Chapter 10
Jude
I wake from my dream—women doing cartwheels in pink—on edge yet… mildly turned on. I’m sweating buckets, and I need to get up. Fucking pink. I’m seeing it everywhere.
It’s nearly the end of the working week, and my days have been spent avoiding that building and its occupants. Although, to be fair, since the Christmas party season has finally died down, and the dark nights have kicked in, it's all been very quiet.
I just need my brain to do the same. But it hasn’t.
I keep thinking about a certain woman in pink, even when I’m sitting having a late lunch with my favourite female singer.
We have a relationship of convenience. She breezes into town, and I breeze into her life.
Once she hits the road again, I’m free as a bird.
It’s worked well for the past year, and I’ve looked forward to her visits.
She was fun once I got her in the bedroom.
I just had to withstand all the bullshit that happened before.
I’ve always played ball, picked up effortlessly from where we always left off.
And it's always been like a game. One we played, but with the happy ending a forgone conclusion—her in my bed screaming my name. For her public persona, I’d smile, touch, and laugh on cue.
Even got into a romantic clinch in the restaurant—well-rehearsed beforehand so that her best side was showing.
But, God, today is dull. When did that creep in?
I sit and looked interested from the other side of the table.
Her in full view of the restaurant. Me with my back to it.
She didn’t need a date. She could have taken out a robot, or a cardboard cut out.
She’s talked about herself, her career, her new music and how it’s landing.
But then she always has. And it’s never bothered me before.
She gasses about the reviews, good and bad.
She can quote them. The number of views on her stories, the number of likes on her reels.
I’ve had a full run down. And my inertia is making me yawn.
“So are you ready to go, Jude? It’s time to go to your place.” She smiles coyly at me, and it’s papped through the windows. My fake smile is front and centre.
“I can't,” I heard myself stating. “I’m about to leave the country and fly out in a few hours.” I’m lying. “Sorry. But if you’re in LA, I’ll meet you there.”
She pouts, adorably. It’s also papped. Fucking hell, is nothing sacred? Not with her. And I’m so bored, I can’t be bothered to fuck her. What is wrong with me?
I need a holiday. Maybe I will fly to LA. Go early. See my sister and wait for the twins to be born. My lie tripped off my tongue, and I’m not even bothered about it.
We make a show of going to her hotel, the full glare of the paps surrounding us.
A bit of a scuffle occurs, again all carefully choreographed.
I’d laughed out loud when she told me the plan.
That her security was going to grab a hold of a pap with a carnation in his jacket lapel.
I thought they were joking, but obviously not.
I can’t wait to get out of here. Again, what the hell am I doing?
But I know, as soon as my feet hit the pavement at the back door entrance… I know.
I’m still happily kidding myself as I gun my car up the motorway.
I ring Jake as I’m driving home from my Thursday early evening, which should have been a night of fucking my celebrity date. “I’m going to go and see the woman.”
“What woman? Not Cupcakes?” He snorts at his joke. He has code names for them all. He’s already had a full run down of the pink outfit. I could recall every detail. “Do you need a cupcake, baby?” His voice has dropped, and I don’t miss the innuendo in it.
“Fuck off. I need to let her know I am not in any sort of agreement with her ex.”
“You told her that. She knows,” he argues logically.
“She didn’t believe me,” I mutter.
“Why do you care? She doesn’t care. She told you to stay away. Don’t you think driving to her door when she hasn’t given you her address seems a bit stalker-esq.” I don’t reply, because it does. “Jude, turn the car around. Email her, ring her, text her. But do not go.” He’s being serious now. Shit.
“I’ve tried that,” I whine. “She’s blocked me.”
“Jesus. I’m ringing Evie, you’ve lost it.
Stop that fucking car. You’ve no reason to go.
Why don’t you just admit that you like her and go and ask her out.
At a normal time of day at her building.
It would be easier to pop across the fucking road than drive an hour in traffic at this time of night.
Stop making crappy excuses and ask her. Man to man. ” He’s on it.
“I just need to get her out of my system,” I grouch.
“You sound like Kell, pre-marriage. Look what happened to him.” He’s referring to my now brother-in-law. A man so deeply in love with my sister, their husband, and their kids, he’s on another planet most days.
“Yeah, I don’t think so. He’s nuts.” I snort.
“Well, you’re the one driving to a woman’s house who told you to fuck off. Twice. In a very polite manner. Turn the car around, brother. No good will come of this. She’ll get a restraining order on you.”
“Look, I can’t leave it. You didn’t see her face.” I'm trying to rationalise the irrational.
“Neither did you, you were staring at her tits.”
“I was looking…at her face. Too. She was upset. I need to sort it, explain. Help. I don’t fucking know, something." I scrub my hands into my hair.
“I’ve got cash in the house. Ring me when you’re locked up and I’ll come bail you out.
” He snorts louder, saying, “Wait til I ring Jonno and tell him this one. You’ll never live it down.
” He starts to laugh just as my phone starts to ping with texts from Jonno.
No fucking privacy in this family. “Ah, he knows. Listening again, our little brother. Genius.” Jake hangs up as I pull off the motorway, ignoring my pinging and ringing phone.
I’m crawling along at a snail's pace. Why do new housing estates never have houses that you can see the numbers on? Some have made up house names, as if we’re fooled into thinking they live in a countryside manor house.
It’s a new estate, just use numbers. I’m constantly stopping and peering into the darkness, trying to make out the numbers or names of the houses.
I’ve been down two dead-end cul-de-sacs where the numbers changed from ten to eighty from one house to the next. Ah, Rochester Court. This is it.
I snake around the bend, dodging parked cars that would double as a slalom track, and trying not to park over someone's drive, or block an exit. Fucking hell. It’s worse than London for finding a parking spot.
I peer through the gloom at the largest house tucked in the corner.
An L-shaped home with a drive and what looks like used to be a double garage, but half now has windows—a converted annexe.
I pull up to the curb, and it’s then I spot the biker gang of thugs on the lawn.
All glaring my way, and deathly silent. My window is down as I was peering at the house numbers.
Is this really her house? I realise with some relief that they’re not sat on motorbikes, but mainly BMXs.
Young lads, but still a bit intimidating.
I look around with trepidation as I climb out of my car. “Nice car," one of them shouts. “I’ll give you fifty pence for it.” They all laugh at the joke. I just nod my head in acknowledgement and move towards the path.
Only I can’t get down it. Cricket bats and pads are strewn all over.
The front lawn is a makeshift wicket, and someone’s even rigged up a large cricket net to stop balls hitting the house.
An electric scooter guards the front door.
It’s like a garage sale of sporting goods.
I must look like a right plonker as I skip, hop, and jump towards the door.
I can hear the bikers pissing themselves, catcalling at my actions.
She can’t live here. It’s a new house, but it’s a dump with all the debris laying around.
It looks on the face of it like a nice neighbourhood.
I peer around at the other houses, and none of them have a cricket pitch on the front drive.
They also definitely don’t have a biker gang on the lawn.
She’s boring, remember? A nun. Who are they waiting for?
I lift my hand to knock and am caught by indecision.
There’s a Do-Ring doorbell. The type that has a camera attached and plays a little tune, alerting the homeowner wherever they are in the world that they’ve got a visitor at their door.
You can view them on camera and tell people to fuck off your front doorstep from half-way around the world.
Or worse, see who it is and not answer when you are home.
She might do that if she sees it's me. I’ll out manoeuvre her and knock. How traditional.
I knock loudly, as I can hear laughter and music blaring from inside. A glance behind me reveals the biker gang has moved to the corner of the street. Thank god. No one comes, so I knock again, louder this time.
“Just coming. Stop banging, you shitheads,” a young male voice shouts as the door wrenches open. The owner of the voice stops and looks up at me.
“Who are you?” Not very polite, his manners are atrocious. He’s dressed like the biker gang, too—jeans, hoodie, jacket over the top. Beanie style hat on the back of his head. A piece of pizza sticking out of his mouth. He carries on chewing as he waits for my answer.
He looks like Emma. I’m struck by how much he does. Same hair colour, same eyes… he’s a male version of her. I just stare.
“Hang on,” he states and grabs a clipboard and pen from the side of the door, putting on a pair of glasses with different coloured lenses. Huh?
“Right, who are you and what do you want?” He’s now all efficiency and officiousness.
“I’ve come to see Emma Lincoln. Is she in?” I feel like I’m being interviewed.