently.

‘Don’t.’ His voice held a spike of warning.

‘Did you ever find out what her actual cause of death was?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should try, Mo. It might take a while to get it, but wouldn’t it be worth it to get some closure? The pills might’ve had nothing to do with it.’

‘What difference would it make, Netta?’ His voice was beginning to harden. ‘She’s gone either way. And whether it was an overdose or not, the fact remains that the last thing she knew of me was that I wanted her dead. It’s just too much of a coincidence for it to have been anything other than suicide.’ His voice cracked as he locked his gaze with Netta’s, defiance and sadness competing in his eyes. ‘So that’s it. My big secret. Who I really am.’

‘Mo—’

‘Don’t,’ he said, again. ‘There’s nothing you can say. I just needed you to know the truth about me. I don’t expect you to make it better. I just didn’t want you to think that I was something I’m not.’

‘I think you’re incredible,’ Netta said. ‘Even more now that I know what you’ve overcome.’

‘Don’t do that. I don’t need pity. I know who I am and I know what I did.’

Netta could sense the distance he was putting between them, and the drag on her heart was unbearable. ‘We’ve both got our shit, remember? Everyone does. We’ve lived lives by our age. It’s impossible not to have a bit of luggage, right?’

‘But, Netta, yours was never your fault,’ Mo said. ‘This is all my fault. It ruined Mav’s entire childhood. Who knows what he could’ve become if it wasn’t for me.’

‘It sounds to me like he’s very lucky he’s got you,’ said Netta.

Mo drooped, looking a million miles from the rock star the world knew. ‘I think I need to go for a walk. Clear my head a bit.’

Netta watched as he let himself out the door into the freezing, empty streets of Christmas Day. Her heart stretched and contracted in her chest. He’d opened up to her. He’d trusted her with something he’d never told anyone. She felt more of a connection to him than she had with anyone in her life, so why did it feel as though he was already slipping away?

Chapter Forty-Two

MO

Mo woke the next morning with a brutal emotional hangover. The titanic weight of yesterday’s confession pressed on him, pinning him to the bunk bed, where he’d insisted on sleeping so Netta wouldn’t feel obligated to pity screw him. Thoughts swept in and quickly out again, unfinished, itching to get away, leaving a burn in their wake, like someone had released a swarm of fire ants into his brain.

He’d ruined things with Netta, he knew it. He should’ve kept all his shit buried deep, where it belonged. Now it was a wedge between them he’d never be able to take away. He could never again be the man she’d been falling for, because she’d never be able to see him that way again. But then, he never really was that guy in the first place. Christ, it was all so messed up. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow as regret simmered in his veins, flooding his body with an unbearable heaviness. The drive back to London today was going to be absolutely fucking awful.

‘Mo?’ Netta’s voice drifted through the closed door. ‘You awake? We should probably get going soon.’

He checked his phone. Eight thirty. He’d slept in. They needed to get on the road so Netta could make it back to the hotel in time for the magazine interview. ‘Yeah. I’ll just be a sec.’ His voice fell from his throat like lumps of concrete.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d done this. It was all his stupid fucking doing. Twenty-four hours ago, they’d been making love for the third time—he’d even thought they might’ve been falling in love—and now they were having stilted conversations through closed doors.

This is what the truth does.

He pulled on Don’s bizarre Christmas get-up for the last time and drifted down the stairs in a bleak haze. He glanced around the spick-and-span cottage, his eyes landing on Netta as she wiped down the kitchen bench.

‘You’ve cleaned up already?’

‘I couldn’t really sleep,’ she said. ‘I got up pretty early. It gave me something to do.’

She smiled at him, but Mo could see it was forced. She just wanted to get out of there and away from him. She couldn’t be making it any clearer.

***

Heading back to London, Netta fidgeted in the front seat, fiddling with her phone, her hair, the radio.

‘Everything okay?’ Mo said.

She turned to him, eyes searching. ‘I’m nervous about the interview,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m confused about what happened back there, with us. You went for that walk and you came back a different guy.’

Mo felt his guarding walls clicking into place, towers of impenetrable steel replacing the crumbled bricks. ‘Stopped off for a personality transplant on the way,’ he said mirthlessly.

‘Mo—’

‘I shouldn’t have told you all that stuff. Just forget I said anything.’

‘I had the most beautiful couple of days with you.’ There was an edge to her voice that made Mo’s conscience flinch. ‘I’m glad you told me.’

Mo gripped the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road ahead, as she placed her hand on his thigh. A swell of grief gathered in his chest. For his mum, for what he’d done, for what he could’ve had with Netta.

He cleared his throat. ‘So, what’s the deal with the interview today?’

Netta’s hand retreated and she turned to look out the window as the countryside zipped by. ‘They’re coming to the hotel at lunchtime. I’m grateful for the chance to tell the truth, especially after seeing him at the gala, but I’m also shitting myself.’

‘Don’t be nervous. They want to bury him,’ he said. His voice felt detached from him. A separate entity. ‘They’ll be on your side. Just tell the truth.’

Netta looked at him. ‘The whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

Mo shifted in his seat, uncomfortably exposed under her gaze. The truth had killed the beautiful thing that had been growing between them—like a flower yanked from the ground, roots and all—and now here he was, telling her to bare her soul to a bone-picking magazine reporter. What a hypocrite.

They were silent for the rest of the drive. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. Mo’s head whirred—a broken revolving door, thumping him with every rotation, letting the same thought in over and over and over: You’ve fucked it.

When he pulled up at the front of her hotel, she turned to him, her face tense.

‘Thank you for such an … unforgettable Christmas,’ she said.

Mo nodded feebly. Thirty years of running and now, in one weekend, the black smoke he’d kept walled up was consuming him, filling his lungs with an indescribable darkness he was powerless against.

‘Will I—’ she hesitated. ‘Will we see each other again?’

Mo’s wall was almost rebuilt now, he could feel it, like a demolition played in reverse. ‘I’ve, ah, got some stuff I need to do,’ he lied. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be free.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes were downcast, her nod almost imperceptible behind the curtain of her hair. ‘Right.’

‘I don’t really do this sort of thing.’ The words erupted from him, their edges sharper than he’d intended, Netta’s wounded expression proof of their damage. He swallowed, looking at her through lowered eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have …’

‘What?’

‘None of this should’ve happened,’ he said flatly. ‘It was a mistake.’

Netta’s teeth sank into her bottom lip and she nodded. ‘I see.’

Mo stared out the window and chewed the inside of his cheek, willing it to swell, to bleed, for his physical pain to match his bruised brain and battered heart.

In his peripheral vision, Netta straightened and looked to him.

‘So, it was all nothing?’

Mo kept his eyes averted and sniffed. ‘It wasn’t nothing,’ he said, ‘but it can’t be anything more, either. I thought …’ His voice withered, sucked dry by the parasitic blackness surrounding him. ‘I thought I was different with you. I am different with you. But I can’t be different. Different is— It just doesn’t work.’ He turned to look at her to find her eyes glossy with tears, her brow drawn into a frown.

‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was robotic. Nothing about him felt natural—he was sure she could see straight through him to his mechanical bones and rusted heart.

‘I should’ve known better,’ she said, a hardness creeping over her face. ‘You practically came with a warning label slapped across your forehead.’

‘Netta—’

‘No, don’t explain. I can’t believe I’ve made this mistake again.’

‘It’s not you—’

‘Yeah, yeah. I get it, Mo.’ She held her hand up to silence him. ‘Look, I didn’t ask you to tell me about the diary. I flew across the planet to bring it back to you and I never asked you about it once. I respected your privacy. Genuinely. Have you … Actually, don’t worry about it.’

‘Say it.’ He wanted to feel her barbs. Sharper the better.

‘Have you been playing me?’ she asked. ‘Tricking me into thinking you were interested just to get your reputation back on track? Has it all been for show? Because I thought we had a connection, Mo. I thought it was real. And that took some work, to be honest, because the thought that someone like you could like someone like me is pretty far-fetched.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh, come on, Mo,’ she said. ‘You’re a world-famous, rich-as-God celebrity who looks like—’ she waved her hands at his face, ‘—that. And I’m just me.’

‘There’s no just about you, Netta.’

‘Don’t pull that shit on me, Mo. It’s pretty clear it only happened because I was your only option.’

Mo felt as though he’d been stabbed. ‘I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way.’ He meant it, but his voice had turned to stone and there was nothing he could do about it.

‘Well, what am I supposed to think? I was on cloud nine. And not because of who you are, but because of how we were together. I thought you were up on the cloud with me, which makes me feel like a total idiot.’ She slumped back into the car seat, deflated. When she spoke again, her tone was flat. ‘Did you tell me that story about your mum to turn me off? Was it an exit strategy?’

‘That’s not fair. I’ve never told anyone about my childhood before. Or about Mum. You’re the only one.’

Her face softened, dropping into sadness. ‘I’m glad you told me. But it was like, as soon as you did, you vanished.’

Some distant, inaccessible part of him wanted to touch her. To pull her into him. To bury his face in her neck and sob thirty years of pain into her soft skin. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. But you don’t want this.’ He placed his hand on his head. ‘It’s a mess. All the other stuff, it’s just bullshit. I’m only shiny on the outside.’

Her chin crumpled. ‘What happened to your mum wasn’t your fault. But I know you can’t hear that from me. You need to get there on your own, and I really hope you do, for your own sake. And you should tell Mav the truth.’

Her words pierced his chest as she opened the door to leave. Mo said her name, low and rough, but when she turned back to him, he couldn’t speak. The tsunami had swept his words away.

He’d lost her.

Chapter Forty-Three

NETTA

Netta closed the door behind the reporter and leaned against it, releasing a long, slow breath. The interview was done. She’d said everything she wished she’d been able to say to the press twenty years ago. Every sordid detail would be printed on New Year’s Day in full colour and, no doubt, with a barely partial dose of journalistic integrity. She’d kept mum about her time with Mo, keeping any mention of him brief and surface level despite the needling of the reporter.

She felt freed and sullied at the same time. Grimy, but liberated. But whatever she felt about the interview paled in comparison to the comprehensively crushing feeling she had about Mo. She should’ve known it was just a bubble; a delicate, barely there barrier between them and the real world—between the holed-up-for-Christmasin-a-cute-cottage versions of themselves and the real Netta and Mo. And bubbles always burst. It was inevitable, in the same way that damaged guys like Mo had always sucked her in, chewed her up and spat her out. It was a cycle she thought she’d broken with Pete, but now, after Mo, she realised she’d let it happen again. But what hope had she had? Being with him had felt so right. So perfect. Christmas Eve with him had felt like swimming through crystal clear water, but once he’d told her about his mum and the diary, he’d become as opaque as a storm-shaken lake, as deeply unknowable as its bed, hidden beneath the murky, chopped-up waves. The depth of his pain had dwarfed her, reducing her to something to be flicked away. Discarded. Forgotten about.

She sat on the bed and tapped into the banking app on her phone. The fake gala date money had landed in her account. She hadn’t seen her balance look so healthy for a long time, and yet her stomach churned. Money from a man she’d had sex with felt dirty.

She tossed the phone to the other side of the mattress and lay back into the nest of pillows, doing her best to narrow her focus to the cinnamon scent lacing the air. She pulled a pillow off the pile and hugged it hard to her chest, curling herself into the foetal position, and then smaller.

Christmas with Mo had been a dream. Like something from a so-bad-it’s-good holiday movie, if R-rated holiday movies were a thing. She’d felt like she was floating, high above reality. But what goes up, must come down, as they say, and Netta had hit the ground like a sack of cement. She should’ve known it was too good to be true.

Her phone beeped a message alert and she stretched a leg back to scoop it forward with her foot, nudging it to within arm’s reach. Her heart flared with relief at seeing Freya’s name on the screen.

Oh my GOD Netta, the red carpet photos of you and Mo. Are you kidding me?! You looked incredible! And the kiss!!!! I’m deceased.

Netta clutched the phone to her chest. She’d missed Freya so much. Please don’t be dead. I’m coming home tomorrow.

Jed’s just woken. Have to go but I’ll pick you up from the airport. Text me the details.

Netta dropped the phone to the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Her body buzzed with post-interview adrenalin even as it sank, dragged down by Mo’s rejection, her own self-doubt and the knowing that she was no good on her own in times like these. She needed to download to someone, to dial down the static in her head. To stop her descent to the bottom. It was times like this— when she was lost—that she missed her mum the most.

A burst of yapping floated up from the street. Netta slid over to the window side of the bed and peered out. Audrey, looking like a movie star in bright fuchsia lipstick and black-rimmed glasses, was on the footpath with Fletcher, who didn’t sound at all happy with the pug who’d just waddled past him.

Netta opened the window. ‘Audrey!’

‘Netta!’ Audrey peered up at her. ‘Interview done?’

Netta nodded grimly.

‘I’ve just been to the bakery,’ Audrey called, holding up a white box for Netta to see. ‘Come for a cup of tea?’

‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Audrey’s classic trench was dusted with rain as Netta met her in the lobby, Fletcher snuggled into her bag and the bakery box in her hands. ‘Are you okay, dear?’

Netta shrugged, unsure how to answer.

‘Well, darling, I hope you roasted him like the pig he is.’

Netta’s smile was thin. ‘What’s in the box?’

‘Pain au chocolat and eclairs,’ said Audrey. ‘I’m feeling quite French today.’ She tapped her fingers lightly on the deep red beret atop her wavy silver bob.

‘Well, then, merci beaucoup for the invitation,’ Netta said.

Fletcher wriggled in Audrey’s bag and she pressed her elbow against it, winking at Netta. ‘Best get into the room before he blows his cover. And before I burst from curiosity. I can see you don’t want to talk about the interview, but you cannot deny me the gala gossip!’

Audrey let them into her room, carefully hanging her coat before putting the kettle on. Netta set the box of treats on the table in the couch nook and took a seat, suddenly aware of how tired she was—like her emotions had run a marathon. She pulled her legs under her and got comfy as she watched Audrey make two cups of tea, impossibly chic in her all-black outfit.

‘Now,’ said Audrey, settling her narrow frame into the armchair, ‘you must tell me everything. Starting with that kiss on the red carpet. Looked like quite the heart starter.’

Netta took her cup of tea from the table and blew on it, sending gentle ripples over its surface. ‘You saw that?’

‘I might be old, Netta, but I’m all over the socials. Fletcher and I have our own Instagram page, don’t we, Fletch?’ She scruffed his head lightly.

‘The kiss was—’ Netta stared at the window on the opposite side of the room, searching for the right words. ‘It was transcendental. And also completely fake.’

‘Fake?’ Audrey raised her eyebrows and looked at Netta over the rim of her glasses as she opened the bakery box. ‘Didn’t look fake to me. Your mouth was definitely on his mouth.’

‘The photographer asked us to do it.’

‘I see.’ Audrey offered the box to Netta, who selected a raspberry éclair. ‘And what of this argy-bargy with Mitch Carlton. Was that fake too?’

‘No, that was real,’ said Netta. ‘And let’s just say it started a chain of events.’

She told Audrey about the escape to Margate.

There was a long silence as Audrey considered the story, a slow smile growing. ‘I bet that was a bit of fun,’ she said, fanning her face with a manicured hand. ‘If he’s even half as good in bed as he is at filling out a suit, then I think I have reason to be quite jealous of you, Netta.’

Netta groaned. ‘He’s twice as good.’

‘Good Lord, no wonder you look so tired.’

‘It didn’t end well.’

‘What happened?’

‘He told me something on Christmas Day. Something very personal and very sad that happened when he was a kid. But as soon as he told me, everything changed. He was distant. Slept in the other room that night. And when he dropped me back at the hotel, he told me he didn’t know if he had time to see me again.’

‘Was what he told you something he’s traumatised by?’ Audrey’s face was serious now.

‘Definitely.’

‘And has he ever told anyone else about it?’

‘He says not,’ Netta said. ‘Not even his brother.’

‘Then maybe you need to give him some space,’ Audrey said. ‘Sometimes when people release something they’ve been holding onto for a long time, it rips the rug out from under them and they don’t know which way is up anymore. It’s like a balloon blown up really tight being let go: the air rushes out and the balloon goes haywire. It’s the same with humans, sometimes. When the truth comes out, we can lose direction.’

Netta considered Audrey’s insight. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Or maybe he just wanted to have sex and I was the only person there.’

‘Netta.’ Audrey’s voice took on a stern edge. ‘I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume you’re not the first person Morrison has ever slept with. But you are the first person he’s ever confided this secret to. If it’s something he’s held guilt or shame about since he was a little boy, he will likely think you’re judging him the way he’s been judging himself. He’s probably mortified, or thinks you don’t want anything to do with him now that you know about this thing, whatever it is.’

Netta shook her head. ‘But … I asked if we’d see each other again. I put my hand on his leg in the car. I think it’s pretty clear how I feel.’

‘I’d say nothing is clear to him right now,’ said Audrey gravely. ‘I’m not saying he did the right thing and I’m definitely not saying you’re wrong to be hurt by his change of direction, but maybe it’s not to do with you at all.’

‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going home tomorrow,’ Netta said, resolute. ‘He’s made himself clear and I’m not going to hang around, hoping he’ll change his mind. I want to be gone before the article comes out on New Year’s Day. And I have bigger fish to fry, anyway.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Audrey, her pain au chocolat still untouched. ‘The baby.’

Netta shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t know if I can anymore. I can’t take his money now that we’ve slept together, Audrey. I’d feel like a—’

‘Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say, because you know very well that’s not what you are.’ Audrey’s dulcet voice was as close to shrill as Netta had ever heard it. ‘You need that money, Netta.’

Netta released a heavy breath. ‘I don’t know, Audrey. It’s not sitting well.’

‘Netta. That day in the café, I told you I’d still had a wonderful life even though I didn’t get to have a baby. And that’s true. Very true. But I still ache for the family I missed out on. Every day. Don’t let a misguided conscience stand in the way of what you want.’ She took Netta’s hand in hers. ‘And don’t give up on him, either. If your connection was as strong as you say it was, he might just be worth waiting for. Maybe after he has some time to process it all, he’ll call you and you’ll get married and the wedding photos will be in Vogue and it’ll all be wonderful. Fletcher can be the ring bearer!’

Netta managed a wan smile. ‘I’m not waiting for a fairy tale anymore, Audrey, with Mo or anyone else. My Prince Charming got lost in the post. And you know what? I’m sick of giving guys chances. I’m so sick to death of it. I’m almost forty, and all I’ve ever done is give guys chances. I’ll be okay. I always am. Sort of. But I have to draw the line here. This has been an adventure, and also a huge mistake. It’s just time to go home and get my life sorted.’

Chapter Forty-Four

MO

‘What’s this about her wanting to give the money back, Mo?’ Rhona’s voice was a pick axe. ‘And why’s she booked herself onto a flight back to Australia tomorrow?’

‘Hello to you too, Rhona.’ Mo held the phone limply to his ear as he lay on his bed. The drawn drapes had plunged the room into premature darkness—a feeble attempt to end the disaster of a day early. He hadn’t moved a muscle for the hour he’d been home.

‘I thought you were a bit quiet when you dropped the car back but clearly something’s gone down in Margate you’re not telling me about,’ Rhona said. ‘What happened?’

Mo released a long, exhausted breath. ‘I fucked up, okay?’

‘Elaborate.’

‘We—’ Mo clamped his lips together and tried to herd his thoughts. ‘I’m sure you can work it out.’

Rhona sighed. ‘You slept together, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, duh, Mo! That was obviously going to happen. The chemistry between you two was like Bridgerton on steroids! And Netta’s great! So what’s the issue?’

‘That’s not the issue. The issue is— Oh, Christ, Rhona, do we have to do this?’

‘Yes. We do.’

‘I told her something, okay?’ he said. ‘I told her why I needed the diary back so badly that I made her come from the other side of the planet to give it to me. And now she knows who I really am. That’s why she can’t wait to get away.’

There was a gentle silence at Rhona’s end of the call. ‘You must’ve felt very comfortable with her to have told her that,’ she said. ‘You haven’t even told me.’

‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘There’s something about her—’

‘That makes you feel like a real person?’

She’d nailed it with irritating precision. As usual. ‘Yeah.’

‘But isn’t that good, Mo?’ said Rhona. ‘To not have to be someone all the time, and just be able to be you?’

Mo ran his free hand through his hair, gripping it just tight enough to hurt a little. Then tighter. ‘It’s more than that,’ he said. ‘She makes me feel like I can’t hide anything. I thought I wanted to tell her, but it was a huge mistake. Some things are best left buried.’

‘How did you leave things?’ Rhona asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Mo rolled onto his side, letting the phone balance precariously on his ear as he jammed his hands between his pressed-together thighs. ‘She seemed pissed off.’

‘What, because you’d spent two days in the love shack and then you went weird and retreated and made her feel like it’d all been in her head?’ Rhona’s aim was sniper-level.

‘Maybe.’ His thoughts dragged behind his voice as he gripped the phone and pushed himself up, sitting with his back against the wall. Literally and figuratively. ‘No. I don’t think I made her feel like it was all in her head,’ he continued. ‘But something happened in me that I couldn’t control, Rhones. I told her about it, and afterward it was like someone had pulled the lid off a pressure cooker and I just filled up with steam and had to get out of there. And then when I dropped her at the hotel this morning, I told her I didn’t know if I could see her again.’

‘Oh, Mo.’ He could practically hear Rhona shaking her head at him. ‘Honey. What on earth happened to you when you were a kid?’

‘I can’t— I just can’t tell it again, Rhona. Not now. I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ she reassured him, ‘but I think if it’s heavy enough that you’d throw someone like Netta away, then it’s something you need to talk about with someone. Like a therapist. You deserve to be happy.’

Mo had no response for that. If Rhona knew what he’d done, then she’d know that happiness was the last thing he deserved. He tipped his head back, letting it connect with the cool plaster, and thumped his fist into the mattress.

‘You can’t let her go home without sorting this out, Mo,’ said Rhona.

He stood and paced the length of his bedroom. ‘It’s not something I can just sort out, Rhona. I’ve fucked it,’ he said. ‘And I think it’s highly probable that it’s now totally unable to be unfucked. I can’t go back in time and keep my mouth shut. It’s out there now and no matter what might’ve happened between us, it’d always be there like a great, big, dirty cloud she’d always be looking at me through.’

‘So, what do I do?’ Rhona asked, her voice flat with frustration. ‘Do I give her the bank details so she can return the money?’

He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the heel of his hand into his temple. Exhaustion coiled heavily, squeezing. All he wanted to do was sleep this whole fucking thing away. ‘No. I want her to have the money. She needs it for something really important to her.’

‘I’m tipping she probably feels pretty grubby, Mo,’ said Rhona. ‘Think about it from her perspective: she sleeps with you, you go weird, and then five thousand pounds lands in her account. I can kind of see where she’s coming from.’

‘No! It’s not like that at all. The money was on the table from the start. It was part of the whole deal in the first place. She has to keep it. Don’t give her the details.’

‘Okay. But Mo, I’m going to send her flight details to you. What you choose to do with them is your business, but I’m thinking something along the lines of that scene from Love, Actually might be an advisable course of action.’

‘Where the kid chases his crush to the airport to kiss her before she goes?’

‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘I know you’re hurting, Mo. I can hear it. But don’t be a fucking peanut. She’s too good to let go.’

Chapter Forty-Five

NETTA

Netta stared through the tiny window as Melbourne came into view, the clouds above her once again and reality waiting below. Saying goodbye to Audrey and Fletcher had been harder than she’d expected, and the flight had been excruciating—too many hours of no personal space, trapped in claustrophobic hell between the window and a couple with a baby who’d barely stopped crying for the entire flight. Knowing what she was going home to hadn’t helped either. Nor what she had left behind. She felt like the cheese between two slices of mouldy bread, and her edges were curling.

Miserably, she replayed the airport scene in her mind again, torturing herself with the humiliation of it. She’d waited until the final second to get on the plane, a part of her convinced that Mo would turn up. That he would blaze in, declaring his love and telling her she couldn’t leave. That the crowd would erupt into cheers and whoops as he pulled her to him and kissed her with the passion of a thousand Mills and Boon novels. But none of that had happened. And, naturally, it had crushed her all over again. And then, of course, there was the awful unknown—the interview. It was being released in a couple of days. Her only comfort was that Mitch Carlton was a nobody in Australia, so, fingers crossed, the fallout mightn’t follow her home.

The seatbelt sign dinged and Netta clipped herself in, ready to be delivered from one gigantic mess to another. The baby chose the same moment to stop crying, finally worn out. The sudden quiet was both welcome and confronting. Without the intrusion, Netta’s thoughts were free to strip off and stroll around her brain like they owned the place.

Freya was there to meet her when she came through the arrivals gate at the airport. She scooped Netta into a huge hug. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said into her hair. ‘Never leave me for a rock star again, okay?’

Netta hugged her friend hard and together they rocked in the embrace, travellers milling around them, totally unaware that Netta had gone to London as one thing and come back another. Repaired, but newly broken.

‘Let’s get you home, shall we?’

‘I don’t even know where that is anymore,’ said Netta miserably.

‘Rubbish,’ comforted Freya. ‘Mi casa, su casa until su casa is vacated—which I believe will be in about a week and a half?’

Netta nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘Are you sure it’s okay with Matt if I stay with you until then?’

‘He’s fine with it.’

Netta gave her a disbelieving look.

‘More than fine with it,’ Freya said. ‘He cleared all his snowboarding shit out of the study and we found a sofa bed fossilising underneath. It’s yours for as long as you need it.’

Netta squeezed her friend’s hand as they walked towards the exit. ‘Thanks, Frey.’

‘You must be looking forward to being back in your own place, though,’ said Freya.

Netta thought about her apartment, with its high ceilings and pale floorboards. Her bedroom’s twin windows looked out over the street below through the branches of a giant oak tree and her bed lay between them, surrounded by potted plants and books. ‘I can’t wait. Pete’s place was never really me, if you know what I mean. I’m just hoping the tenant took care of my furniture. I can’t wait to unpack all my bits and pieces and set the place up again.’ She smiled. Maybe she did have something to look forward to after all.

‘When does school go back?’ asked Freya as they neared the carpark.

‘I’ve still got four more weeks of holidays, give or take. And then, three and a bit weeks after that—’ she turned to Freya with comically widened eyes, ‘—I turn forty.’

Freya clutched at her chest. ‘No, Netta! It’s not possible. You can’t be forty! We were only twenty-five and drinking shots at Boutique last week!’

‘I don’t want to alarm you—’ Netta’s voice was solemn, ‘—but three months after I turn forty, you will also turn forty.’

Freya grinned and hooked her arm through Netta’s. ‘Okay, now I know you’re talking shit.’

The drive home was quiet—every kilometre down, every landmark they passed, a reminder of the growing distance between Netta and Mo. Netta was bone-tired from the flight and Freya drove wordlessly, seeming to understand that she needed some time to process the events of the last week. How could it only have been a week? It seemed impossible to Netta that she could feel so profoundly changed in such a short amount of time.

As they neared Freya’s house in Newport, Netta absentmindedly scrolled through the emails that had piled up in her inbox while she’d been away, finding one from Rhona among them.

PAYMENT

Rhona van der Wilden <rhona@vdwmgmt.com>

To: Netta Phillips

Dear Netta,

Firstly, I hope you had a good flight home. It was so lovely having you here and I wish you’d been able to stay a little longer. Mo hasn’t told me what happened between the two of you in much detail—just that he told you something he shouldn’t have—but he’s in a major rut right now and I hope you haven’t taken any of it personally. I can assure you none of it is about you. He’s a clam and it seems forcing his own shell open hasn’t really worked out the way he’d hoped.

In terms of the money, he’s made it abundantly clear to me that it is not to be returned. It’s yours, honey. It was promised well before anything between the two of you happened and it’s important to him that you have it.

Yours,

Rhona

Netta threw the phone over her shoulder, letting it land with a thud in Jed’s empty baby capsule.

‘Okay …’ said Freya, shooting her friend a sidelong glance.

‘An email.’ Netta rubbed at her eyes. ‘From Rhona.’

‘What did she say?’

‘That Mo won’t take the money back.’

‘Anything else?’ Freya changed gear as she rounded the corner into her street. ‘You were reading for longer than that.’

‘She said Mo’s messed up and I shouldn’t take it personally.’

Freya pulled the car to a halt, its nose coming to rest behind Netta’s bug, which had camped out the front of her house while Netta had been away. ‘Right.’

‘Easier said than done.’ Netta unclicked her seatbelt and opened the door. Before she could slide out into the warmth of the afternoon, Freya put her hand on her arm.

‘You don’t know what’s going to happen, Netta,’ said Freya. ‘He could well prove to be your chocolate yet. And it’s good about the money.’

‘No, it’s not,’ groaned Netta. ‘It just means he feels guilty for leading me on and then ditching me as soon as things got real.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Freya. ‘But even if that is the case, it’s still a gift. Without it, you’d have to save for ages to be able to try for a baby on your own. This isn’t about him or anyone else. It’s about you being able to move forward. It’s a little hand up, that’s all.’

As they got out of the car, Netta considered Freya’s advice, picturing herself sitting in the pool of sunshine that hit the couch in her apartment every morning, holding a wrapped-up baby in her arms. Her heart contracted. That’s what she wanted. She wanted it so badly she could practically feel her uterus pulsing with the need for it.

She looked at Freya and nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s time I put myself first for once.’

‘You won’t be alone, Netts. I’ll be with you every step of the way,’ said Freya. ‘Every step.’ She gave Netta’s hand a squeeze. ‘Well, maybe not for the turkey baster bit. But everything else.’

Netta pulled Freya into a hug. ‘I’m so lucky to have you.’

‘Likewise,’ Freya said. ‘Now, let’s get you inside for a nice hot shower. You smell like plane.’

Chapter Forty-Six

NETTA

A week and a half later, Netta turned the key in the front door of her apartment for the first time in more than two years. She pushed the door open, a wave of nostalgia surging through her at the sight of the sand-coloured floorboards and milky walls.

Freya bustled up the stairs behind her, huffing and puffing, loaded up with bags. ‘You know what’s great about new apartment buildings?’

‘I don’t know. What’s great about new apartment buildings?’

Freya dumped the bags at her feet and flexed her fingers. ‘Elevators, that’s what.’

Netta laughed as she shuffled inside, weighed down by a box of crockery, and leaned against the door to hold it open for her friend. God, she’d missed this place.

‘You’ve gone all misty,’ said Freya. ‘I’ll go down and get some more stuff so you can have a moment.’

Netta nodded gratefully, unexpectedly overcome with emotion at being back inside her apartment after so long. She put the box down and took a slow walk through to the lounge, where her antique leather couch sat low and inviting on a shaggy rug and the big window let in streams of sunlight. The kitchen was small and needed a little work, but she wasn’t much of a cook so its worn benchtops and simple wooden cupboards had never really bothered her. She loved the leadlight window that sat high above the sink and the little bench that fitted two stools. She and Freya had spent many nights there with a bottle of wine, solving the world’s problems. She went through to the bedroom and was floored by an overwhelming sense of being home. Light filtered through the sheer curtains that hung from the ceiling to the floor, and her bed—stripped and ready to be dressed in her own linen—was like an old friend. A big timber-framed mirror leaned against the wall and a rug she’d bought on a trip to Bali lay at the foot of the bed.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and took a deep breath.

‘Am I interrupting anything?’ Freya appeared in the doorway, clutching a mop and a plastic storage bag full of bedding, the air sucked out of it to make it look like a stiff, lumpen cloud.

‘Only me reuniting with a lost love,’ said Netta, smiling. ‘It’s so good to be back here.’

‘This place definitely suits you. Let’s get her cleaned up, shall we?’

***

Netta leaned on the mop handle, a sheen of sweat lighting her face. ‘Right. It’s as clean as it’s ever been. Thanks, Frey. You’ve stayed for ages. You probably need to get back to your bambinos.’

‘Two very important things still to be done before I take off.’

‘Which are?’

Freya retrieved her handbag from the couch and pulled out a bottle of champagne and a thick bunch of sticks and dried leaves wrapped together with twine. ‘We must cleanse and then christen the apartment, Netta.’

‘I think we’ve just cleansed the life out of it,’ Netta said. ‘I’m going to be smelling disinfectant for a week.’

‘No, no. The smudge stick is to cleanse it of any bad juju, silly. It banishes negative energy.’

Netta rolled her eyes but happily let Freya swirl the smoking stick around the apartment. A little juju cleanse couldn’t go astray, after all, especially after the release of the interview a week ago. It had, predictably, made quite the splash in the UK. Other women whom Mitch had treated poorly had come forward, and he’d seemingly scurried under a rock with his fingers in his ears. Thankfully, the article didn’t even nudge the shores of Australia—and it seemed other ‘news’ had quickly swept her interview out of the spotlight in the UK. Netta was glad to box that particular portion of her history up and dump it off a cliff.

As the air filled with the herby scent of sage and lavender, Netta busied herself finding wine glasses in one of the boxes stacked in the kitchen.

‘There, done. Good vibes only,’ announced Freya, dropping the smoking stump into the sink. ‘I’ll just pop to the loo and then we can crack open the champers.’

Freya disappeared into the bathroom and Netta rinsed the glasses free of the dust they’d collected in storage.

‘Netta!’ Freya shouted from the bathroom after a moment. ‘Have you got any tampons?’

‘Ah, yep. Hang on.’ Netta set the glasses on the rack to drain and swiped her handbag from the bench. She rummaged to find the stash of tampons she always kept in there, and as her fingers found the unopened box, it dawned on her that she hadn’t had a period for ages; she’d been so caught up in the break-up and the trip and Mo to even notice. She knocked lightly on the bathroom and opened it just enough to post the box through to Freya.

‘Thanks,’ Freya called. ‘My gusset is very grateful.’

A few moments later, Freya emerged from the bathroom, drying her hands on her jeans in lieu of a hand towel, to find Netta motionless in the kitchen. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve just realised I haven’t had a period since before Pete and I last slept together.’

‘So, you could be …’

‘No. Surely not.’

‘Have you got any tests here?’

Netta’s hands were shaking. ‘I think there might be one in the tub of bathroom stuff.’

Freya vanished into the bathroom and reappeared, triumphant, a few moments later. ‘Found one. Should we do it?’

Netta nodded, suddenly terrified. She took the box from Freya and quietly closed herself into the bathroom, tugging the test open with trembling fingers. She peeled down her jeans and sat gingerly on the toilet, a spiral of anticipation tightening around her. She peed on the stick and replaced the cap, popping it on the edge of the sink.

‘Have you done it?’ called Freya from the kitchen.

‘Yep.’ Netta’s voice shook with nerves. ‘Set a timer for three minutes.’

‘Well, where is it?’ Freya asked when Netta returned.

‘It’s in there.’ Netta pointed to the bathroom door. ‘I don’t want to see it till the alarm goes off.’

‘Netta,’ started Freya, carefully, ‘is there any chance it could be Mo’s?’

‘No. We were careful.’

Freya nodded. ‘So, if you’re pregnant, then it’s—’

‘Pete’s. I did a test the night before we broke up but it was negative. Maybe I did it too early.’

Freya let out a puff of breath. ‘It’ll be okay, Netta. Either way, it’s going to be fine.’

Netta placed her hands on the kitchen bench and leaned into them. ‘Oh God, Freya. I was drinking in England. I didn’t know.’ Her eyes were wide with horror. ‘I mean, never to the point of being anywhere even close to drunk, but if I’d known I would never have—’

‘It’s okay,’ said Freya. ‘I mean, obviously it’s not ideal, but worrying about it now won’t help either.’

Freya’s phone started barking as the alarm went off. ‘Do you want me to check it?’

Netta nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

Freya disappeared into the bathroom and returned, the test in her hand.

‘Well?’ Netta’s body was tense, every sense on high alert. ‘What does it say?’

Freya glanced down at the stick and back to her friend. ‘You’re pregnant.’

‘Holy shit.’ Netta’s head spun and the room swirled to keep up with it. She’d wanted this for so long, but now that it was happening, it felt too fast and way too late at the same time. She sank onto a stool, resting her elbows on the bench as she cradled her head in her hands. ‘Let me see it.’

Freya passed her the stick and sure enough, Netta was met with two lines.

‘The second line is pretty faint,’ she said. ‘Does it still count?’

‘A line is a line,’ said Freya. ‘It wouldn’t show up at all unless you had HCG in your system.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Netta, placing the test on the countertop. ‘I mean, we tried for months and now I get pregnant? Talk about timing.’

‘But aren’t you happy?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Netta was spiralling. ‘Pete doesn’t want a baby. How am I going to tell him?’

‘You say, “Pete, I’m pregnant,” and leave it at that,’ said Freya. ‘If he doesn’t want to be involved, then that’s his problem. You can do this, Netta.’

Netta nodded. She could. She knew she could. She’d just never imagined it happening like this. ‘What—what do I do now?’

‘First of all, you don’t get to have any of this.’ Freya slid the bottle of champagne away. ‘Second of all, we get you to the GP to get a referral for a dating scan to measure the baby and estimate a due date.’

There was a silence before a smile finally took over Netta’s face. ‘A due date,’ she repeated. ‘I’m going to have a due date! I’m going to be someone’s mum!’ The worry of what Pete would think melted away and she was engulfed by a wave of happiness as this new version of reality dawned on her. There were bound to be challenges ahead, she knew that—some of them she’d probably never be able to anticipate until they were upon her—but whatever they were, she was ready. The drama, the euphoria, the heartbreak of London and Mo was nothing compared to the enormity and beautiful complexity of this feeling. The hollowness she’d carried since returning was filled, replaced with a solid dream she could hold. She was going to make it work. She was going to give this baby the beautiful life they deserved. Netta stood and hugged Freya hard.

‘You’re going to be amazing, Netta,’ Freya whispered in her ear. ‘That’s one lucky bub you’ve got in there. Now,’ she said, pulling back and casting her eyes around the apartment. ‘I’m staying to get this place unpacked and set up. You can’t be doing it alone in your condition.’ Her tongue was firmly in her cheek but all the same, she stayed and helped Netta fill the kitchen drawers and cupboards with her things, dress the bed in crisp, freshly washed linen and re-hang the art and treasured photos she’d had in storage since she’d moved to Pete’s.

‘Just the books to go, now,’ said Netta when they were done. ‘I can do those on my own. You’d better get back to your husband and many, many children.’

‘I’d stay but my boobs are about to spring a leak. I need to feed a baby pronto.’ Freya adjusted her breasts uncomfortably. ‘This one’s so lumpy it feels like a bag of Lego.’

‘Oh, the things I have to look forward to,’ said Netta, a thrill charging through her body.

‘Ha!’ laughed Freya, gathering up her bag. ‘Lego boobs are just the tip of the iceberg. So many treats in store, lovely. So many.’ She chuckled and hugged Netta close. ‘I’m so happy for you, Netta. This is just the absolute best. Anything you need—’ she patted her chest, ‘—I’m here.’

‘Love you,’ said Netta. ‘Thanks for your help today.’

‘You know the deal. Su casa, mi casa. I’m just so happy I have an escape hatch again for when things get too hectic at the zoo.’ She broke into an uncoordinated shimmy. ‘Cut me a key, baby! Mama needs some quiet time.’

Netta closed the door behind Freya and shut her eyes, breathing in the moment—committing it to memory so she could roll around in it for the rest of her life. When she opened them, she was a new woman. A woman ready for the next big adventure. A woman on the flipside of the past—of all the failed relationships, of the Mitch Carlton fiasco, of Morrison Maplestone.

Now all she had to do was tell Pete.

Chapter Forty-Seven

MO

‘What do you mean you’re not coming?’ Rhona’s tone suggested Mo had just told her he was planning to join a monastery instead of coming over for dinner. ‘It’s Thursday. You always come for dinner on Thursday.’

Mo shifted the phone to his other hand and dropped heavily into the couch in a haze of incense smoke and relentless fatigue. ‘I’m just not up for it.’

‘Seems to me you haven’t really been up for anything since Netta left,’ said Rhona. ‘Seems to me that could be worth spending some time thinking about.’

Mo had no response to that. She was right—surprise, sur-fucking-prise. But it was more than that, too. Telling Netta his story had been like opening a floodgate, and now he was consumed by torrents of emotion at the most inopportune times. He couldn’t trust himself to be anywhere, or around anyone, until he could be sure the urge to punch a wall or burst into tears wasn’t going to turn up uninvited.

‘Have you heard from her?’ asked Rhona, undeterred by his silence.

‘No.’

‘Has she heard from you?’

‘Also no.’

‘Mo, you know I love you,’ said Rhona, ‘but I feel compelled to tell you that you’re behaving like an absolute chimp. You know as well as I do how often people like her come along, and if you don’t, I’ll tell you right now: not very often. You’re letting something slip away that you might never find again. It’s stupid.’

‘Fuck, Rhona. Why don’t you just say what you really think?’ Mo dug his fingernails into his palm until deep crescent grooves appeared. ‘I know, okay? You don’t have to tell me. It’s just not that simple. This whole thing has messed me right up; the diary and opening up to her and remembering everything. I’m a fucking ruin.’ Mo looked at the lounge room’s potted plants, all drooping in some bizarre botanical reflection of his mental state. ‘My head’s everywhere.’

‘You can talk to me, you know,’ Rhona said, her voice softer. ‘I’m all ears, whenever you need me. I could even send Don and the kids out for dinner tonight if you just want to come over and talk?’

Mo shifted uncomfortably, his body unable to find peace even within the embrace of the green couch. He was so lucky to have a friend like Rhona, but he couldn’t talk about it again. Not now, while it was still so raw. ‘Thanks, Rhones, but if it’s okay with you, I think I just need to keep myself to myself for a while. I’m not much fun to be around at the moment.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But there’s something I was going to discuss with you tonight, Mo. It’s not great, to be honest. And I know the timing couldn’t be worse, but it’s time sensitive, so it can’t really wait.’

Mo knew instantly what she was going to tell him. He was now officially late with the new record. He’d written one song, and it was shit. That, on top of the photos of him standing over Mitch Carlton, stacked on top of all the other stuff … ‘They’re dropping me, aren’t they? The record deal’s off.’

Rhona paused. ‘Not yet, but they’re going to, Mo. Basically, this is it. They’ve agreed to a time extension, but if you don’t get them a complete album of songs by the end of next week, you’re out.’

Mo closed his eyes and assessed his feelings, only to find he had none. Nada. Zilch. He was numb. Five years ago, if he’d been threatened with an end to his recording career, he’d have moved mountains to stop it from happening. But now, it seemed, he couldn’t muster even half a shit to give. He’d lost so much already that this addition to the list felt almost inconsequential. He didn’t deserve any of it anyway.

‘It’s not going to happen,’ he said.

‘That’s what I told them! I said you’d have the songs to them pronto and that they’d be great. They’ve just forgotten who they’re dealing with.’

‘No.’ Mo stood stiffly and crossed the room to the window. ‘I mean, getting the songs to them by the end of next week isn’t going to happen. I’ve been trying to write but it’s like it’s dried up. It’s gone, Rhona. I think I’m done.’ He drew the curtain back to find the weather matched the inside of his head. Bleak. Uninviting. ‘I’ll look after you until you find some new little punk to manage, but I think I’m out. I’m tired of it all. I’ve got nothing left to give.’

There was a long silence at the end of the phone. ‘What about Play On? You can’t expand without the new album.’

‘I’ll work something out.’ Mo’s gut clenched. The last thing he wanted was to let Play On shrivel. He’d have to find another way to float the expansion—it meant so much to him, and the guilt of knowing he couldn’t be the one to shoulder it anymore sliced through him. He let the curtain fall back and, out of habit, stood in front of the fireplace, despite its cold, fireless grate. ‘I’m so sorry, Rhona. I know I’m letting everyone down. Especially you.’

Rhona snorted. ‘Don’t be daft! I’ll be fine. But Mo? If even half of this state you’re in is because of Netta leaving, then promise me you’ll do something about it. Reach out to her. She’s probably feeling like a notch on your bedpost, and I get the feeling she was a lot more than that.’

Mo leaned against the mantel. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Good boy,’ said Rhona. ‘Will we see you next week for dinner?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’

‘I’m going to take that as a yes. I’ll speak to the record company and we’ll announce it as a hiatus for now. You don’t have to do anything, but you’ll probably have press buzzing around once I send the release out.’

‘I know the deal,’ he said. ‘I’m not planning on leaving the house any time soon anyway.’

‘I’m going to send you something.’ Rhona’s voice had changed again. Softer, but still not to be fucked with. ‘The number of my therapist. Just in case.’

Mo groaned. ‘Righto.’

‘Bye, darling. I’ll check in soon.’

‘Bye.’ Mo barely got the word out before a stealthy wave of grief crashed down on him, folding him into a crouch, his elbows digging into his knees. Tears came, slowly at first, and his body relented, sagging to the floor. He wept for his mum, for the little boy he’d once been, for the guilt that never seemed to lessen, no matter how many years passed. He wept for his walled-up childhood and his unknown future. For Rhona. For Mav. And for Netta, too. He had nothing left but guilt and emptiness and a long list of too-lates. It had finally happened. The illusion had been worked out, and now the world would see him for what he really was.

A useless fucking fraud.

Chapter Forty-Eight

NETTA

Netta turned away from the reception desk and looked around the waiting room. Seats lined the walls, filled with expectant mothers at varying levels of about-to-popness, and the air buzzed with their collective nerves and anticipation, hope and fear. She’d only had to wait a few days for this scan but that had been more than enough time for her imagination to cook up intricate fantasies of how it would play out. But in her imagination, it hadn’t been anything like this. She’d anticipated pure elation and excitement, but instead the overwhelming feeling wrapping itself around her as she waited for her name to be called was one of powerlessness. This dream of hers, which she’d spent months of her life meticulously planning for, now seemed so far out of her control. She had no idea what was happening inside her, and the realisation that she was at the mercy of luck was a sobering companion to her excitement.

Freya squeezed her hand and pointed to two spare chairs near the door. ‘So, Pete’s definitely not coming, then?’

‘No,’ Netta said, recalling her last conversation with her ex. Her hand found its protective spot on her still-flat belly as they sat. ‘He’s still sulking.’

Pete had been almost unresponsive when she’d called him to tell him she was pregnant. He’d even accused her of trying to pin Mo’s baby on him—he’d seen the photos of them online; everybody had, apparently. She’d had to catch herself when she’d started empathising with him, conceding that having his friends see photos of her kissing Mo would’ve been deeply humiliating for him. But she wasn’t the one who’d cheated. Later that night, Pete had turned up drunk on her doorstep, begging to get back together. Saying that if it really was his baby, then it deserved committed parents, which seemed a little rich, given he’d divorced Heather when their kids were barely in primary school. Netta hadn’t felt any need or desire to consider his proposition. They were done. So done. The baby would be better off with a happy single mother than with paired-up parents who didn’t trust each other. Pete could be as involved as he wanted to be, but only with the baby.

Freya shook her head in disbelief. ‘Never mind him. How excited are you out of ten?’

‘Twenty.’ Netta grinned. ‘I’m also pretty nervous. And I’ve never needed to pee so badly in my life.’ She tapped a rhythm on her thighs to distract herself from the pressure. The receptionist who’d made the appointment for her had told her to arrive for her scan with a full bladder and she’d taken her instructions very seriously, possibly to the point of overkill—her back teeth were screaming for lifejackets. ‘I think I need to see the baby for it to feel like it’s actually real, because my body doesn’t feel any different yet. Is that normal?’

‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Freya. ‘All of my pregnancies have been non-stop puking for the first ten weeks.’

‘Netta Phillips?’

Netta’s head swivelled at the sound of her name and she hastily stood and crossed the room, her heart suddenly feeling as though it needed far more room in her chest.

‘Hi, Netta, I’m Teresa,’ the woman said, clutching a clipboard. ‘I’ll be doing your dating scan today. Follow me.’ Teresa’s sensible shoes made quiet squooshing noises with every step as they walked up the carpet-tiled hall. ‘We’re just in here.’

Netta followed her into a small, pin drop–quiet room with a collection of screens, a paper-covered vinyl bed at its centre and the sort of cool, manufactured lighting that would be hellishly unflattering in a swimwear shop change room but that always seemed weirdly reassuring in a medical setting. The walls were painted the exact shade of creamy nothing as the desk in the corner and a pale blue privacy curtain hung from a track in the ceiling, ready to screen the bed from the small, desperately uncomfortable-looking couch that sat under the frosted window. To Netta, it seemed far too bland and clinical to be a place where something as magical as seeing her baby for the first time could be about to happen. Some fairy lights and a water feature wouldn’t go astray.

‘Okay then, let’s get you up onto the bed, shall we?’ said Teresa.

Netta took a slow breath to steady her thundering heartbeat and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, passing her handbag to Freya, who had perched herself on the couch. The paper slipped and squeaked against the vinyl as Netta spun herself to lie down, the pillow releasing a puff of air under the weight of her head.

‘Okay, so by dates, we’re thinking you’re around eight weeks pregnant, is that correct?’

Netta nodded. ‘Ish,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know until a couple of days ago that I was pregnant.’

‘And this is your first pregnancy?’

‘It is.’

‘Right, let’s have a look.’ Teresa instructed Netta to lift her top and wriggle her pants down until they just covered her pubic bone. She briskly tucked a paper towel into the waistband. ‘This stuff can get a little messy,’ she said in explanation, holding a bottle of gel up for Netta to see. ‘I’m going to squirt some of this onto your lower belly—it can feel a little chilly—and then we’ll have a look with this.’ She showed Netta the ultrasound wand.

Teresa spread the gel with the probe and then got to work, pressing and pushing, this way and that, trying to get a good view of the embryo that would become Netta’s longed-for baby. The screen gave Netta nothing, just a mass of black and white static, morphing every time Teresa moved the wand into a new position. A crease settled between Teresa’s eyebrows as she worked.

‘I’m having a bit of trouble finding your little one,’ Teresa announced in an even, emotionless voice. ‘They can be very good at hiding when they’re this little. I’d like to try an internal ultrasound with your permission. They can give a clearer picture.’

Netta’s racing heart slowed to a limp. She nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘It involves inserting a transvaginal probe,’ Teresa continued. ‘It shouldn’t hurt but it can be a little uncomfortable.’

‘Whatever you need to do,’ said Netta.

‘Alright then.’ Teresa passed Netta a wad of paper towel. ‘Wipe the gel off, and I’ll need you to go and empty your bladder. Toilets are three doors down to the left.’

After the longest wee of her life, Netta returned, her jaw set, her body holding her breath in every cell, as though it might somehow safeguard her baby. Teresa closed a privacy curtain around the bed. ‘Take everything off from the waist down,’ she said. ‘And then make yourself comfy. I’ll be back shortly.’

‘You okay, hon?’ Freya’s voice floated over the curtain as Netta stripped her jeans and knickers off.

‘Yeah.’ Netta hesitated. ‘Actually, no,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I just want to know if everything’s okay.’ She bundled up her clothes, set them on a stool next to the bed, and lay down, pulling the coarse hospital-style blanket Teresa had left for her up to her waist. Her breath snagged as she heard the sonographer re-enter the room.

‘Are you ready, Netta?’

‘Yep.’

Teresa whizzed the curtain back just enough to step through and snapped it shut again behind her. Netta watched as Teresa prepared the probe, covering it with a thin latex sheath and smearing it with lubricant.

‘Okay, bend your knees and tip them out to the sides. Try to relax,’ Teresa said. ‘I know it’s easier said than done.’

Netta closed her eyes and took a couple of slow, deliberate breaths. ‘I’m ready.’

Teresa inserted the probe and turned her attention to the screen. ‘There we are,’ she said, indicating a tiny blob on the screen. ‘Hello, little one.’

A wave of relief flooded Netta’s body. ‘Is it okay?’

‘I’m just going to do some measurements and then I’ll check the heartbeat.’

Teresa’s poker face gave nothing away as she criss-crossed Netta’s precious baby with thin lines on the screen, click-clacking her findings onto the keyboard with lightning-fast fingers.

‘Okay,’ Teresa said. ‘I’m going to measure the heart rate now. We don’t listen in this early on, so you won’t be able to hear it, I’m afraid.’

Teresa adjusted the position of the probe, the crease between her brows deepening.

‘Alright,’ said Teresa after a few moments. ‘I’m going to remove the probe now and you can get dressed. The results will be with your GP by tomorrow if you’d like to go and have a chat about it—they’ll be able to discuss them with you in detail, but I think we might schedule another scan for a couple of weeks or so. The baby’s measurements and heart rate aren’t quite aligning with the dates you’ve given, so we’ll have another go in a fortnight and see how things are progressing.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ Netta’s voice was dwarfed by something in Teresa’s tone that, despite her perfectly vanilla delivery, felt ominous.

‘I’ll leave you to get dressed, and I’ll see you then,’ said Teresa. ‘The girls at the front desk will be able to set something up for you.’

Teresa swished the curtain aside to leave and Netta quickly dressed, a fear she’d never felt before budding deep within her.

‘You okay?’ said Freya as Netta emerged. ‘Those probes are pretty average.’

Netta searched her friend’s face desperately for reassurance. ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with the baby?’

‘I’m sure it’s all fine. Sometimes things just aren’t one hundred per cent clear on the scan when it’s this early in the pregnancy, I guess.’

Netta forced a smile and nodded, trying to keep her grip on her positivity and excitement about the baby, and not get swept away by a terrible maybe.

‘You’ll know more when you see the doctor,’ said Freya. ‘Until then, I’m prescribing comfort food and trash television and lots of both. Stat.’

As Netta left the clinic, she once again had the feeling of being held within a bubble—separated from the world by the thinnest of membranes—just as she had with Mo at the cottage. Except this one already felt far more fragile.

Chapter Forty-Nine

MO

Mo sat cross-legged, bare foot, eyes closed, on the floor of his home studio. His head was bowed, headphones on, his fingers plucking the strings of his guitar. A notepad and pen lay on the floor beside him as he hummed under his breath.

The left speaker lifted from his ear and then smacked back onto his head with a thwack.

‘Ow!’ Mo pulled the headphones down to hang around his neck and glared at the culprit. He’d been too absorbed in the song to notice Mav had even entered the room, let alone that he’d gotten close enough to mess with his headphones. ‘What?’

‘I’m leaving now to take the next lot of stuff to the flat,’ Mav said, squatting to look Mo in the eye. ‘I might stay there tonight and then come back and get the rest tomorrow. That cool?’

Mo looked at his little brother. The excitement of moving into his own place was buzzing around him. Fuck, he was going to miss him. ‘All good.’ Mo lay the guitar on the ground beside him. ‘Need a hand?’

‘Nah, I’ve got it.’ Mav’s grin sobered and he punched Mo lightly on the shoulder. ‘You okay? It’s good to see you up and about finally.’

‘Yeah. I’m sorry. The last couple of weeks have been a write-off.’ That was an understatement. He’d been totally checked out, drowning inside his own head, since he’d confided in Netta on Christmas Day. But something had shifted, letting just enough light in through the boggy blackness for Mo to see how stupid he’d been to cut her off the way he had. It seemed hitting rock bottom after his call with Rhona the other day—letting himself cry for the first time in years and acknowledge the full depth of his pain—had been what he’d needed to start rising slowly back towards the surface. It was still a way off—he was still in the deep end—but his legs were beginning to feel like they might be able to kick again.

Mav dropped his butt to the floor and sat opposite his brother. ‘It’s understandable, bro,’ he said. ‘I feel like I don’t know the whole story, but being sacked and your lady leaving are probably more than enough to sink you into a pit of shit.’

Mo smiled wryly. ‘She’s not my lady.’

‘Really? Because I’ve never seen you so mopey about a woman before. I know something happened at Christmas. When you came back, she was gone and you were an emo. Was it a sex fest?’

‘No!’ Mo couldn’t help but grin at his brother’s turn of phrase. ‘We slept together, but it was more than just sex, it was—’

‘The beginning of a beautiful love story?’

Mo wasn’t sure if Mav was joking or not. ‘Mate, that’s the thing,’ he said, holding his brother’s eye for a second before shifting his gaze to the window. ‘I think it could’ve been, but I fucked it up—monumentally—and now she’s on the other side of the planet.’

‘How monumentally fucked are we talking?’

‘It’s at a similar level of fuckedness as my career.’ Mo retrieved the guitar and hugged it to his body. ‘I’m so sorry about the expansion, Mav. I’ll make it work. I just have to figure something out.’

‘We’ll work it out together, mate,’ said Mav. ‘What are you going to do about Netta, though?’

‘I’m working on something,’ Mo said, tapping the guitar. ‘It might be too late, but I reckon I’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘Mate, are you writing her a song?’ Mav’s face creased in delight. ‘Is Morrison Maplestone writing a love ballad?’

Mo shifted on his cushion. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s a ballad …’

‘Are you reinventing yourself as the next Bublé?’ Mav wriggled quickly backwards to avoid Mo’s boot collecting his knee.

‘I’m just trying to tell her how I feel,’ Mo said. ‘And that I’m an idiot for letting her go. I don’t know how else to do it.’

Mav was silent for a moment. ‘I mean, some people would just, like, call or text or something …’ The jokey edge left his voice as he looked at his brother with admiration. ‘Seriously though, I’m proud of you, man. It’s not easy to put yourself out there. You really like her, huh?’

‘I think—’ Mo shook his head, leaving his sentence unfinished.

Mav poked his brother’s knee with his index finger. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think … I think I might more than like her.’

Mav puffed his cheeks out and widened his eyes until he looked like a demented puffer fish. ‘You’re in love!’

‘I—’

‘No—you said it!’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Mav rocked back, his hands tucked under his knees, and grinned at his brother. ‘You did. You said you more than like her, and that means L. O. V. E.’

‘Are you sure you’re really thirty-four?’

‘Whatever, old boy.’ Mav smirked as he stood. ‘Good luck with the song. And Play On will play on. There’s no way I’m letting that expansion die. We’ve worked too hard for it.’

Mo smiled and nodded. ‘You’ve done such a good job, Mav.’

A flash of pride flitted over Mav’s face as he turned to leave.

‘Mav.’ Mo swallowed hard. ‘Wait a sec.’ He stood, meeting his brother eye to eye. ‘I love you, mate.’

‘I love you too, bro.’ Mav pulled Mo into a long hug, thumping his fist on his back.

Mo knew in that moment, with startling clarity, that he had to tell his brother the truth about why Netta had turned up in his life. He had to tell him about the diary and about their mum. All of it. Mav wasn’t a kid anymore. He should know the truth. Mo just had to find the right time to do it.

Mav gave him one more squeeze and released his grip. When he met Mo’s gaze, his eyes were wet. ‘Thank you, so much,’ he said. ‘For everything.’

Mo watched his brother leave and the stillness of the empty house settled around him like autumn leaves. The house would be a lonely place without him. And he’d been right: Mo was in love with Netta. He’d already known, deep down. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it, the weight of what it meant feeling too heavy to add to everything he was already carrying. The space and time between them felt endless and impenetrable. His silence since she’d left had made the void even more vast, and hers, while it had twisted his heart and head, was understandable. She wasn’t stupid.

He had to get her back. Until today, it had seemed impossible to even try. Even more impossible that she would still want him. But pockets of light had begun reaching him now—the blessing of a little time and solitude and, weirdly, the relief of knowing he didn’t have to deliver the album anymore—and a kernel of hope had urged him into the studio, his need to tell her what she meant to him the first skerrick of creative inspiration he’d had for a long time.

He knew he still had a long way to go to reach the surface, to be able to breathe properly and swim to land. He knew the way he’d been feeling was about way more than Netta, the roots of his heartache reaching back decades into his past. He hadn’t yet sought therapy, as Rhona had suggested. Therapy was a one-day-maybe kind of situation. Talking about his mum felt too big right now, the wound still too fresh to poke, even thirty years later. And really, what could any shrink possibly say that could change what he’d done to his mum, anyway? But this song for Netta? He could do that right now. He needed to tell her how he felt the way his blood needed oxygen.

He just hoped she’d want to hear it.

Chapter Fifty

NETTA

Netta walked home from her doctor’s appointment, the morning sun and the buzz of Acland Street barely registering. It seemed every second woman she saw was either visibly pregnant or pushing a pram. When once she had looked at mothers and their babies with admiration and hope, after her discussion with the doctor, the sight now made her heart twist with the terror of possibly losing hers.

Her phone rang from the depths of her bag as she crossed the road to reach the extension of Acland Street, where the cafés and shops were replaced by towering old trees and seen-it-all homes. She found it just before it went to voicemail. ‘Hey, Freya.’

‘How’d you go at the GP?’

‘Not great.’ A sob landed in Netta’s throat, wedging a fat silence between her and her best friend.

‘Oh, hon.’ Freya sounded as worried as Netta felt. ‘What did she say?’

‘She said we’d know more after the next scan but that the size and heart rate could mean the pregnancy isn’t viable.’

‘And you’re sure the timing’s right? There’s absolutely no chance it could be Mo’s baby?’

‘It would be a miracle if it was,’ said Netta as Fitzroy Street came into view up ahead. ‘I’d already missed a period by the time we slept together and we used a condom every time.’

‘So, unlikely then,’ said Freya. ‘And I’m tipping you haven’t heard from him?’

‘I’ve heard more from my pot plants. It’s almost like it never happened.’

‘Except it did.’

‘Yeah, of course it did. Because that’s what I do, isn’t it? It would be weird if I didn’t get involved with an emotionally dented man it was never going to work out with.’ Netta stumbled on the uneven footpath. ‘And to make it worse,’ she said, recovering her balance, ‘I’m still thinking about him all the time. It feels like I might be in love with him.’ Netta released the statement like a bird whooshing from an opened cage. ‘Which is totally ludicrous, I know.’

‘It’s not ludicrous.’ Freya’s voice was gentle. ‘Falling in love isn’t meant to be a rational decision. It’s not meant to be a decision at all. You can decide whether you follow the feeling, but you can’t control when it turns up.’

Netta paused as she neared the corner of Fitzroy Street. A tram screeched past and a flock of teenagers swooped around the corner. ‘It’s never felt like this with anyone before. Not even Pete,’ she said. ‘With Pete, it was more like consciously making a good choice and then growing into it. I’d done all that therapy about how what happened with Mitch had affected my sense of self-worth and choices in men. Pete was like my graduation—proof that I’d gotten better. He was a sensible choice. But with Mo it was different.’ The crossing light bleated and Netta walked onto the road, eager to be enveloped by the quieter western side of St Kilda. ‘It felt like I’d known him forever but that everything was brand new, too.’

‘Sounds like love to me.’

‘Whatever it was, it’s dead in the water now.’ Netta blinked against the threatening tears as she rounded the corner into her street. ‘My heart hurts, Freya—like physically. And now with the baby stuff too, it honestly feels like it’s about to cave in.’

‘You don’t know there’s anything wrong with the baby yet,’ Freya reminded her. ‘It could be fine. And have you thought about calling Mo?’

‘Pretty much every second since I last saw him,’ Netta admitted. ‘But I’m not being that person again. I’m not going to lay myself out for another man who’ll just end up messing me around. Who’s already messed me around. He’s shown me who he is, and for once in my life, I’m paying attention.’

‘And who is he?’

‘He’s a great guy who hasn’t dealt with his trauma,’ said Netta. ‘And that spells trouble, Frey. Guys like that—people like that— won’t let you love them. They can’t. They don’t think they deserve it, so they think if you love them, then there’s something wrong with you. Then they treat you accordingly. I’ve been through this before.’

‘What if he got help?’

‘He won’t. He’s had thirty years to get a therapist.’

‘Maybe he just hasn’t had enough of a reason to. Maybe he’s been able to hide from it because, until you, nobody’s scratched the surface.’

‘Nope.’ Netta picked up her pace, almost home. ‘I’m not going there. He’s a minefield. And anyway, whether I’m in love with him or not, whether he gets help or not, it would never work. I don’t want to live in his world, with all the attention and drama. I just want a quiet, normal life and for this baby to make it. That has to be my focus for now.’

The conversation ended abruptly when Freya announced she had a bum to wipe and Netta walked the last two blocks with nothing but her circling worries for company.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment and clicked the door shut behind her. The remnants of the scented candle she’d been burning in the morning lingered in the air and a puddle of sunshine warmed the end of the couch. She sank gratefully into its softness and closed her eyes, waiting for her thoughts to settle into manageable piles. The baby. Mo. The inconvenient reality of having left a chunk of her heart with him, even though he didn’t want it. The embarrassing ember of hope that, despite her better judgement, she still held that maybe he’d come back to her.

It was too much. She groaned and tipped her head back, resting her hand maternally over her lower belly, willing her baby to be healthy. Strong. ‘Why me?’ she asked the universe out loud. ‘Why can’t it ever just be easy?’

Like pressing on a bruise just to see how much it would hurt, she took her phone from her back pocket and typed Mo’s name into Google. His face filled the screen and Netta tapped on the first article on the list, posted a week ago.

MORRISON MAPLESTONE AND LORENA LONG GET IT ON AS MO AND MUSIC SPLIT.

Netta’s heart shrivelled to the size of a pistachio. The photos showed Mo walking out of a club in Soho with Lorena on his arm. She looked incredible, of course. He looked like exactly the same man Netta had folded herself into in front of an open fire on Christmas Eve. Lorena was smiling, waving coyly at the camera, her face framed by a cascade of blow-dried hair. Mo’s face was turned away in every photo, his stride purposeful. He was taking a hiatus from music, the article said. Netta wondered if that was true or just spin from Rhona. She scrolled through the article, every photo of Mo with Lorena another needle in her heart and another nail in the coffin. He’d moved on, and the twisting pain that realisation caused made Netta realise just how much she hadn’t.

Chapter Fifty-One

NETTA

It started as a rust-coloured smear in her knickers the next morning. By lunchtime, Netta knew she was losing the baby. She keened as she sat on the toilet, blood draining from her as though it was seeping from every part of her body, smearing her thighs in a veil of scarlet. A cramp burned violently through her, pushing out more blood, clotted into clumps that dropped into the toilet like stones in a lake. Tears buffeted her useless, traitorous body as it rejected the one pure, beautiful thing she had left. She stuffed her knickers with a huge wodge of toilet paper and stood, staring at the crimson mess waiting to be flushed away. She closed the lid and floated on shock to the lounge room.

I’m losing the baby. She tapped the message robotically and sent it to Freya, before turning the phone off and throwing it with force, deep between the cushions crowding the couch. She doubled over as another cramp gripped like a vice around her abdomen—and her heart—and heard herself howl like an animal, roaring her grief as she slid to the floor and sat, curled up, squeezing her knees into her body against the pain. Her curled spine pressed against the wall and the roar dissolved into tears—an uncontrollable release of expectations and love and hope.

She crawled to the couch, its cushions holding her like jagged rocks, and stayed there for an hour, barely aware of anything until the sound of thumping on her door jolted her from her daze.

‘Netta!’ Freya’s shout was urgent. ‘Netta! Let me in!’

Netta squeezed her eyes shut again, willing herself invisible. Unreachable. For Freya to just leave her alone in her cave. The pain in her belly flared and she moaned into the heat of it.

‘Netta!’ Freya’s voice was frenzied now. ‘I can hear you! Can you get to the door?’

Netta propped herself up, her arms barely able to support her weight. She went to the door, opening it a crack to see Freya clutching a paper bag from the chemist, Jed strapped to her front, sleeping, and Maisie and Kit hiding behind her legs.

‘I know this isn’t ideal,’ Freya said, gesturing to the kids. ‘But your phone was off and I didn’t have anywhere I could leave them. I panicked. I’m so sorry. I just needed to know you were okay.’

Netta shook her head. ‘I can’t—’

Freya thrust the bag at Netta. ‘I got you some pads and pain killers.’

Freya’s eyes were an apology. Netta could see she felt like shit for bringing the kids. She should feel like shit for bringing them. Netta took the bag and started to close the door.

‘Netta, wait.’ Freya lightly held the door. ‘Look,’ she said, glancing at Netta’s hips.

Blood had soaked her tracksuit pants while she’d lain on the couch, leaving a crimson bloom on the fabric. Netta paled and wavered on her feet, her back finding the wall.

‘Let me be here for you,’ Freya pleaded. ‘Matt can be here in an hour to get the kids.’

Netta nodded, swallowing the nausea enveloping her, and stepped back as Freya and the kids came in.

‘Here,’ Freya said to Maisie, fishing an iPad from her handbag. ‘Take this to the couch and watch something with Kit, okay? No fighting.’

Maisie nodded earnestly, her anime eyes guarded as they flicked between Freya and Netta. She took her little brother’s pudgy hand and vanished to the lounge.

‘Let’s get you sorted,’ Freya said as she wrapped her arm around Netta, supporting her as they made their way to the bathroom.

Netta stood in stony stillness on the tiles. Freya’s face was waxen, sadness and sympathy written all over it, her bottom lip wobbling as she embraced Netta, whose arms hung limp, unable to return her friend’s affection. Repelled by the presence of Jed pressed between them. Grateful not to be alone. Distantly aware of the sound of Peppa Pig through the wall.

‘Come on,’ said Freya. ‘Arms up.’

Netta relented, letting Freya slide her T-shirt up and over her body and tug her pants to the ground. Freya held them still so Netta could step out of them, her hand gripping the sink for balance. Netta pressed her lips together against a swell of emotion and went to step into the shower.

‘Underwear first,’ said Freya gently.

Netta stopped and looked down at herself. ‘You don’t want to see this.’ Tears blurred her vision as she took in her friend’s concerned face.

‘You don’t have to do this on your own. Wait here.’ Freya vanished from the bathroom and returned without Jed. ‘He’s on the bed. Between two cushions in case he wakes.’ She shifted her gaze to the bulge in Netta’s knickers. ‘Is that loo roll in there?’

‘Yeah.’ Netta’s voice felt alien, like a hollow duplicate of her own.

‘Toilet,’ instructed Freya, guiding her backwards. Her face dropped as she saw the discarded blood in the bowl. ‘Oh, Netta.’

‘I couldn’t flush it,’ Netta sobbed. ‘What if it’s in there? I can’t flush my baby down the toilet.’ She slid her knickers past her hips and let the sodden toilet paper fall into the bowl as she sat.

Freya bundled up the blood-soaked clothes and made them disappear, returning with a fresh outfit and the chemist bag. ‘There are pads in here for you.’ She set the bag on the vanity and started the shower, holding her hand into the stream as it heated. ‘It’s nice and warm,’ she said, after a few moments. ‘You ready to get in?’

Netta nodded silently.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Freya closed the bathroom door softly behind her.

Netta unclipped her bra and let it fall to the ground, the two steps to the shower an agonising distance. She stepped in and steadied herself, hands pressed flat on the tiles. The warm water swirled pink around her feet and ignited her raw skin, as though her every nerve was exposed and vulnerable. As her tears mingled with the deluge, a blackness descended that felt visceral. Thick and impermeable, like a weighted shroud pinning her to the pain and narrowing her vision to a pinprick, through which the only thing she could see was what she’d lost.

Chapter Fifty-Two

MO

Mo pressed play and sat back in his chair as the song filled the room. It’d taken longer than he’d have liked to get just right, but it had to be perfect. It had to say all the things he should’ve said weeks ago—a sorry and a promise in one. It was a long shot, he knew. He’d been unforgivably shit. But if there was even a remote possibility—even a quark-sized chance—that Netta still had feelings for him, he was ready to put his heart on the line. She was worth it.

The sound of the guitar intro washed over him, a pleading melody that had rolled out of him like pent-up water released from a dam. The words had been harder. What do you say to someone you’ve fallen in love with and treated like you didn’t? Sorry was nowhere near enough.

Mo closed his eyes and focused on his voice as it drifted from the speakers, rasping out the words he hoped would let Netta know what she meant to him. As the song drew to a close, he nodded to himself and leaned forward, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. It was good. It was ready.

He tapped a nervous beat on the desktop, his foot slamming the pedal of an imaginary bass drum. ‘C’mon, Mo,’ he mumbled. ‘Just fucking send it.’

He attached the audio file to an email addressed to Netta and hit send before he lost his nerve, a sharp exhale contracting his belly as the ‘message sent’ notification appeared on his screen. It was gone. Out of his hands. The ball was in her court now.

There’d been something else playing on his mind, too. Something that refused to be ignored, despite his best efforts. Rhona, in the way she always was, had been right: he needed to sort himself out. He reached for his phone. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he murmured.

Rhona had sent him the details of her therapist, as she’d said she would. His fingers hovered over the number, the prospect of change feeling like a bottomless chasm. Like standing on the edge of the known and the unknown. It could be his undoing or it could be the making of him. It could also be a complete waste of time. Either way, how he’d treated Netta had shown him he needed to do something. He owed it to her to at least try.

He took a deep breath, and called.

Chapter Fifty-Three

NETTA

Netta sat in the doctor’s office, still numb with loss a week later. She’d had an emergency scan in the meantime, which had confirmed what she’d already known; the baby was gone.

‘The sonographer was right,’ said the GP, her eyes glued to the report and scans on her screen. ‘It’s complete. There won’t be any need for a curette.’

‘Lucky me,’ mumbled Netta under her breath.

The doctor turned the screen away and focused her attention on Netta. ‘How are you coping?’

‘Not great.’

The doctor had probably been hoping for more, but talking was exhausting. Everything was exhausting. And there were no words for how she felt, anyway. Trying to describe it accurately would be pointless. Words had a way of framing things, putting borders and limits on them, folding them up and packing them into little understandable parcels. And this feeling, this emptiness, was far too vast for that.

‘It’s awful, I know,’ the doctor said, measured, but kind. ‘And it can feel very isolating. But it’s more common than you think. Studies tell us that as many as one in four known pregnancies end in miscarriage, and those numbers could be higher, given it’s possible to miscarry before you even know you’re pregnant. If you choose to, you could try again. Many women go on to have successful pregnancies after a miscarriage.’

Netta’s heart twisted. She didn’t want to go on to have a successful pregnancy. She wanted to still be pregnant. For the miscarriage never to have happened. ‘Even at my age?’

‘More women are having babies in their late thirties and early forties, but it’s important to understand that fertility dips as you get older,’ the doctor said. ‘If you want to try again, I wouldn’t leave it too long.’

‘I think I’ll want to,’ Netta said. ‘But I’m on my own now. Before I found out I was pregnant, I’d been reading up on assisted conception treatments. What do you think my best option would be?’

‘There are definitely things we can talk about. You may not need to go down the IVF route—intrauterine insemination, or IUI, is much cheaper and has a good success rate if there are no other issues at play. If you choose to use a sperm donor, there can be a waiting period before a suitable sample becomes available, and then it can take a few rounds of IUI to achieve a pregnancy—it’s not a quick process. It’s important to wait until you feel mentally prepared to try again though, Netta. There’s always the chance of a repeat miscarriage. I think you should take the time you need to process this loss, and then come and see me as soon as you feel ready. In the meantime, looking after yourself is the best way to prepare for another pregnancy.’

Netta nodded, her hands clasped in her lap, her right thumbnail flicking methodically against her left. ‘I drank when I was in the UK. I flew long haul. I had sex. I didn’t know I was pregnant …’ Netta’s cheeks burned. ‘Is it my fault?’

‘Netta.’ The doctor’s eyes filled with concern. ‘This isn’t your fault. There are any number of possibilities as to why this pregnancy didn’t progress, but there’s definitely no research to suggest that flying or having sex pose any risk. We do understand, however, that about half of miscarriages occur due to chromosomal issues. Nothing you did or didn’t do from the point of conception could’ve changed the outcome if that was the case.’

‘And what would’ve caused that?’ Netta pressed. ‘My age?’

‘A woman can have a miscarriage at any age, but chromosomal issues do occur more in older mothers, yes. And sadly, “older” in fertility terms is anyone thirty-five or over. Do you have any other questions before you go?’

‘How long will it take to feel normal again?’ Netta asked. ‘The bleeding’s stopped, but my whole body still feels like it’s on backwards and my head is an absolute mess. I need to go back to work soon and I can’t be bursting into tears in the middle of a maths lesson.’

‘Your body’s just been through a huge hormonal shift,’ said the doctor. ‘It’ll take a little while for things to rearrange themselves. You could try complementary therapies. Lots of women report that acupuncture, for example, can be helpful. But ultimately, the best thing you can do is just look after yourself. Prioritise sleep, get some exercise every day—especially when you’re feeling really low—and eat well. Wouldn’t hurt to stay away from alcohol, too. All of those measures will also help prepare your body for a future pregnancy.’

Netta pictured the pizza boxes and wine bottles stacking up around the kitchen. There was definitely room for improvement.

‘You live near the beach,’ continued the GP. ‘Take some walks in the salty air. It’ll really help with your mindset. And, if you feel comfortable, tell the people around you what you’re going through. Many women keep their miscarriage to themselves and suffer through it in silence and it can be very lonely. So many of us have been through this, Netta—I think you’ll find a lot of understanding and support among the women in your life.’

Netta nodded, but talking about it with anyone other than Freya seemed unlikely. Not because she didn’t think she should, but because, quite often, she physically couldn’t. The lump in her throat choked the words into unintelligible sobs or just stopped them in their tracks, turned them around and marched them back down into the pit of her stomach, where they’d sit, weighty and unbearable.

‘And I’m here for you too,’ the doctor continued. ‘There are also some wonderful online resources you might find really helpful if you’re finding it hard to talk to friends and family about it, which lots of women do.’

‘Thank you,’ Netta said, standing. ‘I’ll think it all through and come and see you when I’m ready to take the next step.’

Netta walked the long way home along St Kilda Beach, taking in the warm, briny air and the sound of laughter carrying on the wind. She passed the gym and the pier and disappeared into the gardens, threading her way through the towering palm trees standing on either side of the path. A pissed off–looking pony was trotting begrudgingly alongside a sturdy man in a plaid shirt, a chubby toddler on its back. Joggers muscled by and a group of people were setting up banners and temporary fencing for an event of some kind. A huddle of dreadlocked bongo drummers kept a hypnotic rhythm under a tree and a possum darted across the path, clearly confused about what time of day it was. Just before the park gave way to the paved beachside path once more, Netta passed a circle of women on the grass, each with a baby—either at their breast or on a blanket before them—and the hollowness of her uterus stretched and ached, prodding her grief. She swallowed hard against the brick in her throat and hastened her stride.

She crossed the busy esplanade and cut up Cowderoy Street, stopping for a coffee, which was good, but not as good as the one Mo had made her that day in the hotel. The thought crossed her mind that maybe no coffee would ever be as good as that one, ever again, and a new wave of sadness crashed down on her. An impossible love. A lost baby. A body that felt like it must belong to someone else and forty so close she could feel it breathing down her neck.

The apartment was quiet and cool when she let herself in, but the usual sense of calm she felt when she opened the front door was stolen by the hovering stench of stale pizza and general filth. She hadn’t cleaned since the miscarriage started and her apartment was starting to smell like it.

Netta threw herself into cleaning—even the plants got a wipe down—and sank into the couch an hour later, exhausted, the spurt of energy tailing off into a grey melancholy only slightly tempered by the orderliness of the apartment. Messy house, messy head. Tidy house, tidy head. That’s what her mother had always said.

‘It didn’t work this time, Mum,’ Netta whispered as she dissolved into the cushions. She picked up her phone and settled back for the kind of brainless distraction that only a good socials scroll could provide. Audrey and Fletcher’s Instagram account—which had more than a hundred thousand followers—had become a favourite destination for Netta. Photos of the two of them being glamourous in fabulous locations filled her feed with joy. The rest of Instagram, on the other hand, seemed full of Bali holidays and birth announcements, so she checked her email instead.

Her inbox was stuffed with a long stream of spammy crap, newsletters she couldn’t remember signing up to and a library overdue notice. And then, wedged between a phone bill and an invitation to the opening of a new bar, was an email from Mo. Netta’s heart scuttered to a halt, hanging limply in her chest like a beaten-todeath pinata swinging pathetically in the breeze.

She clicked on the message, her finger bouncing off the phone like it was a hot coal.

SOMETHING FOR YOU

Morrison Maplestone <momap1984@gmail.com>

To: Netta Phillips

Just press play.

M

Just press play. That’s all it said. No, Hi Netta. No, I’m sorry. No, I love you endlessly and please can we start over. None of that.

An audio file was attached to the email, and as Netta’s finger hovered over the link, she had the feeling of being jerked from the shallow depths of early sleep, stumbling off a kerb in a dream. Freefalling.

She clicked.

Chapter Fifty-Four

NETTA

Freya’s lounge was chaos, strewn with toys and laundry and crayons. Discarded remnants of their fish and chips dinner lay on the coffee table and the lights were dimmed, the kids all finally asleep and Freya exhausted on the couch. Netta sat cross-legged on the floor among the mess, numbed by a misery that seemed to thicken with every day that passed. She knew it would get easier, eventually. But right now her grief was a fifth limb, carried with her everywhere, and Mo’s email had made it even heavier.

‘Play it again,’ said Freya.

Mechanically, Netta opened Mo’s email and pressed play, sparking Freya’s Bluetooth speaker to life. Mo counted himself in at the start—a mumbled one, two, three, four that hooked Netta through the heart—and then he started singing.

Years in the bright lights

But always in the dark

Through the black you shone

And found my buried heart

You opened me like a gift

When I thought I was a curse

You’ve seen my darkest corners

You’re more than I deserve

Sorry isn’t enough

You undid me, you made me

Three words could never tell

You found me, you saved me

Hidden in plain sight

Locked behind secret doors

My shadow’s been my keeper

Now I just want to be yours

I held you like a treasure

Then I set it all alight

I’d give forever to take it back

A chance to make it right

Sorry isn’t enough

You undid me, you made me

Three words could never tell

You found me, you saved me

You’re diamonds on the waves

The city lit at night

You’re the sunrise over mountains

A fire burning bright

Hinges creaking open

Locked doors burned into ash

Here I am, just hoping you’ll

Still want to hold my hand

The song was bare, free of the bass guitar and drums that normally drove Mo’s music. Just his fingers strumming and plucking at the strings of an acoustic guitar and his voice, the texture of it like roughly hewn timber. Netta wanted to run her fingers over it, to physically feel its transitions between smooth and rough.

He loved her. At least, that’s what she thought he was trying to say. He didn’t exactly spell it out—the ‘L’ word was distinctly absent—but the lyrics were an aching admission: their story, his torment and his hope. But it was too much to deal with on top of losing the baby. Way too much, way too late.

The song ended and there was a long silence before Freya spoke. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she sniffed, reaching for a cold chip.

‘Are you crying?’ asked Netta.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I’ve cried so much this last week, I’ve got nothing left.’

‘But he loves you, Netta!’ said Freya. ‘Can’t you hear it in his voice? And those lyrics …’ She trailed off, a dreamy expression softening her features.

‘Yeah, but why couldn’t he just say it? And why’s it taken so long? I’ve been tortured for weeks and now I’ve lost the baby—’ She cleared her throat. ‘And then there are the photos of him and Lorena Long.’

‘Okay, I get that his timing is terrible. But as for the photos, you know better than most people how misleading those paparazzi shots can be,’ said Freya. ‘Seems to me that if he was with Lorena, he wouldn’t have written the most beautiful love song in the history of love songs for you. Know what I’m saying?’

Netta took a moment before she answered. ‘You didn’t see them together,’ she said flatly. ‘They make sense. He and I? We don’t. We just don’t.’

‘He obviously thinks you do.’

Netta sighed. ‘Why are you on his side? Aren’t you supposed to be my wingwoman?’

‘You know I’m your Goose for life,’ said Freya, reaching over to rub Netta’s knee. ‘I just don’t want you to miss out on something amazing because his timing’s a bit off.’

‘It’s more than the timing,’ said Netta. ‘I’m so messed up about the miscarriage and I’m about to turn forty. I can’t wait much longer if I want to try for a baby on my own. I can’t let anything—or anyone—get in the way or I’m going to miss out.’ Her voice snagged on the thorny reality of her situation.

‘So, what are you going to do about it?’

‘The song or the baby?’

Freya rolled her eyes. ‘The song.’

‘I’m not going to do anything about it. It’s time to move on and move forward. No more drama.’

‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what would happen if you gave him a chance?’

‘No,’ Netta lied. ‘I know exactly what would happen, and I’m not going there. In fact …’

She reached for her phone once again and opened Mo’s email, then hovered her finger over the delete button and pressed.

Chapter Fifty-Five

MO

Rhona’s kitchen was filled with the aromatic scent of basil and tomatoes, and steam billowed from a big pot on the stovetop. Don, wrapped in a bright blue and yellow striped apron, tipped the ravioli in and stirred as the water resumed its frantic boil. Rhona sat at the dining table, grating fresh parmesan, and Mo wiped flour from the bench where Don had made the pasta from scratch using the pasta-making machine he’d found under the Christmas tree. A bottle of red wine was open on the bench, of course. Mo splashed a little into his emptied glass just as the Spotify playlist switched to another chillout track.

‘So, no response at all, huh?’ Rhona was down to the stump of the parmesan now, clawing it carefully so as not to grate her fingers.

Mo shook his head and threw the flour-covered cloth into the sink behind him. ‘I feel like an idiot.’

‘For telling her how you feel about her? Or for waiting so long to say it?’

‘Both. She either hates me, or never had feelings in the first place. I don’t know which is worse.’

Rhona slid the mound of grated parmesan into a brightly patterned ceramic bowl. ‘It’s probably not as simple as that, Mo.’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it looks pretty black and white from my end. I got the read receipt, so I know she opened the email. And I’ve called her since. Twice. No answer. No return call.’

‘So, what,’ said Don, turning away from the stove to look at him, ‘that’s it? You’re just going to let it go?’

‘I’m not sure what else I can do, mate.’ Resignation flattened Mo’s voice. ‘I can’t force myself on her. I’ve told her how I feel—the lyrics were pretty clear about that—so if she hasn’t responded, then I can only assume she doesn’t feel the same way.’

Rhona beckoned for Mo to pass her the wine bottle. ‘I’d say it’d also be fairly safe to assume she’s still pissed with you for the way you left things,’ she said. ‘I mean, think about it. She flew here fresh out of a break-up and then all that Mitch Carlton stuff got dredged up because she was seen with you. And fair enough, maybe that ended up being a good thing in the end, because she finally got to give him what for and that brilliant interview she did gave him the bollocking he deserved. But even so, she would’ve skipped a lot of drama if she’d never done you the favour of returning the diary. And then she sleeps with you, makes it safe for you to finally talk about your childhood and then you run for the hills, never to be heard from again until … what? Five or six weeks later?’

Mo hung his head, nodding to the floor. ‘I know, Rhona, okay? I really messed things up. I’ve been—’ He took a swig of shiraz and collected his thoughts. ‘Things have been pretty messy for me since Christmas.’

‘And let’s not forget the bloody photos of you and Lorena Long! I’d say she’s seen those and thinks you two are going at it like a pair of celebrity rabbits.’

Mo slumped. Those fucking photos. Rhona was right. If Netta had seen them, she’d definitely think he was with Lorena. Without context, they showed a couple leaving a bar. In reality, they showed a man walking down some steps with a woman who’d tipped off the paps to ensure they were captured leaving said bar ‘together’.

Don clapped him on the back. ‘Things will work out, Mo. They always do, right, Rhona?’

‘No! That’s not right!’ Rhona scraped her chair out abruptly and stood, her green fuzzy jumper giving her the look of an angry cactus. ‘If there’s something you really want, or someone you really want, you have to go after it, or them, and give it your best shot. It doesn’t always work out, but trying—properly trying—and failing is a hell of a lot better than living your life wondering what could’ve been if you’d pulled your fucking finger out.’

Mo and Don watched her, open-mouthed, against a backdrop of billowing pasta steam.

‘I treated her like shit,’ said Mo, eventually. ‘I guess I can’t expect her to forgive me because of a song.’

‘Exactly!’ Rhona threw her hands up. ‘The song was beautiful, Mo, don’t get me wrong. It was magic. But I think, given the circumstances, the guns you pulled out possibly weren’t quite big enough.’

Mo pressed his fingers into his eye sockets and sighed. ‘Right. You’re right.’

‘I told you the Love, Actually airport dash was the way to go.’

‘Rhona, I was in a hole when she left,’ said Mo miserably. ‘I could barely get myself out of bed, let alone to the airport.’

Rhona walked around the table to cover Mo’s hand with her own. ‘Are you still in the hole?’

Mo’s heart broke a little under her concerned gaze. Rhona had been his rock through the last few weeks without even knowing what it was all about. ‘It’s not as deep,’ he said.

‘Well, then. Perhaps you could think about bringing out the bigger guns, now. I’d recommend cannons.’

‘I hate to interrupt the battle planning, but dinner’s ready,’ said Don, spooning out five plates of ravioli.

Mo took his plate to the table and sat down as Miles and Carly bowled down the stairs. He piled some fresh basil and parmesan on top of his pasta and leaned sideways into Miles, sitting next to him, to let Don refill his glass.

Conversation swept around the table as they ate, jumping from one topic to the next, but Mo could only focus on one thing: Netta. A plan started taking shape, and the guns were massive. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

Chapter Fifty-Six

NETTA

Netta stood on the front steps of the Espy and hugged her friends goodbye. Her fortieth birthday had been celebrated with her nearest and dearest in the dim lighting of one of the restaurants that now sat deep within the hallowed belly of the former pub. Its innards had been carved out and revamped into a place that barely resembled the Espy Netta remembered from her twenties—the one with the perpetually sticky carpet and only two wines on the list: red or white.

Freya was the last to hug her. ‘Happy fortieth, you old cow. You sure you don’t want to share my Uber?’ Her eyes were lit by one too many glasses of wine topped off by a cocktail in the bar on the upper level.

‘Nah, I want to walk,’ said Netta, holding her friend steady as she wavered on the steps. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’

Freya pointed her index finger so close to Netta’s nose it made her eyes cross. ‘Don’t talk to strangers,’ she said. ‘And text me when you get home safe.’

‘Likewise.’ Netta pointed to a silver SUV idling out the front. ‘Is that your ride?’

‘It is now!’ Freya gave her one last squeeze. ‘Forty’s going to be your best year yet, Netta. You’ll see.’ She loosened her grip. ‘Christ. I hope I don’t spew on the way home. That cocktail was brutal.’

As Freya wobbled her way down the steps, Netta gathered the gift bags at her feet, stopping for a moment to take in the view. Crowds of people gathered either side of the staircase and the water of St Kilda Beach sparkled in the moonlight, palm trees dancing in the balmy night breeze. The smell of beer and food and cigarettes mingled in the air and the deep thrum of music from the dance floor inside sent a gentle vibration through Netta’s chest. Tonight had been great, but she couldn’t wait to get home to some comfy pants and quiet.

She made her way west along The Esplanade, passing much younger revellers who were just on their way out. Netta smiled to herself. That had been her once. On an early night, she’d start getting ready at nine and be on the dance floor by ten thirty. Just thinking about it now made her exhausted.

The footpath swooped right into Fitzroy Street, crowded with people out for a good time. Netta stopped to drop some coins into a homeless man’s hat and pat his dog, glanced wistfully at a couple in first-date mode in the front window of a restaurant, and stopped at the 7-Eleven for a Magnum to enjoy on the couch—a consolation prize for not drinking. She let her mind settle, the ringing in her ears abating the further she walked.

I’m forty. I’ve got a job I love, I have my own place, I have great friends. The other stuff will come.

Forty is a birthday, not a use-by date.

Forty is a birthday, not a use-by date.

Forty is a birthday, not a use-by date.

The mantra played on a loop in her mind, feebly attempting to distract her from homing in on the things she didn’t have. The things she’d spent her life merrily taking for granted that she’d have locked down by forty. A relationship. A little family.

Her body had felt foreign since the miscarriage but, four weeks later, things were gradually starting to feel closer to normal. She’d stopped crying as much. Her stomach wasn’t as bloated. The ache in her heart hadn’t dulled, but it had been joined by a sense of determination; the grief she felt at losing the baby told her how much having a child mattered to her. That feeling was propelling her towards doing it on her own, and she didn’t want to leave it any longer. She’d had an appointment with the GP and there was an action plan in place. She’d taken to thinking that the lost baby had been sent to steel her, to prepare her and give her the push she needed to take matters into her own hands. To strip away the distractions, to help her stop treading water and just go for what she wanted.

A couple walked past her, intertwined so naturally they looked like they’d been made for each other. The man’s easy stride and dark hair reminded Netta of Mo and, as was wont to happen, he leapt into her mind. The way his cheek dimpled when he smiled. His one crooked tooth. The sound of his voice, rough and molten all at once. The way it had felt to be held against him. The complete peace she’d felt with her head on his chest.

The couple disappeared around the corner and Netta sighed. Mo had been everything she needed and everything she didn’t in one irresistible, heartbreaking package. The song he’d sent still played in her mind, his words like smoke, curling around her thoughts, giving new dimension to her memories of him. New fuel to the fantasy. She’d wanted to answer his calls, so much. But she needed to stay blinkered. Eyes forward. No distractions. No diversions.

She reached her apartment building and stopped to look up at her bedroom windows, the soft glow of her bedside lamps illuminating them against the dark of the night, welcoming her home.

She gathered her gift bags to her chest to avoid smacking them against the bins as she walked up the side path to the L-shaped external staircase.

Something felt off as she started her ascent and her senses sprang to life. She noticed a soft glow emanating from somewhere near her front door. Something scuffed against the concrete. Netta stopped mid-step, her knuckles white as she gripped the gift bags.

‘Is someone there?’

The light disappeared.

A cough.

More scuffling.

Footsteps.

Netta was rooted to the spot, at the mercy of fate, both fight and flight leaving her for dead. Of course she would get mugged or murdered on her fortieth birthday. Of course she would.

A shadowy figure rose from the top landing. Broad shoulders. Tall.

Netta opened her mouth and released a voiceless scream for help, and the man stepped out of view, descending the stairs.

This is it. This is how I die.

Netta squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, her heart on pause as though practising for death.

‘Netta?’ The voice was low. Rough.

Her eyes snapped open. ‘Mo?’ Her knees liquified and she sank to the cool concrete of the steps.

‘Fuck, I’m so sorry.’ He descended the steps two at a time to help her up. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Netta shoved his arm away. ‘You scared the absolute shit out of me!’ She breathed hard as her heart went into overdrive, her head swimming with adrenalin and shock. ‘I thought you were a murderer.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘It was supposed to be a surprise but you weren’t home and I—’

‘Thought you’d loiter on my doorstep and give me a fucking heart attack instead?’ Netta gathered up the bags up and stood.

‘Can you two take it inside?’ Netta’s elderly downstairs neighbour’s voice floated through his window. ‘Some of us are trying to sleep.’

Netta took in Mo’s flight-weary face and rumpled outfit and sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’

He stood aside as she made her way to the front door, her fingers trembling as she brought the key to the lock, every cell of her body aware of him standing behind her. The key finally turned and the door swung open.

Netta went inside. ‘Come in.’

Mo entered silently, holding a gift-wrapped box. Netta’s heels clip-clopped along the hallway to the kitchen, Mo’s Converse trailing quietly behind.

She walked behind the kitchen bench, dumped her bags on the worn Laminex and spun slowly to face him. She drank him in. His blue jeans, his soft grey T-shirt, the tattoos scattered over his arms. His muscles were taut with apprehension as he leaned against her dining table and clutched the present. His hair was mussed and his jaw was stubbled, his face arranged into an unfamiliar expression.

‘What are you doing here?’ Netta said.

‘I wanted to give you this.’ He held the box out to her. ‘For your birthday.’

‘You came all this way to give me a present?’

Mo nodded wordlessly but Netta didn’t move to take it from him. She glanced at the gift, trying to ignore the inconvenient beauty of the hands holding it, and then returned her gaze to his face. Seeing him in her apartment felt too surreal to be true. A jarring collision of two very separate worlds. A cosmic admission that the whole thing had been real, not just a momentary shift from reality, but a part of it. A part of her.

‘How did you know today was my birthday?’

‘You told me when it was. I remembered. I remember everything about the time we had together, Netta. Everything.’ He put the present on the bench, twisting his fingers together until the white of his bones showed through his stretched skin. ‘I’m so sorry about how I left things.’

Netta pressed her hands into the benchtop and looked down at them, nodding silently. She raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Why?’

‘Because I was an arsehole to you,’ he said. ‘It was unforgivable. We had a connection—something really special—and I treated you like it hadn’t meant anything.’

‘No, I mean why did you leave it that way?’ Netta’s icy gaze was an eggshell-thin front. Inside, she was on fire, the flimsily taped-up box she’d attempted to keep Mo in reduced to a smouldering, useless mess.

‘I … I can’t explain it. If I could go back in time …’ Mo’s eyes dipped to the present and back up to her face. ‘Did you listen to the song I sent you?’

‘It was beautiful.’

‘But not enough.’

Netta shook her head. ‘So much has happened since I came home.’ Tears filled her eyes and she swiped a tea towel from the oven handle and pressed it to her face.

Mo moved around the counter and opened his arms to her but she stepped back, out of his reach.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through since London.’ She sniffed. ‘And now you’re with Lorena … I can’t complicate things again.’

Mo let his arms drop. ‘I’m not with Lorena.’

‘I saw the photos, Mo.’

‘It’s not what it looks—’

‘Don’t.’ Netta cut him off. ‘I don’t want to know.’

Mo pressed his lips together as though fighting against words desperate to escape his mouth, and Netta had to look away from it, cursing the power it still had over her.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ Mo’s voice was low, smaller than Netta had ever heard it.

She fixed her gaze on him once more and bungeed between London and losing the baby and this moment, right now, flung from heaven to hell and now to this precipice. Toeing the edge of a crumbly cliff with this beautiful, messy, irresistible, unreliable man—who she now knew, unequivocally, she was in deep, dangerous love with. Her chin crumpled and dragged the corners of her mouth down, closer to her aching heart, which she knew she’d have to break to move forward.

Her eyes met his and she nodded. ‘I do.’

Mo swallowed hard, blinking. ‘I understand,’ he said, his voice wafer thin. He tapped the box on the bench. ‘Read the card.’

Netta nodded.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Netta.’

‘Goodbye, Mo.’

Netta closed her eyes as he turned to leave and didn’t let the sob she was holding escape until the door clicked closed behind him.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

NETTA

Netta slid to the kitchen floor, back against a cupboard, and let it all out. Deep, racking sobs hollowed her, scooping out her insides until there was nothing left. After the miscarriage, she had thought nothing would ever be able to make her cry again. She’d thought she’d used up her life’s quota of tears. That nothing would ever match the loss she’d felt. That nothing would ever make her feel sad again, because how could it? How could anything touch her when she’d been through something like that and come out the other side, still breathing? And yet, here she was, realising that grief came in many guises. It seemed letting Mo go had found a new part of her heart to break.

As the tears dried up, she took a deep, steadying breath and rested the back of her head against the cupboard door, softly smacking her hand against her thigh.

What have I done?

Smack.

The smart thing. He’s trouble.

Smack.

But I love him.

Smack.

But he’ll ruin you.

Smack.

I think he loves me back.

Smack.

Men like that can’t love you.

Smack.

Her head and heart battled it out as she spectated, waiting for the right answer to present itself. But despite the showdown, there was no winner. Just a cloud of grey indecision.

Netta pushed herself up off the floor and eyed the parcel on the bench. It was beautifully wrapped in striped paper and a bronzed bow. She touched it cautiously, as though daring to pat a growling dog. She slid out of her heels and took the box from the counter, carrying it carefully to her bed. She set it on the doona and sat, cross-legged, to open it.

The bow slid open easily and Netta ran its silky length through her fingers before laying it across her lap. Painstakingly, so as not to tear the paper, she opened the present.

Inside, an envelope sat upon a box. She set it to the side and opened the lid, an achingly familiar scent washing over her as she revealed a glass-encased candle, exactly the same as the one from her hotel in London—a cinnamon and vanilla portal to her time with Mo. She raised it to her nose and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. She clutched the candle to her chest for a moment, then cradled it in her lap to open the card.

Dear Netta,

I’ve missed you so much. The pain has felt like the exact punishment I deserved for the way I treated you, but now I realise that missing you is part of loving you. Because I do. I love you, Netta.

I thought, maybe, this candle might bring happy memories back for you. I remember you telling me how much you loved the smell of your hotel room.

Something else, a real treasure (don’t ask me what I had to do to get it) is hidden underneath.

Mo x

Netta’s eyes flicked back to I love you, Netta and lingered, the words I love you, too already formed on her tongue—a trapped truth ready to be freed. She felt illuminated, finally, after weeks of blackness, despite the logical part of her brain screaming at her to run the other way.

Netta took the candle from its gilded box and found a folded sheet of paper underneath, covered in scrawly handwriting. It was the recipe for Gianna’s meatballs, the ones they’d had at Bianchi’s. The recipe Gianna had vowed she’d die before she ever shared. Netta held the paper to her heart, folded it carefully and reached for her phone.

Mo answered on the first ring. ‘Netta?’ His voice was raw.

‘I’m sorry for how I was when you came over tonight. I guess I just thought I had everything figured out and seeing you made me realise that maybe I don’t.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he said. ‘It’s me who needs to apologise. I’d love a chance to explain. I don’t expect you to leap into my arms or anything, but I need you to know what happened. I don’t want to feed you excuses, I just—I just need you to know how much you mean to me. And I don’t want you to hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you, Mo.’ Netta bit her tongue against the urge to tell him she loved him. ‘And I don’t want things to end badly between us twice. Are you around for a while? Could you … could you come over tomorrow night, maybe?’

‘Definitely.’ Mo’s eagerness sounded foreign to him, like a new language he was just beginning to learn. ‘I’m staying at a hotel on Southbank. I’ve got the room for a few days.’

‘Why don’t we say seven?’ suggested Netta. ‘I’ll make us dinner.’

‘That sounds perfect.’

Netta could hear the relief and smile in his voice and her chest lit up with the anticipation of seeing him again. She hung up and let the swirl of emotions settle in her stomach. Their story hadn’t ended. It wasn’t finished. They weren’t finished. But what did that mean for Netta? For her baby plans? Before Mo had turned up, the path forward had been well lit and signposted. She would have a baby on her own. The first specialist appointment was already scheduled. The wheels were in motion. Now, it seemed, there was an unmapped fork in the trail.

Netta took the candle to the kitchen and lit it, its soft glow an instant comfort. She carried it carefully through to the lounge and sat it on the coffee table as she sank into the couch next to her laptop, opening the screen to find her email still open. Sitting in her deleted items, she knew, was Mo’s song, and in that moment, as the scent of cinnamon and vanilla transported her, every cell of her body craved it. She opened the discarded email and clicked on the link. His voice filled the room like sunshine as she lay back on the cushions and let her heart crack open to hear his words properly, letting them warm her right to her bones.

***

The following afternoon, Netta stood back to appraise her haul. She’d been to the South Melbourne Market and loaded up on everything she’d need, and her tiny kitchen bench was straining under fresh ingredients, crackers, cheese and two bottles of red wine—real for Mo, non-alcoholic for herself. She looked over the recipe to triple-check she had everything and then got to work.

When the doorbell rang at seven o’clock, Netta was freshly showered—her legs shaved and moisturised, hair washed—and dressed in her favourite denim cut-offs and a white linen cami which, despite being the lightest thing she owned, still felt like a camel hair jumper in the heat of the overworked kitchen. A rich, tomatoey scent bubbled from inside the oven and a Hozier playlist drifted from the speaker in the lounge.

Netta wiped her hands on a tea towel and threw it on the bench. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she muttered as she walked barefoot up the hall.

Mo’s silhouette appeared through the frosted glass of the front door and her step faltered, a prickling sensation racing over her skin. She stopped at the hall mirror and quickly checked herself out, tugging at her shorts and smoothing her hair.

This was it.

Her hand trembled on the latch as she swung the door open.

There he was, dressed in black shorts and a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up. He clutched a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of white peonies in the other. He smelled incredible. She had no hope.

‘Hi.’ His smile was tentative. He looked nervous.

Netta did her best to arrange her suddenly rubberised face into a return smile. ‘Come in.’

‘These are for you,’ he said, handing her the flowers as he stepped inside.

‘They’re beautiful, thank you.’ Netta’s heart hammered and she was grateful for the task of finding a vase big enough to accommodate the blooms. ‘I’d better get them into some water.’ She skittered down the hallway, leaving him to follow, and dug out a big ceramic vase from the back of the pantry. ‘I found this at a vintage market in Daylesford,’ she said, filling it from the kitchen tap. She unwrapped the flowers and settled them into the vase. ‘There. Beautiful.’

Mo hadn’t said a word since he’d entered the apartment, and when Netta finally looked at him, he was watching her intently, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

‘It smells pretty good in here.’

‘They’re ready. I just put them in the oven to keep them warm until you got here.’

‘Is it …’

Netta nodded shyly. ‘I thought I’d have a go at it, seeing as you must’ve sold your soul to get the recipe. Do I even want to know how you got her to share it?’

‘Ha.’ He shook his head and grinned. ‘It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. But when I told her I’d been a total fucking idiot and needed something special to impress you, she came around pretty quickly. She liked you a lot.’

He caught Netta’s eye and for a moment, Netta felt like she might throw herself at him then and there.

She cleared her throat and broke the spell. ‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’ Mo tugged at the unbuttoned top of his shirt, wafting it in and out to fan himself.

‘Sorry, I don’t have any air con,’ Netta said. ‘I’ll open some windows.’

Mo took a swig of the wine Netta set down in front of him. ‘I can do it.’

She pointed to her bedroom door. ‘If you open the ones in my room, we’ll get a bit of a breeze through here.’

The sight of Mo in her bedroom was almost too much for Netta to bear. The temptation to follow him in and let dinner go to hell was Herculean. She gripped the countertop and tipped her piss-poor, buzz-free excuse for wine into her mouth, her cheeks expanding to balloons before she punched it down in one gulp. She watched as Mo leaned against her bed, inspecting the windows. ‘There’s a weird latch thing,’ she called.

‘Got it.’ His shoulders strained against his shirt as he pushed the window open and replaced the sheer drape, which fluttered in the evening breeze. ‘I like this place,’ he said, looking around as he made his way back to the kitchen. ‘It’s very you.’

‘What? Old and creaky?’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of unique and beautiful.’ He pulled out a stool and sat at the bench, his index finger tracing an invisible spiral on the Laminex. ‘I really fucked up, Netta. I’m so sorry.’

Before she could respond, an alarming smell filled the air. She held Mo’s gaze for a split second, his apology left hanging, and turned to open the oven door. A plume of smoke rolled out like a storm cloud straight into Netta’s face.

‘Ah, shit. I should’ve just left them in the pot. Bloody oven.’ She fanned at the smoke and Mo stood, grabbed a tea towel, and whisked the dish from the oven to the stovetop.

‘I think the smo—’ Netta was interrupted by the unholy shriek of the smoke alarm springing to action.

‘Smoke alarm’s going to go off?’ Mo shouted over the din, laughing. ‘Where is it?’

Netta pointed to the ceiling above the dining table.

‘Broom?’

Netta grabbed the broom wedged down the side of the fridge and passed it to him. He pulled out a dining chair and climbed up, stretching to reach the alarm on the high ceiling, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal his hip bones and the tantalising dip that ran alongside them into his shorts. After a few misplaced stabs, he nailed the target and the apartment was plunged into the relief of silence.

Mo looked down at Netta through the smoke haze and laughed. ‘You reckon the meatballs are done or do they need a little longer?’

Netta was waving a baking tray around like a mad woman, trying to clear the smoke from the kitchen and the vision of Mo’s stomach from her mind. ‘Ha, ha,’ she said drily. ‘It’s not me, it’s the oven, I promise. Sometimes it plays nice, other times it incinerates. I took a chance.’

Mo stepped down from the chair and pushed it back into place. ‘Let’s have a look.’

‘They’re quite black on top, aren’t they?’ Netta said. ‘Maybe we should just get Uber Eats or something.’

Mo took a fork and opened one of the meatballs. ‘They’re good on the inside. They’ll be fine, we’ll just take the black bits off. And look, the sauce still looks beautiful.’

Netta’s laugh started deep in her chest before it reached her face. ‘I’m so sorry I burnt your meatballs, Gianna!’ she said to the ceiling, as though Gianna was up there somewhere.

Mo laughed. ‘I won’t tell her. Promise.’

‘I was going to set the table, but I’ve got another idea. Can you dish it up?’ She gestured towards the plates waiting on the bench. ‘There’s bread there, and a salad in the fridge.’

‘Sure.’

Netta disappeared into her bedroom, reappearing quickly and crab-walking past him to the lounge so as not to reveal what she had hidden behind her back.

‘Can I bring the plates down?’ Mo shouted down the hall.

‘Er, just a sec.’ Netta struck a match to light the candle Mo had given her and sat down on the couch. ‘Yep. Ready!’

A few moments later, Mo appeared in the lounge-room doorway, expertly holding one plate in his left hand with another balanced on the inside of his left forearm, two clean wine glasses dangling by their stems from his fingers under the plate, and the two open bottles of wine in his other hand.

‘Let me guess,’ said Netta, impressed. ‘You used to be a waiter, too.’

He grinned. ‘How’d you guess?’ He set the wine and plates on the coffee table and passed Netta a glass. ‘You lit the candle,’ he noted with a smile. ‘I have one too. It reminds me of you.’

‘I love it,’ Netta said. ‘Now …’ She beat a drumroll on the coffee table. ‘May I also present to you …’ She held one foot up, encased in an Ugg boot.

Understanding spread across Mo’s face. ‘Aha. Ugg boots, couch, Gianna’s meatballs … all we’re missing is the open fire!’

Netta swept her hand past the candle with an exaggerated flourish. ‘Size doesn’t matter, right?’

‘Ha! That’s perfect,’ said Mo. ‘But why are you only wearing one Ugg boot?’

‘Because I only have one pair, so that means the other one has to be for you,’ she said, matter-of-factly, passing the left twin to him.

He shucked off his shoes and slid his toes in, the boot nowhere near big enough to fit his foot. ‘Like a glove.’

Netta poured two fresh glasses of wine and a knowing look passed between them as Mo took his from her. ‘Let’s eat first,’ she said. ‘And then we can talk.’

‘They’re actually pretty good,’ Mo said, swallowing his first bite. ‘I might have to pass your cooking tips on to Gianna. She’s really missing a trick with the burning part.’

They ate the rest of the meal in silence, Netta with her legs crossed on the couch and Mo with one leg hooked over the other in a figure four, Netta’s Ugg boot still dangling from his foot. With every mouthful, Netta’s stomach churned at the thought of the impending conversation. She had to tell him about the miscarriage and her baby plans. She needed to know about Lorena. He owed her an explanation about his vanishing act after Margate.

Mo took her empty plate from her and set it on the coffee table with his. He turned to her, his eyes loaded, his face taut.

‘So,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a bit to catch up on.’

Chapter Fifty-Eight

NETTA

‘It was all a set up,’ said Mo, shaking his head. ‘Lorena rang me and said she needed help with a track she was recording—wanted my input on the production. So, I went. I needed something to focus on, other than … you know.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘She suggested we go for a drink afterwards at this little bar downstairs from the studio and when we left, the place was crawling with photographers.’

‘She’d tipped them off herself?’

‘Yeah, she admitted it later on. I know it looked we’d been on a date or something but, honestly, I have no interest in Lorena.’ He rubbed at the back of his neck and caught Netta’s eye. ‘She’s no Netta Phillips.’

His comment hovered like a hot air balloon, straining against its tether to lift them above this strange, foggy situation they found themselves in. Mo held eye contact, but Netta quickly broke it, shifting her gaze down to her hands clutched together in her lap.

‘The thing is,’ Netta started, her mouth contorting against a sudden urge to cry, ‘I don’t think I’m Netta Phillips anymore, either. At least, not the one you knew in England.’

Mo took her hand in his. ‘What do you mean?’

A well opened in Netta’s core, hunching her body, her heart faltering in her chest. ‘I’m just … different now,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same again, after what’s happened.’

‘Oh God, Netta.’ Mo’s face was a picture of remorse. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did to you, I didn’t mean—’

‘Not you,’ managed Netta, her voice hoarse. She pulled her hand from his and he leaned back, as though sensing she needed space. ‘After I got home, I found out …’ She drew a deep, shuddery breath. ‘I was pregnant.’

Mo’s eyes widened. Struck silent, he pointed to his chest and raised his eyebrows.

‘No, it wasn’t yours,’ Netta said, shaking her head. ‘It was Pete’s. I didn’t know, but I was pregnant before I even left for London.’

Mo was silent for a moment. ‘Hang on, you said was? As in, past tense?’

Netta straightened and gave the tiniest of nods. ‘I had a miscarriage a few weeks ago.’ She pressed her lips together and fought the gathering tears, avoiding looking at Mo. ‘It was … awful.’

‘Netta, I’m so sorry.’ Mo reached out to hold her, but she shied from his touch, sure it would dissolve her to nothing.

‘I was so happy—completely terrified, but happy—when I got that positive test result, even though I knew it was Pete’s baby. And when I lost it …’ Netta took a breath to balance her thoughts before she continued. ‘When I lost it, I felt so empty. Being pregnant just felt so right. Like I was finally in the right place after driving around aimlessly without a map.’ She looked up to meet his concerned gaze. ‘It made me realise how much I want a baby though. And it forced me to face up to the fact that I don’t have much time on my hands. I’m forty now. I can’t wait any longer. I’ve started the process of doing it alone and I’m using the money from the gala to pay for it.’

Mo was silent as he digested her announcement. ‘You’ll be an amazing mum, Netta,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’

Netta smiled her thanks. ‘I don’t think the perfect mother exists,’ she said. ‘But I know I’ll always do my best—if I’m lucky enough to get pregnant again, that is.’ She took a sip of the glorified grape juice to regroup and shifted on the couch. ‘But if it doesn’t work out and I can’t have a baby, at least I won’t have to grow old regretting not trying.’

Mo stared at the Ugg boot still dangling from his left foot. ‘I hope it works out for you. You deserve it, Netta.’

‘So, yeah. That’s that, I guess,’ she said. ‘What about you? You seem a bit different now, too.’

Mo kicked the Ugg boot off and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. ‘Yeah. You could say that.’

‘Tell me.’

‘My recording deal’s off the table, for starters.’

‘So not just a hiatus, then?’

His smile was sombre. ‘No. But big picture—it was my doing. I knew it would happen if I didn’t deliver, and I didn’t. Couldn’t. I can’t be bitter about it—it was my own call, really.’

‘What will you do now?’ Netta flicked the lamp on the side table on, its soft glow lighting the darkening room. ‘And what about the expansion of Play On? Is that off the cards now?’

‘I honestly don’t know what I’ll do next,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Music is all I’ve done for nearly twenty years.’ He settled back into the couch, the new lighting splashing shadows on his face. ‘But in terms of Play On … it turns out doing that interview about it was a great idea. We’ve done some more promotion and Mav’s been inundated with people wanting to donate. We’re in the process of setting it up as a public charity and the expansion is full steam ahead.’

‘That’s great, Mo,’ Netta said with a smile. ‘And maybe a career break will be a good thing for you.’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But the thing is, my work’s kind of been what’s kept me going all this time. It’s been the division between then and now, if you know what I mean.’

Netta brushed her fingers against his shoulder and his muscles tensed under her touch. She withdrew her hand. ‘You mean, what happened with your mum?’

He nodded. ‘These past few weeks have been pretty bleak.’ He smiled wanly at the floor. ‘It’s like I’ve got this huge, gaping crater inside me and, stupidly, I’m just realising now that work was what was holding me safe, you know? Stopping me from falling into it and disappearing completely.’ He paused and reached for his wine glass. ‘Telling you about Mum—’ He brought the glass to his lips and drank a quick mouthful. ‘The thing is, I wanted to tell you about her. I felt so close to you that weekend, and I didn’t want to be fake with you. I wanted you to see me—the real me—because if you’d been feeling the way I was, I wanted it to be for real. I didn’t want you to think I was who I pretended to be.’

He tipped the rest of his wine into his mouth and held it there for a second before swallowing. ‘But after I said it out loud, something broke. It was like someone had taken a wrecking ball to some foundational thing in me and I was being taken apart, piece by piece, and I couldn’t stop it.’

‘Did you find out her cause of death?’

Mo nodded sadly. ‘Overdose.’

‘And have you told Mav about the diary? And the truth about your mum? Her addiction and … everything?’

Mo nodded. ‘I did. I told him everything. I even showed him the diary. It was hard, but he—he took it better than I thought he would.’

‘What did he say?’

‘In a nutshell? That it wasn’t my fault. I should’ve been honest with him ages ago. He thinks we should see a counsellor together. I said I’d think about it.’

‘You haven’t talked to anyone yet? On your own, I mean?’

‘I made an appointment,’ he said, twirling the stem of the empty glass between his fingers.

‘And?’

‘And I cancelled at the last minute.’

Netta pressed her fingers to her lips and nodded softly. ‘That’s why you’re here, then.’

Mo turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You want me to fix you.’

‘No. No.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

‘Then why are you?’

‘Because—’ Mo took a deep breath. ‘Because I think this—you and me—is the real thing, Netta. Without you, I feel like the hole inside me is even bigger. I’m so lost, but with you I feel like I’ve got a light to guide me.’ He paused and took her hand in his. ‘I’m so, so stupidly in love with you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. When I was with you, in London … it was the happiest I’ve ever been. You’re—’

‘Stop.’ Netta’s eyes brimmed as the truth behind his words flashed red. ‘Just stop.’ She put her wine glass on the table and stood, still wearing one Ugg boot. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said, gesturing between them. ‘You and me … in another world, we could be so perfect, but …’

Mo stood. ‘Could be?’

‘You’re not ready.’

‘But I’m here, telling you I want to be with you,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m ready, Netta.’

‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘You’re telling me you need to be with me. It’s different. No bandaid is ever going to fix what’s inside you, Mo. Not music, not fame, not money and not me. You have to find a way to forgive yourself for what happened, or you’ll never be able to let me—or anyone—love you properly.’

‘What are you saying?’

Netta took a step towards him and placed the palm of her hand on his cheek. ‘I’m saying that even though we’ve got all the right ingredients, being together now would be like taking the cake out of the oven too early.’

Mo sighed and hung his head, his lips brushing against her forehead. She melted into him, folding herself into his body. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, clinging to her like she might vanish at any moment. ‘But I love you, Netta.’

‘I love you too.’ Her voice was muffled by the warmth of his chest, her heart bruised as she listened to the steady thump of his. ‘But love isn’t just a feeling, Mo. It’s a verb. We have to be able to do it. And I don’t think we can. Not yet, anyway.’

He squeezed her tight and buried his face in her hair. Netta felt tears prick at her eyes, the floor falling away, leaving her floating. Alone. She gripped him tighter, wanting so desperately to be absorbed by him, to sink deep and fill the hole she knew was consuming him. But she knew she couldn’t. All that would happen was that she’d be consumed too.

‘I don’t think I can let you go,’ he whispered.

She wrapped her arms tighter around his body, her hands pressing into the reassuring solidity of his back, her head still heavy against his chest. ‘Don’t then,’ she said. ‘Stay tonight.’

He drew a deep breath. ‘And then?’

‘And then we put the cake back in the oven.’

She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. They stood at the end of her bed and she raised her face to his. As his lips finally met hers, she closed her eyes, urgency vibrating between them. Kissing him, feeling his hands in her hair, felt like endless sunshine and her heart’s last beat all in one. Its sweetest moment before it inevitably crashed to the floor and shattered.

She slid her hands under his shirt, navigating the warm terrain of his torso, the rise and fall of his chest, aching to feel her skin against his one last time. She slid her top over her head, and he groaned softly at the sight of her, his thumbs tracing the underwire of her bra as he wrapped his fingers around her ribs. She fumbled with the zip at his waistband and he moved his hands to his buttons, slowly opening his shirt. His shorts dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them as Netta pushed his shirt back over his shoulders and down until it too was gone and he was standing in his underwear, even more beautiful than she’d remembered. She traced her fingers down his back as he held her jaw tenderly and kissed her deeply, like a man taking his last breaths before being submerged by a giant wave he knew he couldn’t outrun. Netta’s breasts pressed against him as his hands stole beneath the waistband of her cut-offs, sliding into her knickers to pull her against his hips, showing her how much he wanted her. Netta unclipped her bra, tossing it to the side.

‘Oh God, Netta—’

She halted his words with her mouth, her tongue gently pressing against his, their kiss like levitation, before he broke away and dropped silently to his knees, his hands on her waist, tugging her shorts off. He kissed her hip bone and ran his tongue down along the valley that followed it, the heat of his breath alone enough to bring her close to the edge. She pulled him up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pinning the length of her body to his. He wrapped one strong arm around her back and scooped the other under her knees, lifting her onto the bed.

The past and the future ceased to exist and Netta’s world shrank to this delicious, terrible, bittersweet moment.

There were no more words. Just this night. This one last night.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

NETTA

Two years later

Netta rubbed her fingers against the little foot-shaped protrusion, spellbound. ‘Look at this,’ she said to Freya. ‘Look at that gorgeous little foot trying to get out.’

Freya ran her hand over the silver-laced skin, the baby’s heel pressing even harder against its cocoon. ‘He definitely wants out, that’s for sure,’ she said.

‘I want him out too,’ said Netta, wistfully. ‘But I think he’s a little too comfy in there, somehow.’

Freya pulled her top down and huffed. ‘I’m a week overdue and I still haven’t got my head around having another baby. How did this even happen?’

‘Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—’

‘They get accidentally pregnant.’ Freya puffed out her cheeks and widened her eyes as Jed thundered on heavy little feet down Netta’s hallway, Kit hot on his heels. ‘And then they live exhaustedly ever after.’

‘You’ll nail it, Frey,’ Netta said. ‘You’re Supermum. Look at these beautiful little people you’ve made.’ Maisie had followed her brothers into the dining room and the three of them stood together in a height-tiered row, staring longingly at the cake on the table, a wonky ‘42’ iced onto its top.

‘Is it nearly time to sing happy birthday to Auntie Netta, Mummy?’ Maisie’s once squeaky voice had turned into an adorable little girl’s lilt.

Freya glanced at a message that had flashed onto her phone screen. ‘Er, almost, honey. Go and play and I’ll call you when it’s time.’

‘Daddy’s gone to sweep on Auntie Netta’s couch,’ announced Kit. ‘He’s snorwing like a fucking animal again.’

‘Kit!’ Freya’s eyes popped. ‘That’s not a very nice word!’

‘But you say it, Mummy. I heareded you telling Daddy he snored like a fucking animal when he waked up this morning.’ Kit’s expression was accusatory. He was not one to be admonished without explanation.

Freya sighed. ‘Well, I shouldn’t say it either,’ she said. ‘It’s not nice.’

The kids vanished back to the lounge and Freya rested heavily in her chair. ‘Supermum, huh? My four-year-old has a mouth like a dirty toilet.’

Netta laughed. ‘At least he’s using it in context. It’s actually pretty impressive.’

‘I bet that one won’t be a swearer,’ said Freya, nodding towards the bedroom. ‘She’s an angel.’

Netta’s heart bloomed at the thought of her precious, golden-haired Lottie sleeping peacefully in the next room. ‘She’s only five months old,’ she said. ‘She’s got plenty of time to develop her vocabulary.’

‘Well, good luck to you if she keeps that sort of company,’ said Freya, jerking her thumb towards the lounge. ‘So,’ she said, a sly smile creeping over her face. ‘Tell me the latest Mo news, please. I need something delicious to distract me from the fact my vag feels like it’s about to fall off.’

Netta grinned. ‘He’s good. He’ll be here next week to help me pack this place up and then we get the keys to the house the week after that.’

Freya squealed. ‘The mansion.’

Netta laughed. ‘It’s not a mansion.’

‘I’m so happy for you, Netts.’ Freya brought her hands to her heart. ‘You guys are the real deal.’

‘I know,’ said Netta, smiling. ‘I can’t believe how things have turned out. First Lottie, then Mo.’

‘Shame he couldn’t be here for your birthday dinner,’ mused Freya, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

‘The Brit Awards are kind of a big deal,’ said Netta, proudly. ‘He has to be there. His song is nominated.’

‘Mmm hmm,’ agreed Freya, distracted by her phone again. ‘I heard it on the radio today, actually. That girl sings it amazingly. It’s so good.’

‘Yeah, he’s loving writing for other people. He reckons the songs are just pouring out of him at the moment.’

‘That’s because he’s found his muse,’ teased Freya, poking Netta on the shoulder. ‘You’ve unleashed his creativity.’

‘Ha! Nah. It was the therapy that did that. It’s like learning how to look at things differently has opened up a whole new world for him. It took a long time and a lot of work, but he sees now that his mum’s death wasn’t his fault. I’m so happy for him. And proud. It definitely wasn’t easy for him.’

‘And you think he’s ready for full-time daddy duty?’

As if on cue, Lottie let out an almighty wail from the bedroom. ‘I think so,’ said Netta, standing. ‘As much as any of us ever are, before we’re parents.’

Freya laughed. ‘Which is to say, not at all.’

‘True story. But he’s amazing with her. They’re so beautiful together, Frey. She loves him like a dad and he loves her like she’s his very own,’ Netta said, starting for the bedroom. ‘Which is lucky, because she and I are kind of a package deal these days. Two for one.’

The bedroom windows were open a little to let the last of summer’s warm evening breeze into the apartment, and the drapes fluttered around the bedhead as Netta scooped Lottie from her cot, swaying side to side and patting her nappied bottom as her tears eased. Netta’s heart swelled at the solid weight of her daughter nestled in her arms. It had been a journey of ups and downs to get here, but she’d done it. On her own. Well, on her own with the help of a sperm donor and a team of very clever medical professionals. It hadn’t been easy—the pressure of choosing the right donor, the failed attempts at conceiving, the worry that all the expense would lead to nothing but heartache. But then a positive test result—and Netta’s whole world had shifted.

Since the night of the burnt meatballs, Netta and Mo had never really left each other’s lives, still talking regularly, but they’d kept their distance as they’d each followed the path they needed to. Then, when Netta was six months along, they’d decided it was time for them to be together—when they were both ready, both whole, save for the space they still held for each other.

It had been Mo’s hand she’d squeezed when she was in labour, his fingers she’d almost broken when the contractions had become unbearable. It’d been his voice that had announced it was a girl. His proud, awestruck face as he held Lottie for the first time, as careful as if she were made from glass, wrapped up like a little pink-faced burrito in a striped hospital blanket.

Mo had spent more time in Melbourne than he had in England in the last eight months and he and Netta couldn’t wait to live together properly—a little full-time family—now that the new house had settled and he’d wrapped up his commitments. Netta brought Lottie closer and kissed her softly on her forehead. All of it still had the power to floor her—how lucky she was, how beautiful things were, how exciting the future looked.

‘There’s someone at the door!’ shouted Maisie from the hallway.

‘Let Auntie Netta get it please!’ Freya’s voice was strangled. ‘Don’t you dare open that door, Maisie!’

Netta emerged from the bedroom, Lottie gurgling happily as she did her best to gum her little fingers clean off. ‘Who could that be?’ said Netta. ‘I didn’t invite anyone else.’

Freya shrugged. ‘I know nothing,’ she said in a gangster voice, holding her hands up in innocence.

Netta narrowed her eyes. ‘If it’s a stripper, I’m going to have to kill you.’

Freya shrugged again and smiled. ‘Guess you’ll just have to go and see.’

Netta made her way warily up the hallway. She opened the door a crack and stopped short, her breath caught by a huge grin of surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ she cried, flinging the door open and throwing her free arm around Mo. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the Brits right about now?’

Mo pulled out of the hug and stroked Lottie’s plump cheek with his knuckle before planting a soft, loaded kiss on Netta’s lips. ‘I heard there was a more important event happening right here,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday, beautiful.’

An impossible happiness radiated from Netta’s heart, lighting every corner of her face. ‘You moving in or something?’ she teased, eyeing the suitcases behind him.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Even brought my own Ugg boots.’

‘In that case …’ Netta stepped back to let him in. ‘You’d better come in for some cake.’

He dragged the cases in and took Lottie from Netta, wrapping his free arm around Netta’s waist as they walked down the hallway together.

Netta leaned her head contentedly against Mo’s shoulder, and as they entered the dining room, Freya and the kids burst into a tuneless rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, a telltale smudge of icing already smeared across Kit’s mouth. Mo added his voice to the chorus and Lottie audibly slapped his cheek, a huge grin of delight on her gorgeous, soft little face. Freya caught Netta’s eye across the table and mouthed I love you and as the song came to an end, Mo pulled Netta closer and landed a kiss on the top of her head.

Netta beamed.

This was everything.

Acknowledgements

The first thank you goes to you, lovely reader. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I loved writing it for you. I’m so grateful you took a chance on a new author—it means so much to know that Netta and Mo are out in the world meeting you all!

My endless thanks and gratitude go to Jo Mackay from HQ. Your belief in me and my manuscript has made this big dream of mine come true. Thank you for signing me and for sharing your wisdom and humour as we polished the story, and also for introducing me to the wonderful Annabel Blay. The opportunity to publish my first book under the wings of two such incredibly talented and esteemed women has been a huge honour. To Kylie Mason for your eagle-eyed copy edits—I can’t thank you enough. Thank you for helping me shape this book into something (hopefully) resembling a real one. More thanks go to proofreader Annabel Adair. Thank you for picking up on the little lurkers I hadn’t, despite having read the story at least a million times! Stuart Henshall, publicist extraordinaire, did a fabulous job of getting this book into the spotlight, and the superbly talented Louisa Maggio illustrated and designed a cover for it that I love so much I could stare at it for hours on end. It’s beyond humbling to have been supported by HQ in the way that I have. Thank you to everyone there who’s had a hand in the development of this book.

To my agent, Samuel Bernard—to have been scooped up by you and Zeitgeist Agency has been incredible. I feel so fortunate to benefit from your constant support, expertise, advice and excellent cheerleading skills.

To my dear friends Marie-Louise Willis and Holly Brunnbauer, who both took time out from their own writing schedules to read and give feedback on an early (and probably very embarrassing) draft—thank you so much. Thank you also to author Amanda Ashby, who gave superb structural advice to improve the manuscript for submission.

Thank you to all of my writer friends (you know who you are!) and to the Bookstagram community for supporting me and this book, and an extra special thanks to those who read early reader copies, especially to the authors who generously wrote endorsements.

To Donita, Aud and Amanda, the incredible trio who make Bad Writers Club happen—thank you for creating such a warm, safe space for writers to work and share and dream. Similarly, Jodi Gibson’s Write Squad has been instrumental in my development as a writer—Jodi, your support and advocacy for Australian writers is exceptional.

The wonderful Josephine Moon’s ‘Write Your Novel’ course was hugely helpful in getting this book off the ground, as was the Queensland Writers Centre’s novelist boot camp course taught by author Kim Wilkins, who was an incredibly inspiring teacher. Her advice got my very stuck brain unstuck, and for that I will be forever grateful.

If not for winning the Romance Writers of Australia’s Opal Award in 2024, I don’t think this book would be on bookshelves today. I’m forever indebted to RWAus and the formidable team of volunteers who run it. The Opal mentorship connected me with Pamela Cook, who has made herself available to me for advice and feedback. What an immense privilege. Thank you, Pamela.

To Dr Jo Skinner (who is also an author!) and Dr Jo Copland— thank you both for reading the medical scenes with such care and helping me ensure they were realistic and that the information was correct. Similarly, a big thank you goes to Elise Helliwell (who is not only a published author, but also a radiographer) for providing feedback on the scan scene. Thank you to author Jenna Lo Bianco, who generously gave her time to check over the Bianchi’s scene and correct my Italian word choices—turns out one cannot rely on Google alone! My thanks also go to a very kind member of Victoria Police for helping me ensure the police station scene rang true. With this team of experts on my side, it goes without saying that any mistakes in the book are all on me.

Parts of this story are a love letter to St Kilda, where I spent a lot of my younger years, but my God, did I fall hard for London while writing this book. My research trip there sealed that city firmly into my heart. I hope I’ve done it justice within these pages.

To anyone, like me, who has experienced miscarriage—I hope that Netta’s journey in this book makes you feel less alone. Everyone’s experience is different, of course, but Netta’s is very closely based on my own and I hope sharing it is one small way of representing something that’s a tough reality for many of us.

On a happier note, one of my favourite things about writing this book was the friendships between the characters. The true love that exists between people who’ve not only consciously chosen each other, but who’ve stuck by each other through the seasons of life is one of life’s greatest joys. I’m so lucky to be able to write about that from experience. The A-team know who they are, and that I will love them forever, whether they like it or not.

To my mum and dad, Geoff and Joy Crawford. Thank you for always having so much faith in my ability to do big things. It’s always been the lift I’ve needed when I’ve doubted myself. I love you both so much. And to my brothers, Dean and John. Thank you for being so excited for me, and for being excellent real-life examples of the kinds of Very Good Men we readers want to find in our books.

To my beautiful kids, Jack, Bridie and Will. Thank you for letting me do this. I know it mustn’t have been easy to share your mum with people who aren’t even real, and even though there are certain (ahem) scenes in this book that I deeply hope your eyes never land on, I do hope that its existence is proof that a chased dream can be caught. I can’t wait to see you do the same, whatever yours may be.

To my darling Tim, who literally and figuratively built the desk upon which this book was written. When we first met, I very shyly shared my Big Dream with you and you took it seriously right from the get-go. You’ve supported me every step of the way and this is so much more special with you by my side.

And finally—and you’ll have to indulge me here—thank you to the 2020 version of myself. I’d only just had our third baby when the first of Melbourne’s horrendous Covid lockdowns hit. I’m so grateful that tired, messy, scared me got the laptop out every night and used writing as a buoy to stay afloat during that strange time. It turned out pretty bloody well!

ISBN: 9781038961082

TITLE: BETTER THAN THE REAL THING

Copyright © 2025 by Brooke Crawford

First published on Gadigal Country in Australia in 2025
by HQ Fiction
an imprint of HQ Books (ABN 47 001 180 918), a subsidiary of HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited (ABN 36 009 913 517)

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