2. ELLY
2
ELLY
“ E lly, table fourteen.” Marcia clicks her fingers and points where she wants me to go. She’s my boss, and she’s always stern—a fact that used to upset me until I realised it wasn’t personal. It’s how she copes with running a rowdy bar, and when she’s not in ‘boss mode’, she’s lovely. I’d never be able to handle a place like the Marchmont Arms, but Marcia can control the punters with the merest raise of one of her artificially thickened brows. She’s so competent I spend my shifts half in awe of her.
I watch her drift through the bar, smiling at patrons and giving orders to other members of staff, but I don’t move. There’s a strange nervous sensation that’s sitting in my lower abdomen, and it’s knocking me off my work. It’s been there all evening. I’m pretty sure it’s not about my upcoming set either, because I’ve played here hundreds of times.
Maybe it’s Jack.
I’m trying to ignore the fact that he’s supposedly coming to see me play. Jack Lansen. What a fucking arsehole . I knew he never took me seriously. He always had half a sneer on his lips whenever he asked me what I was doing, if my music had taken off yet, or if I was going to be releasing a single anytime soon. Oh sure, that sneer was concealed beneath an ice-thin facade of good manners and false chivalry, but I knew it was there, hiding behind that annoyingly handsome face of his. Dark hair, blue eyes, the crook in his nose from when he broke it playing rugby that somehow makes him even more handsome, and his jaw so square it doesn’t even look real.
The way he talked about me being late to pay my rent… as if it’s something I do on purpose, shows he’s completely out of touch. How I live, monitoring every penny I spend and having to skimp on essentials so I can justify the occasional night out with my friends, is probably so alien that he can’t even comprehend it. I don’t have pots of savings to dip into whenever I want to treat myself. I struggle to pull the rent together every single month, and my job here is the only stable income I have.
But overhearing him telling Kate not to hire me… that really annoyed me. He was cock-blocking my career. Arsehole . But even though I want to get mad about it, I can’t quite manage it because… he could be right.
Nico needs the best, and you aren’t it.
It felt like a hit to the face when he said that, and I couldn’t even disagree with him. If Nico could have Amy Moritz performing at his birthday, why on earth would he want me? He wouldn’t. And I haven’t sung in the lobby of a Hawkston Hotel, let alone at a billionaire’s birthday party.
If I had been alone with Kate, I might have made an excuse. Sing for Nico Hawkston? Nope. I can’t do that. But with Jack staring at me like he knew exactly what I was thinking, could read every doubt and hesitation as if it were a manifesto that backed up every point he’d made, I couldn’t say no.
But— fuck me —what have I gotten myself into?
Once upon a time, I imagined I’d make it to the top. Platinum albums and sold out arenas. But after years of graft and constant rejections, I had to be realistic. Maybe this is where I belong. Maybe the basement of the Marchmont Arms is the pinnacle of my career. Maybe this is where dreams come to die .
I shrug the thought away. I like it here. It’s familiar. Comfortable. I can handle this.
A sharp pinch on my shoulder wakes me from my reverie.
“Table fourteen,” Marcia hisses at me. Oops . I completely ignored her earlier command. I’m away with the fairies tonight.
I rush through the darkened bar. There’s a comedy act going on. Apparently, he’s popular on social media and he draws a pretty big crowd; the place is packed. With any luck, a few people will stay on for my set.
I make my way towards table fourteen, but my pace slows when I see who’s sitting there.
Jack Lansen .
He’s early. It’s only half nine. My heart gives a giddy little thrum, which I can’t explain.
He’s wearing a white shirt without a tie, and the collar is undone at the neck. It’s a perfect mix of casual and smart; he rests his elbows on the table and his biceps fill his sleeves. Dark scruff shadows his strong jaw, and I’m pretty sure I can make out the blue of his eyes, even in the dim light and from this distance. Or maybe I’m imagining it...
He’s with a woman, who at first I assume is Kate, because they were supposed to come together, but on closer inspection, it’s definitely not her. This woman’s hair is a fraction lighter, like gold has been spun through it, and her features are less angular than Kate’s. Her eye makeup is heavy; thick black liner decorates her top lids, and her lashes are full and dark, but in an overwhelming way. They can’t be real. Her lips are so shiny they look sticky, but in spite of all that, I can’t deny she’s beautiful. Together, she and Jack look like a couple from a magazine shoot—they’re so good looking that it’s hard not to stare, and down here in the Marchmont Arms, they stick out.
The woman smiles at Jack, her hands on the table, leaning towards him. And Jack—the arsehole— is laughing. His entire handsome face is glowing. He’s radiating happiness, and it makes my stomach churn.
It’s only when he stops laughing, his attention drawn by me staring, that I realise I’ve stopped walking. I’m standing between two tables, my iPad dangling from one hand.
And Jack Lansen is staring right at me.
The woman with him turns to look too, probably pissed off that she’s lost his attention for a second. She gives me the once over and then looks away; I might as well be another table or chair for all the acknowledgment I see in her eyes.
She strokes the back of Jack’s hand with her fingertips, and he drags his gaze off me and back to her.
I will my body to move. Get a grip. You knew he was coming .
But now that he’s here, and with someone I wasn’t expecting, I feel a whole commotion of weird emotional crap bubbling up.
I walk over to the table, but right about when I should be asking for their order, I can’t seem to open my mouth. Jack’s gaze slides over me, but my inability to speak must be catching because he doesn’t say anything either.
With a monumental effort, I roll my shoulders and plaster my great big server smile on my face. It’s my job, after all, and I need to keep it if I want to pay my rent to my prick of a landlord.
The woman wafts the back of her hand towards me, keeping her eyes locked on Jack when she says, “Can I get a white wine spritzer?” and then continues to chew Jack’s ear off about someone they know in common. It sounds deathly dull.
Jack’s blue eyes pop up towards me, then back to the woman. “Lydia,” he says, and his tone sounds like a gentle reprimand.
“Huh?” She raises an eyebrow, clearly a little peeved that he’s interrupted her tirade.
He cocks his head at me. “This is Elly. My sister’s flatmate.”
“Oh.” She shifts sideways in her chair to get a look at me. “Oh. I thought you were the waitress.”
“I am the waitress,” I deadpan, holding my iPad poised to fill in their order. Lydia’s glossy lips pucker and her brows shoot up, but I don’t acknowledge the caricature of shock she’s currently portraying.
“One white wine spritzer and…?” I look to Jack.
“A lager.” He holds my gaze way longer than is necessary to order a beer, and my cheeks heat.
“Is that all?” I ask, breaking the staring match.
Jack blinks, confusion skirting his features, like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was, or what he was doing. “That’s all.”
“So, you live with Kate, do you?” Lydia says. “That’s weird, isn’t it? Your flatmate’s dating a billionaire, and you’re working tables?”
So rude . The thump of my blood in my veins suddenly seems too forceful.
“You made it.” Kate’s delighted voice drifts towards us, saving me from having to respond. She’s bustling through the tables, wrapped up in a cashmere coat and scarf. She grabs me in a big hug, then hugs Jack. She’s about to slide into the seat next to him when she notices Lydia eagerly staring up at her. She gives her brother a quizzical look.
“You brought a date?” She holds out her hand without waiting for Jack to confirm, and she and Lydia start going through introductions.
Jack strokes his jaw from his ear to his chin, his elbow propped on the table as the two women talk.
A lock of hair so dark it’s almost black falls across his forehead, looking artful and casually perfect. He really is unfairly good looking. I want to ruffle my fingers through his hair and mess it all up, just to annoy him. He pushes the wayward lock back, and the motion distracts me from my thoughts. He side-eyes me like he’s checking to see if I’m still there. Perhaps suspicious that I’ve been watching him, ogling his bone structure. Damn him and his gorgeous face.
“Can I have a coke, El?” Kate says.
Jack’s still watching me as I add it to the order. Is it hot in here? It’s normally not this warm in the basement, and I am sweating tonight.
“Elly’s got the most beautiful voice,” Kate says to Lydia. “Jack doesn’t believe me.” She nudges Jack. “You’ll find out tonight, eh?”
Surprise lights Lydia’s eyes, and she turns to me. “You’re performing?”
“I’m on at eleven.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “We can’t stay that long.” She stretches across the table, laying her hand over Jack’s again. How many times has she touched him? “I thought we were only here to see the comedy. It’s my client’s opening night at the Shaftesbury Theatre. We’re meeting her after the show.” She turns to me, her hand still covering Jack’s. “I’m in PR. I deal with a lot of famous faces, and I have to be there.”
A slow curl of anger wraps itself around the disappointment in my stomach. Why the hell did Jack show up at all, if he wasn’t going to stay?
Kate leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, death staring her brother. “You’re leaving? But that was the whole point. To hear Elly perform—”
“Jack doesn’t need to be here. I don’t need to prove anything,” I interrupt.
Lydia claps her hands together. “Fabulous.” Her glee stokes my rage. “Because there’s a party after the show. Some big names in British film are popping in.”
Oh, shut up, Lydia . It's unlike me to be this irritated by a woman I don't know, but tonight I can't help it. I tuck the iPad under my arm and then, just because I’m pissed off, I lean into Jack on my way past the table and whisper, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
I sense him stiffen at my proximity. I don’t turn around to catch his reaction as I head back to the bar, but I’m pretty sure I can feel him staring.
I spend the rest of the evening waiting tables, trying to ignore Jack Lansen and his date. I don’t know why he bothers me so much. He’s a typical money man… only interested in business and cash and all that shit I don’t care about. I don’t think he has a creative bone in his body. I’d never be interested in someone like him. Too corporate. I doubt he has a soul beneath his suit.
At ten thirty, he and Lydia get up to leave. Kate stays alone, and it ignites a spark of anger that Jack’s ditching his sister. When they’ve left, I head back to her table.
“It’s late,” I say. “You don’t have to stay. You’ve heard me play loads. Don’t sit here alone just for me.”
Kate's mouth distorts with a barely concealed yawn, which she covers with the back of her hand. “Oh, Elly… are you sure? I’ve had a tough week at work. I could really use an early night. I’m sorry about Jack. He didn’t tell me he had a date tonight.”
“Doesn’t he always have a date?”
Kate yawns again, but it’s interrupted by a laugh. “True. He has a short attention span.”
I put my hand on Kate’s shoulder. “Go home. I’ll see you later.”
“Actually, I’ll be at Nico’s tonight. You’ll be okay getting back? It’s supposed to rain. Take a cab.”
She’s already lifting her coat, shrugging into it as she stands. She gives me a quick hug. “Break a leg.”
When she’s gone, I clear the table, and there, beneath Jack’s beer bottle, is a pile of fifty-pound notes. My fingers tremble as I count them. Ten . Five hundred quid. It’s the biggest tip I’ve ever received.
But what does it mean? Is it an apology for leaving early, or is he just in the habit of leaving this much cash everywhere he goes, like a bird shitting when it takes off?
It’s probably the latter.
I take the money to Marcia to add it to tonight’s tip pot, tormented by the idea that, despite the enormity of the tip and how pleased everyone will be by it, I would have preferred him to stay and hear me sing.
My set goes well, or as well as I could hope. Turns out not many people stayed after the comedy had finished, but that’s not new. Most of the time, I’m playing to an almost empty room, or a couple of drunks in the corner. Tonight, I played some covers and some of my own stuff. All acoustic guitar, but my buzz had kinda been killed by Jack Lansen showing up only to bail before I’d sung a note.
I stay until closing, helping to clear everything away, and there’s a lock-in afterwards for a few of the regulars, so I join them for a couple of drinks. No need to rush home to an empty house. A tinge of sadness hits me at the thought, but I shove it away.
“Elly,” Marcia says, leaning over me as I sip my drink. “Someone left this for you.” She slaps a little white business card down on the table and watches as I pick it up to read it.
Granville Entertainment Agency
Robert Lloyd
Music Agent
My heart starts pounding, and my hands feel shaky. Robert Lloyd . He’s a big name in the industry. There must be some mistake. This can’t be for me, can it?
The confusion must be clear on my face because Marcia gives my shoulder a little squeeze. “Thought you’d like that.”
She’s misinterpreted my silence for the stunned speechlessness that comes from finally winning something you expected to win, rather than the utter shock of winning something you never dared to hope for.
“He said he liked your sound and you should call the office and schedule a meeting.”
Wow . “Oh, gosh…I…” Can’t speak.
Marcia hugs me. “Come back and see us when you’re rich and famous, okay?”
I laugh, but I’m still completely dazed. My pulse increases its beat as I grip the business card in one hand. It’s real . This is what I’ve been waiting for… this is the dream I thought had died, risen to life like Frankenstein’s monster, lurching awkwardly inside me.
The Granville Agency is huge, and Robert Lloyd is the top dog. If I can get representation with him, my career might finally take off.
Suck on that, Jack Lansen .
Excitement buzzes in my veins, and I stay for a couple more drinks, unable to keep the grin off my face. Robert Lloyd wants to meet me .
When I’m finally ready to leave, the rain is pouring down. I hoist my guitar, safely packed away in its bag, over my shoulder, and walk out.
There isn’t a cab in sight. I know I told Kate I’d take one, but I’m strapped for cash. As though the skies hear me, the rain gets heavier, and water batters my cheeks as a gust of wind pulls my hood back. In seconds, my hair is soaked and rain is dripping into my cowboy boots.
Damn it . Not even I need to save money this much. I pull my phone from my coat pocket, intending to order an Uber.
Shit. It’s dead. I forgot to plug it in before my shift.
Nothing for it but the night bus.
The street is quiet because of the pounding rain. I make my way down towards Piccadilly. The deluge is so heavy I can hardly see. I pull my hood back up, but the rain is coming every which way.
Lightning spears the sky overhead, and a bone-rumbling clap of thunder follows soon after. The streets are running with rivers of water. Crap . This wasn’t my best idea. I hurry towards the bus stop when a car honks. I keep walking, not even looking up at the noise. I don’t know when the next bus is, but as long as I’m moving, I’m attempting to sort out this shitty situation.
The horn honks again, twice. Short. Sharp. I still don’t stop.
“Elly!”
Weird . Why is someone shouting my name during a storm in central London in the middle of the night? I look around, but I don’t see anyone.
I glance over to the car that’s parked on a double yellow line, flashing its hazard lights. The vehicle is dark, sleek, and no doubt crazy expensive. Whatever arsehole is driving it doesn’t care about the price of a ticket, because he shouldn’t be idling there.
A hand sticks out the passenger window. A man’s hand, with an expensive watch on the wrist. Two curled fingers beckon me towards the car. I can tell it’s the driver, rather than a passenger, because I can see the shape of him leaning across the inside.
“Get in the car.”
What the hell?
Cars are blaring their horns, driving past the stationary vehicle, arches of rainwater from their wheels spraying towards me as they pass.
I peer in at the car just as the man leans out the window. “Elly. Get in the fucking car right now.”
Jack Lansen.
My heart does a little pitter-patter, then annoyance sets in. Who does he think he is, bailing on my set this evening and then ordering me into his car?
“I don’t get into cars with arseholes,” I yell.
He moves away from the window and for a second I think he’s going to drive off, but his car door swings open and he spills out into the middle of the road, all six foot four of him, and paces towards me through the rain.
“What’s wrong with you?” He grabs my elbow. “Your guitar is going to turn to mulch out here. Get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”
Just as I’m trying to make sense of the fact that Jack Lansen has appeared out of nowhere in the middle of a storm and is screaming at me to get in his car, and has his huge hand wrapped around my elbow, a horn blares, long and loud. It’s an orange Lamborghini, offensively bright even in this rain, and it’s careening at high speed down the road. It’s going to hit that huge puddle so fast, we’ll be drenched.
Jack grabs both my arms, pulling me close to shield me as the car roars past, covering both of us in a tidal wave of rainwater. A second car, travelling equally fast, passes right behind, dousing us a second time.
I gasp as the freezing water drenches me from head to foot, but when the water clears, all I see is Jack.
He’s scowling, and his hair is plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the congealed strands, cascading down his face. His suit jacket is a soaked rag against his torso, but he’s still holding onto me with both hands. There’s a split second where our eyes meet, and something like alarm flashes through his gaze, as though he’s not quite sure how he got here, pressed up against me, trying and failing to protect me.
“Fuck’s sake,” he snarls as he lets go of me and stares down at his soaked clothes. “I should’ve left you out here to drown.”
This whole scenario is nightmarish, but for some reason, I find it incredibly funny.
He’s sopping wet, I’m sopping wet, his car door is open, the lights are flashing. Cars are roaring past and honking.
I start to laugh.
His handsome face twists into a mask of disbelief. “What the fuck are you laughing at?” He blinks at me through the droplets that are hanging off his ridiculously long eyelashes.
I bite my lip to stem the unreasonable cascade of laughter that’s seeking its way up my throat, but it does nothing to hide how amused I am.
“If you don’t come with me right now, I’m leaving you here.”
“All right, all right,” I say, letting him drag me to the car.
He grabs my guitar from me, yanks open the back door, and tosses it onto the backseat. He slams the door way too hard, as if it’s the instrument that’s angered him rather than me.
Do I want to get in the car with him when he’s like this? Normally, Jack’s all cheeky smiles and amusement. I’ve rarely seen him take anything this seriously. He’s not himself.
But he's also right. If I don't actually want to drown out here, his car is my best option. I get in the passenger side and Jack gets in the driver’s seat.
The windscreen immediately fogs up with the two of us in here, steaming and damp. Jack puts on the air con full blast to clear it, and the buzz of it fills the car. He hauls off his jacket and throws it into the back on top of my guitar case. His shirt underneath is soaking too. It’s so wet that the cotton sticks to the outline of his pecs in an alarming way, and a strange coil of arousal that I don’t want to examine too closely slithers somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere intimate …
Damn it.
He brushes his hair off his forehead and then grabs the steering wheel, glancing in the wing mirror as he clicks on the indicator. The window-wipers clear the screen in a hypnotic double-speed.
I press my spine against the back of the leather seat, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the straining of Jack’s biceps against his wet shirt as he drives.
I’ve never been alone with Kate’s brother before, and definitely not in a small space like this. His presence fills the car, mingling with the rich, masculine cologne he wears and the smell of autumn rain.
“Fucking Lambo drivers,” Jack curses. “Who the fuck buys an orange car? The same arsehole who doesn’t care about soaking pedestrians. That’s who.”
I think about commenting that he’d parked on a double yellow line, so maybe he’s just as bad.
“I like those cars,” I say.
Jack scoffs. “You would.”
What does that mean? I don’t want to give him an opening to insult me more than he already has, and for a few moments, neither of us speaks. There’s a strange tingling sensation spreading through my whole body, and I’m hyper-aware of the rise and fall of my breasts as I breathe. My nipples graze against the wet cotton of my bra. Has my shirt turned see-through? I need to say something to distract from the silence that’s wrapping around us, tying us together in its stealthy grip.
Jack must be feeling the same way because he blurts out, “Did you get your tip?”
“Yes. Thanks. Everyone was very grateful.”
“Everyone?”
He looks genuinely confused, and it’s curiously endearing. I rush to explain, driven by an unexpected need to ease his discomfort. “We pool the tips and share them at the end of the night.”
“Oh.” He taps his index finger on the wheel. “If I’d known that, I’d have left more.” He doesn’t look my way, but I can sense his awareness of me like a spectral presence. Somehow, it feels like he’s scrutinizing me without so much as a glance in my direction.
My chest constricts, and breathing feels suddenly hard. Tension seeps into the air, and this time it’s me who cracks it. “Is this a Bentley?”
“Yup.”
I snort, and Jack presses his lips together but says nothing. I shift my wet hair off the back of my neck and let it hang down my shoulder. “I didn’t realise it was you when the car pulled up. I thought you’d have gone home with Lydia.”
“How do you know I didn’t?” His eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror as he shifts lanes.
I check the time on the dashboard: 2.22 am. He’s had more than enough time to take someone home, fuck them, and come back again. Ugh . I rub my hands over one another in my lap. “I don’t.”
Jack nods, but I sense that he’s merely acknowledging my admission of ignorance, rather than confirming or denying anything. Silence engulfs us for a few moments before he speaks again. “What were you going to do? Walk home in the rain?”
“Night bus.”
A laugh rumbles in his throat. “You should have called me.”
Called him? When have I ever called him? He’s called me once or twice when he couldn’t get hold of Kate, but it would never have occurred to me to call him, especially not when I knew he was on a date with another woman, and the fact that he’s suggesting it feels… weird. My heart flutters. What the hell?
“My phone died,” I add, although why I’m explaining myself, I don’t know. “What were you doing? Curb-crawling?” I imbue my voice with as much disdain as I can muster, despite the fact I’m still flustered at the idea that he wanted me to call him.
“Yeah. I’ve been scouring the streets for a suitably bedraggled woman to drag into my car and destroy the leather seats with.”
I turn sharply to look at him, but his strong profile looks straight ahead. There’s not a trace of humour on his face.
“Seriously?”
He shoots me a glance before his eyes roll up to the roof. “No, not seriously. I came back to the Marchmont, but it was closed.”
My heart gives an almighty thud, so hard I immediately panic that Jack can hear it, or maybe feel the vibration of it through the car seat. What the fuck is going on? I don’t like this man. But a little balloon of hope is swelling in my chest. Maybe he came back to hear me sing. “Why?”
Jack frowns, and the moment stretches a fraction too long before he finally admits, “I forgot my coat.”
Pop goes the balloon. Thank God Jack has his eyes on the road because I’m pretty sure he’d see the disappointment on my face, and I would rather die than let him know he can incite that kind of feeling in me.