Chapter Seventeen

Things take a turn for the worse the following morning when Theo's temperature hits just over thirty-eight degrees. My phone is already out in my hand when Theo's fingers wrap around my wrist.

‘Don't,' he says. I am temporarily distracted by this, the first time he has touched me when I haven't been too ill to pay attention. He has such good hands and the warm pressure of his fingers, the cold touch of the silver rings he wears against my skin… let's just say I'm definitely paying attention now.

I swallow. Gather my wits. ‘I have to,' I say unsteadily. ‘You're ill.'

‘I just don't want the fuss.' He sighs, lets go of me. ‘I don't feel too bad, really.'

‘I don't know,' I say slowly. ‘Your temperature is going up. And you're so pale and snotty.'

‘But I haven't been sick,' he wheedles. ‘And I don't have a sore throat. Your oath to protect my precious voice is still intact.'

When I still hesitate, he sighs. ‘Look, we know exactly what it is and how to deal with it. I obviously don't have it as bad as you because I'm not currently vomiting all over your shoes.'

‘I didn't vomit on your shoes!' I exclaim, outraged.

‘There was splatter,' Theo says firmly. ‘My shoes were compromised.'

‘You're being ridiculous,' I grumble. ‘I kept all my vomit neatly in the sink like a professional. I don't think you were even wearing shoes.'

Theo waves this away. ‘Whatever, the point is that all I need to do is take some of the pills the doctor gave you, rest and drink water. If you call David, that treatment won't be any different, but do you know what he'll do?'

I shake my head. I actually don't know what David would do if his precious Theo was sick, but I imagine him smashing in through the window with a war cry and a sack of Sicily's finest lemons tucked under his arm.

‘First of all, he'll fly a doctor – or multiple doctors – over from LA.' Theo looks at me from under his brows. ‘Think of the earth, Clemmie. The environment. The unnecessary carbon footprint.'

I huff.

‘Then,' Theo holds up a warning finger, ‘he'll come himself, and – I cannot stress this enough – he will never leave. He will somehow blame you for this situation and then he will hover over you for the next four and a half weeks making sure you're following his instructions precisely and he will drive us both insane.'

‘Is this all because you don't want to lose access to my junk food?' I ask suspiciously.

Theo looks shifty for a moment. ‘I've just rediscovered Mini Cheddars,' he whispers finally, a broken man. ‘Please don't take that away from me.'

I laugh – I can't help it – and Theo's eyes light triumphantly. He also follows this up with what I know is his trump card. ‘And he'll report to the label and then they'll all be going mad, fretting over the album, and it will just make things more stressful for Serena.'

Air hisses between my teeth and I know that he knows he's got me. ‘Fine,' I say grumpily, ‘but you're going straight up to bed; we're going to fill you up to your neck with medicine, and if you do start feeling worse you have to tell me.'

‘So bossy,' Theo murmurs, walking ahead of me. ‘I love it.'

‘Are you all right taking these painkillers?' I ask him a little awkwardly once he's lying on his bed.

‘Because of the drinking you mean?' he asks. I nod. I know he doesn't drink, and David specified the house should be kept clear of alcohol. I hadn't thought too much of it. I know plenty of people who don't drink for one reason or another – though I will admit that, given his job, I have my own suspicions, fairly or not. Let's just say Ripp and his friends aren't exactly squeaky clean… far from it.

‘Yeah.' Theo leans his head back against the pillow. ‘I gave up the drink a few years back. Not because I had a problem, exactly, but because I could all too easily imagine a future where it would be a problem. I've seen way too many friends heading down that road and I was lucky that one or two of them saw the signs and pulled me up on it before that happened. It was easier just to give it up altogether.' He groans. ‘But painkillers are fine. Now I know what you were babbling about with your achy bones.'

I dole out the tablets and enter the time and what he's taken into the Notes app on my phone, which Theo says is ‘smug and obnoxious behaviour', and which I tell him is simply the action of a functioning adult. I force him to drink some water, check his temperature again and then make to leave.

‘No, don't go,' he says softly.

I turn back to face him.

‘Who will protect me if I have demonic Mr Men hallucinations?' he asks, forlorn. ‘What if I feel the need to chew on someone's arm?'

I feel my cheeks flush. ‘I told you before that you definitely imagined that.'

‘Please?' He tilts his head, patting the bed beside him. ‘Don't leave me on my own.'

I eye his bed, tell myself this is a bad idea, but I think we both know it's for show. ‘You need to go to sleep though,' I say, climbing up next to him.

‘That's fine.' Theo's eyes are already closed. ‘There are some books on the bedside table if you get bored of watching my beautiful face.'

I lean over him. There are three books stacked next to the bed: an Agatha Christie novel; the Judy Blume book I pulled off the bookshelf in my room last week, the one that has CLEMENTINE MONROE written in a round hand inside the cover; and a copy of The Canterbury Tales.

‘Chaucer?' I ask, surprised.

‘You've got a poster of him in your bedroom.' Theo doesn't open his eyes. ‘I was jealous. Wanted to know what the fuss was about.'

I grab the book and get comfy on my side of the bed. ‘You want all the girls to have Theo Eliott posters in their bedrooms?' I tease.

‘Not all the girls,' he mumbles. I feel my cheeks warm, remind myself that he doesn't mean anything by it.

‘I'm more of a Ryan Gosling fan,' I say lightly.

Theo groans.

We're quiet for a bit. I leaf through the familiar pages, smile as I notice Theo has been making notes in the margins, trying to translate the Middle English, underlining the rude bits. I think he must have fallen asleep, but then he snuggles closer to me.

‘I like your bed better,' he says, his voice drowsy and a little slurred as the tablets kick in.

‘Your bed is the one with the fancy gazillionaire sheets on it,' I remind him.

He sighs. Moves his hand until his fingers brush up against my arm.

‘You're so soft,' he says dreamily. ‘I'd like to bite you too. Like a peach.'

The noise my brain makes is like a rusty chainsaw revving to life. It's the tablets. We all get a bit loopy when we have a temperature. Remain calm.

‘I guess I don't mind which bed I'm in,' he manages after a moment, ‘as long as you're in it too.'

What am I supposed to say to that? I stay frozen, trying to find the words.

But I don't have to find them, because a light snore lets me know that Theo has fallen asleep.

For the next couple of days I make sure Theo has a constant stream of lemon and honey, force him to inhale steam, gargle warm water, take his pills. I tick off every duty David has given me and it seems to do the trick.

Chalk one up for the ten thousand supplements because Theo's illness never gets worse than that day he had the higher temperature, not that it stops him complaining about it.

‘I just think maybe I should ask David to send someone with an IV vitamin drip for us,' he whines when we are sitting on the sofa watching TV.

‘Be quiet and drink your Lemsip.' I throw a kernel of popcorn at his face, but he catches it in his mouth and flashes me a smug grin.

I can't get over how easy it is being around him. I've even learned to tamp down the relentless electric crackle of physical attraction that I feel towards him. Well, partly. A little bit at least. The snot helped for a while.

And yes, he's a flirt. He's ridiculously, eye-wateringly charming, but I simply have to remind myself that that is who he is. The fizzy feeling I get sometimes is just a result of being caught in the orbit of someone with the charisma to woo stadiums full of fans. It's as natural to him as breathing; I'm not sure he can actually turn it off. And as long as I remember that, remember who he is, it actually feels like we're starting to be… friends.

The cold, distant Theo of last week has melted away, and now I lie under a blanket as we watch Blood/Lust together.

Days ago, Theo told me in no uncertain terms that he had no interest in watching this ‘crap', but I paid no attention, silently hitting play on the first episode. Now we're halfway through season two. We've been living like mole people, eating ice cream and keeping the blinds shut. Theo is fully invested, researching his favourite pairings, reading bits of smutty fan fiction aloud to me from the browser on his phone.

‘I can't believe you read fan fiction,' I say.

‘Oh yeah. There's loads on this site about me, you know.' He sounds delighted with himself.

‘No!' I am aghast. ‘And you've read it?'

‘Some of it.' He looks at me, widens his eyes innocently. ‘What? There's no need to be so puritanical about it. I have talented fans. Nothing wrong with a bit of finely crafted erotica.'

I make a sort of spluttering noise while trying to convince myself that I won't be looking any of these stories up later.

We go back to watching the show, and we're just reaching one of my favourite bits – a pivotal romantic moment and the first kiss between the two main characters – when Theo makes the sort of high-pitched sound that I would previously have only attributed to a teenage girl.

‘What?!' I ask, startled.

‘This is my song!' he beams, gesturing at the TV. He grabs the remote and turns the volume up, and there – in the background – is a raspy, velvet voice singing seductively over a slow, pulsing beat. Then that raspy, velvet voice isn't just on the TV, it's in the room as he sings along and all of my skin breaks out in goosebumps. Oh, shit. The characters on the screen kiss, and I think, Of course you're kissing, you dummies! Listen to that man's voice! I can't believe you've still got any clothes on!

Fortunately, Theo doesn't notice my meltdown, too busy enjoying the moment, his eyes glued to the screen. ‘My favourite show used one of my songs. That's pretty cool,' he says happily.

The spell is thankfully broken by this declaration, and I burst out laughing. ‘Your favourite show? A couple of days ago you wouldn't even let me put it on.'

‘I'm older now, Clemmie,' he says earnestly. ‘Wiser.'

‘You're an idiot,' I snigger, throwing another piece of popcorn at him.

He doesn't dignify that with a response, but as he settles back on the sofa he pulls my feet into his lap. Maybe it should feel like a strange thing to do, but it doesn't. It feels easy, natural.

‘Hey, Theo,' I say, almost idly.

‘Mmm?' He doesn't look away from the TV.

‘Why were you so weird with me when you got here? Did I do something to upset you?'

I feel him tense, but when he turns to look at me his face doesn't give anything away. ‘No, you didn't do anything.' He pauses for a moment, his mouth turned down. ‘I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. I was stressed. I've been a bit… anxious.'

I think about that. ‘About the album?' I venture.

He nods, a quick dip of his chin. I let the silence stretch between us. Ingrid would be proud. ‘I haven't written anything in a long time,' he says finally. ‘This album is two years overdue, did you know that?'

‘I didn't know it was so long,' I say. No wonder the label is having kittens.

‘Yeah.' He starts rubbing my foot almost absently, and I feel every cell in my body respond but strive to keep my expression neutral.

‘My last record didn't do as well as the ones before,' he explains with a wince, sounding pained by the admission. ‘I want this one to be special. I know I can do better, but for some reason I can't seem to get started. The longer it goes on, the more pressure there is and now it feels like this huge, impossible obstacle.' He sighs.

‘This is the label's last-ditch attempt to get me to focus, then they're going to want to bring other writers in. I've never liked working that way. We did it for years when we were in the band, and I get that it can be great, but for me, that's the whole point – to make music that's totally personal. For it to come straight from me, from what I'm feeling.'

I am pretty out of my depth here. What do I know about making music? I might come from a family of musicians, but I've done my level best to avoid conversations like this. Already there's a queasy sensation that this feels too close to things I heard Sam say, but I shove that to the side. Theo is obviously upset. ‘I know it's not the same thing,' I say tentatively, ‘but when I'm writing something, I have to try and concentrate on just the little bit in front of me. If I think about the whole thing, it's too overwhelming.'

It's the most trite, obvious advice, but Theo smiles sweetly, squeezes my foot in his warm hand. ‘Yeah,' he says. ‘I guess I just need somewhere to start. It doesn't have to be perfect.'

‘Right,' I agree.

He looks at me for another second, his gaze intent on mine, and for some reason my heart rate ratchets up. He takes a deep breath, like he has something important to say, then his eyes slide away.

‘Anyway, it's your turn to fetch the ice cream,' is what comes out of his mouth. ‘And don't even try and fob me off with that sorbet nonsense again.'