30. ELLY
30
ELLY
W hen Jack has left the kitchen, Kate paces towards me, and my heart thuds like a bass drum. I have no idea what she wants to say about this, or what she thinks of it. I feel both guilty and defensive, and she hasn’t said a word yet.
“I thought you didn’t like my brother.”
I brace at her statement, even though I’m not sure if she’s accusing me of lying, or if she’s genuinely curious.
My first impulse is to reply, “I don’t,” but even as the words rise, popping against my tongue, I wonder why. Why has that been my stance all these years? I don’t like Jack Lansen. It’s been a mantra I‘ve lived with since the first time I met him at Kate’s house when I was sixteen. I’d happily flirt with him and tease him, but I always maintained that I didn’t like him.
Now that I think about it, I have no fucking clue why. Was it all the women? All the money? Am I really that judgmental?
If I dismiss those objections, I have nothing to back up my dislike. All this time, I’ve been fooling myself; trying to convince myself that I didn’t like him. But I can’t do that anymore.
Not only do I definitely like him, there’s a chance that what I feel for him is more than that.
“I was wrong,” I admit.
Kate’s face is very still, and then she smiles. “God, you two,” she says, as though we’re kids who’ve exasperated her, and she can’t believe the antics we’ve got up to while she’s had her back turned. A tinge of worry creases her brow. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t.”
Kate tips her head back to look at the ceiling and lets out a sad-sounding sigh. “If it doesn’t work out, promise me it won’t affect our friendship. I won’t have Jack messing this up for us.” Her concern unsettles me. I don’t want to consider how this could all go wrong. I’m not sure I feel secure enough to handle that yet. Kate must read all this on my face, because she hugs me and whispers, “I love you too, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t think he loves me,” I choke out.
Kate doesn’t reply, but she squeezes me a little tighter.
The studio owned by Jack’s mate is none other than Elmwood Studios, owned by Dan Elmwood himself, where Amy Moritz recorded her first album, when she was only seventeen, which hit the top 50 in the US charts. She went from being unknown to world-famous almost overnight.
I’m completely overwhelmed. Walking into the building earlier, I wanted to grab Jack’s hand and never let go; the excitement was almost too much to bear. The walls were plastered with Platinum records in sleek black frames and signed images of famous pop stars and rock bands.
Never in all my life did I really think I’d get to record in a place like this, let alone with Dan himself, who is one of Jack’s old friends from school. He made time for us on a Sunday. He said it’s a favour, but I’m sure Jack must have paid for the time, and it can’t have been cheap.
We’ve been here all day, and Jack has taken photos of me the entire time. He must have hundreds by now. It’s been hard to concentrate, with him simmering in the corner, taking more photos, reminding me of how he took pictures of me on the piano... I’m blushing at the memory.
“You won’t have any storage left if you keep clicking like that,” I say to him.
“I’ll shift you to my hard drive.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow, and my responding giggle sounds ridiculous.
When I’ve finished, we gather our things and say thanks to Dan, who waves us off with a profusion of kind words about my work, looking as exhausted as I feel.
I shoulder my guitar as we make our way out onto the street. I need to go home and put my feet up.
“Shall we get dinner?” Jack says, as he takes my guitar from me without a word.
“I’d rather head home. I’m knackered.”
A flinch skates across his face. What’s that about? “We should eat out. I don’t want to cook and I haven’t stocked the fridge.”
“I don’t care. I’ll have a slice of toast. I’m not hungry. I can’t face eating out now. Let’s just go home and be together.”
There’s that flinch again. A bolt of worry races up my spine.
“Okay,” he says, but the tension in his voice suggests he’s very much not okay at all, and he leads me back to his car without a word. I can sense there’s something wrong, and for the duration of the drive back to his house, he’s on edge. I can feel his energy scraping up against me. I figure he’ll tell me what’s wrong when he’s ready, but I don’t like it.
He parks up outside the house, a grim look on his face. And when he gets out of the car, he scans the surrounding area, peering into the shadows like he expects to be pounced on as we walk up to the front door.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask. “You were moody in the car, and now we’re here, you’re all jumpy, like you think the bogeyman’s going to spring out of the bushes.”
He sighs. “Kate said Mum was coming up to see me.”
Ah, that explains it . “God, I hate your mum. No offense. She’s always so prickly and judgy. I think she hates me.”
That grim expression fixes itself back on Jack’s face. “She can be tough work,” he concedes, but the tight set of his shoulders has sirens ringing in my head. His mum might be a dragon, but he’s unnecessarily tense about the prospect of her being here.
“She doesn’t have keys, does she? Is she gonna be in there?” I nod at the house, dreading the idea of having to deal with Mrs Lansen right now.
“She does not have keys to my house,” Jack confirms.
“Then what are you worried about? It’s late. She’s not going to turn up now, is she? She probably came while we were out and went home again. Come on. Let’s go have a cup of tea.”
Jack presses his lips into a line and forges to the front door, but before he opens it, he turns back to me. “About last night, and Kate finding out about us—”
“Oh yeah, I was thinking about that too. How did she know? Did you tell her?”
“I didn’t.” He sighs and moves his hair from his forehead with one hand, surveying me for a moment. “You’re beautiful.”
His words slide inside and unravel me, and before he can say anything else, I pull him in for a kiss, and in seconds, his mouth is melting into mine. Kissing someone has never felt as intense as it does with Jack. One touch of his tongue against mine, and my whole body is on fire.
“We don’t have to stop now, do we?” I whisper, recalling how he said we didn’t have time to fool around this morning.
He frowns like he thinks it’s a bad idea, and takes his keys from his pocket to open the front door, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him.
He throws me a questioning look. “Two seconds and we’ll be inside,” he says.
“I’m serious. I want you now.”
He draws back, a smirk on his face. “Really? In the porch?” He hasn’t opened the front door yet, and he glances to the street beyond his front garden and the low wall that separates us from the pavement. There’s a street lamp a little way away, but here, in the shadows, no one can see us and the street is empty. There’s no one around.
“Right here,” I confirm.
He puts down my guitar and pulls me into him, kissing me again, one of his hands tangling in my hair, cupping the back of my head.
And then, again, those words come to mind.
I love you.
I kiss him deeper to drive them away. I cannot fall for this man. His hand runs up my thigh and I hike my leg onto his hip. He shifts us so my back is pressed against the wall.
We’re going to have sex, right here on the doorstep.
“Well, this is just lovely.”
Jack’s body goes rigid, and my heart seizes, panic raging through me. Someone else is here. Close . Far too close.
“Shit, Mum. What the hell?” Jack blurts as he releases me and I totter a moment, unsteady on my feet. I smooth out my dress, my heart racing as I studiously avoid looking at Mrs Lansen, standing on the garden path only a few feet away.
Jack turns away to rearrange himself, and his breath fogs out into the cold night air. I hadn’t noticed how cold it was when Jack’s body was pressed against me…
Finally, Jack turns back to his mother. “You can’t show up here like this.”
“Well, here I am.” Mrs Lansen spreads her hands like her appearance is a party trick. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“No. Fuck. No. Not right now.” Jack rubs the heel of his hand over his forehead. His eyes are darting all over the place. “We’ve had a long day—”
“You don’t appear to be lacking energy,” Mrs Lansen says, her voice all clipped and displeased.
Jack glares at his mother, but there’s something shifty in the way he’s standing. The way his gaze is so unanchored, and the sight of him unnerved like this strikes fear into a deep part of me. “Whatever you’re here to say, please come back tomorrow. Or we can talk on the phone.”
“No.” Mrs Lansen steps closer, wagging a finger at Jack. “Your behaviour is unacceptable. We have to talk about this now. I heard a rumour that you were having sex in the bathroom at your father’s charity fundraiser, so I came to find out if it was true. And now that I’m here, I see it is.”
Jack grits his teeth, but makes no objection. And I can see why. What we did, repeated in Mrs Lansen’s clipped voice, sounds awful.
“Do you realise the damage that does to our reputation? Our family name? Clearly, Eleanor is leading you astray.”
I suck in a sharp breath, her words sweeping away my ability to speak. But then a voice in my head pipes up that maybe she’s right. It was my idea to have sex at the memorial event. I wanted it. And now, here on the doorstep… that was my idea too. Shame curdles my insides, and bile burns the back of my throat.
“She isn’t. I can make my own decisions,” Jack snaps.
But Mrs Lansen isn’t looking at him. Her angry gaze is fixed on me. “I know what you’re doing, trying to ensnare my son. Are you trying to get pregnant? So he’ll have to support you? So you can live off his money—”
“Mum. Fuck,” Jack yells. “Shut up.”
Mrs Lansen turns to him. “Tell me you’re using condoms. Tell me she’s not going to be the accidental mother of my grandchildren.”
I can’t move. I can’t process. Accidental mother? Grandchildren? “You think I want his money?” I ask, even though it’s not the most pressing question I have, but I can’t get my head straight to work out exactly what is.
Mrs Lansen’s lips pucker, and she eyes me like I’m nothing but dirt. “It’s not as if you have any of your own, or are capable of making any. I won’t let you exploit him.”
I’m freezing up, unsure what to do in the face of this attack. My brain is swirling with thoughts, trying to make this situation make sense. Does she know about the game? Does she know Jack was going to pay me? “I haven’t touched the money.”
Mrs Lansen draws herself up tall. “What money?”
Jack storms down the steps and yanks his mother’s arm. “Go home. You shouldn’t be here.”
She tugs out of his grip. “What money is she talking about? Are you paying her? Are you? Is she a whore?”
“Jesus, no.” Jack’s furious voice cracks through the night air. “Please, leave.”
His mother’s face becomes determined. “You mark my words. She’ll get herself pregnant, and you’ll be saddled with her for the rest of your life. Anchored to a little slut. If you’re not paying her now, you’ll be paying her a fortune then.”
That’s it. That’s enough. My frozen shell shatters and I trip down the steps after Jack, calling to his mother. “How can you be so vicious? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. This is all wrong.” Her finger wags again, waving between me and Jack like a windshield wiper. “I will not let you lure my son into your trap. He’ll never take you seriously. Never.”
My stomach drops. Is that true? I knew this woman hated me, but I’d never been on the receiving end of her vitriol this way before.
“Mum, stop,” Jack orders.
Mrs Lansen focuses on Jack. “I will not. At some point, this behaviour of yours will catch up to you, and one of these women will get pregnant. Dear Lord, let it not be this one.” She points at me without looking at me, then adds. “She’s a waitress, Jack, and she’ll never be anything more than that. You must have told me a million times how useless she was. Never paying her rent, making excuses, trying to scrape the pennies together every month from her ridiculous attempts at being a serious musician. You said so yourself, and now here you are, doing what you usually do, hooking up with whoever is nearest and easiest, even though they’ll never be good enough. I’m putting a stop to it for your own good.”
A lump rises in my throat, so large that it feels like my gullet might explode, bringing with it the urge to cry. I don’t need to look over at Jack to know everything his mother said is true, because I can feel it in the way he’s gone completely still, as though he’s sensing the approach of the end of the world and knows he can’t do anything about it.
But I ask anyway, my voice weak. “Did you? Did you say those things?”
The blank expression on his face gives way to one of distress and hopelessness, and I know, I know , he said it all. He thought it all. He might want to be with me now, but Jack Lansen—perfect, handsome, kind Jack Lansen, with his expensive shoes and his multimillion pound home—doesn’t think I’m good enough. He didn’t choose me. He chose the nearest woman. The easiest woman. And it’s right there on his face for his mother to see.
It’s humiliating. I feel so betrayed by this one beat of hesitation, so foolish to think this man might stick by my side, that I can’t bear it.
He moves towards me. “El, this is bullshit. It doesn’t matter what I said before. What matters is now. And now…” He pauses, and my heart feels like it’s dangling on a thread.
“Now, what?” I whisper.
His gaze slides to his mother, who’s standing there listening to every word. My heart pounds through each moment of silence, willing him to speak.
Whether it’s two seconds or ten that I wait, I don’t know, but Jack says nothing, and suddenly I can’t stand another moment of it. I know what I want, and it’s this man, but if he won’t claim me in front of his mother, then maybe she’s right. “Fuck you.”
Jack stares at me like he can’t believe this is happening, as though perhaps I’m the one whose behaviour is incomprehensible.
“Fuck you,” I say again, and I turn and storm back up to the front door. Jack’s key still dangles in the lock where he left it when he stopped to kiss me. I grab my guitar from where it’s propped against the wall, twist the key, and force the door open.
Behind me, Jack is shouting obscenities at his mother that I can’t make out. His voice is angry, rumbling with barely contained violence, but I shut out the sound. I step inside and turn to close the door, catching a glimpse of Jack striding towards me up the steps.
And then I slam the door and turn the lock.