Chapter Fifty-Five Mo
Chapter Fifty-Five
MO
Rhona’s kitchen was filled with the aromatic scent of basil and tomatoes, and steam billowed from a big pot on the stovetop.
Don, wrapped in a bright blue and yellow striped apron, tipped the ravioli in and stirred as the water resumed its frantic boil.
Rhona sat at the dining table, grating fresh parmesan, and Mo wiped flour from the bench where Don had made the pasta from scratch using the pasta-making machine he’d found under the Christmas tree.
A bottle of red wine was open on the bench, of course.
Mo splashed a little into his emptied glass just as the Spotify playlist switched to another chillout track.
‘So, no response at all, huh?’ Rhona was down to the stump of the parmesan now, clawing it carefully so as not to grate her fingers.
Mo shook his head and threw the flour-covered cloth into the sink behind him. ‘I feel like an idiot.’
‘For telling her how you feel about her? Or for waiting so long to say it?’
‘Both. She either hates me, or never had feelings in the first place. I don’t know which is worse.’
Rhona slid the mound of grated parmesan into a brightly patterned ceramic bowl. ‘It’s probably not as simple as that, Mo.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it looks pretty black and white from my end. I got the read receipt, so I know she opened the email. And I’ve called her since. Twice. No answer. No return call.’
‘So, what,’ said Don, turning away from the stove to look at him, ‘that’s it? You’re just going to let it go?’
‘I’m not sure what else I can do, mate.’ Resignation flattened Mo’s voice. ‘I can’t force myself on her. I’ve told her how I feel—the lyrics were pretty clear about that—so if she hasn’t responded, then I can only assume she doesn’t feel the same way.’
Rhona beckoned for Mo to pass her the wine bottle.
‘I’d say it’d also be fairly safe to assume she’s still pissed with you for the way you left things,’ she said.
‘I mean, think about it. She flew here fresh out of a break-up and then all that Mitch Carlton stuff got dredged up because she was seen with you. And fair enough, maybe that ended up being a good thing in the end, because she finally got to give him what for and that brilliant interview she did gave him the bollocking he deserved. But even so, she would’ve skipped a lot of drama if she’d never done you the favour of returning the diary.
And then she sleeps with you, makes it safe for you to finally talk about your childhood and then you run for the hills, never to be heard from again until … what? Five or six weeks later?’
Mo hung his head, nodding to the floor. ‘I know, Rhona, okay? I really messed things up. I’ve been—’ He took a swig of shiraz and collected his thoughts. ‘Things have been pretty messy for me since Christmas.’
‘And let’s not forget the bloody photos of you and Lorena Long! I’d say she’s seen those and thinks you two are going at it like a pair of celebrity rabbits.’
Mo slumped. Those fucking photos. Rhona was right.
If Netta had seen them, she’d definitely think he was with Lorena.
Without context, they showed a couple leaving a bar.
In reality, they showed a man walking down some steps with a woman who’d tipped off the paps to ensure they were captured leaving said bar ‘together’.
Don clapped him on the back. ‘Things will work out, Mo. They always do, right, Rhona?’
‘No! That’s not right!’ Rhona scraped her chair out abruptly and stood, her green fuzzy jumper giving her the look of an angry cactus.
‘If there’s something you really want, or someone you really want, you have to go after it, or them, and give it your best shot.
It doesn’t always work out, but trying—properly trying—and failing is a hell of a lot better than living your life wondering what could’ve been if you’d pulled your fucking finger out. ’
Mo and Don watched her, open-mouthed, against a backdrop of billowing pasta steam.
‘I treated her like shit,’ said Mo, eventually. ‘I guess I can’t expect her to forgive me because of a song.’
‘Exactly!’ Rhona threw her hands up. ‘The song was beautiful, Mo, don’t get me wrong. It was magic. But I think, given the circumstances, the guns you pulled out possibly weren’t quite big enough.’
Mo pressed his fingers into his eye sockets and sighed. ‘Right. You’re right.’
‘I told you the Love, Actually airport dash was the way to go.’
‘Rhona, I was in a hole when she left,’ said Mo miserably. ‘I could barely get myself out of bed, let alone to the airport.’
Rhona walked around the table to cover Mo’s hand with her own. ‘Are you still in the hole?’
Mo’s heart broke a little under her concerned gaze. Rhona had been his rock through the last few weeks without even knowing what it was all about. ‘It’s not as deep,’ he said.
‘Well, then. Perhaps you could think about bringing out the bigger guns, now. I’d recommend cannons.’
‘I hate to interrupt the battle planning, but dinner’s ready,’ said Don, spooning out five plates of ravioli.
Mo took his plate to the table and sat down as Miles and Carly bowled down the stairs. He piled some fresh basil and parmesan on top of his pasta and leaned sideways into Miles, sitting next to him, to let Don refill his glass.
Conversation swept around the table as they ate, jumping from one topic to the next, but Mo could only focus on one thing: Netta. A plan started taking shape, and the guns were massive. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.