Best of 2017

“I don’t need to.” She rests her head on my shoulder and I close my eyes. Savour this moment.

Savour every moment.

Charing Cross Road is heaving when the cab drops us, but the venue I’ve booked is totally deserted.

She stares around in bewilderment as I stroll up to the bar.

“This is… quiet…”

“It’s by design, Amy.”

“It is?”

I smile as I order champagne from the solitary barman, and she raises her eyebrows as I take one for myself.

“A one-off,” I say. “A celebration.”

She raises her glass. “A celebration of what?”

“Life,” I tell her.

Her eyes flash with pain, and I wonder why the word hurts her so badly. It’s so stark to me in this one moment – how little I know about this woman. How little I know about her life.

But she is life.

She’s everything.

And she’s also a fucking mind reader.

“You are life,” she whispers and clinks my glass.

“I’m quitting my job,” I tell her, just like that. “I think it’s about time I lived a little.” I laugh at my own sick little joke.

Her eyes are like dinner plates. “You’re quitting?”

“I’m a lawyer,” I tell her, like she hasn’t pieced two and two together already. “I spend my life enabling very rich people to do whatever the hell they fucking want. Destroy whoever the fuck they want. But not anymore.”

She dithers as she sips her champagne. “And you can just… resign? These very rich people won’t want you to leave, right?”

“How is your drink?”

She nods. “Really good.”

I finish up mine, and the bubbles taste fucking divine.

“It’s time for the show,” I tell her, and take her hand.

MELISSA

I’M SCARED and I don’t know why. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but I know it’s bad.

I know it’s really bad.

I also know for sure that I was wrong about Alexander Henley.

I was wrong about everything.

I thought I knew every single thing there was to know about this man, but I was a fool.

Because I know things. Stupid little things. Tiny pieces of shattered mirror I’ve been fitting together as I go.

But the mirror doesn’t make the man.

The man is right here at my side, and he’s not a collection of things. He’s not his interests, or his divorce paperwork, or the smell on his bedsheets.

He’s not the man they call the puppet master. He’s not the lawyer who loves his job the way I always assumed he’d love it.

And I’m pretty sure he’s a man who can’t just walk away.

I’m sure you can’t just walk away from those kind of people.

My heart is in my mouth as I follow him through to the back room, and the venue is still empty here. A roomful of empty tables, and only one of them has a candle on it, the one right in the middle with the very best view of the stage.

I can’t make out the huddle of people setting up, not without the spotlights, but I recognise the opening notes the moment they ring out.

I’ve heard this album so many times. On the underground on the way to Kensington and back again. At night in bed while I’m thinking of him.

He squeezes my hand. “I had to pull some strings for this,” he whispers. “Just as well they call me the Puppet Master.”

I feign ignorance, but he’s not even looking at me, he’s looking at them. “The Puppet Master?”

“Yes.”

“Why do they call you that?”

“Because my dirty hands pull everyone’s strings.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I squeeze that dirty hand of his and he squeezes mine right back.

I love his dirty hands.

I love him.

He pulls out my seat for me and takes the one at my side. His thigh presses to mine under the table, and his dirty hand is on my knee.

“This is really just for us?” I ask him, and he smiles.

“For you,” he says.

“For me?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who loves this band as much as I do,” he tells me, and I feel rotten inside. My belly is full of worms.

“I do love them,” I say, and it’s not actually a lie. Not anymore.

I know that for certain when they start up the set. I feel every note in my heart. I feel the sadness in the lyrics. I feel how beautiful this is.

Everything is beautiful.

But nothing is so beautiful as Alexander Henley.

I watch him as he stares at the stage, and his mouth is open just a little, his eyes wide as he takes it all in. His foot taps along to the beat and mine taps with it, and his eyes are so happy I could cry.

So I do.

I do cry.

I cry for the beautiful sadness in the music.

I cry for all the lies I’ve told.

I cry for my lost dreams and the parents I’d give my life for, just to see them one more time.

I cry for the way I love Alexander Henley.

I cry happy tears for the way I get to hold him at night.

I’m wiping them from my cheeks when I feel his eyes on mine. “What is it?” he whispers as Kings and Castles start up their next song.

“This,” I tell him. “It’s perfect.”

“Yes.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Yes, it is.”

I know Dean is waiting for my text with the venue location, but I can’t give him this one.

I know Dean is hanging around the city for my instructions to head on in to wherever we are and give Alexander the eye.

I want to text him and tell him to go home to Joe, to tell him this was all a mistake and I’m going to tell Alexander my real name before the night is out, because I’m done with all the lies and the stupid games.

I want this to be real. More than anything in the world I want this to be real.

I’m staring at Alexander’s beautiful dark eyes as the opening bars of Casual Observer ring out from the stage.

I’m smiling as he smiles, ready for his arms as he pulls me close.

And it is real.

This is real.

The way my heart beats against his is real. The love I see in his smile, that’s all real too.

I sing the words as he does, and this song is all about feeling like an outsider in a crowded world, which is funny, because the world is empty tonight. It’s just him and me, and I’ve never felt less of an outsider than I do right now.

“This was worth every penny,” he whispers as the song finishes up. “I’d have paid ten times over to see you so happy.”

And that’s why I don’t a send a cancellation text Dean after all.

That’s why I keep my shit together enough to ride this crazy train right to the end of the line.

Because as much as it scares the crap out of me to take this so insanely far, it’ll be worth every panicked heartbeat to give Alexander Henley exactly what he wants.

Even if Alexander Henley thinks he’s doing it all for me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ALEXANDER

/> AMY IS GLOWING as we give our thanks to the band after the set. She tells them how much she loves them, eyes twinkling as she relays all the same stories she told me.

I love listening to them.

I love listening to her.

If I was a man who believed in mumbo jumbo, I’d say she and I stood as indisputable evidence that soulmates really do exist. That there really is fate at play behind the chaos of life. That chance encounters are sometimes nothing less than little miracles.

She feels like a miracle to me.

But I’m not, so this is simply an extraordinarily perfect set of coincidences.

It doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

Amy can’t hide her disappointment as I suggest we cab it home for the rest of the evening. It surprises me when she takes my hand and implores we stay out awhile. Suggests we live a little.

I’m happy to indulge her.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been out amidst the general populous on a Saturday night. There’s a thrum in the air as we step into a busy little tavern just down the road from the venue.

Amy orders a wine as I contemplate my options.

I should go for a mineral water, but she squeezes my arm before I can.

“Live a little, right?” she calls over the humdrum, and she’s right.

I really should live a little.

So I do. I order the finest whisky they have, then trail happily behind my sparkling Amy as she leads us to an empty table in the corner.

The humdrum pales for me the moment she disappears to the bathroom. Tonight isn’t about London, or having a few drinks in spite of my own self-imposed abstinence. It’s not even about our private performance from the world’s greatest band.

Tonight is all about her and this insane connection we share.

The insane connection that has me hoping I can navigate this terrible fucking mess of my life and come out the other side unscathed.

With her.

I want to come out the other side with her.

I tell her so when she returns. My voice is just a ghost in her ear. The hand I’ve placed against her spine registers her intake of breath when I say the words.

“Come away with me.”

“Come away with you where?”

“Wherever I have to go,” I answer, and her eyes flash with fear.

I really shouldn’t have said anything. That’s champagne and whisky for you.