Chapter Thirteen Netta
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.