Chapter Seventeen Netta
Chapter Seventeen
NETTA
The cold was really starting to bite by the time Netta passed the Diana Memorial Playground, but the kids playing there didn’t seem to notice the weather.
The parents of the older ones stood huddled in coats on the perimeter, staring balefully into the distance or absorbed by their phones.
The parents of the younger ones watched over the sandpit, negotiated swing set politics, and, in one case, executed an awkward rescue mission to retrieve a little guy stuck halfway up the pirate ship’s mast.
She gazed through the fence at the joyously chaotic scene before her.
Kids everywhere, smiles and snot and silliness, crying and shouting, laughing and cuddling.
She loved it all. It felt treacherous, pathetic even, to admit it, but she knew the hardest part of breaking up with Pete was that she’d probably also broken up with the possibility of ever having a little nuclear family of her own.
She swallowed hard against the unwelcome lump growing in her throat and rallied.
She didn’t need Pete to have a baby. She didn’t need a partner at all.
That would just be putting her dream in someone else’s hands, instead of taking care of it herself.
She smiled, comforted by the thought that her man ban didn’t necessarily have to mean a baby ban too.
‘The Queen!’
An elderly woman waving at her from a park bench caught Netta’s eye.
‘You’re staying in The Queen suite, aren’t you?
At The Royal Crown?’ The woman was dressed in an ankle-length houndstooth coat teamed with a fur-trimmed hat, her make-up meticulous.
A small dog was nestled in her handbag. ‘I’m Audrey,’ she said, extending her leather-gloved hand.
‘I’m staying in the ground-floor suite and spied you leaving this morning. ’
‘Oh, yes, The Queen—that’s me!’ Netta stepped closer to accept Audrey’s handshake. ‘I’m Netta.’
Audrey shuffled over and patted the seat beside her. Netta sat down, flinching at the growl emanating from Audrey’s handbag.
‘Don’t mind Fletcher. He’s all bark and no bite,’ Audrey said. ‘Now, call me a busybody if you will, but I simply have to have the gossip!’
Netta’s heart sank faster than a brick in a bath. Audrey had recognised her—she’d want the dirt on Mitch. She braced herself against the lead filling her belly and scrambled for a response. She’d known it would happen sooner or later. Why hadn’t she practised what she’d say when it did?
‘I saw that dishy rock star, Morrison Maplestone, coming down the stairs this morning when I was on my way back from morning tea,’ whispered Audrey conspiratorially. ‘And seeing as there’s only one suite up there, I can only assume he was there to see you, my dear.’
Relief flooded Netta’s body. Not Mitch. Morrison! ‘Oh! Ah, yes, he was,’ she said. ‘But nothing juicy, he just had to grab something and then he left. No gossip, really.’
Audrey’s eyebrows disappeared under the fur trim of her hat. ‘Is that so?’
Netta nodded.
Audrey grinned, her whole face lit up with a look of delicious curiosity. ‘I’m intrigued about what you had that he wanted to grab.’
Netta mimed zipping her lips. ‘Just something of his that he needed back. Definitely none of my body parts, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’
Audrey rested her hand on Fletcher’s head. ‘Ah, well, that’s a shame. I know he’s young enough to be my grandson but, by Christ, that man is sex on legs!’
Netta snorted. ‘He is pretty easy on the eyes,’ she admitted. ‘But celebrities are a whole other breed, if you ask me.’
‘Some, but not all,’ said Audrey. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you. I’m off to sneak this little fellow back into the hotel. Maybe I’ll see you around the traps!’
Netta’s stomach rumbled as she watched Audrey set off, slowly, elegantly, down the path.
She checked her watch. Her hunger was right on cue for lunch.
She made her way out of the park to Bayswater Road, headed towards Notting Hill and turned left into Kensington Church Street.
London was well and truly decked out for Christmas.
Trees were strung with twinkling lights that would sparkle through the night, shopfronts and cafés were splashed in red and green, and, not too far away, Netta knew her old favourite pub, The Churchill Arms, was waiting to serve up a big dose of nostalgia.
It was one of the parts of her London life she actually missed, and not just for its room-temperature beer and cosily cluttered decor.
In spring and summer, the pub was covered from top to bottom in an avalanche of colour, a rainbow patchwork cloak of flowers spilling from hanging baskets, window boxes and pots arranged in a stunning cascade to give the impression, from a distance, that the blooms were growing out of the walls themselves.
But at this time of year—Netta looked up—the pub was dressed in a winter coat of Christmas trees, at least a hundred, somehow fixed to the exterior walls, leaving just the timber window frames of the lower level and patches of the creamy paint of the upper levels visible.
She picked up her pace and, as she got closer, the fairy lights hidden in the branches came into view and gave Netta a thrill.
Even now, in broad daylight, it was spectacular, but the sight of the trees lit up at night time was truly magical—a happy London memory that had never left her.
For the first time since she’d arrived, Netta felt something close to gladness that she’d come back.
Her time living in London hadn’t been all bad; there had been plenty of good times before everything went wrong, and many of them had happened right here, in this pub, going round for round with her friends.
And if there was anything that might get her out of her post break-up funk and into the Christmas spirit, it was a Christmas tree–covered building full of booze. Surely.
She came to a stop at the entrance, taking in the polished brass lettering of the sign above the windows, the illuminated ‘Merry Christmas’ above the corner door, and the laughter and clink of glasses coming from inside.
Netta felt a warmth in her stomach, like a hug from her twenty-year-old self—a precious moment of reconnection to the girl she’d buried under a pile of shame and regret.
She wasn’t ready to forgive her just yet, but being here again was reminding Netta just how young she’d been. Young and appropriately na?ve.
She went inside the pub, allowing herself to be enveloped by the happy crowd, the air heavy with the intoxicating scent of beer and Thai food. As she waited at the bar, her phone buzzed inside her bag, announcing a text message.
Hi Netta. Rhona here. Would love to have you over for dinner tomorrow night if you’re free? You won’t get a table anywhere decent this time of year and my husband, Don, is a great cook! Let me know.
Surprised, Netta read the message again. It was a kind offer and she had no other plans. What was she going to do? Sit in the hotel suite by herself?
Hi Rhona—lovely to hear from you. Dinner sounds great. Let me know details.
Netta smiled to herself. She was doing so well.
She was at her favourite pub. She was having dinner with Rhona, who she felt sure would be endlessly interesting to talk to—if you could judge someone’s personality by the clothes they wore—and not one single person had recognised her.
Things were going much better than she’d feared.
Rhona’s reply was quickly followed by her address: Marylebone. She must be loaded. Netta was about to reply when another message flew in.
And just a heads up that Mo’s coming too. Should be a fun night!
Fuuuuuck. Netta had only just survived her first meeting with Morrison Maplestone.
She’d thought that was it. Done and dusted.
Sayonara. Diary handed over, blundering behaviour kept to a minimum.
She wasn’t sure she could do it again. She wished she were stronger, but this was Morrison Maplestone Rhona was waving under her nose.
Once voted sexiest man alive by People magazine.
There was no way she’d be able to keep her cool around him for an extended period of time.
And throw a wine or two into the mix and the chances she wouldn’t embarrass herself were less promising than those of the proverbial snowflake.
Cringey memories of her behaviour at this dinner party would keep her awake at night for the rest of her life.
Netta read the message again. She couldn’t cancel now. That would be rude.
‘What can I get for you? Something to eat?’
Netta’s attention snapped from the phone screen to the young woman behind the bar.
‘I think I just need the wine list for now, thanks,’ said Netta, dropping her phone back into her bag. ‘I need a big old drink.’