Chapter Forty-Three Netta
Chapter Forty-Three
NETTA
Netta closed the door behind the reporter and leaned against it, releasing a long, slow breath.
The interview was done. She’d said everything she wished she’d been able to say to the press twenty years ago.
Every sordid detail would be printed on New Year’s Day in full colour and, no doubt, with a barely partial dose of journalistic integrity.
She’d kept mum about her time with Mo, keeping any mention of him brief and surface level despite the needling of the reporter.
She felt freed and sullied at the same time.
Grimy, but liberated. But whatever she felt about the interview paled in comparison to the comprehensively crushing feeling she had about Mo.
She should’ve known it was just a bubble; a delicate, barely there barrier between them and the real world—between the holed-up-for-Christmasin-a-cute-cottage versions of themselves and the real Netta and Mo.
And bubbles always burst. It was inevitable, in the same way that damaged guys like Mo had always sucked her in, chewed her up and spat her out.
It was a cycle she thought she’d broken with Pete, but now, after Mo, she realised she’d let it happen again.
But what hope had she had? Being with him had felt so right.
So perfect. Christmas Eve with him had felt like swimming through crystal clear water, but once he’d told her about his mum and the diary, he’d become as opaque as a storm-shaken lake, as deeply unknowable as its bed, hidden beneath the murky, chopped-up waves.
The depth of his pain had dwarfed her, reducing her to something to be flicked away. Discarded. Forgotten about.
She sat on the bed and tapped into the banking app on her phone. The fake gala date money had landed in her account. She hadn’t seen her balance look so healthy for a long time, and yet her stomach churned. Money from a man she’d had sex with felt dirty.
She tossed the phone to the other side of the mattress and lay back into the nest of pillows, doing her best to narrow her focus to the cinnamon scent lacing the air. She pulled a pillow off the pile and hugged it hard to her chest, curling herself into the foetal position, and then smaller.
Christmas with Mo had been a dream. Like something from a so-bad-it’s-good holiday movie, if R-rated holiday movies were a thing.
She’d felt like she was floating, high above reality.
But what goes up, must come down, as they say, and Netta had hit the ground like a sack of cement.
She should’ve known it was too good to be true.
Her phone beeped a message alert and she stretched a leg back to scoop it forward with her foot, nudging it to within arm’s reach. Her heart flared with relief at seeing Freya’s name on the screen.
Oh my GOD Netta, the red carpet photos of you and Mo. Are you kidding me?! You looked incredible! And the kiss!!!! I’m deceased.
Netta clutched the phone to her chest. She’d missed Freya so much. Please don’t be dead. I’m coming home tomorrow.
Jed’s just woken. Have to go but I’ll pick you up from the airport. Text me the details.
Netta dropped the phone to the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Her body buzzed with post-interview adrenalin even as it sank, dragged down by Mo’s rejection, her own self-doubt and the knowing that she was no good on her own in times like these.
She needed to download to someone, to dial down the static in her head.
To stop her descent to the bottom. It was times like this— when she was lost—that she missed her mum the most.
A burst of yapping floated up from the street.
Netta slid over to the window side of the bed and peered out.
Audrey, looking like a movie star in bright fuchsia lipstick and black-rimmed glasses, was on the footpath with Fletcher, who didn’t sound at all happy with the pug who’d just waddled past him.
Netta opened the window. ‘Audrey!’
‘Netta!’ Audrey peered up at her. ‘Interview done?’
Netta nodded grimly.
‘I’ve just been to the bakery,’ Audrey called, holding up a white box for Netta to see. ‘Come for a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’
Audrey’s classic trench was dusted with rain as Netta met her in the lobby, Fletcher snuggled into her bag and the bakery box in her hands. ‘Are you okay, dear?’
Netta shrugged, unsure how to answer.
‘Well, darling, I hope you roasted him like the pig he is.’
Netta’s smile was thin. ‘What’s in the box?’
‘Pain au chocolat and eclairs,’ said Audrey. ‘I’m feeling quite French today.’ She tapped her fingers lightly on the deep red beret atop her wavy silver bob.
‘Well, then, merci beaucoup for the invitation,’ Netta said.
Fletcher wriggled in Audrey’s bag and she pressed her elbow against it, winking at Netta. ‘Best get into the room before he blows his cover. And before I burst from curiosity. I can see you don’t want to talk about the interview, but you cannot deny me the gala gossip!’
Audrey let them into her room, carefully hanging her coat before putting the kettle on.
Netta set the box of treats on the table in the couch nook and took a seat, suddenly aware of how tired she was—like her emotions had run a marathon.
She pulled her legs under her and got comfy as she watched Audrey make two cups of tea, impossibly chic in her all-black outfit.
‘Now,’ said Audrey, settling her narrow frame into the armchair, ‘you must tell me everything. Starting with that kiss on the red carpet. Looked like quite the heart starter.’
Netta took her cup of tea from the table and blew on it, sending gentle ripples over its surface. ‘You saw that?’
‘I might be old, Netta, but I’m all over the socials. Fletcher and I have our own Instagram page, don’t we, Fletch?’ She scruffed his head lightly.
‘The kiss was—’ Netta stared at the window on the opposite side of the room, searching for the right words. ‘It was transcendental. And also completely fake.’
‘Fake?’ Audrey raised her eyebrows and looked at Netta over the rim of her glasses as she opened the bakery box. ‘Didn’t look fake to me. Your mouth was definitely on his mouth.’
‘The photographer asked us to do it.’
‘I see.’ Audrey offered the box to Netta, who selected a raspberry éclair. ‘And what of this argy-bargy with Mitch Carlton. Was that fake too?’
‘No, that was real,’ said Netta. ‘And let’s just say it started a chain of events.’
She told Audrey about the escape to Margate.
There was a long silence as Audrey considered the story, a slow smile growing. ‘I bet that was a bit of fun,’ she said, fanning her face with a manicured hand. ‘If he’s even half as good in bed as he is at filling out a suit, then I think I have reason to be quite jealous of you, Netta.’
Netta groaned. ‘He’s twice as good.’
‘Good Lord, no wonder you look so tired.’
‘It didn’t end well.’
‘What happened?’
‘He told me something on Christmas Day. Something very personal and very sad that happened when he was a kid. But as soon as he told me, everything changed. He was distant. Slept in the other room that night. And when he dropped me back at the hotel, he told me he didn’t know if he had time to see me again. ’
‘Was what he told you something he’s traumatised by?’ Audrey’s face was serious now.
‘Definitely.’
‘And has he ever told anyone else about it?’
‘He says not,’ Netta said. ‘Not even his brother.’
‘Then maybe you need to give him some space,’ Audrey said.
‘Sometimes when people release something they’ve been holding onto for a long time, it rips the rug out from under them and they don’t know which way is up anymore.
It’s like a balloon blown up really tight being let go: the air rushes out and the balloon goes haywire.
It’s the same with humans, sometimes. When the truth comes out, we can lose direction. ’
Netta considered Audrey’s insight. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Or maybe he just wanted to have sex and I was the only person there.’
‘Netta.’ Audrey’s voice took on a stern edge.
‘I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume you’re not the first person Morrison has ever slept with.
But you are the first person he’s ever confided this secret to.
If it’s something he’s held guilt or shame about since he was a little boy, he will likely think you’re judging him the way he’s been judging himself.
He’s probably mortified, or thinks you don’t want anything to do with him now that you know about this thing, whatever it is. ’
Netta shook her head. ‘But … I asked if we’d see each other again. I put my hand on his leg in the car. I think it’s pretty clear how I feel.’
‘I’d say nothing is clear to him right now,’ said Audrey gravely. ‘I’m not saying he did the right thing and I’m definitely not saying you’re wrong to be hurt by his change of direction, but maybe it’s not to do with you at all.’
‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going home tomorrow,’ Netta said, resolute. ‘He’s made himself clear and I’m not going to hang around, hoping he’ll change his mind. I want to be gone before the article comes out on New Year’s Day. And I have bigger fish to fry, anyway.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Audrey, her pain au chocolat still untouched. ‘The baby.’
Netta shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t know if I can anymore. I can’t take his money now that we’ve slept together, Audrey. I’d feel like a—’
‘Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say, because you know very well that’s not what you are.’ Audrey’s dulcet voice was as close to shrill as Netta had ever heard it. ‘You need that money, Netta.’
Netta released a heavy breath. ‘I don’t know, Audrey. It’s not sitting well.’
‘Netta. That day in the café, I told you I’d still had a wonderful life even though I didn’t get to have a baby.
And that’s true. Very true. But I still ache for the family I missed out on.
Every day. Don’t let a misguided conscience stand in the way of what you want.
’ She took Netta’s hand in hers. ‘And don’t give up on him, either.
If your connection was as strong as you say it was, he might just be worth waiting for.
Maybe after he has some time to process it all, he’ll call you and you’ll get married and the wedding photos will be in Vogue and it’ll all be wonderful. Fletcher can be the ring bearer!’
Netta managed a wan smile. ‘I’m not waiting for a fairy tale anymore, Audrey, with Mo or anyone else.
My Prince Charming got lost in the post. And you know what?
I’m sick of giving guys chances. I’m so sick to death of it.
I’m almost forty, and all I’ve ever done is give guys chances.
I’ll be okay. I always am. Sort of. But I have to draw the line here.
This has been an adventure, and also a huge mistake.
It’s just time to go home and get my life sorted. ’