Why Does it Taste so Sweet? (3 page)

But no Ray.

Downstairs, she stopped in the lobby and peered around. Just as she was wondering what to do now, a door opened and a tall, brunette woman emerged. For a heart-stopping moment she thought it was Róisín, then she noted the fuller figure, the collar-length hair, the
smile
.

“Ah,
bonjour
,” said the woman. “I am Justine. I get you breakfast, yes? The boys, they are in the studio. Mr Sandler asked me to look out for you, no?”

She let Justine make strong black coffee for her and she went out to the terrace with that and a croissant.

Let them work. She could get used to this. Such a beautiful place, and such a laid back pace of life. She liked the way Justine spoke of ‘Mr Sandler’ in the same breath as ‘the boys’. So relaxed.

She checked her phone, but there were no messages, then she realized she didn’t even care. Let the world carry on without her for a while.

“I have to go back,” she said.

Early afternoon and he’d finally emerged from the studio. He looked pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes. How early had he slipped away to start working? As soon as he saw her, the spark was back and he came across, meeting her as she stood, holding her, kissing her.

“Hey,” he said. “God that’s so damned good.”

But she had to go back.

“Why? Why the rush?”

She laughed. “Remember you didn’t consult me about all this?” she said. “Remember how you just whisked me away from Kayleigh’s wedding and said we were flying to France?”

“Details, details,” he said.

“Well I have to be back at work tomorrow. Douglas Hamilton gave me a few days off to get sorted out, but it’s Monday tomorrow, time to get back.”

For a moment he had the air of a surly child, then he shrugged and grinned and he said, “You could commute.”

And if she’d wanted to, she knew he would have arranged it. A flight and a car from here would probably be quicker than a lot of people’s daily journeys to work in London, after all.

She shook her head. “Nutter,” she said. “In the nicest possible way.”

“We won’t be much longer here,” said Ray. “Rake’s done wonders. It’s really coming together. It’s so good to be working with him again. So good to see him clean like this.”

Clean. She knew about Rake’s track record with drink and drugs. That was supposed to be one of the things that had torn the Angry Cans apart: Rake and Ray getting wasted and starting to fight.

“That’s really good,” she said. “It’s lovely to see the two of you like this.” There was such a buzz between the two of them. On the one hand she should probably feel offended that Ray was so focused on the album, but on the other... how often do you get to see what was probably going to be a landmark work of art being put together like this? And to know that she was in some small way a part of it, an inspiration, as he kept telling her?

“I’ll get Justine to sort out a car and flight,” he said. The people around Ray tended to work like that: just as Mo wasn’t merely a minder, Justine was clearly more than someone who made breakfast for guests. People who worked for Ray were trusted. “Have you thought about where you’re going to stay?”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got it all worked out.”

Sitting there alone in the sun that morning, she’d texted Marcia:

Coming home today. That okay? xx

About twenty minutes later, a reply had come through:

All cool hun. Got yr key? xx

“You going to be okay?”

“I’m going to be okay.”

“I’ll tell Justine to make arrangements.”

“Thank you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I know.”

This was like one of those lovers’ telephone conversations where neither wants to be the first to hang up.

“I’ll tell–”

“–Justine. Thank you.”

He kissed her, his touch delicate, a brief pressing of lips. “I really do love you.”

And suddenly her voice was gone. All she could do was settle into his arms, and wonder how she’d ever ended up here, with him, like this.

§

Marcia’s place was spotless, as ever. Soft music was playing, a jug of coffee was on, its nutty, roast aroma permeating the apartment. It was a bit like somewhere in the process of being sold, the owner consciously following all the rules for making a good impression.

Emily saw all this over her friend’s shoulder as she stood awkwardly in the living room doorway. Emily had let herself in, making enough noise so that Marcia wouldn’t be startled by her sudden appearance.

She dropped her two bags at her feet, looked up again, past Marcia, and then finally met her old friend’s look.

Marcia smiled, falteringly, her features looking even more angular in the light coming through from the living room. After a long pause, she said, “I don’t know what the question is, but I’m guessing wine might be the answer?”

Emily stepped forward, and then they were in each other’s arms, a brief hug that started off awkward and then, just as they started to pull apart, a second squeeze transformed it into something else. Old times. History. All the times they’d turned to each other support. All the good times, too.
That
: in a brief, secondary squeeze.

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Emily, and followed her friend through into the living room.

§

“I was drunk,” said Marcia. “That’s no excuse, I know, but it’s how it was, it’s an explanation. It was a work thing, I think. I don’t really remember.”

Emily didn’t want to know the details about Marcia and Thom, but she had to. They both understood that. If she knew then she could do something with the knowledge. If she didn’t it would fester, fed by all the unanswered questions and doubts.

“You weren’t there, though. And I didn’t want to be. So there was this guy. I’d been stood up and this guy looked kind of familiar and he brought me a drink. And he said, ‘You don’t even know who I am, do you?’ So I looked at him and then I knew why he looked familiar. He was Thom. He was kind. I hadn’t expected that. He said I looked like I needed some help and he could give me a lift, make sure I was okay. Look... are you sure you want to know?”

Marcia was the one who was crying, as she sat there clutching her wine glass, sitting forward in her chair.

Emily nodded. “I need to,” she said.

“It was pathetic. He drove me home, walked me to my door. Just to be sure I was okay, he said.”

It had happened here, at Marcia’s place! Of course it had: it had to have happened somewhere.

“I opened the door and he said would I be okay again and then I kind of grabbed him. It was me. I was drunk and angry with the world and it was pathetic.”

“It wasn’t just you.”

Marcia looked down into her drink, then continued. “We did it. He looked just about as embarrassed as I felt. He left. He almost ran. I thought then that it was a one-off. Just something that had happened because of a fluke of circumstances and it had scared him, and if that’s how it was then telling you would just wreck everything, so I kept quiet. But then I asked around, and heard enough stories to know that it had been more than just me, but by then I was already lying to you and covering up and I knew that if I said anything it would all come out. I think that was worse than anything: I couldn’t tell you what he was like. All I could do was watch while your marriage limped on.”

“I knew what he was like. I just thought he had changed. He hadn’t.”

“I should have said.”

“Maybe.”

“Should have.”

“Whatever.”

Marcia glanced up and the two of them held eye contact for just long enough to know that it was going to be okay, the two of them.

“If it helps at all,” said Marcia, “he didn’t make me come.”

“Bitch.”

“Yeah, but
your
bitch.”

“Too right.”

Emily sat back and drained her glass.

“So how are things with you?” asked Marcia. “Still shagging rock stars?”

“I am,” said Emily, and now she smiled. “And it’s something I’d recommend.”

“Things good?”

She nodded. Things really were good.

“He called, you know.” For a moment Emily was thrown, thinking that Ray must have called for some reason. Then she realized Marcia had returned to their previous conversation. Thom. It was Thom who had called.

“Really? Are you still in his little black book?”

“Fuck off.” Marcia reached for the bottle and used it to gesture at Emily’s glass.

“What did he want?” Emily leaned over for a refill.

“You.”

“Me?”

“He’s desperate to fix things. He wanted me to persuade you to go back to him.”

“He still thinks that’s on the cards?”

“He does,” said Marcia. “Poor bastard. Doesn’t get it at all, does he?”

When she walked back into the office at just after nine the next day, it reminded her of walking through the airport with Ray. They weren’t exactly gathering around her and taking photos on their phones, but it wasn’t far off that.

Liz and Suchita on Reception fixed their eyes on her and leaned together, their heads almost touching, talking softly. In the big open plan office people broke off in mid-conversation to watch her thread her way through to her desk. In the glass-fronted offices suited men peered up from their computers.

All this attention, and she didn’t even have an international rock star at her side.

For a moment she thought she must have tucked her skirt into her panties, or spilt coffee down her blouse, but no: they were just looking at her. Exhibit A. Ray Sandler’s girlfriend.

She quite liked that. It made her smile. Made her head fill with a rush of memories of the weekend and before. Made her chest swell with all those positive vibes, the confidence he instilled in her, the knowledge that someone like him saw something in someone like her.

She said a few hellos, but nobody seemed to want to be the first to strike up conversation. That initial moment of novelty shifted quickly into freakshow awkwardness.

She lost herself in her inbox. So much rubbish to delete, but also so much to catch up on. She’d only been away for a few days... She had no meetings lined up for this morning, which was good for now. She’d need to schedule some for later in the week, though: time to catch up on a number of projects she’d let slip.

Douglas Hamilton didn’t give her long.

He’d been on the phone when she walked in. He’d held it, a hand over the mouthpiece, as he paused to watch her find her way to her desk, then he’d looked back at his monitor and resumed his conversation. Now, though, he caught her eye through the glass wall of his office, raised an eyebrow and then raised a finger as if summoning a waiter.

She nodded, pressed Send on an email, and then went through.

He didn’t indicate that she should sit, so she stood awkwardly by the door, suddenly realizing that this was not right, that things had changed.

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” he said.

Was that all? Should she have messaged ahead to say she’d be back today?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have let you know. I have a lot to catch up on, so I thought–”

“This isn’t working, Emily.”

Those words were fatal, she knew. Irreversible. The work equivalent of a lover’s
It’s not you, it’s me
. She swallowed, but said nothing.

“Last week I advised you to take some time out to get your life in order. I didn’t think I needed to spell it out for you. I didn’t think... Well, shall we say that being plastered all over the papers with a prospective client’s husband is not what I had mind? Ms Flaherty is not happy.”

Ms Flaherty
. He meant Róisín. She’d come to the office once before and made things difficult for Emily. “The papers,” said Emily. “I didn’t know.” She remembered the press photographers gathered outside Kayleigh’s wedding, but she hadn’t seen anything in the papers. She’d been in France; she’d been ignoring her phone. “I... I didn’t know Ms Flaherty was a prospective client.”

“Does that matter?” Hamilton always presented himself as a slightly bumbling, very middle-class Englishman, but now there was a real steel to his tone. “We have our credibility to consider at Hamilton and Chambers.”

“I’m sorry. What can I do?”

The look in his eyes.

“Am I being fired?”

He’d already warned her for being distracted and under-performing. Was this the final blow?

He looked away. “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know, Emily. We’ll work it out after things have calmed down. You still have leave to use: I suggest you take it, so we don’t have to force the issue now.”

§

She sat in the window seat of the Costa near her office. This was where she came to think. She would slip away from her desk with a laptop and work here, have teleconferences here, even meet clients here. When things had been good, Hamilton and Chambers were fine with that: she could work wherever she wanted, and whatever hours she chose, as long as she delivered. But when things had become bad, without her even realizing, her irregular hours at her desk had become something that was noticed, noted and, ultimately, used against her.

She texted Marcia.

I’m screwed. I think I’m in the process of being fired. xx

She didn’t say anything to Ray. Didn’t call him, or send him a text message.

She wasn’t sure what to say, right now. Didn’t want to admit that she might have screwed up. Didn’t want to get angry with him that his ex-wife – no: his
wife
, damn it! – was sabotaging her. She wasn’t ready to confront what that might actually mean, not now, in the heat of the moment. She remembered her first and only encounter with Róisín:
Raymond and me: our world is different. The rules are different. Do you understand? He always comes back. Always
.

She hesitated, then called Mo.

She didn’t know what to make of him. At first she’d thought he was some kind of security man, and then she’d learned that he ran a lot of the PR for Ray and the Angry Cans. He was Ray’s trusted sidekick, his sounding board and, more than anything, one of his few genuine friends.

“Hey, it’s Marcia’s friend.” Mo always seemed to have a smile in his voice, and his greeting made Emily smile, too: it was how he’d first referred to her, back at the gig at the Roxette, and now that she was actually speaking to Marcia again it had even lost the ironic twist. “What can I do for you, Emily? The man says he’ll be back in a couple of days.”