Trust Me (Beggar's Choice #2) (30 page)

“Thank you Bram,” I whisper.
“Goodbye.” Nodding sharply without looking at me again he hugs me tight, and
then putting me gently to one side, he moves quickly down the corridor, opening
the band’s dressing room door to be greeted by cheers and whistles. For a
second I lean against the wall looking down the deserted corridor and listening
to the chatter from inside. I feel cold like I’m on the other side of a mirror
looking at a group of people who’ve become like family to me and I can’t get
near anymore. Then the door closes and silence falls apart from the muffled
sound of the crowd leaving and the bangs as the stage is pulled down.

I thump my head softly against
the wall and then just like always I make myself get up and move on. I push
away from the wall and go to the dressing room set aside for me. I look down at
my outfit wryly as I’ve definitely got to change before getting on a plane. I’m
wearing a black and white striped prom dress with what feels like yards of
shocking pink tulle underneath, pouffing the skirt out and showing off my bare
legs in my boots.

As I get to the door I hear
muffled laughter but it’s when I hear a familiar groan that anger fills me so
quickly it’s like a head rush. Shoving open the door I come to a stop on the
threshold, pushing a hand in my mouth to stop my cry. The blonde groupie is topless
and perched on the make-up counter, her legs wide and curled around Sid’s bare
torso. He’s bent over her in a heated kiss, their tongues tangling, and as he
grinds against her I can see that his jeans are half undone.

“Excuse me,” I say, and my voice
is so cold it feels like you could freeze ice cubes on my tongue. The blonde
screeches and tries to cover up her breasts, but Sid just moves indolently to
face me, putting a big hand high on the inside of the girl’s tanned thigh. A
part of me dimly registers that his eyes are focused and burning bright as if
he has a fever or is in pain, but then he smirks.

“Can I help you Nell?” he drawls,
and my fists clench.

“Not anymore, no. I just need to
get my things and then you can get back to your life. Sorry to disturb you.”

“You’re sorry.” He laughs
carelessly, bending down to run his tongue over the blonde’s lips who promptly
gives a porn worthy moan and sucks on his tongue lingeringly, and I can feel
the gorge rise in my throat. I have to get out of here now because otherwise I
may throw up all over the lovers. That might please me short term, but the
thought that he would know how much he’s hurt me stops me. Although looking at
him I really don’t think he cares at all. He pauses in his kissathon and quirks
an eyebrow at me. “Still here Nell? Didn’t think voyeurism was your thing but
hey, whatever,” and he goes to undo his zipper, the tinny buzz sounding
stunningly loud in the room.

“How could you Sid?” I say
clearly and he seems to flinch before recovering himself.

“How could I what Nell?”

“I told you that I loved you and
this
is your reply.”

His shoulders stiffen. “No. I
told you that you
shouldn’t
,” he hisses, bending towards me, his face
flushed and almost tormented. “That was your reply. This …,” he gestures at the
woman. “This is just my life.”

“Then I feel sorry for you,” I
say quietly. “Because this is just sad, you fucking some random stranger to
give me the message. Be a man and tell me properly.”

The blonde says ‘hey’ indignantly
but it’s drowned out by Sid’s roar. “This
is
the message you stupid
bitch. This is me saying goodbye, farewell, bon voyage and all that shit.
You’re just not paying close enough attention. Now get your suitcase and bag
and fuck off Nell. The tour’s over. You’re no fucking use to me now.”

For a second I stand stunned at
this poison spewing from the lips of the person that I love most in the world.
I would happily die for someone that has just taken pleasure in hurting me in
the most basic way. I’ll
never
fall in love again because this shit
hurts too much. Tears fill my eyes and spill over my cheeks.

He doesn’t know because he’s
turned back to the girl, his mouth working her throat, his long fingers cupping
her fake breasts, but she does, staring at me and then smirking. Recovering
myself I grab my coat and bags and avoiding looking at them I pull my suitcase
with me. “Goodbye Sid,” I whisper, but there’s no reply and then I’m outside in
the corridor hearing a muffled shout of ‘fuck’ and the sound of something
breaking loudly, but I’m gone and the closing of the stage door is just an echo
of this.

Outside I hesitate. I honestly
don’t know where to go now and I hate him for this perhaps more than anything.
Before him I’d always plodded on steadily, ignoring everything but the will to
survive and get through each day. Now I know how life should really feel – full
of infinite possibilities and small joys every day, and he’s cast me out of
this and into grey darkness again, and I hate him so much I can feel it all
over my body, the body that has loved him so much.

I push my hands into my coat
pocket and register the crackle of card. Pulling it out and squinting in the
street light I see Cameron’s telephone number. On the other side in neat print
he had written ‘
call me when
you’re free’
. Flicking the card back and forth in my fingers I stare
at the busy street. I could go home, back to mum and Molly, but the words on
the card stop me because I am free now. Sid has done that so what does it
really matter anymore? I’ll go where the wind takes me and pulling my phone out
before I can rethink it I dial his number.

I listen to the ringing, watching
a couple walk entwined together down the street as more tears prick my eyes.
That had been Sid and I a few days ago. Becoming aware of the deep, sleepy
voice in my ear I grab the phone tightly.

“Cameron. It’s Nell Slater. You
said to ring you when I’m free. Well that’s just happened tonight. Do you still
want me?”

There’s a pause and then his
voice comes again, awake now and with a husky edge to it. “Definitely Nell. I
definitely want you. I’ll book you a flight from whichever airport you’re
nearest to. Come to me in LA sweetheart.”

One month later I sit on my
balcony in the early evening twilight listening to the constant, soft sound of
the surf, while a warm breeze tugs at my hair pulling it into waves like a
crotchety hairdresser. Down below me I can hear the sounds of laughter from the
outside bar. In the distance the lights of the Santa Monica pier glisten and
flicker, and when the breeze shifts I can hear the tinny music and sounds of
screaming as someone rides the big dipper.

It’s a beautiful view and every
day I have to remind myself to be thankful because eight months ago I could
barely afford the bus fare in London. I have to remind myself because at the
moment I really can’t bring myself to feel very much at all, and it’s starting
to worry me because this is a lot of people’s dream.

When I arrived at LAX Airport a
month ago I think I was still in shock, but luckily Cameron had been waiting
for me. He’d obviously either got the story from someone before I got there, or
my face had told him everything that he needed to know, but he’d been lovely.
He’d gamely ignored the fact that I was still wearing the prom dress with stage
make up running down my face and panda eyes from the crying I’d done on the
plane. Incidentally, this incessant crying had guaranteed a spare seat next to
me on the plane.

He’d bundled me into a waiting
car and bought me here – Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica, which is a
funky boutique hotel right on the beach. He’d said that he thought that the
laidback vibe would suit me, plus it was conveniently near to his studio in
Santa Monica so I wouldn’t be caught in traffic every morning. I’ve been stuck
in a few morning commutes since then, and every single torturous minute has
made me thank him for that decision.

As it is my daily routine
consists of taking breakfast here and then I wander to Starbucks to get myself
a coffee, and then meander over to Cameron’s studio where for the last month
we’ve been writing and recording. He’s still very much a dance DJ at heart so
his music tends to be very high tempo but it’s still melodic, and he’s a
wonderful writing partner, full of ideas and humour but also very eager to hear
and use my ideas.

As for me, I’ve loved being in
the studio, not through love of my craft, but for the sole reason that for
hours at a time I don’t think of Sid, wonder what or who he’s doing, or how he
is. Instead, we just write and record, and if most of my ideas are angsty love
songs, Cameron manfully refrains from highlighting it, and just steers me away
when I get too depressing.

Unfortunately, the nights are bad
and aren’t showing any signs of getting better. I lie awake for hours, staring
into space and torturing myself with memories of what we’d had and bitter
thoughts of how it had ended.

At first for my sanity I’d
avoided all the newspapers and magazines because the band seemed to be
everywhere. With the award season coming up and the fact that they’d been
nominated for loads of things, the press had been full of them, focusing on the
tour and their private lives. I’d therefore resolutely turned my face away
every time I’d passed a news stand.

I had however been treated to the
full glory of an article about Sid and I, which had rehashed the things that
had happened on tour, and painted me out to be a desperate groupie that had
chased him relentlessly and stolen him away from his real love Leah. Call me
cynical but I detected the hand of either Leah or Vanessa in that. It had been
sent to me by my best friend Mark, and he followed it up with a very long phone
call. He’d appeared torn between congratulating me for sleeping with Sid and
wanting to know very inappropriate details about his anatomy, and wanting to
kick his backside. He’d ended up on a very wavering compromise of semi hating
him, and a promise to meet me when he got back from his shoot.

I’d like to say that I kept up my
noble disinterest in all things Sid, but unfortunately I can’t because after a
while I moved onto the more embarrassing stage of cyber stalking him. I’d
obsessively cruised the internet, examining every new picture of him and
bracing myself for him to be photographed with other women, but it hadn’t
happened. Instead, I’d just seen loads of photos of him looking stern and
slightly sad. He’d also looked thinner but I chalked that up to wild living and
not the heartache that had influenced my own weight loss.

To my consternation the others
have still kept in contact with me.  Viv and Mabe text me nearly every day
with photos and news. Mabe’s latest text had been a picture of her and Charlie.
Her baby bump is huge now and they’d been sitting together laughing at the
camera with his arms tight around her. Apparently they’re having twins, and I
wish so much that I could have been there when that news came out just to see
Sid’s face when he realised that he was going to be an uncle twice over.

Bram and Seth text too, but they
keep it brief with funny messages which carefully avoid all mention of Sid.
Charlie’s texts however have surprised me, because they’re almost brotherly,
and knowing how loyal he is to Sid he’s the last person that I would have
expected to enter into correspondence with me. He’s more in depth than the other
boys, wanting to know if I’m eating properly and how Cameron is treating me,
and offering to beat him up if he steps out of line.

He’d also sent me through the
post a load of glossy, black and white, candid, tour photographs that their
official photographer and a friend of Seth’s had taken at various stages of the
tour. None of the men liked posing for photos so every so often he would pop
up, attend a concert, take loads of backstage photos when we weren’t paying
attention, and then go out and get slaughtered with Seth.

At first I’d shoved them back in
the envelope as if I’d been burnt, but this week I’d given in and opened the
envelope and now they’re scattered over the coffee table. Reaching out I gently
touch the one that had instantly caught my eye. It’s of Sid and I on the bus
one morning and I remember it well. He’d been writing a song and had got stuck
and I’d leant over his shoulder to point out something, a chord or a phrase, I
don’t recall. The photographer had caught us bathed in sunshine, Sid with a
guitar on his lap and me leaning over him and we’re laughing hard at something.
My eyes are almost closed and my head thrown back but it’s Sid’s face that
catches the eye. He’s staring at me and his face is so soft and there’s such a
look of tenderness in it that it hurts.

At first I’d wanted to throw it
away but I can’t bring myself to do it, and now it sits at night watching over
me while I lie in bed. I tell myself that it’s there to remind me not to trust
again, but I think really I want to believe that he felt something for me, that
I hadn’t been so deluded as to offer my love to someone so heartless.

A knock on the door interrupts my
thoughts, and I hastily stuff the photos back into their envelope like a dirty
little secret. “Coming,” I call out, and when I open the door I blink at a
bellboy who is carrying a large box stamped heavily with
fragile
all
over it.

“Miss Slater. I have a package
for you. It came this morning but you were out so we kept it safe for you
downstairs.”

“Thank you.” I’m mystified but I
rush to get my purse so that I can tip him. I’m still not used to whether I
should tip or not, so to be on the safe side I’ve tipped everyone, which is
probably why I’ve had such eager and plentiful service since I’ve been here.
The boy carries it into the room and sets it on a table for me, and when he’s
gone I stand for a second looking at it. I can’t imagine who it’s from or what
it is. There’s only a handful of people who know my address at the moment, and
I can’t really imagine them sending me anything unless it’s a present from Viv
or Mabe.

Looking at the address I notice a
stamp on the side
Hofner,
and my heart begins to beat slow and heavy
like a drum. The parcel is heavily sealed with tape and looking around
frantically for something to open it I exclaim in triumph when I see a travel
sewing kit on the side table. The scissors are tiny but after ten minutes of
concentrated hacking I manage to make an opening big enough for me to get my
hands in and tear. The lid comes off displaying millions of tiny, white
polystyrene balls, and gulping I plunge my hands in, siphoning them over the
side like a two year old at Christmas.

It suddenly occurs to me that
this could be something nasty that one of Sid’s more lunatic fans have sent me.
When gossip had got out after the tour about a possible row between us, I’d
read some truly disturbed rantings online from them. I immediately slow down
but then my hands encounter the hard leather of a case and I draw it out.

For a second I crouch there
holding the violin sized case in my hands, my pulse going so strongly that I
can feel it thrumming in my hands and head. Slowly I flick the catch and raise
the lid and I’m almost stunned by the bright flash of scarlet velvet. Inside
the case resting on the velvet is my violin. I’d know it anywhere, and I run my
hands shakily over the old wood, tracing the faint knicks and scars marring the
wood, each one full of memories.

Suddenly, I notice a sheet of
paper resting in the lid and I gasp as I see Sid’s distinctive bold handwriting
full of slashes as if the simple act of putting pen to paper is too much of a
rush for him. Opening the letter I read:

Sweetheart

I
hope this reaches you safely. If not, let me know and I’ll bollock the delivery
people. This is your violin as you’ve probably guessed. I know someone at
Hofner and they looked at it as a favour to me. The front is the original but
the back had borne the worst of the damage so they replaced it for you. I
didn’t want to tell you that I’d done this in case you got your hopes up for
nothing, but they’ve done wonders with it.

I
got you a new case because the old one was so battered it was beyond repair,
and I chose red velvet. Fancifully, I think it’s because red stands for a
rebirth which is what I hope happens to you in your life. You, out of everyone
I’ve ever met, deserves the best that life can give you. I’ll listen out every
day for your name. I know it’s going to be written large.

If
you look on the back you’ll also see a new addition. I hope you don’t mind but
I asked them to put this on. It’s situated where you’ll put the violin next to
your body, and my dearest hope is that it stays there close to you, as a sign
that maybe not all your memories are bad ones.

You
will never know how deeply I regret the way that we parted and that I never had
the chance to tell you how much you have always meant to me.

Yours

Sid

Gulping back tears I turn the
violin over so quickly that it nearly spins out of my hands, and it takes a
split second of juggling before it’s safe again. I scan the smooth surface
frantically and then I see it, a tiny Beggar’s Choice emblem etched into the
wood right where the base reaches the chin rest.

I run my fingers over it
wondering what this means. He says that he regrets what happened, and that I
meant something to him and for a second foolish hope rises in me, but then I
remember the girl and him between her legs and my hope plummets. As my dad used
to say, ‘if wishes were horses, beggars would ride’. He might wish that it
hadn’t ended like that, but he hasn’t actually said that he wishes it had
never
ended.

However, I’m still unbelievably
touched by what he’s done and I nestle the violin close, drawing the bow across
the strings gently and listening to the sweet, mournful sound that floats out
onto the ocean breeze.

Sleep takes a long while to come
that night.

The next morning I’ve just
finished my breakfast, which has consisted mostly of coffee as I still can’t
force down much food, when my phone rings.

“Nell,” comes Cameron’s deep
tones.

“Hi, what’s up?”

“I’ve got a meeting this morning
at the Beverley Wilshire Hotel. I want you to come down and speak to the man
I’m meeting. He’s with a small record company and he’s heard some of your stuff
and really wants to meet you.”

“Why?” I ask alarmed. “What does
he want?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to
put his name on your dance card. For fuck’s sake he wants to sign you.”

“Really?” I ask nervously.

“Yes, really. Nell, you are the
most deeply unambitious person that I’ve ever met. It’s like you’re allergic to
any upswing in your career.”

I laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I
know I’m a pain but I’m quite happy doing what we’re doing. You know just
music, not the bullshit that comes with a contract. Sid says …”

I stop dead and I hear him
chuckle. “Sid who? Sid Hudson, the invisible man? The man you never mention?
Now
you bring him up when it’s impossible for me to talk to you.”

“I never said that I have good
timing,” I say tartly.

He laughs. “Just get here. I’m
sending a car for you. It’ll be with you in twenty minutes so look sexy baby.”

“Baby! Look sexy!” I say
indignantly. “I’m not a fucking Page Three girl you know.” He rings off
laughing loudly, and I involuntarily smile looking down at my phone. He’s been
brilliant over the last month, like a big brother, although I’ve definitely had
the feeling that if I wanted more he’d be only too happy to take our friendship
further, and he’s most certainly a ladies man. They flock all over him and I
can see the attraction. He’s one of the best looking men I’ve seen but I can’t
feel anything for him other than a friendship, and he’s not forced the issue. I
know he’s a mate of Sid’s and as he indicated in the phone call he has tried to
introduce him into conversation a few times, but I’ve always clearly put up the
‘keep out’ signs.