Million Love Songs

  And I’m trapped here. Any minute they’ll be upon me and I have nowhere to go. What I’d like to do is turn and run, yet I’d draw even more attention to myself. I can’t bolt back into the shop as I’d have to go right in front of them, but I don’t want him to see me here. I really don’t want him to see me. How could I bear to exchange bland pleasantries when inside I’m slowly dying?

  With moments to spare, I scout round for an escape route but can see no way out. I’ll just have to tough it out and hope that he’s so loved-up that he won’t notice me. Instead, I slowly crouch down behind the massive planter that’s in the middle of the concourse with a palm tree sprouting of the top of it. I try to make myself very, very small. If I stay here, they might well pass by without spotting me.

  Then, just as I think that I’m well hidden and that no one, in a million years, will ever notice me, a voice behind me says, ‘What the hell are you doing, Brown?’

  It’s Mason. Of all the people, in all the world!

  ‘Shush!’ I say. ‘Get down.’

  He looks at me perplexed. As well he might be.

  ‘Get down. Get down. I’m hiding.’

  ‘Not very well, as it happens.’ Nevertheless, he crouches next to me, his face close to mine and grins at me. ‘I’m assuming there’s a good reason for this.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I mutter at him. ‘I didn’t think you shopped where the proles shopped. I thought you went to Bond Street or something where the posh people get their retail therapy.’

  ‘I normally do,’ he concedes. ‘Who knew I was missing out on so much?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ I watch as Joe draws level with me, unaware that I’m so close. My throat tightens and I grip the plant pot until my knuckles turn white.

  ‘Is that him?’ Mason fixes me with a stare. ‘The one who broke your heart? Is that why you’re hiding behind a big plant pot?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confess, miserably.

  ‘Wow. He’s not a bad looker,’ Mason concedes. ‘If I was that way inclined, I would.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Who’s the woman? His new squeeze?’

  ‘His wife,’ I mumble.

  ‘Wife?’ Mason laughs. ‘He’s married? Oh, Brown. Schoolgirl error.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he wasn’t married when I started seeing him and then he was again. It’s complicated.’

  ‘He looks very happy.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ I feel like crying. Yet I should be pleased that his family is reunited, that they’ve put the troubles they’ve had behind them. The kids will be happier, that’s for sure. I hope Gina now appreciates how very lucky she is. Without even trying, I can still feel Joe’s hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the comfort of his arms.

  They continue walking past. Danger averted. I sit down heavily on the dirty floor.

  ‘Bloody hell, Brown.’ Mason frowns at me. ‘You’re in a bad way.’

  ‘I know.’ It’s taking all my strength not to break down and weep. I feel as if I start crying then I might never stop.

  ‘OK. What do women do when they’re miserable?’

  ‘Comfort eat. Get drunk. Talk to their mates.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Let’s do that.’

  ‘It’s a great idea, but I can’t, Mason.’

  ‘Why not? What else do you have planned?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I admit.

  Mason hauls me to my feet. ‘This isn’t you, Brown. Let’s get seriously pissed. Then you can dust yourself down and get on with your life.’ He puts his hand gently on my cheek. ‘I want to help,’ he murmurs. ‘Will you let me?’

  I nod at him tearfully. So Mason puts his hand on my elbow and steers me out of the shopping centre. I don’t know where we’re going, I’m just grateful that it’s away from Joe and his family.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Mason takes me to a restaurant that only serves desserts. We sit in a booth in the bright pink and white space. Currently, we’re the only customers.

  I’m incapable of making a decision so Mason goes off to order for us both. While he’s gone, I cry into the napkins and think how much Tom and Daisy would love it here. Then realise that I have to stop thinking like that or I’ll go mad. Maybe I already am.

  Our desserts arrive and Mason has ordered well. For me there’s a classic banana split, filled with vanilla ice-cream, chopped nuts, chocolate sprinkles, and topped with toffee syrup, fudge cubes and a froth of whipped cream. Mason has an enormous knickerbocker glory which looks marginally more healthy than mine as, at least, it involves some fresh fruit. Strawberries are layered with chocolate and vanilla ice-cream, the obligatory overdose of fresh cream and strawberry syrup finished with a cherry and a wafer.

  ‘Eat, Brown,’ Mason instructs when I just sit there staring at it.

  I push my tears back in and pick up my spoon. We don’t speak as we eat which is fine by me. I just sit here letting the coldness of the ice-cream give me brain-freeze.

  When I finish my last mouthful, Mason says, ‘Phase two. Come on.’ He leaves a generous tip on the table, takes me by the hand and drags me down the street and into the nearest bar – one that’s Cuban themed. It’s normally bustling but, at this time in the day, there’s just the tail-end of the lunchtime crowd.

  We find bar stools. I feel so broken that I can hardly sit upright.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ Mason asks.

  ‘Apart from unavailable men?’

  He rolls his eyes and pushes the cocktail menu at me.

  I stare at it, not really seeing anything. I can’t even think what I’d like to drink.

  ‘Shall I order for us again?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I close the menu. ‘As long as it involves lots of alcohol.’

  Mason catches the attention of the barman. ‘A Madhatter’s Teapot, please.’

  Salsa music blares out and the air smells of grilled chicken.

  A huge teapot and two metal mugs arrive. Mason pours me a drink. ‘Three different kinds of rum, passionfruit, lime. I can’t remember what else is in there.’

  Tentatively, I take a sip. ‘Wow.’ It nearly knocks my head off. ‘This is lethal.’

  Mason tries his. ‘Tastes good though.’

  ‘I’ll be flat on my back in no time.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He grins cheekily at me and I can’t help but smile back. You can’t fault Mason for trying. ‘Down the hatch!’

  We clink mugs together.

  As soon as we’ve knocked back the first mug, he tops us up from the teapot. The rum starts to numb my heart and loosen my tongue.

  ‘Why are you interested in me?’ I ask him.

  ‘Because you’re different, Brown,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘You make me work hard for what little you dish out.’

  I laugh out loud at that. ‘I came to Paris with you the minute you clicked your fingers.’

  He frowns at me. ‘We got on OK there, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I shrug.

  His frown deepens. ‘No matter what I do, I never feel that I get under your skin, Brown. Why do you keep me at arm’s length? What has Family Man got that I haven’t?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about him,’ I say, worried to hear that I’m already a bit slurry. I clink my mug against Mason’s. A bit too enthusiastically. Rum sloshes out on his jeans. He doesn’t even look perturbed, he just grins at me indulgently. ‘I drink to forget.’

  ‘And you will forget.’

  ‘Forget what?’ I quip, then laugh like a drain at my own wittiness. We drink more and more rum.

  When there is nothing left in our teapot, Mason asks, ‘Feeling better?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘We have to do it all over again then, Brown.’

  So we go back to the dessert restaurant. This time I have Nutella pancakes smothered with chocolate sauce. Mason has toffee apple and pecan pie. When we’ve finished, we go back to the bar.

  This time we share a Berry Big mojito which comes in s
omething that looks like a flower vase. It’s certainly the size of one and it’s filled to overflowing with white rum, Chambord, muddled summer berries, mint and lime. If the teapot of rum wasn’t there already, it would go straight to my head. I’m struggling to sit upright on my bar stool and keep sliding off. I cackle away. It’s hilarious! Trust me.

  ‘Whoah, there!’ Mason catches me as I slide sideways once more. ‘Steady on, Brown.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ I start giggling and can’t quite stop.

  ‘Tell me that this is helping you to forget him?’

  ‘Who?’ I say. ‘Forget who?’ And that sets me off cackling again, even though I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before. But soon I’m not laughing and seem to be crying. I wonder where Joe is now and what he’s doing. He’s at home in the bosom of his family while I’m here getting slaughtered with Shagger Soames and can’t even sit nicely on a bar stool.

  ‘Time to go home,’ Mason says and he helps me down off my stool as I don’t seem to have legs that work any more.

  He drags me outside and, when the fresh air hits me, I collapse into a heap. Mason heaves me onto his shoulder and flags down a cab, then bundles me in. This is a nice feeling of oblivion. I have no sensation anywhere. I feel as if I’m floatingfloatingfloating.

  I wake up as the cab stops outside my flat. I’m vaguely aware of Mason paying the driver but all I want is sleep, lovely sleep.

  ‘Where’s your key, Brown?’ Mason roots in my handbag. It’s in there somewhere, I’m sure. Eventually he says, ‘Ha!’ and then he starts to haul me up the stairs. ‘Bloody hell, woman. You’re like a sack of coal. Can’t you move at all?’

  I’d like to respond, but it all seems too much trouble.

  ‘I think I may have overdone the drink element,’ Mason is muttering to no one in particular. He opens the door and then manhandles me into the granny annexe. ‘Straight to bed?’

  I nod. ‘I want sex with you,’ I tell him.

  ‘You don’t,’ he says. ‘You want sex with anyone. That’s not the same.’

  Even in my drunken state, I think he’s probably right.

  So he picks me up and carries me through to the bedroom, kicking the door open. He dumps me on the bed and I land with an ‘oouff’.

  He turns round and jumps when he sees my cardboard cut-out. ‘Jeez, Brown. That thing nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  That makes me giggle.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask why you have a cardboard cut-out of a middle-aged man in your bedroom.’

  ‘Issssss Gary Barlow,’ I slur.

  ‘That still doesn’t explain it.’

  I hold out my arms to Mason and he cuddles me. It feels nice to be in his arms, someone’s arms and I really would very much like sex. ‘Come to bed.’ I try to look alluring.

  ‘That’s terrifying,’ he says with a shake of his head. He prises me away from him and gets my duvet and tucks it around me. My eyes suddenly feel very heavy.

  Mason sits beside me and strokes my hair tenderly. ‘Comfy?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage

  ‘Do you think you’re going to puke up?’

  I shake my head and that does make me feel sick.

  ‘I’ll be right in the living room if you need me. Just shout.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll be here if you need me.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Sleep tight, Ruby Brown.’

  ‘Night, Mason,’ I murmur back. And I think I’m asleep before he leaves the room.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  I wake up because the brilliant ray of sunshine coming through the window is hurting my eyes. I must have gone to bed without drawing the curtains and then I remember why. My eyes feel like rugby balls in my head and when I try to sit upright, my head seems to be melded to my pillow. I check that I have all of my limbs as I can’t actually feel any of them.

  As quick as my head can manage, I turn to see if I am alone in the bed and am relieved to find that I am. I’m sure Mason came back with me. He must have left after he put me to bed. Thank goodness. Sinking back onto my pillow, I let out a heartfelt sigh. That was quite some session. And it’s all coming back to me now. I have no idea how much rum that teapot held, or the vase, but it was a fair bit. I’m rather proud of myself that I didn’t see my banana split or my Nutella pancakes again. Hardcore.

  I’m due at work later, so I need to get my act together. Dragging myself out of bed, I lean on the walls of the shower for a bit while the water does its best to revive me, pull on some undies and, when I fail to find my dressing gown, wander out into the lounge.

  I recoil when I see Mason standing at my cooker as I’ve only got my undies on, but then he’s dressed only in black underpants and my pink kimono. He doesn’t even have that belted. ‘Close your mouth, Brown,’ he says. ‘You’re gaping at me.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were still here. I should go and get dressed.’

  ‘Put this on.’ He takes off my dressing gown and tosses it to me. As it’s a while since our last intimate encounter, I’d forgotten quite how fit his body is beneath his clothes. ‘I’m here to make you breakfast. Hair of the dog and all that. It’s what knights in shining armour do.’

  ‘Pah,’ I say.

  ‘Sit down,’ he instructs. ‘How do you like your eggs? Scrambled or fried?’

  ‘No eggs,’ I manage.

  ‘Bacon butty?’

  Weirdly, that sounds like a very good idea. So I sit at my tiny kitchen table and try to resist the urge to lay my head down on it and go back to sleep.

  When Mason has fussed a bit more, he puts a toasted bacon butty down in front of me. I don’t point out that it’s something of a miracle that I have the necessary ingredients. Bread usually being the trickiest of them all.

  He sits opposite me and, in the cramped space, his toes rest on mine.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Much appreciated.’

  ‘I feel we may have overdone it a bit,’ he says looking suitably repentant. ‘Apologies.’

  ‘No, it was fun. Thanks. It was just what I needed.’ I tentatively bite into the butty to test if I’m going to be able to keep it down. So far so good. ‘Thanks for not … well … taking advantage of me. I was in a bit of a state.’

  ‘You were most definitely hammered,’ Mason agrees. ‘And, strangely, I prefer my sexual partners conscious.’

  I laugh at that.

  ‘Whereas you, Ms Brown, seem to prefer your night-time companions made out of cardboard.’ He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I like Take That. What can I say?’

  ‘I always knew that your taste was dubious.’

  ‘Blame Charlie,’ I tell him. ‘She’s brainwashed me.’

  ‘She’s a big fan?’

  ‘The biggest. They’re playing in Paris soon. We thought about going. If we can get the cash together.’

  Mason looks thoughtful, but says nothing.

  ‘This is very good.’ I wave what’s left of my bacon butty at him.

  ‘I have many skills. I wish you’d let me show you them.’

  I snarf at him.

  ‘Don’t laugh. I’m serious. I could make very good boyfriend material.’ He licks butter from his fingers and tries to look nonchalant as he adds, ‘Why don’t you give us a go? What have you got to lose?’

  ‘I’m not in the right place for a relationship,’ I tell him. ‘My head is completely fucked. I’m even thinking about moving abroad. Starting somewhere completely new.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he says. ‘I’d miss you.’

  ‘Yeah, well no one else would.’ Though my mum might have something to say about it, actually. I finish my bacon butty and, thankfully, it seems to help my hangover. When I check the time on my phone, I can’t believe how late it is. Most of the morning has gone. ‘I’ll have to get going soon. I have a date with the Butcher’s Arms.’

  ‘Never gets old, does it?’ Then his fingers find mine and, for a second, we hold hands over the table.


  ‘I had a nice time, Mason,’ I admit. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. We must get utterly rat-arsed together again sometime. You’re very funny when you’re drunk, Brown.’

  ‘Yeah. Hilarious.’

  He lets go of my hand, even though he looks reluctant to. ‘Mind if I take a shower?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  So I tidy up in the kitchen trying not to move too quickly – in case I dislodge the bacon layer on top of my banana split – and listen to the shower running through the thin walls. I think of Mason in there, naked, water streaming down his body and wonder, very briefly, whether I should join him. He’s right. I could do a lot worse than him. When he’s being nice, I like him. What’s the point in pining for Joe? Seeing him with Gina yesterday should have put paid to that. I busy myself washing our plates.

  Mason comes out of the bedroom ten minutes later, dressed in last night’s clothes, hair washed. ‘I’ve called a cab. Two minutes and I’ll be out of your way. See you later at work.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks again, Mason. You’re a mate.’

  ‘I could be more,’ he says lightly. He kisses me on the cheek, his hands warm on my arms and then his phone pings and it’s a text from the taxi company to say they’re outside. ‘See you, Brown.’

  ‘See you, Mason.’

  He heads off down my stairs.

  Standing on the landing, dressing gown pulled around me, I watch him go. As he gets to the cab, he turns and waves me goodbye.

  I shout after him. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He looks puzzled. ‘About what?’

  ‘Us,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll think about us.’

  He grins at me and, smiling to myself, I quickly duck back inside before my landlord sees me and realises that I’m entertaining gentlemen overnight in my granny annexe.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  I do think about me and Mason. I think about us a lot. As I said I would. But I think about me and Joe more. Boo.