Neil was giving his studio the new, improved Neil Kingston patented power treatment. Well, he was threatening it severely with a large bottle of Fantastik and a rag. He looked round the studio. It was drab, dingy, definitely lacking a woman’s touch and shrieking, over the dirt, that a less-than-successful photographer hung out here. That said, it had served him well. In some ways he’d be sorry to see it go. There was a spider in the corner by the kettle, called Harriet, who had lived here untrammeled for years. He would miss her. Except when she occasionally took to crawling out of the milk carton.
The whole place needed a coat of paint and some new backdrops, and he wondered if he would find the time to do it. Unlikely. This whole thing with Ali’s illness had made him stop and think. He’d always been a never-do-today-what-you-can-quite-easily-put-off-until-tomorrow merchant. His plans, if you could even grace the loose meanderings of an alcohol-fueled brain with such a formal title, had all been five-year, ten-year, sometime-maybe-never plans. But this had suddenly made him realize that one day, when you weren’t expecting it, your dance card would be marked. And it would be marked, in indelible ink, with The Last Waltz.
It was a sobering thought. Along with his newly acquired Paul Smith suit, he was now going to be a live-every-day-as-if-it’s-your-last man. Because one day he would be right.
The doorbell chimed, making Neil turn round. Jemma stood in the doorway. She looked gorgeous. The sun was strong today. It was the sort of sun that holds a promise that we might, just might, for once be in for a long, hot summer. It was bleaching her hair to a honey-golden sheen, the color of the inside of a Crunchie. She swept it from her face. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“I was just passing.” She glanced at the traffic gridlocked outside the studio. “Thought I might be in time for pizza.”
If it was supposed to be a joke, it wasn’t funny. Neil put down his Fantastik. “Not today.”
“Oh.” Jemma came into the studio and looked round, trailing her hand over a group of dusty albums of particularly awful wedding photographs from years ago that he’d thought were state-of-the-art when he’d taken them—you know, couple trying to push Rolls Royce, bride with garter on full show, ushers throwing top hats in the air, terrible, terrible, cringe-making stuff. They were destined for the bin. All of them.
“How’s Ali?” he said.
“You know Ali,” she sighed, fiddling with her car keys like worry beads. “Toughing it out. She’s got her invincible shell on, but cracks are starting to appear. That woman will have me in an early grave. I could kill her.”
“Bad choice of words, Jemma.”
“I know.” Jemma pushed her hands into her pockets and kicked aimlessly at the scuffed vinyl floor. “I’m so worried about her, Neil. We really messed up with her and Ed, didn’t we?”
“We tried. We could do no more than that. You never know, it could have worked.”
“Yeah.” She sat down on the one bare corner of his desk. “Sometimes you never know what might happen unless you’re prepared to take a risk.”
“Yeah,” Neil said flatly. “I’m known as Neil ‘Too Risky’ Kingston.”
“I wanted to apologize again for the cup-of-tea thing,” Jemma said.
She was an attractive woman, Neil thought—even if she did have a fuse shorter than your average firework.
“Bad day.” She laughed cheerlessly. “Bad life.”
“Well…”
“It won’t happen again,” she said. “Promise. Perhaps we could go out for dinner one night next week….”
“I’m very busy,” Neil said.
“It wasn’t a personal thing,” Jemma said too hurriedly. “I wanted to do a portfolio of my clothes for an advertising feature. Glossy magazine. I thought you might like to take the photographs. That was all. Nothing in it.”
He savored the words “glossy magazine,” silently rolling them round his mouth like a fine wine, and let them go. “Like I said, Jemma, I really am very busy.”
The doorbell clanged again and Ed walked in. He looked older, grayer and more awful than Neil had ever seen him.
“Bro!” Neil went over and hugged him.
“Good afternoon, conniving brother,” Ed said, clapping him on his back. He turned to Jemma. “And you must be his lovely meddlesome assistant?”
Ed clearly hadn’t bought the bit about it all being Jemma’s fault.
“We were only trying to help,” Jemma said miserably.
Ed glared fiercely at them both. “I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you two yet.”
“Life’s too short, Ed,” Jemma said, getting up to kiss him. “It was all done with the best intentions.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ed said, hugging her. “How’s Ali?”
“You should go to see her.”
“She didn’t want me to, remember?”
“Alicia doesn’t know what she wants,” Jemma tutted. “She’s not great, Ed. She’s pretending she is, but I know her better than that.”
“The kids are missing her.”
“Go to see her,” Jemma instructed. “She’s going home tomorrow.”
Ed’s face darkened. “Where does she class as home now?”
“Christian’s place. She wouldn’t come to me. She wouldn’t go to Mum’s. Anyone can see she’s not thinking straight.”
Ed hunched his shoulders into his jacket.
“Go round there, Ed. Tell her you love her. Get her to come home. To your home. Her home. She needs you.”
“Do you never stop interfering in other people’s lives?” Ed said.
“Only when they stop making a complete mess of it themselves.”
“She’s right, Ed,” Neil offered.
“Who asked your opinion?” Ed said, kicking listlessly at one of the packing cases Neil had lined up against the wall. “What’s this? Doing a moonlight flit?”
Neil took a deep breath. “The studio’s up for sale.” Both Ed and Jemma turned to look at him. Neil spread his hands. “I’m moving on.”
“Pastures new?” Ed said.
“You could say that.” Neil swallowed hard.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Well, it’s all happened very quickly.” Neil had gone very hot. “I might as well tell you both while you’re here.”
Jemma was smiling inquisitively. Ed’s frown was about to get a few millimeters worse.
Neil tried a laugh, but it came out as an uncomfortable snort. “I’m going to California,” he said. “To Los Angeles.”
He was right about Ed’s frown. And now Jemma had one to match. Neil looked at Ed and their eyes locked.
“With Orla?” Ed asked.
Neil nodded. “With Orla.”
Jemma put her hands on her hips. “Who the hell’s Orla?” she said.