Chapter Thirty-Two Netta
Chapter Thirty-Two
NETTA
Netta and Mo emerged bleary-eyed from the cinema into the late, grey morning, Netta brushing rogue pieces of popcorn from the front of her jumper.
‘It’s no Die Hard though, is it?’ she said, straight-faced, before breaking into a grin. ‘But seriously, thanks for inviting me. I absolutely loved it.’ She stepped out from the cinema’s empty lobby onto the equally empty footpath and looked left and right. ‘All clear.’
Mo joined her, pulling his jacket collar up to block the icy wind and tugging his beanie down to his sunglasses. ‘We’ve got a little time until I need to call Jac to get to the suit fitting,’ he said. ‘Come with me, there’s something cool nearby you might like.’
They walked briskly around the corner and down a couple of blocks to find a tall stone fence.
Mo reached the wrought-iron gate first and held it open for Netta—another little act of chivalry to add to the list. She went through the gate, taking in the beautiful park spread out before her.
Bluestone paths weaved their way through towering trees and garden beds, all arranged around a huge stone fountain at the centre.
‘Oh, wow,’ she gasped. ‘It’s like a secret garden!’
‘It’s better in the warmer weather,’ said Mo, jamming his hands into his pockets. ‘The fountain is running then and obviously there are more, you know, leaves and stuff.’
‘I don’t know, I kind of like it like this.
’ The frost had settled on bare branches and hardy evergreens stood defiant against the chill.
‘Look over there,’ Netta said, pointing.
‘Someone’s decorated it for Christmas!’ She jogged over to a tiny fir tree strung with tinsel and handmade decorations.
‘Oh, this is gorgeous. I love this time of year so much.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever decorated a Christmas tree,’ Mo said.
Netta straightened. ‘What? Why?’
He rubbed the back of his neck, a move Netta was beginning to recognise as a sign he was uncomfortable. ‘I mean, maybe I did when I was really little, but if I did, I can’t remember it. My mum wasn’t really into Christmas.’
‘Religious reasons?’
‘No, she was just—’ Mo paused. ‘I don’t know. She just wasn’t your average mum, I guess.’
Netta clocked the veil of melancholy settling over Mo’s face. ‘Wasn’t?’
‘Yeah. She, ah, passed away when I was a kid.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mo.’
He broke her gaze and pulled his phone from his pocket.
‘Ah, shit,’ he said, reading a text message waiting on the screen.
‘Jac can’t come until after the fitting and all the other cars are booked.
We’ll have to cab it.’ Mo’s face clouded as looked from his phone to Netta.
‘Actually, I’ve just realised … the designer’s studio is in Chelsea.
You probably don’t want to go there, do you? Seeing as it’s where Mitch lived?’
Netta was silent for a moment, drawing a deep breath of icy air.
He was right, Chelsea wouldn’t be her first choice of destination.
It was the scene of her undoing, her greatest humiliation—under any other circumstances she’d rather a trip to a sewage treatment facility.
But these weren’t ‘other circumstances’—this was the chance to see Mo trying on a designer suit.
Mitch had stolen years from her. He’d stolen London from her.
But there was no way Netta was going to let him steal this from her too.
She looked up at Mo, touched that he’d considered her feelings but determined not to give them—or Mitch—the satisfaction. ‘I’ll be fine.’
***
Twenty minutes later, after several failed attempts to flag down a taxi and numerous unanswered calls to Mav, Netta suggested they catch the train.
‘I don’t know, Netta,’ Mo said haltingly. ‘I haven’t been on the Tube in years. There’s nowhere to go if someone recognises me.’
‘It’s only a few stops to South Kensington Station and then a short walk from there into Chelsea.’
Mo tapped his hand against the side of his thigh and frowned.
Netta reached up and tugged his beanie down a little further, her thumbs igniting as her knuckles dragged down to his stubbled jaw.
Collecting herself, she unwound her scarf and pressed it to his chest. ‘If you wear this and pull it up over your chin a bit, I don’t think anyone will be able to recognise you. ’
Mo looped the scarf around his neck. ‘Okay. Fuck. Let’s do it, I guess.’
***
The carriage was packed full of Christmas shoppers and festive day drinkers, and despite Mo’s disguise, it only took a few minutes before he was noticed.
‘No, it’s not. It can’t be! Morrison Maplestone’s hardly going to be on the bloody Tube, is he?’ Netta heard someone behind her say.
‘It’s him, I’m telling you. Look at the tattoo on his hand. Go on, ask him. I dare you.’
The woman leaned in, nudging herself between Netta and Mo. ‘Er, ’scuse me, sorry for intruding,’ she said discreetly, ‘but my friend here thinks you’re Morrison Maplestone.’
It wasn’t a question, so Mo didn’t treat it as one. He kept his face turned to the floor, his body visibly tightening. ‘Does she?’
‘Are you?’
As if on cue, the scarf slipped down to reveal his mouth. And there was no mistaking that mouth.
‘Oh my God! It’s only Morrison bleeding Maplestone on the Tube!’ the woman shrieked, her hand pressed to her chest.
Mo straightened, instantly on high alert, and grabbed Netta’s hand, clasping it close to his hip. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Stay close, okay?’
The hum of voices hushed and a hundred heads turned in their direction.
Netta felt like a deer frozen by a highway’s worth of headlights.
She could only imagine how Mo felt. The woman hugged him around his middle—quite aggressively, if you asked Netta—and for every person struck mute with shock, there were two shouting his name—or calling him one; it seemed not everyone was a fan.
Mo remained calm and gracious, but his increasing grip on Netta’s hand told her he was hating every second.
Just as a group of women started singing one of his songs loudly, drunkenly, at the back of the carriage, the train slowed for its stop at South Kensington, and Netta pulled Mo towards the door so they’d be ready to leap out and leg it as soon as it opened.
When the doors slid open they cleared the gap and hurried along the platform to the exit, followed by a group of commuters, who swarmed around Mo like bees to a lavender bush.
He slowed to a stop and turned to them, dropping Netta’s hand.
‘Hi, guys. Nice to see you all but we’re kind of in a rush to get to an appointment I’m afraid.’
Netta checked her watch. He wasn’t wrong.
It wasn’t far to the studio on Fulham Road but his fitting was scheduled for two o’clock and it was already quarter to.
According to Mo, Valerie was known for her moods.
She didn’t need him to wear her suit to boost her profile, so if he wasn’t there on time, it wouldn’t be surprising for her to just bin it and lock the door.
‘Can we just have a quick photo, Mo?’ said one of the fans. Mo’s smile was too shallow for his dimple to make an appearance. ‘Sure.’
He posed with each of them and then moved quickly back to Netta, mouthing, Sorry.
Netta dipped her head as he approached, scared of being caught on camera.
As if sensing her fear, Mo turned to the crowd again. ‘No more photos, guys. Thanks.’ He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders as they made their way to the exit, followed by the group, who seemed unsatisfied with the photos, and now wanted to know where he was going, too.
Netta looked up at Mo’s set expression and obvious weariness and realised his arm around her shoulder wasn’t just for her benefit. ‘How far is it from here?’ she asked.
‘Couple of blocks. They’ll probably follow us there, but they won’t be able to come in and see me strip off or anything.’
The corners of his lips twitched and Netta’s heart skipped several beats. Was she going to see him strip off? Sweet Jesus.
She took her eyes off Mo and shrugged out from under his arm in case he could feel the desire ping-ponging around her body.
As she did, she looked up to take in her surroundings.
Chelsea was glorious at Christmastime. Shops and impressive houses dripped with tasteful designer wreaths and lights, and lavish decorations screamed ‘rich people do Christmas better!’ But despite the curated magic, the realisation that she was about to walk straight past Mitch’s street buckled Netta’s knees and filled her stomach with cement.
She stopped, the following gaggles swallowing her in their pursuit of Mo, who took a few beats to realise she was no longer by his side.
‘You okay?’ he called.
Netta shook her head, her face feeling so drained of blood she was sure he would be able to see her bones.
He strode back to her, the fans parting like the Red Sea in his wake. His face was etched with concern, his eyebrows knitted together below his beanie. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘That’s where he lived. Two blocks that way.’ Netta pointed. ‘Sorry, I know I said it would be okay …’
Mo nodded. ‘What about if we just make it to Valerie’s—which is just around this corner, not past dickwad’s street—and then I’ll have Jac come to pick us up afterwards.
You can close your eyes and I’ll guide you to the car so you don’t have to look at this …
’ He raised his hands and gestured around him at the picture-perfect Christmas scene.
‘This hellish pit of rancid memories?’ Netta finished.
‘Exactly.’
She checked her watch. It was five to. He couldn’t wait for her to work through whatever it was that was happening to her. Besides, if she told Freya she’d passed on the chance to see Mo trying on a suit, her life wouldn’t be worth living.
She took a deep, fortifying breath and channelled Beyonce. She wouldn’t let this shit get the better of her, so neither would Netta. ‘Let’s go.’