I shouldn’t have felt anything with his words. He was right; we’d agreed that sleeping together was just to tick a box. He wasn’t trying to deliberately piss me off today – in fact, he was being too civil, as if we were just a business transaction.
“Noted.” I stood up. “I leave in the morning. Shall we arrange to meet when you’re next in London?”
Liam nodded. “I’ll be back next week. It’ll be good if we could be out in public together. Be photographed.”
“Sure. And we should start to plan a wedding too.”
He gave a nod. “I haven’t done that before.”
There was a dig in his comment.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got us covered.” I chose not to respond. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
And with that, I left. The prospect of another plane journey would be enough to take my mind off the grumpy singer I was apparently marrying.
12
Liam
The piano I had at my home in London had been a charity shop find when I was twenty. It had been at the back of the room, covered in dust and only annuals. The sales assistant told me I could have it for free if I could move it myself as they had a delivery of furniture due in and that was more sellable, so I’d dragged Tom, my drummer at the time, to help me carry it back to the hovel where we were living. We’d needed the rest of the band to help as it was fucking heavy.
I’d had it tuned, not eaten for the rest of the week, and it had been one of the few possessions I was arsed about ever since. This was what I used when I needed to write and that was how I’d spent the last three days, cooped up in one room in my massive apartment, penning lyrics and music that I’d never likely play myself and all about one person.
I wasn’t going to say her name, not to myself.
A week ago she’d left Iceland and flown back home. I’d heard her that morning, panicking like I didn’t think she was capable of at having to get in the plane. Her voice had been full of fear and Vanessa had been trying to calm her down.
She’d gotten home safely. I knew because I’d tracked her flight. And then I’d received a pre-nup from her solicitor, plus an initial contract about the building, dividing it up exactly as we’d spoken.
Three days ago I’d received her autobiography – a brief one – detailing everything a fiancé should know about his extremely wealthy, successful bride-to-be. I’d printed it out and it stayed next to the pad where I had been spending most of my waking hours writing lyrics.
Thirty-seven years old, born in Leicester, only child. Not a brilliant childhood, but probably better than yours. Left school without any spectacular grades and trained as a beautician. Worked my fucking arse of and started my own salon.
She’d added more details, including those of her parents, step-parents and cousins, what they did and how infrequently she saw them. Then there was more.
Married three times, twice to the same man. All relationships ended amicably. Had lovers, but nothing serious for years. Concentrated more on building my business and friendships.
There were details about her exes, which included one of my ex-bandmates. She’d added a note to say she’d be scoring him low if this was a competition.
Her past love life didn’t bother me. How could it? I’d slept with more women than I could remember or probably count. There had been times on tour when women were pretty much offering themselves up and for a time I’d struggled to turn any down, especially when I was in my twenties. Also, Sophie was a purely business acquaintance, now we’d had that one night.
A buzzer broke the melody I’d been playing over and over, trying to order words to convey what I needed them to. I recognised the length of it and the repeated lengthy buzz. Adam, my bassist and probably best friend, wasn’t known for having any sort of fucking patience.
I let him in, finding a bloke who probably should’ve been a model for Versace instead of any form of rocker. He preferred to spend his days in suits or carefully curated casual clothes instead of ripped jeans and leather. It was something I’d never tire of taking the piss out of.
“Long time.” We hugged. Because people who’d lived on sweaty coaches together for half their lives tended to get pretty close.
“I heard music.” He slapped my back and kicked off his shoes.
I noted the make and shook my head. The cost of them could’ve fed a small country for at least a month.
“Need to make a living. What’ve you been up to?”
He shook his head. “Signed a contract with a modelling agency. It’s something to do. And I’m reading through four movie scripts. Again, something to do.” He dropped down into my battered leather chair that had been with us for about as long as the piano.
“Bored by any chance?”
