Chapter Fourteen Mo
Chapter Fourteen
MO
Mo slid in behind the steering wheel and threw the diary onto the front passenger seat, yanking the car door shut behind him.
He’d done it. He’d collected the damn diary, and it hadn’t killed him.
His head was heavy against the headrest and he closed his eyes, drilling his focus down to the ebb and flow of his breath as it settled back into its normal rhythm.
Mo hadn’t dared look at the diary directly yet. Even having it—this morbid relic from his past—back in his possession was overwhelming. It was a symbol of a life he’d tried so hard to forget. Proof that he really had been that little boy once. That it wasn’t all just some horrible, fucked-up dream.
As he drove to the Play On office for the dreaded interview, his mind drifted from the diary to Netta.
He believed her that she hadn’t read it.
Rhona had been right, she was great. Smart.
Down-to-earth. Looked around his age. She’d seemed a little nervous but she hadn’t made it weird like lots of people he met did.
And she was gorgeous, in a beautifully natural way.
No puffed-up lips or blindingly veneered teeth.
In theory, she was exactly the sort of woman he should take to the gala.
But Netta wasn’t just an ‘in theory’ ideal woman to help patch up his career.
She was real, and the thought of using her, or anyone like her, felt all sorts of wrong. He couldn’t do it.
He focused on the road and did his best to sweep his head clear of the clutter. He just needed to get this bloody interview and photo shoot over and done with so he could go home and disintegrate in peace.
He pulled into the carpark and let himself in through the side door.
It was a small office with a modest warehouse space for storing the instruments and preparing them to be delivered.
The walls were covered in photos schools had sent in thanks, showing students performing and learning to play.
There was one photo in particular—a long-haired kid hunched over an electric guitar—that reminded Mo so much of himself that it shook him a little every time he looked at it.
The guitar his teacher had given him had changed his life.
He hoped he could do the same for one of these kids.
‘Hey, bro,’ said Mav, popping his head around the warehouse door. His face was a softer version of Mo’s: his skin a little fairer, his jaw rounder, his eyes a gentler shade of blue. ‘You ready for your big moment?’
Mo groaned. ‘Don’t. You know how much I hate having to do this. This place was never meant to be a publicity opportunity.’
Mav’s cheeky grin softened. ‘I know, man. But I think this is a really good thing. It’ll be good for your rep and it’ll be good for Play On too. Having you officially attached to it might mean donations, and more moolah means we can buy more instruments.’
For the most part, despite being in his thirties, Mav was still an immature kid, but when it came to Play On, he took things very seriously.
At first, he’d been out to prove he deserved the job and hadn’t only been employed because he was Mo’s brother.
But it had quickly become a genuine passion for him.
Visiting the schools and seeing the difference their donations made had given him direction and he’d put a ton of work into planning the expansion.
Mo couldn’t let his own flailing career take that away from him.
‘You don’t think having me attached will be bad for the brand?’ said Mo.
‘Nah. You’re a rock star, dude.’ Mav grinned. ‘You can do seedy shit and then do a couple of good things and you’ll be sweet. And you do way more than a couple of good things. You just have to start letting people see them.’
‘I’m not that seedy.’
‘Not as much now that you’re borderline elderly, mate, but there’s still an element of seed … you modelising, pap-pushing, eternal bachelor.’ Mav winked and gave Mo a gentle shove. ‘Come on, the photographer’s set up already.’
Mo followed Mav out to the warehouse, where lights were set up in front of a stool and a fully loaded drum kit, a trio of guitars and a selection of woodwind instruments.
‘Mo, this is Dillon,’ said Mav, introducing him to a young guy clutching a notepad.
‘He’ll be interviewing us about Play On and—’ A woman with vivid pink hair piled on top of her head emerged from behind the white backdrop.
‘Trina here will be taking your photo. God knows how she’s going to make you look even halfway palatable, you ugly git. ’
‘Hi!’ Trina grinned and held out her hand and Mo shook it in a daze, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. Trina’s hair felt like a spectacularly timed fuck you from the universe so soon after being reunited with the diary. His mum’s hair had been the exact same shade.
Mo shook the image of his mother away. He faked a smile and nodded hello to Trina and Dillon, trying hard to anchor himself in the present and not get submerged by the memory of his mum.
‘Right, Mo, let’s get you on the stool,’ said Trina. ‘Are you wanting to leave the beanie on?’
She snapped away, Mo in various positions and poses: wandering through the warehouse; with and without Mav.
Mo did his best to look as enthusiastic as possible despite the sickening nostalgia sitting in his gut.
Dillon asked all the right questions and, surprisingly, Mo actually enjoyed talking about the great work Play On did and his big plans for its future. It felt good to own it.
‘You okay, man?’ asked Mav once Trina and Dillon had left. ‘You seemed nervous.’
‘Trina—she reminded me of Mum. Threw me a bit, that’s all,’ said Mo. ‘I think it went okay, though. You’re doing an amazing job here, Mav. I’m so lucky to have you running the show. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure my shit doesn’t ruin the expansion plans.’
Mav pulled his brother into a rough hug. He’d been there through every second of Mo’s rise and descent; he got it more than anyone else did. ‘It’s all going to work out, Mo,’ he said. ‘The new album will be a smash and you’ll be back on top of the world before you know it.’
Mo drove home with the stereo off, marinating in the memories that had assailed him during the shoot.
It had been his mum’s pink hair he’d been searching for the day before she died as he’d stood on the stage in front of the whole school at assembly, eleven years old, hugging his guitar to quell the nervous shakes.
He’d searched the audience, not wanting to start until he found her.
She’d promised him she’d be there. But there’d been no pink heads, and eventually, as the prep kids had started to get fidgety, Mr Hammond, the music teacher, had said the show would have to go on.
Mo had performed his solo perfectly and the principal had slapped him on the back and told him that he ‘really had something there, son’ and everyone had clapped and cheered, but it had felt like nothing without his mum there.
He’d wanted to show her how good he was, for her to be proud of him, saying to people ‘That’s my son!
’ He’d wanted her to hear everyone clapping for him. He’d wanted her to care.
Mo shook his head to release the memory. Dust. It was all just dust now. And so was she.