Chapter Twenty-Seven Netta
Chapter Twenty-Seven
NETTA
They fell into an easy silence as they walked down the back streets, the razor edges of Netta’s panic growing duller with every step.
Mo’s admission about Tokyo had taken any embarrassment she may have felt otherwise out of the equation.
It was a comfort knowing he understood. She hadn’t had a panic attack for years and years before today—so long that she’d assumed she’d just outgrown it.
But that room had been so small and cluttered and airless and locked.
And, she guessed, if that fear was ever going to return, it’d choose a time when she was already operating on a default mode of high anxiety.
She was lucky it hadn’t happened on the plane.
‘So, a wardrobe, huh?’ said Mo.
‘I was in my Narnia phase,’ Netta said simply. ‘And he was a little turd. I was in there for ages.’
‘Childhood, hey?’ said Mo, his tone sombre. ‘It’s a jungle.’
He pulled his elbow in, bringing Netta’s hand closer to his body.
Having her hand tucked snugly against him felt wanton and yet also strangely natural, and it struck her that if anyone saw them walking along together, they would probably assume they were a couple.
In that moment, she had to fight hard against her age-old tendency to mentally flip forward to a full-blown fantasy relationship.
It was a bad habit that had seen her get involved with the wrong guys too many times.
And escape-room heroism and philanthropy and inherent kindness aside, this man, with his reputation and tattoos and secrets, was a classic ‘pre-Pete Netta’ choice.
Otherwise known as a terrible, terrible idea.
She loosened her grip and slipped her arm free, feigning an itchy cheek. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Bianchi’s.’
‘Italian, I’m guessing?’
‘Italian on steroids,’ he said with a smile. ‘With the best meatballs in the world. It’s an institution, but it’s kinda tucked away, so it’s one of those you-go-if-you-know places, but not in a wanky way. It’s very traditional. You’ll see what I mean when we get there. It’s not far now.’
They rounded a corner and he pointed to an understated glass shopfront on the other side of the street. ‘There it is.’
A simple sign bearing the restaurant’s name sat above an awning protecting the footpath out the front, where a couple of older gentlemen sat playing cards on a table littered with espresso cups.
Netta and Mo crossed the road and, as they neared the door, one of the men lifted his head and smiled at Mo.
‘Buongiorno, Mo!’ he said, then struggled to his feet and reached to shake Mo’s hand.
Mo hurried to his side and wrapped his arm around his back. ‘Buongiorno, Stefano!’ he said. ‘Sit, sit.’
‘And who is this?’
‘This is my friend, Netta,’ Mo said. ‘I’ve brought her to experience Gianna’s life-changing meatballs. Netta, this is Stefano, the owner of Bianchi’s.’
Stefano brought his fingertips to his lips and kissed them. ‘Buonissime, Netta. You will love them. Gianna’s polpette are the best in London! Now, get yourselves in out of the cold. GiGi will have your special table for you, Mo.’
Mo smiled his thanks and held the door open for Netta.
The restaurant was warm and scented with a heady mix of coffee and garlic and rich tomato sauce.
A bar ran its length and people sat at it, drinking espresso and wine and eating from small white plates.
The walls were hung with photos of the shop spanning decades, portraits of members of the Bianchi family and framed vintage advertisements for coffee machines, faded with age but effortlessly cool in an actually retro way.
A mix of English and Italian conversation filled the room, occasionally interrupted by the hiss of the coffee machine or the clanking of crockery.
Netta, who had a deep disdain for fancy restaurants, was in heaven.
Nobody looked twice at Mo as he nudged his way through the crowd to the kitchen door. He knocked gently before opening it just enough to poke his head through.
‘Gianna?’
‘Morrison!’
A woman, sixty-ish, appeared from behind the kitchen counter. She was big-bosomed and red-lipped, her bottle-dark hair swept into an impossible pile on the top of her head. Her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
‘Ciao, bello!’ she exclaimed, a smile lighting her whole face.
She bustled out from behind the counter, drying her hands on her apron, and wrapped Mo in a hug.
‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you, naughty boy.
’ She patted him affectionately on the cheek.
‘And who have you brought to meet me?’ Pushing Mo aside, she clasped her hands to her chest and grinned. ‘Eh, Mo, she is beautiful!’
Gianna scooped Netta into the squeeziest hug Netta had ever received from a total stranger and then held her back to examine her again, grasping her shoulders. ‘Welcome,’ she said, warmly. ‘I am Gianna, and you are the first girlfriend this man has ever brought to my kitchen!’
‘This is Netta,’ said Mo with a wry smile. ‘My friend.’
‘Yes, yes. Friend,’ repeated Gianna, winking at Netta.
‘Come, sit.’ She gestured to the lone, white-clothed table in the corner, positioned in full view of the kitchen and already set with cutlery and two plates.
‘Now, what can I get you?’ she asked as they settled into their seats. ‘Some pasta for starters?’
‘I think we’ll go straight to mains …?’ Mo raised his eyebrows at Netta in question.
She nodded in agreement. ‘I don’t think I can wait a whole course to try these amazing meatballs I’ve been hearing about.’
‘The usual it is!’ said Gianna.
‘And I think we both need a drink, too?’ Mo looked at Netta again for confirmation.
‘Yes please,’ nodded Netta, smiling at Gianna. ‘A wine would be great.’
As if by magic, Gianna produced two glasses and generously filled them with a deep red wine.
As Netta raised her glass for a sip, a basket of warm bread appeared on the table, then Gianna was gone again, back behind the stove, moving with fluid efficiency, stirring, tasting, chopping as effortlessly as breathing.
Mo closed his eyes as he enjoyed his first mouthful of the rich red wine.
‘This is awesome,’ said Netta, reaching for the bread.
Mo swallowed and his eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘This place is too good to share.’
‘So, you’re a regular then?’
‘Not regular enough!’ shouted Gianna from within a plume of steam.
Mo smiled, his dimple creasing into a deep line that ran the length of his stubbled cheek. ‘Yeah, I come here a bit. I even have my own special spot,’ he said jokingly, patting the table. ‘Gianna tells me it’s only for me, but I have my suspicions.’
Moments later, Gianna reappeared with a white ceramic dish loaded with steaming hot meatballs in a richly fragrant tomato sugo.
‘Le nostre polpette famose!’ She placed the dish on the table and spun on her heel, quickly returning with plates bearing steamed green beans, roasted potatoes and plump olives.
Finally, she placed a bowl of freshly shaved parmesan in the centre of the table.
‘Just a little bit,’ she instructed, pressing her thumb and forefinger together.
Mo gestured for Netta to serve herself first. She spooned three meatballs onto her plate and, as she reached forward to grab some parmesan, Mo’s fingers brushed against hers as he reached for the meatballs. ‘Sorry,’ he said, immediately retracting his hand.
Netta’s inhale was, embarrassingly, audibly sharp. Mo’s touch was every bit as electrifying as she’d predicted it would be—a lightning zing from her knuckle to every cell. Even her scalp felt suddenly turned on.
Tamping her hormones down, Netta flashed him a vanilla smile and scattered the cheese on top of her meal, the smell of it making her stomach ache with hunger.
She stabbed a meatball with her fork and lifted it to her mouth, stopping to savour its comforting aroma.
As she took her first taste, her eyes involuntarily closed, as though her brain had to shut off an entire sense to deal with the deliciousness.
When she opened them, Mo was watching her.
‘Good?’
‘So, so good,’ she said. ‘Like, next-level amazing.’
‘I thought you’d like it here,’ he said, smiling.
‘This tastes like curling up on the couch in front of an open fire feels,’ sighed Netta contentedly, loading up another forkful.
‘Supreme comfort food,’ agreed Mo. ‘The Ugg boots of food.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Netta, wide-eyed. ‘Imagine eating this on the couch in front of an open fire, wearing Ugg boots.’
‘Stop flirting with me,’ he groaned. ‘That’s some sexy talk right there.’
Netta flushed crimson and took an indecent mouthful of wine, swallowing with an almighty gulp. ‘Okay,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Tell me more about Play On. What’s the deal?’
‘I started it up a few years ago,’ said Mo.
‘It’s my way of giving back, I guess. I never wanted to go public with it but my hands are tied.
We have big plans for an international expansion that rely on my comeback.
And I want to start a music school and set up a scholarship program to help people afford to study to become a music teacher, so there’s a lot depending on the income from the new album.
But the whole comeback thing is in limbo until I can get my public image into shape.
Rhona and I thought maybe publicising some of the good stuff I do would be a smart move, at this point. ’
‘I think what you’re doing is amazing,’ said Netta. ‘People should know about your involvement with Play On.’
Mo looked torn. ‘Maybe. Hopefully.’
‘And you’re right. Music is an essential part of the curriculum. I see firsthand at work how much the kids love it.’
Netta scooped another meatball onto her plate, turning her decision over and over.
Balancing the pros and cons. The money to try for a baby.
The crippling fear of exposure. The raging, uncontrollable, sinking ship of her attraction to Mo.
The potential of Play On and the travesty it would be if Mo couldn’t go ahead with his plans.
An answer charged through her fog of indecision, trampling her doubts into the ground.
‘I’d like to accept your offer,’ she said quickly, before she talked herself out of it again. ‘I’ll go to the gala with you. Sounds like there’s a lot at stake. For both of us.’
Mo dropped his fork and his head, exhaling hard. When he lifted his gaze to meet Netta’s, relief shone from every glorious crease and hollow of his face. ‘Thank you, Netta.’ He placed his hand over his heart. ‘Seriously.’
***
When they emerged from the restaurant the sleek black car was parked out the front, spattered with the raindrops that had fallen steadily while Netta and Mo had been swaddled in the warmth of Gianna’s kitchen.
‘That’s my driver,’ said Mo, nodding to the car. ‘I’ve got the final rehearsal for the gala to get to. She can drop you home, or … you could come watch, if you want?’
‘No, I’d rather go back to the hotel and read,’ Netta deadpanned before breaking into a grin. ‘Of course I want to come; are you kidding?’
Mo released a sharp exhale. ‘Right then, I’m officially nervous now!’
Netta rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’
Mo raised his eyebrows and shrugged as he opened the back door for Netta. She slid across the seat, making room for him to get in behind her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Maplestone,’ said the driver with a brief glance over her shoulder.
‘Hi, Jac. This is Netta.’ He checked the time. ‘We’ve got half an hour to get to The Royal Albert Hall. Think we can make it?’
‘Traffic is category nine, sir,’ Jac said in a manner more suited to a military scenario. ‘But if we take the back streets, we might just make it.’
The car weaved through traffic, finding hidden back streets and secret routes that Netta had never seen before.
As she stared out the window at London whizzing by, it hit her that she actually missed it.
She missed this place. She’d loved living here, breathing its energy and culture and history.
She’d felt so at home—until everything exploded.
‘You’re quiet,’ said Mo. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ Netta turned to look at him. ‘I was just thinking how much I’ve missed London.’
‘It is cool. I couldn’t live here, though.
I need quiet and space or my head gets a bit hectic.
My internals tend to start matching my environment, if you get what I mean.
I’ve got a place in a little village about an hour away.
It’s great. My brother, Mav, lives with me.
’ He smiled sadly. ‘He’ll be moving out soon, I think. ’
‘You don’t want him to?’
‘No. I really don’t. But he’s thirty-four. He’s his own man. It’s probably time I set him free.’
‘You sure he’s not a bit young to be out in the big bad world by himself? Is he even toilet trained yet?’
Mo laughed. ‘He’ll be alright. He’s a good kid. Just had a bit of a rough start, I guess. But he’s finding his feet now—doing a great job at Play On. It’s good that he’s spreading his wings.’ Mo sounded like he was trying to console himself.
‘We’ll be arriving soon, Mr Maplestone.’ Jac tapped an earpiece sitting in her left ear. ‘I’ve been instructed to drop you at the stage door. There’s security and a tented entrance. You’ll be able to get out of the car and into the venue without any bother, I’d expect.’
Netta’s body stiffened.
‘Oh, God. I should’ve thought,’ Mo said, realisation dawning on his face. ‘You don’t have to come.’
Netta took a deep, I-can-do-this breath. ‘No, it’s okay. Might as well build up the armour before the gala, hey?’
Mo gave her hand a quick squeeze, the heat of his fingers once again sending ripples through her body. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But just in case …’ He slid off his jacket and passed it to her. ‘You can put this over your head if you like.’
Netta wrapped Mo’s jacket around her shoulders as the car pulled up to the cloaked entry.
The scent of his cologne mingled with his warmth, cocooning her in an unexpected feeling of safety.
Jac opened the door and, as Netta pulled the jacket up to cover her face and felt Mo’s reassuring hand on the small of her back, she realised she felt dangerously bulletproof.