Cold Comfort (24 page)

Although we had prepared for the worst, the
weather chose to be kind to us. By lunchtime, as the car pulled into the bus
stop beside the river, the sun was emerging from behind the clouds. I felt the
mood between Cat and me similarly lift.

He manned the pole, wearing some glasses
and a baseball cap in the hopes that no one would recognise him, while I
hunkered down in the punt on the cushions that had thoughtfully been provided
by the owner, along with a bottle of champagne and a full picnic. It had been
decided it wasn’t a good idea for us to eat in any pubs given the attention we
were likely to get, so a picnic was the compromise.

After some terrifying early wobbles, when I
remembered I couldn’t swim and had visions of us capsizing and me sinking to
the bottom of the river Cam, despite Cat’s assurances he’d save me no matter
what, Cat proved remarkably adept at punting. There was a memorable moment when
the pole got stuck while we merrily sailed on, forcing us to wait until someone
in a passing rowing boat agreed to help us out and return our pole. Their faces
on recognising Cat as the stranded person were priceless. We laughed a lot. And
in between I spent my time admiring the flex of his biceps as he pushed us gently
along, my fear of water fading, dwarfed by the warm glow that seemed to have
occupied a place in my chest.

We drifted past the ancient College
buildings, coming to rest against a bank adjacent to a field occupied only by
cows, where Cat secured the punt with a rope to a nearby tree trunk. Then he
opened the picnic, popping the cork on the champagne and pouring us both a
glass before lying back down next to me on the cushions while we nibbled at the
food. It was completely idyllic, and I told him so.

“Good. I’m trying, but I’m not sure I’m any
good at all this,” he admitted.

“Good at all what?”

“Romancing you, being a good boyfriend.” I
felt my insides turn to mush at his words.

“Oh, I’d say you’re better than you think,”
I told him, putting my plate aside before leaning in for a kiss.

We lay there for more than an hour, kissing
and touching, and with every passing minute my heart melted a little more. It
was some of the most innocent and yet erotic time we’d ever spent in each other’s
company, and I was grateful to him for giving it to me.

“I don’t want you to leave me,” he said as
I basked in the sun and the warmth of his arms.

I turned to look up at him. “I’m not
leaving you. I’m right here.”

“But for how long? If you go back to
college and I go off on tour, then what?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. I didn’t fancy
our chances with a long-distance relationship knowing what the groupies were
like around him. I knew my jealousy would likely kill anything good between us
even if he didn’t stray. Not to mention his jealousy about, well, everything.

“Could you defer?” he asked. “Wait until I
can take a longer break between albums and then finish your course? It would
mean we could stay together. I’ve only just found you, and I don’t want to lose
you – you mean too much to me already. I’d rather walk away from all this –
give it up.”

“You don’t mean that,” I insisted. He loved
what he did – he loved being a rock star.

“If it means not losing you, I would. I’m
serious, Delilah. I want to make this work between us. I know you’re still
young and this has only been a month or so, but I can wait until you’re ready. I
want it all with you.” I felt my eyes widen as the meaning behind his words
settled. Then he kissed me, and every objection about how this was moving too
fast, how we didn’t really know one another well enough to be sure of anything,
how he was important to me already but I didn’t know where it would lead… All
of that went unsaid with the touch of his lips against mine. I finally pulled
away and looked at him, the intensity of his gaze telling me in that moment he believed
every word he’d said. In that moment…. And that was what worried me. And yet it
still amazed me that for some reason this beautiful, talented, angry,
passionate man had selected me as his partner. I felt overwhelmed by the
realisation.

“We’ll go to America,” I promised in a
moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity. “Then after that we’ll see.” He couldn’t
hide his immediate disappointment, his eyes dipping down, but I placed my
finger beneath his chin and lifted his face back up towards mine. “I want this
to work between us too,” I promised him, glad to see the hope rekindled when he
looked at me again. “I want to find a way to make us work together. For the
long term.” He kissed me again then. It seemed he had enough for now.

When we returned to the house it was with
lighter hearts. It seemed the rest of the band had appreciated a day of rest
too, given the easy banter that jockeyed round the group as we shared a meal
together around the large kitchen table. The evening that followed was spent in
the studio while the guys put one of the new tracks together for the album. I
was happy in the corner playing cards with Eddy, feeling the brush of Cat’s
gaze as it touched upon me regularly.

“Hey, have you checked Twitter?” Cat asked
during one of their breaks. He had a smug look on his face.

“No, should I?”

“Yeah, I think maybe you should.”

I opened the app on my phone and gasped
with surprise when I saw I had over one hundred thousand followers already.

“That’s crazy,” I said, laughing loudly. “I
haven’t even tweeted anything.” I took a quick photo of the band rehearsing and
put it up there with #menatwork underneath it. In two minutes it had been liked
over five hundred times. After five minutes it was over a thousand. “I don’t
understand this stuff,” I muttered, reading through some of the replies. There
was a lot of love for our performance on the show the night before. A similar
number were haters, though, mainly girls and mainly thanks to the kiss Cat had
given me. I skimmed over the more vitriolic comments and the ones that were
downright scary.

“Don’t read them,” Eddy warned. “They
nearly drove Matt mad to begin with. We live in a world of keyboard warriors,
who can say what they want with no retribution. Ground yourself in the people
around you – only their opinion matters, and we all think you’re Mary
Poppins.”

“Mary Poppins?”

“Practically perfect in every way.”

“Damn right,” Cat agreed, coming up behind
me and leaning on my shoulders. “You could at least follow me, though.”

“I’d follow you anywhere,” I purred.

His expression changed, and heat came off
him in waves. “Rehearsal’s over for the night,” he barked at the rest of the
band. “I’ll see you back in here at ten tomorrow. In the meantime make the most
of your evening – I certainly intend to.” He grinned, grabbing my hand and
leading me out the room, back to his bedroom where I stayed – as a very
willing prisoner – for the rest of the night.

*

The boys were all in the studio, while I
waited in the music room with Eddy for the arrival of the photographer and the
accompanying journalist. Wayne had said they had some clothes they wanted me to
consider wearing for the shoot, and that if I did I might be paid for my
effort. I felt uncomfortable being paid for wearing clothes, but I couldn’t
deny that the thought of being able to send some money back to Mama was an
incentive. I figured even if they turned up with bin liners I’d probably be
willing to put them on if it meant I could get Mama away from the Somervilles
sooner.

I sat basking in a pool of sunlight as Eddy
played his violin composition. The music drifted over me, ethereal and dreamy. It
really was a stunning piece, making me reflect on the time I had spent earlier that
day with Cat. “I don’t want to know what you’re thinking about, or should I say
who,” Eddy said, as he finished his piece. “You look like the cat that got the
cream… or Cat got his cream,” he sniggered.

“Eddy!” I giggled in mock indignation, just
as there was a knock on the door.

Dave, the head security guy, stuck his head
into the room. “Delilah, they’re here. They’re just scoping some locations
outside for the pictures if you wanted to come out and say hi?”

“Sure,” I agreed easily, slipping on my
flip-flops and following him outside to where a man and two women were waiting
beside Cat’s swimming pool.

“We thought we might take some pictures of
you in the swimming pool,” one of the women enthused. “We’ve brought some
amazing bathing costumes after Wayne mentioned Cat had a pool here. The light
would be perfect. Oh, I’m Catherine, and this is David, your photographer, and
finally Steph,” she said, pointing at the youngest of the three. “She can do
your make-up if you want her to.”

“Delilah. Umm, I’d prefer not to do the
pool if you don’t mind. I can’t swim,” I admitted, embarrassed that the first
thing they knew about me, apart from my name, was my lack of any water-based
skill. I felt the need to show at least a little willingness. “I could dangle
my legs over the side, though, if that helps?”

Catherine looked at me thoughtfully. “Tell
me a bit about yourself, Delilah. What is ‘Delilah’ all about?” She put my name
in irritating quote marks, seemingly encouraging me to talk about myself in the
third person. I worried the interview was going to be a painful experience.

“I’m just an ordinary girl from
Cambridgeshire, that’s about it,” I admitted with a smile. I figured it was
better she understood my ordinariness sooner rather than later.

“Oh, you live near here, then?”

“Used to. Not too far.”

“Is that how you met Cat?”

“No, I met Cat through Matt’s brother, Eddy,”
I said, pointing towards my friend. “We’re at university together, studying
music. We became close friends – then he invited me to spend the summer
with him and his brother’s band.” I smiled over at him, and he grinned back at
me.

“Spend the summer with the hottest rock
band on the planet at the moment… huh, that must have been a hard decision,”
she said with a laugh.

“Oh, I didn’t know who his brother was at
the time. I was just grateful he was willing to let me come and be a hanger-on.
I had no idea Matt was his brother.”

“Seriously?” She sounded incredulous.

“Seriously,” Eddy interrupted. “It was me
who insisted she come.”

“Huh,” Catherine said, looking at me with
her head on one side, as if I genuinely confused her in some way. “So, anyway,
how did you get involved in the single? Why did Cat choose you?”

“I helped him write it, and then after we
sang it together he thought I should keep singing it with him.”

“You co-wrote the song?” Again there was a
note of surprise.

“Yeah. He’d already started it, and I
helped him tweak it a bit.” I got the feeling she’d had me down as a pretty
face and not much more.

“So have you written anything else?”

“A few things. I’ve only started recently. Before
that I always played covers. Cat’s Steinway helped to inspire me.” I laughed.

“So we can expect an album of your own at
some point soon?” She seemed more comfortable with this topic, as if she was
relieved to be back on familiar conversational ground.

“Oh, I doubt it,” I said, pausing to think
about her question. “I have to compose for my college course, and I’m happy to do
it – to be honest I think now I’ve done it once, I’d just write for the
pleasure of it – but I thought I might teach music when I finish my degree.
Or maybe do a Post Graduate Certificate in Education. You know, do it properly.”
She stared at me, eyes unblinking, as if I were completely alien to her.

“So you’re not promoting anything yourself?
Why are you even doing this interview?”

“Because I was told it would help Cat and
the band. It will help their single. And Cold Comfort’s manager said I should. Plus
he said if I wear the clothes you’ve brought with you you’d pay me.”

“Ah, so you’re after some money to pay off your
student debts?”

“No, it’s not for me. I thought it would
help my Mama.” A startled laugh erupted from the photographer behind us, who’d
been unobtrusively taking photos as we talked. The journalist looked over her
shoulder and frowned at him.

“Let’s get this interview done, then,” she
said. “Then we can have a look at these clothes and see if there are any you
wouldn’t mind wearing.”

We talked for about an hour. After the
initial awkwardness we both relaxed into it, and I found she was more
thoughtful than it had first seemed. Her natural cynicism of my motives faded
as we sought to understand each other better. The story of a normal girl with a
love of music, mostly self-taught, who fell across the chance to make music
with one of the biggest bands around at the moment, before falling in love (her
words) with their notorious womaniser of a lead singer made a story she thought
her readers would like. I seriously doubted it, but when she spoke about it she
made the situation sound more glamorous and exciting than my recollection of
events.

When the interview was completed to her
satisfaction we looked at the clothes. I shunned anything I considered too
revealing, opting for a pleated skirt and a simple sheer t-shirt for my first
outfit, and a pair of black high-waisted trousers with a sleeveless roll-neck
top, also in black, for my second. My make-up was simple and fresh, so I was reasonably
happy by the time we were ready.