Chapter 24
LYRA
Gravy Fondue
That saying about over-egging the pudding… well, I don’t want to over-egg the pudding but tonight has been incredible. It still is. Despite the concert being over and Guy and I almost being back at his apartment.
I should be exhausted because for the entire time The Arctic Monkeys were playing, I didn’t stop dancing like something out of Trolls.
When they started ‘When the Sun Goes Down’, I video-called Cami and let her watch the entire song.
Tonight, I danced the way I bounced around to that song with Cami so many nights at uni.
I felt like someone I used to know, like I was with a version of Guy who didn’t seem to give a damn about anything except the music.
I’ve realised in recent weeks that there’s a side to Guy that isn’t the gloomy, brooding man I met at the beginning of the wedding season.
But tonight, he was like a man unleashed.
So many people in that suite knew who he was, watched his every move. I was aware of it and he must have been too. Yet he jumped around with me, screamed for an encore with me, as if we were the only people in the packed-out stadium.
We shout-sang and laughed and joked and rocked out shapes that should never be seen outside a person’s own bedroom as they sing into a hairbrush for their own ears.
So yeah, I should be tired but I’m absolutely on the ceiling. High on life, music, Guy. I feel like a dream version of myself; invincible.
He lets us into his apartment and I don’t want to outstay my welcome or be presumptuous.
I’m not really sure what the protocol is here.
He invited me on a date. We’ve already slept together multiple times.
I haven’t been drinking, which means I can drive home, though neither one of us seems to be inclined to end the night yet.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, making his way into his kitchen.
‘Starving, actually.’ There was food on offer in the suite but neither of us left the balcony to eat.
He opens his cupboards, which are bare but for a box of breakfast cereal, a loaf of bread and a few tins of baked beans.
‘I can order in.’
I take off my leather jacket and hang it over one of the kitchen stools. ‘Have you ever had gravy fondue?’
‘Gravy fondue?’ He raises an eyebrow in a way I’m kind of envious of – I’ve always wanted to master that expression – Are you for real?
Rolling my eyes, I tell him, ‘Step aside, amateur.’
I heat through the gravy I brought earlier that was tucked away in his fridge.
Then I slice everything that’s not already sliced on the Sunday roast plate and pop it into the microwave.
Five minutes later, I place on the coffee table a bowl of thick gravy and slices of meat, veg, stuffing and Yorkshire puddings for dipping.
I cast two sofa cushions onto the floor and sit down, cross-legged, waiting for Guy.
He pairs his phone to speakers and The Script’s ‘At Your Feet’ plays quietly into the room. Then he comes to sit opposite me, his arm lazily draped over one knee.
‘Is this a posh girl’s doner kebab?’
‘I’m not posh.’
‘You have a tennis court in your back garden.’
I take a piece of Yorkshire pud, dunk it in the gravy, and let the excess drip back into the bowl. ‘Actually, I have four currently empty plant pots in my very small back yard.’
I offer the pudding to him, which he takes, making the kind of noise that tells me simultaneously that he hasn’t had a homecooked meal in a while and that I may never be able to get my fill of this man.
‘My parents have a tennis court. I’m not my parents, much to my mum’s dismay.’
He nods, watching me like he’s reading song lyrics from my expression. ‘Me neither, which is definitely not a bad thing.’ He looks away, dunking half a stuffing ball in gravy. ‘Is this Lyra’s famous stuffing that I need to try?’
‘Yep. I defy you not to like it.’
‘Bold statement,’ he says, putting the food into his mouth. I watch, waiting. ‘Aye, all right, that’s probably the best stuffing I’ve ever tasted.’
My mouth falls open in fake shock. ‘Probably?’
He laughs and I won’t say it but I think, he really ought to make that sound more often. Delighting in the fact I can make it happen. Thinking I’d happily expend a lot of time and energy into forcing the tune.
‘Okay, the best.’
‘Better.’
At one point he tells me, ‘It mightn’t surprise you to know that I didn’t grow up eating fine cuts of meat and homemade Yorkshire puddings. You’re really slumming it with me.’
And I tell him, ‘I have more respect for you because you didn’t. You achieved everything you worked hard for regardless.’
‘Having a door or two opened for you isn’t a bad thing, Lyra.’
All I can do is nod as I wonder whether I’ve slammed those doors in the faces of the people who were kind enough to have opened them for me.
We eat our way down the plate of fondue, listening to music, taking about the artists, about how Guy got into guitar at school, about the years he, Jay and Trev waited for Scott to mature enough to become their frontman.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I venture, unsure, even as the words leave my mouth, whether I should.
He nods, warily, I think.
‘Your songs must be played all the time. Don’t you get royalties?’
‘I do. So I guess your next question is why am I skint?’
‘I— That was invasive. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.
I guess I’ve just been curious. It’s unlikely that someone like you would end up being a wedding entertainer.
And I say that as someone who loves weddings and photographs weddings most weeks of the year, so it isn’t intended to be a derogatory comment.
Equally, I’ve never made anything of myself. I’ve never done anything special.’
His eyes narrow on me and again, there’s hesitation before he speaks. ‘The easiest narrative is that I spent all the money.’
‘On the houses you bought for people?’ I remember Kylie’s comments at the beach yesterday.
‘No. I bought my sister and my mam houses but I bought those back when the band was doing really well. Before…’ He takes one final slice of lamb from the plate between us, offers it to me and, when I shake my head, dunks it in the gravy bowl.
‘Scott has a son. My nephew, Matty. He’s four years old.
He was still a baby when Scott died. The kid won’t ever know his dad and I should’ve—’ He stares at the tabletop, as if his next words are written on it.
‘The royalties go into a trust for Matty, so that he can at least get from life what Scott would’ve wanted for him. ’
So that’s how – he sacrificed himself for Scott’s son. For his sister and mam, too.
I realise I should respond to what he’s just told me but I can’t seem to articulate my thoughts. There are many facets of Guy and I think I could fall hard for them all.
‘Guy, that’s?—’
‘The least I can do?’ He looks at me and his eyes that have shone with brightness, even in the black of the arena tonight, are dark, raw with pain. ‘It won’t ever be enough. What I should’ve done was stop Scott from getting messed up in the first place.’
What I want to ask is, How? What I want to tell him is, Scott was a grown man who made his own mistakes. But something holds me back. Maybe the knowledge, even though I’m barely scratching the surface of getting to know Guy, that he doesn’t want to hear it. Or I’m not the right person to say it.
Instead, I ask, ‘Do you see Matty much?’
He rests an elbow on the coffee table and props up his temple with his fist, the anguish in his eyes receding, the midnight blue creeping back. ‘Never. He lives in London with his mam and I’m sure I’m the last person she wants to see.’
I choose my next words carefully. ‘Possibly. Or perhaps she and Matty would be really happy to have Uncle Guy around.’
I wish I could read his thoughts because I certainly can’t read his expression, and I don’t want to have meddled where my opinion isn’t welcome. I don’t want to have ruined tonight.
So I change tack and ask him, ‘Kylie used to babysit you, huh?’
It takes a beat but amusement finally breaks the intensity of his look. ‘She did. Worst babysitter ever. I watched Pulp Fiction when I was seven or eight. I also saw her get her first love bite on my mam’s doorstep, wearing shorter hot pants than even Sabrina Carpenter would wear.’
My laughter feels good; it cuts through the last few minutes of tension. ‘I bet you’ve never let her forget it?’
‘Not a chance.’ He scoffs. ‘Does it all sound a bit incestuous?’
I shake my head. ‘It sounds like you had a community around you. I never had that.’
‘I guess I did, when it came to friends.’ He stands and takes the gravy plate through to his kitchen.
‘When did Dave come onto the scene?’ I ask, following him and locating my leather jacket in the process.
‘Those guys met in school. I’ve probably known Dave since I was fifteen or sixteen, through Kylie.
Then when we formed a band and started gigging locally, Dave offered to manage us.
’ He leans back against the kitchen units, hands braced either side of him, muscles taut.
Despite the ungodly hour, and being stuffed from my second roast of the day, my mind is transferred straight to the gutter, without passing go.
‘What happened with Dave? How come he stopped managing the band?’
‘The band was offered a pretty lucrative record deal, on the proviso we went with the label’s management.
We were going to refuse, I think. I’m fairly sure we wouldn’t’ve agreed to drop Dave.
But we didn’t have a choice. He stepped aside.
We were all gutted but at the time, it felt like it was the right thing for the band.
If we’d been ready for what came, that is.
But we weren’t. It all got so big so quickly and we were just lads.
Dave was like a protector. Our shield. Until he wasn’t. ’
He drags a hand back through his hair and I watch the motion, remembering the feel of my hands in his hair, before the concert. He shrugs. ‘Then piece by piece, the wheels fell off, for all of us. You know how the story ends.’ He holds out his hands, as if to say, Here I am, the ending.
‘It’s hard to remedy the man standing in this kitchen with me, in a perfectly lovely but humble apartment on Roker beach, who works alongside little old me, with the guitarist and vocalist from The Hand Me Downs,’ I tell him honestly.
And that inability to comprehend that the two people are the same is part of the reason I’m afraid. He is the rock star, the musician, the untouchable. He’s also a man I’m falling hard for. A man I want to know everything about, the good and the bad.
There’s a spidey sense ringing alarm bells in my brain, telling me… You’re going to get hurt, Lyra. I know I’m way out of my depth here.
I pick up my leather jacket and slip my arms into it. ‘You know I’m not the kind of girl who gets VIP access to anything, let alone a sell-out concert from one of the nation’s favourite bands, don’t you?’
His face is deadpan as he folds his arms across his chest. ‘I think that’s why I like you so much.’
Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
‘I’m going to go,’ I tell him, already making a move for the exit. ‘It’s…’ I check my watch. ‘Jesus, almost 3 a.m., and I have work in a matter of hours.’
I’m so busy scarpering to the front door that I’m not even sure he’s showing me out until his hand is braced on the door frame above my head, making me want to turn into him.
‘Are you running, Lyra?’
‘Yes. No. Ask me a less complex question.’ Like, Why? I know the answer to that one – I’m leaving to protect us both. To protect myself.
My teeth find my lip as I mistakenly look into his blue eyes, again, which threaten to unravel my resolve. ‘I don’t know if this is the right time to ask or if the answer should be obvious, but are you seeing anyone else, or are we…?’
He brings his other arm to the door above my head so that I’m encased by his body. And if he asks me to stay, I know I’ll cave.
‘No, Lyra.’ Just the sound of my name from his lips is teasing the lower part of my body. ‘Not for a while. There’s no one else I want to be seeing either. You?’
Laughter bursts from me.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asks.
‘Oh, Guy, I’m so not the kind of girl who has a different man on offer every night.’
He drops his face to within inches of mine. ‘Good, me neither.’ Then he winks, that insanely devilish lopsided smile displayed, and my knickers are pretty much begging me to take them down.
‘Goodnight, Guy Walker.’
He exhales heavily and I wonder if he’s going to let me go or if he’s going to ravish me. One option is sensible. The other is highly appealing.
‘Thank you for a great night.’ He kisses me softly, briefly, then steps back, reaching to open the door for me.
‘Shouldn’t I be thanking you? You arranged everything.’
‘But the highlight was the gravy fondue.’ He gives me the kind of smile that would be fitting of a frontman.
Only when I close the door of my car, shielding myself from desire I can barely control, do I let out what feels like my first breath for too long.
I’m in big trouble.