Chapter Twenty-Five Netta
Chapter Twenty-Five
NETTA
Netta woke late, and messy. Her head was strewn with the debris of last night’s confession to Mo, his proposal sitting in the middle of it all like a boulder.
She’d stayed up deep into the night, researching the costs of different assisted conception treatments—which varied wildly—and had come to the conclusion that if she didn’t take him up on his offer, she’d pretty much have to choose between trying for a baby and keeping the apartment.
Either she said yes to Mo and his money and exposed herself to the media—set flames to the work she’d done to heal from the Mitch fiasco—or she said no and saved for having a baby herself, which would take ages.
And at her age, and with her track record of not getting pregnant, waiting too long would be a gamble.
And then there was Mo himself. She was hardly going to act on it, but she couldn’t deny her attraction to him.
He’d been so easy to talk to about Mitch, which was an unexpected—but welcome—discovery.
He seemed like a genuinely good guy, but her instincts hadn’t exactly been spot-on in that area in the past, and regardless of how nice Mo was or wasn’t, she wasn’t sure she was keen on being used to brighten up his murky image.
It was all so fake. And weird. Then again, the money he’d offered was a Jurassic-sized bone from the universe, thrown directly at her feet just when she needed it.
The debate wore a circular track in her brain as she stared at the ceiling, still cocooned in the warmth of the hotel bed, still one step removed from the reality of her situation, Mo’s number still burning a hole in her phone.
A dire caffeine deficit eventually dragged her from the bed.
She didn’t have the bandwidth for deciphering the coffee machine so she showered, dressed and went out into the chilly morning, tugging her hat down over her ears as she walked to the café a few doors down from the hotel.
The sky was a deep bruise of threatening rain but the vibe on Portobello Road was pure festive joy.
The market’s buzz could be heard blocks away and the crowd of shoppers straggled down past the hotel, carrying the ubiquitous Notting Hill shopping bags stuffed with treats and trinkets.
The thrill of it pepped Netta up a little.
She might be lugging around one of the biggest decisions she’d ever have to make, but it was still Christmas, and despite everything, the magic of it always held her up a little, above real life and all its mess.
The café was busy, its checkerboard walls festooned with Christmas decorations, the scent of ginger and sugar waltzing with the aroma of coffee through the cheery din.
Christmas carols hummed under the chatter of friends catching up for a quick holiday cuppa, colleagues grumbling about still working this close to Christmas and parents treating kids with hot chocolates and pancakes to fill the torturous gap between the end of the school term and the big day.
Netta looked around. Not a single free table.
She joined the snaking line to order a takeaway instead.
‘Netta! Netta, over here!’
She spun around and leaned back to see past the line’s tail to find Audrey, the woman from the park, waving at her from a table on the other side of the café. She was wearing an impeccable pink and green outfit that matched the café’s décor.
‘Come, sit!’ Audrey called, gesturing to the empty seat at her table.
Too polite to decline, Netta left the line and weaved her way through the crowd to join her.
Audrey folded her newspaper and smiled at Netta. ‘Good morning, dear. What a lovely surprise to see you again!’
‘And you!’ said Netta. ‘Looks like you were lucky to manage a table.’
‘Fletcher and I always get a table.’ She reached down and Netta saw Fletcher happily working his way through a gingerbread man– shaped dog biscuit on the floor. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Audrey. ‘This place is dog-friendly. No smuggling needed here.’
Audrey called over a waiter, who took Netta’s order for an explosively strong coffee, and as he left their table, she drew a circle in the air around Netta’s face with her index finger. ‘I’m sensing some stress. Something happened with your rock star?’
Netta smiled. ‘He’s definitely not my rock star, but I did see him again last night.’
Audrey’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And?’
‘I’m in a bit of a pickle,’ admitted Netta. ‘He’s asked me to do … I don’t know, I guess it’s a job? And I really need the money he’s offering, but doing it would be majorly compromising. I don’t know what to do.’
Audrey’s expression was unreadable. ‘I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re not talking about being some kind of drug mule or the like.’
Netta snorted. ‘Oh my God, no! Ha! He’s just asked me to do something to help him out. He wants me to go to an event with him—like a date, but fake, obviously. And he’s offered me a fair bit of money to do it.’
‘And do you need the money?’
‘I do.’ Netta had an overwhelming urge to tell Audrey everything, to offload the weight to an objective third party. ‘I want to have a baby, but I’m on my own,’ she confided. ‘And I don’t have the money to pay for—’
‘IVF et cetera?’ Audrey finished.
‘Exactly.’
Audrey looked wistful. ‘I wish I’d tried it,’ she said.
‘It was so new back then and by the time I felt like I could trust it, my eggs were already hard boiled. We tried for a long time, but I went through menopause early, sadly. My husband and I, God rest his gorgeous soul, we desperately wanted a family.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Netta.
‘It’s okay. We still had a wonderful life, full of travel and dogs.’ She smiled and scooped Fletcher up onto her lap. ‘But if you truly want a baby, and you have an opportunity that might make it possible, then I’d tell you to go for it, Netta. It’s a hard desire to let go of.’
Audrey’s story settled on Netta like snow, its chill curling around her heart.
She didn’t want to have to let go like Audrey had.
‘It’s just that I had a very bad experience with a celebrity once,’ she said.
‘So getting involved with another one feels dangerous. And being seen in public with Mo would be … madness, frankly.’
‘Oh, yes, Mitch Carlton, right?’ Audrey stirred her tea with one hand and scratched Fletcher’s little head with the other.
Netta was agog. ‘You know about that?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve got a bit of a brain for faces, so I recognised you right off the bat. I didn’t mention it because I thought you’d rather the past in the past and all that. That’s where it belongs, after all.’
Netta’s stomach burned. ‘I … I …’
‘I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Mr Carlton through work a few times back in the day, around the same time the affair hit the news,’ Audrey explained.
‘Highly unpleasant individual, that one, so I didn’t believe a word of his ridiculous story.
But I’ve known enough celebrities to know that most are quite decent—if a little spoiled—so I very much doubt your rock star slithers as low to the ground as Mitch.
Perhaps you might think about getting to know Morrison a little before you decide what sort of a person he is. ’
‘Okay, consider my curiosity officially piqued,’ said Netta, stunned by this glimpse into Audrey’s past. She dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned forward. ‘Are you famous?’
‘Me? Lord, no!’ said Audrey. ‘I was a make-up artist for the BBC for years though, so I’ve met my fair share of big names.’
‘That must’ve been an amazing job,’ said Netta. ‘When you weren’t dealing with the likes of Mitch, anyway.’
‘It was,’ said Audrey, smiling. ‘Fast and glamourous. Tough and exhausting. It was my life for a long time. And if it taught me anything, it’s that celebrities are just people—some lovely, some awful, like all of us—so if you feel like you can trust this fellow and you need the money he’s offering for a chance at having a baby, then maybe you should at least consider his proposal. ’
‘I’m worried it’ll open a door to the past and I’ll be the slutty nanny again.’
‘I doubt that’s ever really what you were, my girl.’ Audrey patted Netta’s hand. ‘Seems far more likely you just made an error in judgement with a man in possession of exactly no scruples.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘And now you’re in a situation where you have to choose whether that error gets to dictate the rest of your life.’ Audrey gave her a pointed look, her perfectly made-up features quickly softening into an expression of compassion. ‘Or not.’
‘I hear you. But it’s not that easy, Audrey. I don’t know what to do. I feel like a clock’s counting down and I have to disarm a bomb, but I don’t know whether to sever the blue wire or the red one.’ Netta slumped. ‘If I make the wrong choice, I could destroy everything.’
The waiter arrived at the table with Netta’s coffee and Audrey gave Netta’s hand an affectionate pat before she pushed herself up from her chair. ‘I’d love to stay and chat, dear, but I’ve got a shopping trip with the merry widows to get to,’ she said.
‘The merry widows?’
‘Oh, it’s just a silly thing we’ve started saying,’ said Audrey with a laugh.
‘Every Christmas I come and stay in the city to spend the holiday with my two best girlfriends. We’ve all lost our husbands now, you see,’ she explained.
‘We go to the theatre, buy clothes, have Christmas lunch at Claridge’s.
Horribly extravagant of course but if you can’t blow your money when you’re eighty-four, when can you?
‘Perhaps I should leave you this,’ she added, pushing her folded newspaper towards Netta.
‘There’s a story in the entertainment section I think you should read while that coffee blows your head off.
Might help you with the red-wire, blue-wire problem.
’ She patted Netta on the shoulder as she squeezed between the tables.
‘Hold fast to your dreams, Netta. Nobody else will.’
Netta waved goodbye as Audrey left the café, silently hoping she would be as impressive as Audrey at that age—she made being an octogenarian seem like something to look forward to.
Netta took a sip of her masochistically strong coffee and opened the newspaper, rifling through to the entertainment section.
PLAY ON! MORRISON MAPLESTONE’S HIDDEN HEART OF GOLD was the headline and underneath was a photo of Mo looking predictably handsome, surrounded by instruments.
The story detailed Mo’s secret charity work providing musical equipment to underprivileged schools all over the country and funding the wages of music teachers.
They’d interviewed kids who’d benefited, principals and teachers who raved about the difference Mo’s donations had made to their music programs and student engagement, and Mo, who talked about how learning an instrument and enjoying music supports mental health and wellbeing and helps kids with literacy and numeracy.
How education should be fair and equitable and how music was an essential part of the curriculum, not a luxury.
Netta sat back in her seat, her coffee cooled and forgotten.
In the article, Mo had talked about his plans to expand Play On into developing countries.
Maybe that’s what he’d been talking about last night when he said there was something important that relied on his financial support; maybe it was the expansion of Play On that depended on this new record deal.
Netta tapped her fingertips, one by one, on the newspaper, absorbing this new information.
This philanthropic side of Mo was an unexpected discovery.
And it was hot. It also made it clearer which wire to cut, if accepting his offer might play a small part in making sure the expansion went ahead—Audrey had been right about that.
She retrieved her phone from her handbag, her stomach already turning cartwheels at the prospect of who she was about to call.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’
‘Mo, it’s Netta.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Hi.’
‘I just saw the article in the paper,’ she said. ‘Play On sounds amazing.’
‘Ah, yeah. Thanks,’ he said.
‘I haven’t decided yet, about the gala,’ said Netta, nerves sending a crackle of electricity through her entire body at what she was about to say.
‘But I was thinking, maybe we could hang out this morning and see how it goes?’ Netta’s heart stopped.
She had not just asked Morrison Maplestone on a date.
This was just a business strategy. Nothing more.
‘After all,’ she hurried to explain, ‘if I do decide to go, nobody’s going to buy it if we don’t enjoy each other’s company. Maybe we need a test run.’
‘I’m kind of already— Actually, could you be in Shepherd’s Bush in half an hour?’ he asked.
‘I think so.’ Netta took an instantly regrettable gulp of cold coffee.
‘Great,’ said Mo. ‘I’ll text you the address.’