A Hundred Ways to Break Up (Let's Make This Thing Happen 2) (2 page)

He nodded. “I just don’t want you hurt,” he said, and looked away, out of the window, in a brief show of vulnerability.

When he looked back Emily pointed to his plate and said, “I don’t know if you’re one of these people who think it’s awful bad manners to share, but really... that looks so good!”

He laughed, then broke away a section from a perfect round disc of cod, swept it through the thin, frothy sauce and held it across the table for her in what was almost a mirror of their earlier kiss: holding the fork so she had to lean forward, stretch, until he placed the fish gently in her open mouth.

The cod was firm at first, but then suddenly it just dissolved in a delicate flood of flavors, of fish, butter, parsley, a little dill. If she’d chosen, she would never have gone for something as commonplace as cod in a restaurant like L’Auberge, but this was sensational.

He was watching her, waiting for a response.

She was still leaning forward. She smiled, and said, “You were just hoping for a peek down my top, weren’t you?”

His gaze dropped to her cleavage – unavoidable after a comment like that – and then back to meet her look. “Where have you been?” he said, almost to himself, and then he looked away again, turning his head with a visible effort.

She looked at his profile, uncertainly. Something had just happened, but she didn’t know what.

An instant.

A moment when behavior said more than words ever could.

A tension. A yearning need. A...

She didn’t know.

She looked down into her lap.

She’d never felt so drawn to another person as she did right then.

She looked back up, and those dark eyes had fixed on her again. “It’s all moved very quickly, hasn’t it?” she said. It was only a matter of days since that comeback show at the Roxette. Technically, this was their first real date.

“My world moves at a very different pace,” said Ray. At first that sounded an arrogant thing to say: him telling her
It’s all about me
. But she knew what he meant. She’d only had glimpses of his world, but that had been enough to see that it
was
very different to hers, and part of that was that everything was bigger, faster, more urgent.

“Do you ever wish it hadn’t happened for you?” she asked. “That you could walk down a street without anyone noticing you. Live in an ordinary house on an ordinary street.”

He raised an eyebrow and let his gaze roam around their private dining room. Then: “Hell,
no
,” he said, and laughed. “Believe me: you very quickly get used to all this, and it’s really not bad.”

§

She shouldn’t have checked her phone. Whatever she found would only make her worry. Silence and she’d wonder what Thom was doing, what he was thinking. Or if there were messages...

How’s it going? :)

That was the first one. How could he sound so unlike himself in a mere three words and a smiley? It sounded forced: when was the last time Thom had asked her how her evening was going? When had he last shown the slightest interest? And when had he started using smileys? He was a man who punctuated and spell-checked all his messages. All of it: too much forced effort.

There was another one sent just over an hour later:

You’re quiet tonight. Not even anything on Facebook. Having fun? x

There was a missed call, too. What was he after? Perhaps she should just log on to Facebook and check in from L’Auberge, tag Ray as her companion, and be done with it.

Damn it. Why was Thom suddenly paying attention? Why was he checking her on Facebook? She didn’t like it. Didn’t like how it put her on edge, how it made her feel seedy when she was being so thoroughly spoilt.

Just then, Ray came back, waving his own phone apologetically. “Sorry,” he said. “Just Mo. Says a reporter’s been asking about the new material.”

“That’s good, surely? You’re going to need the publicity when the album comes out, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Me and the press don’t always get on. I don’t like all that. The album’s not ready yet, and when it is Mo will handle the publicity and it will be at our own pace. I just want to focus on the music, getting it right.”

“Has anyone ever said you can be a real diva sometimes?”

He laughed. “Most people wouldn’t dare,” he said. “They wouldn’t want to offend me, precious diva that I am.”

§

She’d tucked her phone under her leg, so next time it went she felt the buzz.

“Sorry.” She took the phone out and checked it. Marcia this time:

What’s with Thom? Just txted n asked what u were up to. Don’t worry. Told him you’re pissed already n ive taken yr phone off u. Is all good. Have fun :-) xxx

“Just Marcia checking in,” she said to Ray. “Everything’s fine.”

And she was sure it was.

She was worrying about nothing.

Really she was.

He was right about his world: it wasn’t bad at all.

Outside now, the sky was turning gold and mayflies were skipping across the water. And inside... Ray’s grilled rabbit in Armagnac sauce was extraordinary, but Emily’s Challandais duck with cherry jus was the hands down winner.

“Where’s the evening gone?” she asked, cradling her glass in both hands.

“You have to treasure times like this, don’t you?” said Ray.

She’d been thinking almost exactly that. Save up every moment because, realistically, how many evenings like this were they ever going to manage?

“Where are we staying?” she asked. Somewhere close, she hoped. She didn’t think L’Auberge had rooms.

“Not far,” he said. “I’ve arranged for us to crash at a friend’s place.”

She hadn’t quite imagined spending the night on a friend’s sofa, but right now she didn’t really care. She needed to be holding Ray; needed him to be holding her; needed lots of skin on skin contact; needed
him
.

“You want to skip dessert?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said simply, and stood.

They slipped away through the back door. Ray must have paid the bill already, but she hadn’t seen him do so. Perhaps he had an account here, as a regular.

Outside, he reached for her hand and led her down to a path that ran between the river and a strip of grass and trees that fringed a high stone wall. It felt like they were kids, walking hand in hand like that. Young and free.

She liked it. Liked being transported back to a simpler age. Liked his touch. Liked the subtle sense of being led somewhere by a man in control.

Liked it when he stopped, and used that grip on her hand to turn her, pull her against him.

When his other hand stole up to the back of her head and buried itself in her hair, holding her steady as he dipped his head down and pressed his lips against hers.

When his tongue drove into her half-parted mouth, forcing it wider.

The sense of urgency, of need.

The sense of being so wanted.

Their tongues pressed, and a velvety fuzz of stubble scraped at her face. He tasted of wine, a complex blend of savory flavors from the food, of
him
.

All the time, his eyes were open, locked on hers.

He released her hand, looped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him.

Now, somehow, her back was against that stone wall and the hardness of a thigh was pressing between hers, stretching the fabric of her skirt so tight she was sure it must rip.

She pushed against him, almost giddy with the sudden pressure in her belly, and lower.

He’d done this to her before, at the Roxette. Held her and pressed and her response had stolen over her in a rush and she had been right on the brink of climax just from the way he held her.

She drew her head away from his kiss, and tucked it in against his chest, breathing in a peppery, slightly citrus scent. She wrapped her arms around him, inside his leather jacket, felt that peak slipping away, savoring its closeness and knowing that before long he would take her there again.

She peered past him, then, and saw a sleek cruiser drifting past on the river. A middle-aged couple stood at the wheel, the woman pointing across at Emily and Ray. Had they recognized him? Was he that obvious, even like this? Or was Emily being paranoid? The woman wasn’t even pointing at them, she was pointing at the swans, or the trees, or at whatever was beyond the wall.

Paranoid.

Stupid.

She fought back the urge to reach into her bag for her phone and check for messages. Marcia had said everything was fine. That should be enough.

She tightened her embrace briefly, then eased free of Ray’s grip. He looked at her and she nodded towards the passing boat. He shrugged, and then that smile stole over his face. “It’s fine,” he said. “As long as they’re not paparazzi, it’s fine.”

He stepped back, turned, and took her hand again. “Not far now. See that barge?” He nodded ahead and she saw a traditional narrow-boat moored just beyond a fork-trunked willow tree that leaned out across the water. “That’s Ronnie’s studio. That’s where we recorded the album.”

Just before they reached the boat they came to a heavy wooden door set into the wall. Next to it, there was a small keypad and speaker. Ray pressed something and spoke immediately. “Hey there,” he said, into the small device. “It’s me. Ray Sandler and guest. Ronnie’s expecting us.”

There was a click and when Ray pushed at the door it swung inwards.

Emily peered left and right: the high wall went for as far as she could see. When Ray had said they were staying at a friend’s place tonight, she hadn’t quite expected a riverside estate like this.

They passed through the doorway and strolled hand in hand away from the wall and the river. A path led them through manicured gardens that unfolded away on either side, avenues of trees, regimented rose-beds, long strips of bowling-green lawn that led between flawlessly trimmed hedges.

Finally, they rounded a tall, rectangular bush and Emily saw the house for the first time, a manor-house with a central building flanked by two adjoining wings. It looked old, Elizabethan perhaps, and beautifully restored and maintained.

“Now this is what it’s like when you’ve
really
made it,” said Ray.

They were approaching the rear of the mansion, Emily realized, and that only served to make the place seem even more impressive and imposing. She wondered what it must look like from the front as you approached, no doubt along a long, tree-lined drive. She guessed now that they wouldn’t be crashing on a sofa tonight.

She turned to Ray. The restaurant, the things he said, and now this. He really was trying to take her breath away this evening. And call her shallow and star-struck all you like, but it had worked. “Ray,” she said, “I just–”

“Ray, darling. About time. Thought you were never going to get here.” The voice was deep and rough, the accent Cockney with the occasional American inflection: a mid-Atlantic, media-friendly voice.

A shortish guy, about five-six, with flowing silver hair and skin tanned a deep orangey-brown came bustling towards them and then stopped. “So this is her, eh? Are you just going to stand there or are you going to introduce us?”

Emily just stood there. It had taken a few seconds to process and even now she was going through the lengthiest double-take in the history of being slow to catch on.

This was the ‘Ronnie’ Ray had mentioned.

He stepped forward, put his hands on Emily’s arms, and kissed the air to either side of her cheeks. “So I’ll do it myself,” he said. “Welcome. Everyone here calls me Ronnie and you must be Emily. You want to come inside? The mozzies are out something rotten tonight.” With that he took Emily’s hand and led her into his mansion, and all the time she was still glancing sideways at him and then back over her shoulder to the smirking Ray, who was now following them.

Ronnie, otherwise known as Lionel Ronson, one-time session keyboard player for the Beatles and the Rolling Stones before forging a career for himself as one of the biggest-selling singer-songwriters of a generation.

They entered through leaded glass doors into a ballroom where a team of roadies was moving lighting rigs and a grand piano encrusted in what looked like diamonds. “Oh, don’t mind all this,” said Ronnie, waving dismissively. “They’re just clearing up. We’ve just finished shooting a video, and my
God
I’m ready for a drink. It’s the Christmas fucking single – can you believe it? It’s not even properly summer yet and here I am miming about snow and presents. Load of old toss, I tell you.”

They emerged in an entrance foyer that probably had more floor-space than Emily’s entire house. Wide marble stairs swept up from here, and numerous doors opened off three sides, the fourth just having two sets of high, leaded windows either side of a single set of high doors which must be the main entrance.

“Through here, through here.”

Ronnie led them into a side room, all dark wood paneling and high-winged chairs, with an upright piano against one wall. “Come,” he said. “Take a seat. Tell me about yourself. No you, Emily, not Ray. I know all about young Ray.”

She sat, and it felt like she would carry on sinking into that chair forever. “I...” she said. “I’m not sure what there is to tell.”

Ronnie steepled his hands together in front of his chin, the fingers thick with jewelry. “Really?” he said. “You expect me to believe Ray’s fallen for someone
dull
?” Then he threw his head back, laughing, every utterance and gesture a theatrical event for him, it seemed.

Getting over the shock of whose house this was, Emily realized she was starting to do that thing again, just as she had with Ray: the transition from staring at the celebrity to seeing flashes of real person beneath the gloss. Ronnie was a talker, a gusher, but all the time he’d been talking his eyes had fixed on her, looking for something. Approval, perhaps.

She smiled at him now, and was instantly rewarded with a genuine flash of warmth in return.

“You want to see around?” he asked. “Or you want a drink, maybe? Or both? I’m flexible.”

They drank mojitos, and Ronnie told them how he’d fallen in love with the drink at La Bodeguita del Medio in Havana. “I said I’d write them a song if they let me in on their secret,” he said. “Not quite Picasso drawing on napkins, but you know. Apparently it’s the mint they use, the
hierbabuena
. We grow it here now, in the orangery – whorled mint – but it’s not quite the same as when you’re drinking your mojito surrounded by hot, sweating Latinos and listening to jazz and Cubaton, now, is it?”