Chapter Three

‘They don't have "Since U Been Gone" but they do have "Before He Cheats",' Joe yelled over the tinny karaoke backing track of ‘Tainted Love'. ‘Or we could do Britney, they've got all of Britney.'

‘It's "Love Is a Battleground" next,' I shouted back, squinting at the blurred screen suspended from the ceiling and jabbing at a sticky remote control. ‘Then it says "My Humps" by The Black Eyed Peas?'

‘My speciality,' he replied with a shallow bow. ‘Trust me.'

As the first few bars of the Pat Benatar classic filled the tiny, red-walled room, I tried to remember the exact chain of events that led to me being locked in a karaoke booth somewhere in King's Cross with a man I wouldn't have spat on if he was on fire two hours earlier. First there was Baileys, a lot of Baileys, which I wouldn't have thought of as a good summer drink but, it turned out, if you put enough ice in it, Baileys is good any time of year. Joe apologised for being an arsehole and insisted he didn't mean what he'd said, which I didn't really buy, but by the time the third Baileys hit, it didn't seem to matter as much. Then the restaurant told us they were closing to prep for dinner and Joe suggested we move to a pub near St Pancras but an unexpected singalong to Beyoncé on the way there saw him divert our black cab to his favourite karaoke bar, and now I was standing barefoot on a built-in zebra-print banquette holding a microphone they'd have to prise out of my cold dead hand, there was an almost empty bottle of overpriced prosecco on the table and another one on its way. I was hot, sweaty and ecstatic, and I couldn't stop staring at Joe Walsh.

‘What's wrong?' he asked as I clambered down from the sofa and tipped the remains of my drink down my throat. ‘You missed your cue.'

‘Hot,' I muttered, rolling the glass over my face. ‘It's hot in here.'

‘It is but you are also dressed like you're on your way to mass,' Joe said, refilling my glass. ‘It's summer, woman. I know that doesn't always mean much in London but have you not noticed the heat wave?'

I pulled at the high collar of my dress, rivulets of sweat snaking down my chest and seeking refuge inside my bra.

‘You try dressing for a meeting in London, a three-hour train ride and a visit with your parents when you will literally set on fire if the sun touches your skin and see what kind of outfit you come up with.'

‘What meeting?'

The soft edges of my mind moved more slowly than usual, flickering gently instead of clicking away with rapid-fire responses.

‘Lunch,' I amended. ‘I meant lunch.'

‘Right,' he replied, pushing his own damp hair away from his face. ‘Lunch. With Malcolm.'

‘That's right. Busy day. And I still have to get the train to Chesterfield then a taxi to my parents' house because my sister could come and get me but it's too much effort so she won't and Mum and Dad will be busy organising the party and god knows what everyone else will be doing but well, yes, busy day.'

I was rambling, desperately trying to keep the conversation moving without really saying anything. Just because we'd sung a duet of ‘I've Got You Babe' didn't mean I was about to spill my deepest, darkest secrets to this man. Joe might not be as terrible a human as I initially suspected but I trusted him about as far as I could throw him and, since he was at least a foot taller and many solid muscular pounds heavier than me, that was not very far at all.

‘To be honest, I'm not really looking forward to it,' I added, in case it wasn't clear.

The door creaked open and before the server could even step inside, I leapt down from the bench, grabbed the open bottle of prosecco out of the little silver bucket and filled my glass. The door closed quickly. ‘Family, you know. Can be tricky. Tricky tricky tricky.'

‘I hear that.'

He held out his glass and I poured until sparkling wine spilled over the top and trickled down his hand. He brought his fingers to his lips, catching my eye as he licked it off.

‘My parents are divorced,' Joe said. ‘Mum's in Scotland, Dad's down here. Twice the stress, double the visiting, half the fun.'

‘Scotland's nice though,' I replied in a high-pitched voice. Joe's face changed completely when he wasn't smiling. His bottom lip was the tiniest bit fuller than the top giving him a perma-pout, and the two little lines between his eyebrows, slightly closer to the left than the right, gave the impression he was always deep in thought. I only hoped he wasn't thinking the same things I was or else I could be in real trouble.

‘Scotland is nice,' he agreed after taking a deep drink of prosecco and reducing the amount in his glass to a more manageable level. ‘Except Mum decided it would be fun to move as far north as it's possible to go without getting wet. It's a trek. Can't blame her for wanting to stay clear of my dad though.'

‘You don't get on?' It was possibly the most redundant question ever.

A small half-smile appeared on his face and that little crease between his eyebrows ironed itself out.

‘My dad is a lot. Best enjoyed in small doses. Mum put twenty years into trying to change him before she gave up and legged it to America. She and I moved to Boston when I was sixteen.'

‘Fancy,' I commented as the very loud music echoed around us. ‘What brought you back?'

He looked away, vaguely shaking his head. ‘Lots of things.'

‘Did you go to school in America?'

‘I did. A little place called Harvard.'

Something in the room changed and our easy back and forth shifted into something else, an interview rather than a conversation, less sharing and more stating. His genuine half-smile was swallowed up by the louche, smug grin that had put my back up at lunch. My defences sprang back into action and I was forced to remind myself just because a man knows all the words to ‘Crazy in Love' doesn't mean he's a good person.

‘Have you ever heard of Harford – Harford-on-the-Water?' I asked, backing across the room and searching for the glass of water I hadn't touched since the first bottle of prosecco arrived. I needed to hydrate. I needed to keep my distance. ‘That's where my parents live. It's beautiful. Bit boring, very quiet, but beautiful. It's on the river, lots of limestone cottages, even more sheep.'

‘Sophie Taylor.' Joe said my name slowly and, in spite of everything, this time I did not hate the way it sounded as it tripped off his tongue. ‘Wait, your dad isn't Hugh Taylor, is he?'

I groaned inwardly and blanched outwardly; there was no need to confirm or deny, my expression said it all for me.

‘I should have known,' he exclaimed, raking his hair away from his face. ‘Malcolm's your godfather. You're Hugh and Pandora Taylor's kid.'

‘One of. I have a younger sister and an older brother,' I replied in between glugs of water but Joe wasn't listening. His face tensed with concentration as he worked through something in his head.

‘Isn't it his big birthday party this weekend?' he asked as I started on his glass of water after finishing my own. ‘That's why you're going up north?'

The backing track played on and Pat's lyrics scrolled merrily across the screen, completely unaware they were being ignored. No promises, no demands.

‘That's why I'm going up north,' I said, his self-congratulatory Sherlock Holmes smile melting away as I spoke. ‘I know everyone in publishing worships them, I'm sure you've got some amazing story you can't wait to tell me about how one of them once imparted some words of wisdom and changed your life forever. Go on, get it out your system.'

‘Call me crazy.' Joe leaned against the closest wall, just a couple of feet away. All the walls were close, the room was tiny and getting smaller by the second. ‘But I get the feeling you have a conflicted relationship with them.'

‘Everyone has a conflicted relationship with their parents,' I replied before quickly correcting myself. ‘No, I don't, they're great parents. Amazing, best parents who ever lived. Is it me or does it feel like they've turned the heating on in here?'

‘Then why did you say you weren't looking forward to going home?'

‘I hate travelling,' I lied. ‘Trains are a nightmare, taxis cost a fortune. It really is getting very warm.'

Joe watched my futile attempt to fan myself with a damp napkin, finished his drink then reached for the prosecco to top off his glass.

‘You're not going to believe this but,' he said, laughing as though he couldn't believe he was really about to say what he was about to say, ‘when I first saw you with Malcolm at lunch, I thought you were Este Cox.'

My water glass slipped out of my hand, fell to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces. Well, three pieces. It was a cheap glass.

‘Come on, it wasn't that far-fetched an idea,' Joe said, draping himself over the zebra-print seats. ‘You and Malcolm, book on the table, clandestine meetings in back alleys.'

‘We were having lunch in a curry house in the middle of the day.'

‘A secret lunch,' he amended, ‘and you were both extremely shifty when I came over.'

‘Because you were acting completely normal?' I replied. ‘Watching us like a weirdo then emerging from the shadows like some sort of shit spy.'

‘Obviously Hugh and Pandora Taylor's daughter would never write anything like Butterflies,' Joe chuckled, shaking his head at the very thought. ‘God, imagine the look on your mother's face if she had to explain that to her friends.'

I felt like I was going to be sick. It was one thing to think that kind of thing myself but it was another to hear someone else say it out loud. My eyes welled up with tears and I wiped them away with surprise, slowly sinking to the worryingly sticky floor. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried and here I was, seconds away from bursting into hysterics in front of an absolute tosspot who had no idea what he was saying.

‘Sophie?' Joe squatted down in front of me, a very real-seeming look of concern on his stupidly handsome face. ‘Are you all right?'

‘No,' I replied as I dragged myself upright to find my feet again. Was the room spinning when we came in? I wasn't sure. ‘I'm not all right and neither are you.'

‘Come again?'

‘When will I learn to trust my instincts?' I asked myself out loud, shame steadily finding itself eclipsed by disappointment. Disappointment in him for proving me right and disappointment in myself for thinking I might have been wrong in the first place. ‘You're an arrogant, ignorant, insensitive arsehole, so wrapped up in your own privilege, you can't see past the end of your own nose. Not everything is about you, not everything is for you.'

‘Me?' he exclaimed, clearly stunned as he looked up at me from the floor. ‘You think I'm privileged?'

‘Unless you were part of a Harvard diversity programme where they mix up the rich Americans with some posh British boys for a bit of balance?'

‘What about you?' Joe launched back, rising unsteadily to his feet, his face flushed. ‘Where did you go to university?'

I wrapped my arms around my body and squeezed.

‘Durham.'

‘Interesting. Isn't that where your dad went? In fact, isn't that where he still guest lectures every year?'

‘You know a disturbing amount about my father,' I replied, chin raised. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?'

‘Only that you're just as privileged as me, sweetheart.'

All traces of jokes or sarcastic asides were gone. He was angry. Joe tossed back the rest of his prosecco and slammed the glass back down on the low table, a dull crack piercing the synth-heavy backing track. Two hours of karaoke, two bottles of prosecco and two broken glasses. This was going to cost a fortune.

‘Life must be so hard for you with your university education and your amazing parents,' he ranted, ‘teaching at some fancy private school—'

‘Ah-ha!' I cut in. ‘It's not a private school.'

He paused, an expectant expression on his face.

‘But it is quite hard to get into,' I confessed into my chest.

‘You don't know me as well as you think you do but I've got your number,' Joe went on, moving closer as he continued with his tirade. ‘Let me guess, school was easy, you probably got accepted into Durham before you even took your exams, could've walked into a cushy publishing job but that sounded too much like hard work so you decided to rough it for a bit, teach some rich shits' kids their ABCs until you land a rich shit of your own. But Mr Rich Shit still hasn't appeared so you spend all your nights alone, reading books like Butterflies, wondering why no one has fallen for your silky hair and rose petal lips and your terrible, terrible singing voice, and—'

‘I spend all day, every day dealing with children but you, Joe Walsh, are the biggest child I've ever met,' I yelled, poking a finger into his solid chest, so mad I barely even heard what he was saying. ‘Ooh, look at me, I'm so clever and well read. Ooh, look at me, I went to Harvard so I know better than everyone else about everything. Ooh, look at me, I'm handsome and tall and probably played lacrosse and … and …'

Through the red mist of rage, I couldn't quite find a way to finish the sentence. We were so close, I could see the flare of his nostrils and the quiver at the corners of his mouth, but when I reached his eyes, instead of the anger I was anticipating they were full of something else entirely.

Lust.

Joe Walsh was looking at me like he wanted to eat me up and, I realised, as the white hot fury burned out from my chest and slid down into the pit of my stomach, settling somewhere unexpected, below my belly button, there was nothing in the world I wanted more.

‘Sophie—' he began, reaching one hand towards me.

‘Excuse me.' I jerked backwards before he could make contact and grabbed hold of my suitcase. ‘I have a train to catch.'

I was out the door and on the street before the song had even finished.