Hi!
Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar, and SunflowerFran wield the red pens. RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.
Next up ... BCG has an ass-kicking to get to, so I won't keep you from it.
BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – Chapter 35
BCG
It's around noon when Mr Broomstick drops me off on the Strand. From there, I walk down to Essex Street and arrive at the pub.
When I push open the door, Liam spots me from his perch behind the bar. He winks and cocks his head to one side.
As I follow his motion, my gaze lands on Marcus, who's sitting at a secluded table in the back. With a muted gesture, he waves at me, then stands to greet me when I approach.
He's not kitted out in his usual flawless attire from Brooks Brothers and Burberry. He's merely wearing stonewashed jeans and a dark blue duffel coat, from what I can see.
"Isabella."
"Marcus."
He steps in closer for a hug, but I step back. He takes the hint, but can't school his features fast enough for me to miss the frown on his face. Before we sit down, he takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair to reveal a blue, white, and green Argyle sweater over a faded grey T-shirt.
Silence descends, so awkward you could slice through it with a pole axe. Fortunately, Liam comes over to take our orders—even if he already knows what I am going to drink, despite my long absence.
In minutes, Liam comes back with my Belhaven Stout and Marcus's nondescript lager. Yeah, I'm a beer snob. Sue me.
I also ask Liam to bring me lunch. I haven't had proper British fish and chips in months, and I'm going to need sustenance for this conversation—keep my wits about me. Marcus doesn't order any food at all and keeps nursing his pint in silence.
I'm not going to make this easy for him. He wanted to meet. I showed up. That doesn't mean I'll do his dirty work for him. I can still throw a little shade—I've earned it.
"You're not eating? I thought we were having lunch."
He looks anywhere but at me before answering, tapping his fingers against the side of his pint glass. "I'm on a special diet."
"Of what, underhanded tricks and manipulation?"
He takes a long sip of his beer to hide that he's wincing.
"I'd forgotten how much un-endearing your sarcastic tongue can be when a poor bloke is on the receiving end of it."
A sip of my own liquid liquorice nectar mellows me out for a moment. A brief one.
"You wanted to talk, Marcus. Don't waste my time. Again."
He coughs into his hand; his eyebrows knotted into yet another frown. His foot is tapping against the wobbly leg of the table, its vibration a dull hum through the tabletop. Marcus Goldsmith is speechless—and all out of nervous habits to go through while he tries to stall the inevitable.
"You eat; I'll talk."
I nod, motioning for him to continue, and proceed to douse the golden heap of crispy delicacy with malt vinegar. If I can't enjoy the company, at least I'm going to damn well enjoy the food.
"Are you really going to do it? The auction, I mean?"
His tone is subdued, tentative. Any more than this and he'd be stuttering. Marcus Goldsmith does not stutter. Ever. He keeps drumming his fingers against the side of his pint glass. It used to drive me bonkers when we were at Oxford. It's been a long-time tell of his.
"I am. But you could have gotten that from Angela. You did get that info from Angela. Didn't she make herself clear?"
"No, she did. I wasn't implying …" He trails off.
"But you did, Marcus. How many times did you imply that, verbally and in writing? Do you need an exact count?" I take a long swig of my stout. As a rule, I don't chug pints for lunch, but this is an extenuating circumstance.
"I just wanted to get you to talk to me again," he admits, finally raising his gaze to stare at me.
Are those bloodshot eyes? Uhm. "Your technique needs refining then."
He traces the rim of the beat-up cardboard coaster under his glass with his forefinger. "I apologise."
This is a first. Marcus Goldsmith has never been one for apologies. I nod to acknowledge him. I'm pissed off, not an impolite twat.
When he doesn't resume speaking, my attention turns to my plate of chips and the sound of a radio in the background. Wait a minute. I know this song.
I nearly, I nearly lost you there
And it's taken us somewhere
I nearly lost you there
Screaming Trees, "I Nearly Lost You"? Oh, for fuck's sake. Not the memories of grunge summers past. It's one of Marcus's favourite songs—so much so it could be straight out of one of his playlists, if we were on his turf. Because we're on my turf, I write it off as a fluke. It's a great song; it might well be on rotation … on an oldies station?
"I hoped we could work this out, you and I. Continue working on it together. Would you consider calling off the auction?"
No, buddy. This is the kind of shit that ain't gonna fly. My fork clatters to the table with a metallic thud.
"You derailed any possible pale eventuality I'd ever entertain that notion. You sealed your fate with your behaviour, Marcus. What part of no wasn't obvious enough to you? And by the way, just so we're clear on what we're talking about, define 'IT' for me, will you?" I spit out, using actual air quotes, and then down the rest of my pint.
Liam, who knows his job inside and out and has eyes on every side of his head, is at our table in a flash.
"Fresh one, Bella?" he asks, not missing a single beat and side-eyeing Marcus at the same time.
Liam is six-foot-six and a former rugby player. There's enough meat on the bone there to intimidate Marcus every day of the week and twice on Sunday. I'm not sure he even knows or remembers Marcus; Jasper and I used to have our post-office huddles here after Marcus fell off the face of the earth, after … well, after a lot of things.
"You gave me a defective one, as usual," I quip, handing him my empty.
Liam snickers, gesturing to Marcus's glass. "You good there, mate?"
"Yes, for now. Thanks." Marcus sounds like someone whose beloved hamster just committed suicide down a garbage disposer.
After Liam leaves with my empty glass, Marcus lets out a hollow chuckle while the radio switches to the strains of Michael Stipe's lament over "The One I Love." The gods of music must hate me today.
"Some things never change," Marcus murmurs into his pint.
"I asked you a question, Marcus."
He stills the hand tormenting the coaster and slides it across the table to reach for mine, too slow to catch me before I retract it. He splays his fingers on the tabletop instead, drumming them against it, as if playing an imaginary piano chord.
Some things never change.
Like his nervous habits. Like his presumption to know what I want or feel. Like his reluctance to be straightforward with me. Like his strategy to catch people where he wants them by wearing down their defences.
"It … It … is a bevy of things for me, Isabella."
I glance at the decrepit grandfather clock in the corner. We used to give Liam shit about it all the time—why would anyone have an actual grandfather clock in a fucking pub? It's another thing from the past that hasn't changed. Though it's hardly in the same league as Marcus's less appealing personality traits.
"I can stay until about five-ish. I suggest you get to it."
I polish off the last of my chips. The radio just switched from R.E.M. to another grunge relic.
All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
Oh, sod it. Blind Melon. I wonder how many songs I'll have to embargo by the end of this conversation.
Marcus finally gulps the last of his lager and raises his empty in the direction of Liam, who nods at him while grabbing a fresh glass from the shelf.
"It … Us … you're not making this easy on me, are you?"
"Give me one reason why I should. One."
He leans back into his chair, still looking everywhere but at me. Until he does.
"I never expected to see you at Angela's party last Christmas. There was something about that blind manuscript. I only got one chapter, but it was enough. Some turns of phrase … and then there you were. Again. Fate had catapulted you into my life again, after …"
He stops just as Liam appears to retrieve our empties and deposit a fresh pint of wimpy lager in front of Marcus.
In the background, Eddie Vedder starts crooning about screamin' tires and bustin' glass and where, oh where, can his baby be.
Crap. Double crap. Double crap with whipped cream on top. I'm not embargoing Pearl Jam. Out of the question. This sodding radio station sounds like it could be ripped straight off Marcus's iPod. Knowing him, he might actually own the station. Who knows.
Liam disappears, and I stamp my hands on the table. My pint slides off to the left, causing the malty nectar in it to slosh up and down like a liquid hula-hoop.
"After what? After you disappeared on me? Because you did. You practically ghosted me before it was a thing. The Urban Dictionary wants your picture as example number one for that entry. Damn you, Marcus, and your gigantic ego. Damn me for giving you a chance again."
Anger is good. Let it all out. I'm owed it. He didn't stop for a second to ponder what it would do to me when he left. He never said why he left.
He rubs a hand over his face. I catch a glimpse of scrapes and bruises on his knuckles. By any stretch of the imagination, Marcus Goldsmith is not a guy prone to violence. Not the Marcus I used to know.
"I was ecstatic just to see you again. I couldn't believe it was you. And you were so … and I hoped … I wanted … I wanted so much to be a part of this. I wanted you to be a part of my life again. God, the things I wanted, Ysabeau. I thought you were happy to see me that night, Ysabeau …"
I haven't heard my name in old French in over six years. Only Marcus could find me a pet name only nerds majoring in linguistics could spell and pronounce correctly, let alone associate with my given name. It wasn't a nickname for public consumption either.
He's laying it out in the open. As much as his nature allows him, that is. The preppy façade is gone. At some point in the last twenty-four hours—since I contacted him—he must have been crying; he might have punched a wall and ventured out of the house in less than pristine condition. Do I owe him the same honesty? No matter how painful this walk down memory lane will end up being? Is he even being one hundred percent honest with me?
"I was happy to see the memory of you. The memory of us. This idea of you I'd held on to, the non-conventional you who took me to Glastonbury. The musician and brainiac who'd spend hours at the Bode with me without complaint. Who'd sneak up on me while I was writing and filch whatever I'd scribbled to set it to music. This idea of you, the Marcus who'd tell your lofty family to take a hike and stay. With me. For me. For us. But you left. With nary a word. It took me a long time to see that my idea of you wasn't you."
My rant ends in a whisper. I pause for a sip of beer. The radio just cycled through "Dyslexic Heart" and "Seasons". No way am I embargoing Chris Cornell, too. Moving on to …
Come see me in the morning
Can't you see I'm tellin' stories
My sweet angel's everlasting true love ways
Charlatans? What the hell! It has to be Marcus's music. And it's clear I can't embargo half of my music library at this point.
Marcus stares at me, his face a kaleidoscope of emotions I can no longer decode.
Time to plough through the rest of my confession. Of sorts.
"When you reappeared, I was in a quandary. Should I dismiss you out of hand because you and I had a past? A bad one, at that? Should I be business-like? Mostly, I didn't want to act like the stuck-up bitch we both know I'm not and tell you to take a hike, even if you deserved it. Maybe there was a way for us to be adults about this. Professionals. Civil, even? I'd changed. Maybe you had, too."
Have you seen her have you heard
The way she plays there are no words
To describe the way I feel
My concentration falters. Damn radio—Stone Roses, now? What is it, a conspiracy?
"But I have, haven't I?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, a slightly less haunted look in his eyes. He might be trying "change" on for size, but with Marcus, there are no guarantees. Still, what I want from this meeting is to A) get him out of my life and B) get some closure. I can be the bigger person about this and be honest, even if he can't. Or won't.
It's the moment of truth. If what I just said hurt him, what I'm about to say might be the pièce de résistance.
"Yes and no."
"Whatever do you mean by that?" He cracks a half-smile. The first I've seen today. He has no idea. No idea whatsoever. He still lives in his own little world. He still has no idea who I really am.
"Why did you always use my manuscript, my writing to get to me? Why were you never honest about what you wanted? It's been months, Marcus. Months."
His half-smile freezes and dissolves. Crash and burn.
Would it have mattered if he had? Honesty could have gone a long way to salvaging whatever interaction I could have had with Marcus. I'm no longer the young, impressionable, inexperienced, nerdy girl I was almost ten years ago when I met him, who would swoon just because someone like him would give someone like me the time of day.
"What I wanted …" He punctuates each word, tracing mindless patterns on the worn wooden tabletop. "What I wanted was you, is you. But I've gone and fucked that up again, haven't I? Again.
"Just like back then. I was too stupid, too self-absorbed, too much of an entitled arse to know what … who I wanted back then. I couldn't be so hung up about just a girl. Just this girl," he says in a strangled whisper, pointing at me. "This girl … who knew cooler music than I did. Loved the same books I did. Had the most radiant smile I'd ever seen before or since. Who was never just a girl.
"But no. I let myself be manipulated by my own delusions of grandeur. On to bigger and better. On to never finding the likes of you again. Never feeling anything closer to what I felt—feel—for you all those years ago."
"Marcus, for the love of God, why did you never tell me back then? Why couldn't you talk to me then? And now? You've been an overbearing prick for months. No, let me finish." I cut him off when he tries to interject after nodding with a wince at my characterisation. "Why couldn't you bring yourself to have ten fucking minutes of honesty with me? Me. Why?"
There lies the difference between Marcus and Edward. My Edward will huff and puff, agonise, overthink, indulge in mental masturbation and occasional bouts of word vomit, but he's never lied to me once. I've never had to wonder if what he says, what he feels, is true. Because he shows me. One look in his eyes and I know.
After another swig of his beer, Marcus resumes speaking.
"Because I'm a coward, Ysabeau. I'm a jealous coward. When I showed up at your house after Christmas—"
"You weren't in the neighbourhood, were you?"
"No. I flew in. I had to see you. I had to try." He pauses.
My intuition must have taken the wind out of his sails.
"I showed up at your house after Christmas. I showed up at the Globes, and I wanted nothing more than to grovel at your feet so you'd take me back, and I'd get to work with you on your book on top of it …"
Uhm. Now we're getting somewhere.
"But he was there. Both times. He is always there. And then I knew. I just knew whom you were with ... I could see it in your eyes. And then I saw the way he looked at you. The way he looks at you. It isn't meant for anyone else to see. Even in a crowd. It's like the whole world begins and ends in your eyes.
"I'm a jealous, possessive coward. I'm not too keen on the word no. I've not heard it as often as I deserve. I've never had to fight for you, for anything, at that. I can give it, but I sure as hell can't take it. I lashed out."
And there you have it.
Take an otherwise fascinating guy, inject him with an ounce of family-induced conceit, a pint of self-confidence bordering on arrogance, two ounces of pretentious nobility, a penchant for deviousness, a pinch of testosterone, and there you have it—Marcus Goldsmith in his entirely self-inflicted current predicament. Plus, the manipulative crap? Not cool, pal. Not cool at all.
"You know what hasn't changed about me in almost ten years? I still hate being pressured into things. If I wanted that on a daily basis, I'd spend more time with the Admiral. You've always known, too, how much writing meant … means to me. And you thought using it to weasel your way back into my life would be a good idea? How do you think I could ever have a professional relationship with you, let alone a personal one? Based on what? The decision that mayhap one day you'll start being honest with me? You're delusional."
He raises his gaze from the bottom of his now empty pint to stare at me. His features constrict in a scowl, moisture pooling on his ridiculously long eyelashes, his eyes even more bloodshot and no longer baby blues but pools of deep, desperate cobalt. I've never seen Marcus cry. Ever.
"I ruined it, didn't I?"
"It's beyond repair, Marcus."
This is the final word. Nothing left to say.
I feel so lost but what can I do?
'Cause I know this love seems real
But I don't know how to feel.
We say goodbye in the pouring rain
And I break down as you walk away.
"This is the first song past 2008 I've heard this afternoon," I blurt out without thinking.
Marcus looks sheepish but doesn't comment. He coughs into his hand. Back to the nervous habits.
"I see. Are you … are you happy? Are you going to keep writing? If I can't be a part of it, I'd still love for your work to see the light of day. It's all you ever wanted. To write. You deserve it. And now you'll have it." He's managed to school his features somewhat but can't fool me. And his voice is far from steady. "That's good … great, even. I'm … I'm happy for you. So, you and—" He trails off. Again.
"Edward. The name's Edward."
I could tell him a thousand and one things about Edward—how he's the one person in the world who truly knows me, and knew me, saw me among a million nameless faces. Fate and its circuitous route. But Marcus doesn't give a crap about Edward. It's his last-ditch effort to get a window into my life. It's a fishing expedition. As if.
"You and Edward … is it … are you?"
"Not your goddamn business."
Chew on that, Goldsmith.
Again, not here to spare his feelings or beat about the bush. There is no going back.
He nods, silent.
My phone rings, cutting through the wall of awkward with the drums and bass line of "Mission Impossible". For once, Jasper's timing is providential. Trying to dispel from my mind the image of Jasper oscillating from a helicopter in an awful Ethan Hunt impression, I let the call go to voicemail. I still have some claim to common courtesy, after all.
"I should go now."
"So, this is it."
"Yes. Goodbye, Marcus."
"Goodbye," he whispers, wistfully looking up at me as I stand to leave, and not bothering to stand himself.
Liam waves me away when I try to pick up my half of the tab.
Once I'm on the Strand, Jasper calls again.
"I just left."
"I know. I asked Liam to text me."
That makes it two people—Jasper and Edward—who were on tenterhooks at the prospect of my face-off with Marcus.
"Thank you, Fitz. Your timing was impeccable. I said my piece, and he said his. It's done."
He chuckles at the nickname I haven't used in ages. It used to be our code word that something was wrong. Whenever an email, phone call, or text began with "Fitz," he always knew I needed my best friend, with his level-headed insight, ability to listen to my ramblings without judgment, and cut through my bullshit on occasion.
"Where are you?"
"Walking aimlessly down the Strand. I need to clear my head." The sound of rustling paper and muffled voices filters through. "Are you in the office?"
"Logged in and muted on a conference call I couldn't care less about. Junior associates are running point on this shit, but I had to make an appearance."
"Ever the multi-tasker."
The Strand suddenly seems too noisy to suit my mood; on a whim, I take the first turn south towards the Embankment. Instead, I end up behind the Temple Church. An oasis of mystical silence mere steps from the hub of London's Courts of Justice.
"How did it go?"
"I want ibuprofen on the rocks. And Laphroaig. Possibly at the same time." I sigh into the mic hanging from my earbuds.
"I'm quite sure it would be ill-advised. Medically speaking. But I understand the feeling. Would you … would you like me to pop over there and pick you up?"
"No, Fitz. No need. I just want to take a long walk along the Thames, gather my thoughts. Drink a pint of strong coffee. I'll meet you guys in Bishops Square later."
"Speaking of later …"
I can't stifle my groan. It would be exactly Jasper's MO to cancel at the last minute. "You ditching us?"
"No. Hell, no. I want that play-by-play. And I'm buying tonight."
I let out a relieved snicker. "You two are dangerous together." Jasper and Edward thick as thieves. Who would've thought?
"What can I say? I genuinely like him. We have a lot in common."
"What about tonight then?"
"I was thinking. Any objections on a change of venue? Slight change?"
We figured a reunion in London would warrant a trip to another of our old haunts—The Hoop & Grapes, an old pub in Aldgate that survived the Great Fire of London and has the added bonus of being close to his office, besides good, non-wimpy beer.
"Where to?"
"Ten Bells instead of The Hoop? If you both don't mind. Gives me a half hour longer to wrap up shit in here."
The Ten Bells is exactly behind the office. Jasper could catapult from his corner office on the tenth floor directly in front of the pub if he wanted.
"It works. I'll let Edward know."
"No need—" He cuts me off before continuing. "I already talked to him."
That's a new one. They talk among themselves.
"Did you now?"
"Yes. He was worried sick about you and called to vent. Don't give him a hard time with this, if you can."
Figures. Jasper is the only person Edward knows who could give him a window into Marcus's thinking and talk him off the ledge at the same time.
"I won't. I know where he's coming from."
Jasper mutters something I can't quite make out, and then comes back on the line. "Sorry about that. I need an IV of coffee."
"No worries, Jazz. We can talk later if you're busy."
"Not too busy for you. You know, I still wonder why you'd even give him the time of day. Not just for the sake of the good old days, I hope?"
We're no longer talking about Edward or a venue for pints. It feels good to vent to someone who was there back then. Who knew me back then.
"No. It was … selfish. Mainly business reasons. He'd gotten to the point he was interfering with my writing prospects, and it took me a while, but I figured out why he was doing it. He'd never go gentle into the good night unless I did talk to him. And it felt wicked good to finally tell him to shove it after all these years."
His first reaction is his signature dry, muted chuckle. I can picture his face morphing into a smile, up to the faint laugh lines around his eyes, now barely showing.
"I bet he loved that."
"Turns out he wanted to get back with me. Regretted leaving all along."
He whistles into the phone. "Well, that was unexpected."
"I don't even know if I believe him. How do I believe anything he says? And even if I did, it makes things worse not better."
"Fair points. That was always his problem though, wasn't it?"
I spit into the phone a sound halfway between a groan and a huff. "The packaging is alluring enough … the contents, though, don't always match."
"That, and he never does anything half-arsed. Never has. When he fucks up, he goes all out. It's a royal fuck-up with a godforsaken pedigree to the tenth generation, a coat of arms, and an estate in Derbyshire."
"A decade-long one, in this case."
Jasper murmurs his assent at the other end of the line. "How do you feel after all these shocking revelations?"
It's hard to say. A part of me did get the closure I wanted. I got a lot of answers I once craved. I'm just not sure it's even important anymore. I'm starting to second-guess the way I went about this. The way I dealt with Marcus and talked to him with the benefit of hindsight. He behaved horribly to me then and now, it could be argued.
"A part of me feels like a massive bitch, to be quite honest with you, Fitz. Why do I even feel this way?"
"Because a part of you loved him once, BeeBee."
###BCG###
A couple of hours later, I fly into Edward's arms outside The Ten Bells.
"I've missed you, my lovely," he whispers into my hair, gripping his arms around me.
"Hold me, please."
"I have no plans to ever let you go."
We stand there in silence, lost in each other. He's my anchor. My reminder that the past is gone and buried, and the future—our future—is in our hands, with each other.
"What's with the Jack the Ripper local?" he asks before long, mirth playing on his lips as we navigate the crowd inside to find Jasper, who went in ahead of us to find a table.
"Convenience, mainly. It's right around the block from the office."
When we sit down at a panelled booth at the very back of the pub where I spot Jasper's overcoat and laptop bag, the man himself appears on our heels with a couple pints in his hands.
"I got your usual, BeeBee."
"Deuchars?" Jasper and I have always had similar tastes in a lot of things—music and beer, for starters.
"What else? What's your poison, E?"
"I'll branch out and try whatever she's having," he replies, pointing to the pint glass of golden, cloudy IPA in my hands.
"Take mine then. I'll go grab another and be back. Don't start without me!"
Jasper is adept at compartmentalising—he has to with the line of work he's in. He's off the clock now, though, so he can give in to one of his covert hobbies—gossiping. And bashing Marcus—my relationship with him wasn't the only casualty when he pulled his disappearing act. Their friendship wilted on the stem, too.
Half an hour later, I've given them a good rundown of my conversation with Marcus. We're on our second round of pints and scarfing down pub grub like there's no tomorrow.
"It played out like a bad break-up scene from a '90s movie. The soundtrack was on point."
"Soundtrack?" echoes Edward, who's gotten so fond of the Deuchars he got himself a second round.
"The radio was playing all these songs from the mid-nineties to early aughts. Blind Melon, Pearl Jam, Chris Cornell, Paul Westerberg, Stone Roses, Charlatans, R.E.M., Screaming Trees. The only song past 2008 that played was Hurts' 'Stay'."
Edward cringes. "As much as I love vintage grunge, what's the significance here, if any?" he asks, ploughing through a massive plate of bangers and mash.
"It's partly stuff their band," I start, pointing a finger at Jasper, "played at Oxford. Partly stuff Marcus liked. But the songs …"
"What about them?"
Jasper is eerily silent through this, watching the exchange between Edward and me like a tennis match.
"I'll shoot a string of titles at you. See if you catch a common thread in there. 'Nearly Lost You', 'Last Kiss', 'She Bangs The Drums', 'Tellin' Stories', 'The One I Love', 'Dyslexic Heart' …"
He drums his fingers on the table before answering. "Desperate love anthems. Laying it on thick there, are we?"
Edward's knowledge of music is as encyclopaedic as his expertise in movies. It was a given he'd catch my drift.
"Yep. But all of them massively playing on the radio this afternoon, at that time, of all days? What are the odds?"
"Indeed," he replies, with a speculative look at his quickly disappearing pint.
"It wasn't the radio," interjects Jasper.
Now he talks.
"What do you mean, it wasn't the radio?" I can't keep an angry edge off my voice.
"Marcus slipped Liam a tenner to play a Spotify list off his account while you two were there."
"I fucking knew it," I erupt. My suspicions are confirmed. It was his sodding station, after all.
"What a fucking wanker," seethes Edward, downing the rest of his pint.
"That he might very well be," replies Jasper. "But let's look at this from his perspective for a second. Just for the sake of argument," he adds, when Edward throws him a murderous look that spells, Are you fucking kidding me?
Jasper—ever the voice of reason, capable of empathising even with a former friend who treated him like shit. And out of the three of us, the one trained and paid to deconstruct an issue, look at it from multiple viewpoints, plan for all possible contingencies, and inclined to do it because of professional hazard, even when Edward and I have checked our charitable notions at the door.
Edward motions for him to continue. Jasper angles himself towards him across the table.
"Let's suppose we're in an alternative universe where you're enough of a daft prick to give in to your highfalutin family's pressure and let her go," he begins, slanting his empty pint glass in my direction.
"No way, mate. Even I'm not that clueless," protests Edward without hesitation.
"Humour me. After such a feat of idiocy, fast forward about seven years after you leave. She reappears. You are slightly less of an idiot. Just a tad. You may or may not have grown some bollocks to stand up to your family. What do you do?"
"Get her back in any possible way, and some impossible ones?"
"Bingo, Wonder Boy."
Edward shakes his head and turns to me. "Fucking hell. Are you really okay with all that went down, love?"
I'm about to answer when the proverbial lightbulb lights up in my brain.
"Yes. You know one thing?" Two inquisitive pairs of eyes—one hazel with a streak of midnight blue, the other jade green—look at me with raised eyebrows. "Marcus went on and on and on and on about all the things he wanted. He wanted my book. He wanted me in his life. He wanted me back. He wanted me, period."
"Fucking wanker," Edward mutters into his now empty pint.
I catch a glimpse of Jasper nodding across the table.
"The one thing he never said once was … what he really felt. He said he wanted me. He never said he loved me. Or cared about me. It was all about him."
Edward grips my hand tighter under the table, threading his fingers with mine. "It's official. Sir Wanker is even more of a clueless sod than I could ever be."
"Well said, mate. Well said," replies Jasper, standing to get us all another round.
Once he disappears among the crowd, Edward gathers me close. His lips find mine, urgent and hungry, reaffirming our bond.
"I love you. More than anything. I'll spend every single day of my life proving it to you."
"Always, EC. Always."
First, credit where it is due. Songs cited in the chapter are as follows:
- Screaming Trees, Nearly Lost You
- R.E.M.,The One I Love
- Blind Melon, No Rain
- Pearl Jam, Last Kiss
- Paul Westerberg, Dyslexic Heart
- Chris Cornell, Seasons
- The Charlatans, Tellin' Stories
- Stone Roses, She Bangs The Drums
- Hurts, Stay
I've also put them in a Spotify playlist at this link (delete spaces, replace dots with actual dots): open dot spotify dot com/ playlist/ 1xjYqLfuUV3qOZNlpnqOCh?si=sSsWTCgaSLGXuQhmGs2Kxw
Also - The Temple Bar Brew House is a real pub, location where described in the chapter.
The Temple Church is one of the few Medieval churches left in London, and not by happenstance: it was built by the Knights Templar (yes, those ones).
The Ten Bells is one of the oldest surviving pubs in London and it is renowned for its associations with Jack the Ripper. This area has been significantly spruced up since Jack the Ripper times, though :)
Lots to unpack, right? What do we think about Marcus?
Talk to me - I'll see you all next week. Teasers on FB on Thursday, update on Sunday.
Come stalk me in LaMomo's Lair on FB - put the name of the group in the search bar.