Chapter 15 #2
On the other side of the room, Liv lets out a contented sigh as someone massages her temples.
Sam’s got cooling eye patches on and a flute of bubbly resting on her chest. Haley’s gone off with Christian, probably already working on a winning performance.
I shift in my seat for the third time in two minutes.
Later, I try lying face-down for a massage, but the therapist’s hands might as well be working granite. My shoulders won’t drop. I keep lifting my head to sneak a look at my smartwatch, willing the minutes to hurry, trying to ignore the work emails pinging on the screen.
Miranda is bombarding me with questions about Hong Kong.
She knows she’ll get no sense out of Marcus.
Right now he’ll be in bed, probably sleeping off another Kowloon night on the town, while I’m here picking up his slack.
My boss always comes to me first; no matter the hour, no matter that I’m not even in the same city as the client.
Asleep or awake, Marcus is next to useless, which makes his bid for the partner’s seat laughable—and if the old boys’ network has its way, sickeningly possible. That’s how he’s made it this far, while I’ve worked my arse off and earned the right to be in the running.
The door swings wide, and Sam strides in from her rehearsal time with Ollie, cheeks pink, her shoulder-length hair coiling in damp corkscrews.
Her mouth is a thin line, equal parts tired and tetchy.
“Tag—you’re up,” she tells Liv. “Garrett wants you in the rehearsal room. Ollie and I are taking a cooling-off break before I cross him off my Christmas list.”
“Perfect.” Liv closes her book as the therapist gives her neck a final sweep. She swings her legs off the sofa and stretches. “Wish me luck. We haven’t shared a rehearsal room since school panto days.” She winks, slides into her sandals, and glides out in a faint trail of lavender oil.
The door hushes shut behind her as Sam slumps into the chair beside me with a groan. “He’s infuriating,” she mutters, then softens despite herself. “And brilliant. It’s exhausting. A bit like you.”
I drag my eyes off the latest message and meet her disapproving stare.
“Can’t you just enjoy this for a moment? Even an hour?”
“Not really,” I mumble, pressing my face back into the cradle to avoid the disappointment in her eyes.
“What was that?” Haley sounds drowsy while the nail tech paints her toes, but her ever-watchful ears miss nothing.
Sam flips my wrist, watch face-down on the towel. “Nothing you’re fixing today,” she says, then lifts her voice, bright. “New game.” I swivel my head toward her, caught by brown eyes sparking with mischief. I know that look, and I have no escape route.
“Let’s play ‘Tell Me Your Type’. Drummers definitely count as a type.”
I huff. “Pass.”
“Pass accepted,” Sam says sweetly, “if you answer one yes/no: do you like Teddy’s smile?”
Haley’s eyes flick open, bright. “I’ll take Teddy’s worst scowl over Pierre’s best smile any day. Tearing up his place card was…honestly, therapeutic. Sorry, Sam. Your calligraphy deserved a kinder end.”
Sam waves a tragic hand. “No apology needed. That guy didn’t deserve the ink.”
Haley grins. “Shame I tossed it. We could have had a ceremonial burning.”
A giggle bubbles up inside me. It feels safe to laugh. For once, Pierre is just a name on a scrap of card, and they can see I’m moving on. Something loosens low in my chest.
Sam leans in. “Back to important matters. Hypothetically, if a certain drummer smiled at you in the corridor, did you, hypothetically, melt?”
“I was perfectly composed,” I say, far too quickly.
“Mm.” Haley’s smile turns knowing. “Your ears are pink.”
Sam waggles her brows. “Blink twice if dimples are a problem.”
I drop my face into the cradle. “I’m not blinking.”
“Noted,” Sam says, smug. “We’ll take that as strong interest.”
Haley taps her toes under the dryer. “He looks at you like he’s counting you in.”
“He can click his sticks all he likes; I’m sitting this one out,” I mutter into the cradle. Good thing they can’t see my face. If only they knew—last night Teddy did a lot more than look.
Sam pats my shoulder and drops her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “See? Work can wait. Healthier already. Now practice not thinking about a certain drummer.”
My slot with Teddy is the last of the day. Of course it is.
I arrive early, buffed, polished, and glowing on the outside from the work of many hands, while inside I’m still caught in a stubborn funk.
The heavy wood-panelled door to the makeshift studio looms, standing between me and what will probably be a disaster.
This challenge is the last chance to win for Memories That Matter.
For Teddy. Now, when I want to come out on top for all the right reasons—for others, not myself—I don’t have the skills to carry us across the line.
Sound filters through the door, voices weaving in easy harmony, sending me deeper into the gloom.
It lifts immediately when Teddy strolls down the hallway towards me, his riot of red curls and sunshine smile lighting up the space.
“Hey,” he says. “Ready for this?”
“Sure am,” I say, summoning a confident smile. I crank it to full-beam when the door swings open and Liv and Garrett appear, high-fiving each other with satisfied grins.
“All yours, mate,” Garrett says, taking Liv’s hand as they head off.
“Right,” Teddy says, pulling out his phone. “I’ve had an idea for ‘Little Drummer Boy’. Watch this.”
He hands me the phone and ducks behind the drum kit. It’s a clip I’ve seen before—classic British telly. Bing Crosby and a young David Bowie, a mash-up of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ and ‘Peace On Earth’. One of the originals.
“What do you think?” he asks, reappearing with a drum like something from a Highland pipe band, the kind you sling around your neck. “I do Bing and you do Bowie.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Come on, I heard you singing in the stables the other night, Rachel. Your voice is great.”
I arch a brow.
“Okay, maybe not Bowie,“ he says, grinning. “But good enough for this.”
“You expect me to sing “Peace On Earth” with no accompaniment while you’re pa-rum-pum-pum-pumming?”
He laughs. “No. You sing and I’ll play piano.”
I blink. “You play piano?”
“My dad’s a pianist, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, my dad’s an arsehole, but it doesn’t make me one.”
Teddy smirks. “Rachel, I can play. And I’ll do the Drummer Boy vocals, too. The range isn’t massive—I’ve got it. I’ll pre-record the drum and play it through a sampling bar. Easy.”
I glance around. “What piano?”
“In the ballroom. Corner by the window. You didn’t see it?”
I shake my head.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“What about the Stellar Riot song? You never chose one.”
“Leave that with me.” His mouth curves into an enigmatic smile. “We’ll deal with that tomorrow.”
When I next glance at my watch, it’s well past six, but no one’s turned up to kick us out of the ballroom. Teddy ducks back to the rehearsal room to grab a sampling bar—he wants to record us so he can layer the backing drum later.
While he’s gone, I pull up the Bowie and Bing clip again, watching more closely this time, scanning for any small nuance I might fold into the vocals. I’m not about to let Teddy down; not after he put this much faith in me.
He’s right; my voice is quite good. Good enough, at least, for my hometown BFF Jenna and me to win Cluanie Pop Idol when we were thirteen. But aside from belting out car radio songs in traffic, I haven’t really sung in years.
By the final run-through, I relax into it. When he plays the recording back, a warm, satisfied swell of pride settles in my chest.
“It’s really good, Rachel.”
“You think so?” I try not to sound too desperate for the praise, but I am. Just a little.
“I know so.” He taps my nose with a finger, playful and soft. That spark of pride glows a little brighter at the way he looks at me, like I’ve surprised him in the best possible way.
“Right, I’ll go back and work with that tenor drum now, then it’s done.”
He peels off toward the rehearsal room, and I head to the dining room.
Tonight, Tommy’s laid out a buffet for us to help ourselves. I’m starving after all that singing, but not in the mood for company. I load up a plate, make a few vague excuses, and retreat to my room.
I find a Christmas playlist, set it playing low, and open my laptop to catch up on the day’s work.
The clock shows 9:40 as I’m rereading my final email—a response to a very tricky client—making sure I cc Miranda, keeping the boss in the loop, and reminding her (again) why I’m the obvious choice for the vacant partner’s seat.
There’s a tentative knock at the door.
I hesitate, hit send, and call out, “Come in.”
Teddy steps in, curls as unruly as ever, eyes still bright with leftover adrenaline. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks, and his fingers tighten briefly on the doorknob before he lets it go. A small tell. Nerves, maybe.
He’s only wearing a T-shirt, the clingy fabric skimming over a surprisingly solid chest and sleeves pushed just enough to reveal those strong forearms—copper hair catching in the lamplight like fine wire.
“Thought you might want to hear the backing track.” He tosses his phone to me, casual but precise. I catch it, thumbs clumsy on the screen, and hit play.
The track is spare. Understated for a rock drummer like Teddy. Just the tenor drum, low and rhythmic, with a soft, heartbeat-like pulse underneath. Intentional. Measured. It sounds like it was built to hold space for someone else.
“It’s great,” I say, handing it back. “Now I just have to hope I don’t fuck it up.”
“You won’t,” he says, and then leans in and gently lifts my glasses off. It’s not dramatic. He just does it like he’s done it before, setting them down carefully on the bedside table and taking a seat on the bed beside me.
A pause. His eyes trace over mine, steady and quiet, like he’s learning the shape of this moment.
“Did the other girls hate you? In high school?”
“Some of them,” I admit. “Why?”
“Because you’re so damn good at everything you do. Because you’re clever and gorgeous and somehow always know exactly who you are.”
I huff out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. Lately I’ve felt anything but sure of myself.”
“They’re idiots.”
“Who? The other girls?”
“No,” he says, quieter now. “All the guys who had a chance with you and let it go. Or never saw what was in front of them in the first place.”
His hand settles on mine, light and steady, like he’s making a promise without saying a word. “But I’m not one of them. Not if you’ll give me a chance.”
“A chance?”
“A chance to be someone who matters to you.”
I should say something. I don’t. I just let my fingers curl into his.