Chapter Twenty-Nine Mo
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MO
Mo searched for Netta in the theatre, eyes tracking over the arena of empty seats, a red velvet haystack and a needle he couldn’t find.
Fucking Lorena had bailed him up for ages after they’d finished rehearsing.
She was persistent, he’d give her that, but he wasn’t interested.
She was the razzle and dazzle of show business, and he was the reluctant underbelly of it.
She was coke and cocktails and endless after-parties.
He was a neat whiskey and a swift exit. He swept his eyes along another row.
Maybe Netta had gotten tired of waiting and had just gone back to the hotel.
His phone buzzed a message alert in his back pocket.
Rhona. He furrowed his brow at the screen.
Something for you at Netta’s hotel.
‘Mo.’
He looked up to see Netta walking down the aisle towards him. He was surprised at how relieved he was that she was still there.
‘Got your jacket,’ she said, holding it out to him. Her voice was guarded, like it was leaning back from him, and her body language was hemmed in, as though she was holding herself at a safe distance. Maybe his performance had been even lamer than he’d thought.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I’m so sorry you had to sit through that. I can’t believe I agreed to sing that fucking song. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘I love that song. Everyone loves that song.’ She smiled, but something was missing from it. Some secret ingredient that made it real. ‘You were great.’
Her ‘great’ seemed a little put on, and he wondered if it was more than just the song that had caused this sudden change in her demeanour. He nodded his thanks and shrugged his jacket on. ‘Rhona just messaged. Said there’s something for me at your hotel.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go, then.’
***
The rain was pelting down as the car pulled up to the hotel’s front entrance.
The crowded restaurants lining Portobello Road were hidden behind steamed-up windows and Christmas carols floated through the cold air from somewhere full of a lot more Christmas spirit than Mo.
A deep sense of unease sat heavily in his gut.
Something was definitely off with Netta and the last thing he needed, or wanted, was for her to back out of the gala.
Drenched from the dash from the car to the lobby, Mo climbed the narrow staircase behind her, pulling his wet jumper away from his body and swiping the water from his face with his hands. Netta bustled the door open then closed it behind him. A brown paper bag sat at the foot of her bed.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘An umbrella in the car would probably be a good idea.’
Netta gathered her drowned hair from her shoulders and shivered. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be a bad idea.’
Water pooled on the floorboards around Mo’s feet. ‘I know this might be weird,’ he said, ‘but have you got something I could change into? Everything’s sticking to me.’
Netta’s gaze lingered on his chest for a moment before she cleared her throat. ‘I think I can rustle something up.’
She vanished and Mo took another step into the room, inhaling the scent he was quickly beginning to associate with Netta in the same way incense reminded him of his mum.
‘Here,’ she said, thrusting a handful of items at him. ‘You can get changed in the bathroom.’
Mo let himself into the bathroom and closed the door.
He wrestled his wet jeans and jumper off and shook open the first item Netta had given him—a pair of checked flannelette pyjama pants—and pulled them on.
They stopped about four inches above his ankles and gave him the look of a clown who’d lost his giant shoes.
The top—a stretchy, long-sleeved, striped T-shirt—did fuck all to diminish that impression.
It strained across his back and clung to his chest, the sleeves reaching only partway down his forearms. He considered himself in the full-length mirror. What a rock star.
Netta pressed her lips together and snorted as he emerged from the bathroom. ‘You should keep those. They look way better on you than they do on me.’
He looked down at himself and nodded. ‘Yeah, I was actually thinking I might borrow them for the gala. I think the three-quarter length could really be the start of something.’ He struck a Zoolander-esque pose.
He wanted to make her laugh, to break through the barrier between them that seemed to have gone up in the space of a song.
‘It’s definitely something,’ she said. No laugh, but Mo sensed the ice melt a little at the flicker of amusement in her eyes.
Netta had changed into black leggings and a jumper and had scraped her wet hair back into a low ponytail. Her mascara had lost against the rain, but the shadows it had made under her eyes were kind of hot. Mo swallowed, hard. He shifted his focus to the bag on the bed.
‘Is that the delivery?’
‘Oh, yeah, I think so. Here.’ She passed him the paper bag, stapled closed at the top.
Mo tore the bag open. Inside, a note from Rhona was wrapped around a small box.
N and M,
So happy to hear you guys are going to the gala together. Thought this might help you get to know each other a little in the meantime.
Rhona x
‘I messaged her to let her know,’ Mo said in explanation. He tore the note away to find a box of cards and held them up for Netta to see.
‘Ice Breaker?’ she groaned. ‘Don’t tell me it’s one of those stupid get-to-know-you question games.’
‘This is a very Rhona move,’ said Mo.
‘I think,’ Netta said, taking the box from his hands and flipping it to read the rules, ‘that this will require a pre-drink and possibly several during-drinks.’
‘Agreed.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘But don’t you have somewhere else you’d rather be after that rehearsal?’
‘What do you mean?’
She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘It just seemed like you were—Ah, it doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business.’
‘There’s nowhere else I need to be,’ he said, ‘and nothing else I’d rather be wearing.’ He struck another ridiculous pose and her half laugh was better than nothing but still not quite what he’d been going for. They’d been so easy together at Bianchi’s. He had to get things back on track.
The phone beside her bed rang and she strode over to answer it. ‘Hello?’ Confusion clouded her face, knitting her brow into an actual frown, not a weird Botox squint. It was beautiful. ‘Okay, yes. Please send it up. Thanks.’
‘What was that about?’ Mo asked as she hung up.
‘Seems Rhona has more than one surprise for us tonight.’
Moments later, a knock at the door was followed by an enormous delivery of food and a six pack of beer.
‘Yes!’ said Mo, punching the air before he could stop himself.
‘Indian! Ah, Rhona’s the best.’ He pulled out containers of rice, bags of piping hot naan, three different curries, little pots of chutneys and raita, and a bag of crunchy papadams. He spread the feast over the table while Netta opened a beer for each of them.
‘Right,’ Mo said, with far more authority than a man in his outfit could afford. ‘First we feast and then we play the stupid card game. Deal?’
‘Deal.’