Dead Romantic (26 page)

A high-pitched beep rouses me from these thoughts. Lights flash on the Ferrari and Rafe opens the door. “Hop in. Your chariot awaits.”

The red Ferrari is Rafe’s. Of course it is; it’s all textbook rock-star stuff. As are drugs and rock ’n’ roll and sex. Not that I’m thinking about sex – no matter how gorgeous he looks in his battered leather jacket, torn 501s and chunky Timberland boots. No, I’m more concerned about whether or not he’s fit to drive. His parking looks as though Mr Bean was behind the wheel.

“I’m shit at parking,” Rafe adds, reading my mind so easily that I blush. I hope he can’t read the part about me thinking he’s gorgeous, although I have a horrible feeling he can already tell how I feel. I try to comfort myself with the idea that he’s probably used to girls hurling themselves at him, but this makes me feel even worse.

“I honestly haven’t had a drink since Sunday,” Rafe assures me. “And before you ask, I never touch drugs, no matter what the papers might have you believe. If I’m acting strangely then it’s because I’m so excited, and if I’m jumpy it’s because I’m exhausted, but that’s all, Christmas Girl. I promise.”

I believe him. Although he’s still as unshaven and as scruffy as he was when I so rudely awakened him, his hair falling across his face and his clothes definitely crumpled and slept in, there’s a different kind of energy about Rafe today. I can feel it fizzing through his fingertips and imagine it crackling with his every movement as he clasps my hand in his.

“So, will you come with me?” Rafe asks softly. “Let me show you what it is that’s kept me up for hours on end?”

He’s looking at me so hopefully that there’s no way I can say no, even though I know I really should unpack the shopping and make my plans to travel back to London ready to confront Simon. I guess my curiosity is piqued: I want to see what’s changed him.

“I’ll come,” I agree.

“Great! Hop in!” Rafe opens the door and I swing myself into the low-slung leather seat. Thank goodness I wore thick black tights with my denim skirt and knee-high boots; otherwise our neighbours, busy watching from behind their net curtains, would be treated to a view of my knickers – and I’ve flashed those quite enough for one lifetime.

“Good luck,” says Alex over my shoulder. “Rafe’s a horrible driver. Cling on and pray that you don’t end up with me!”

He isn’t kidding. Rafe drives like something out of
Wacky Races
, only you don’t see me laughing. I know he’s a guy who feels he has nothing to lose, but does he have to take the bends so fast, or stand on the brakes quite so often? Taply-on-Thames flies by in a blur of river and stone before blending with the green lanes of Buckinghamshire, as though someone’s tossed the car into a giant food processor and pressed the high-speed button. Insects splatter against the windscreen, and the Ferrari feels so low to the road that I can practically touch the tarmac. I would ask him to slow down, but G-force and terror render me speechless. Rafe probably mistakes my open-mouthed horror for excitement. My hands grip the seat so tightly that my knuckles glow through my skin and the cream leather is scored with nail marks. But never mind the car; I’m equally scared by the racing line he takes through the lanes and the speed at which the world flies by. No wonder Alex leapt out that fateful day. By the time Rafe pulls up outside his house with a flourish of gravel and tyres, my head is spinning around more than Kylie in gold hot pants, and my life has flashed before my eyes. Actually, it was rather dull except for the last couple of months...

Rafe jumps out of the driver’s seat and opens the door for me, catching me when I stagger forth on legs that feel as strong as boiled wool. I will never, ever, moan about playing sardines on the Tube again.

“Hey, are you OK?” he asks, tightening his grasp on the tops of my arms. “You’ve gone ever such a funny colour.”

I glance in the wing mirror and a wide-eyed reflection stares back at me. My face is so white that my freckles stand out like bruises.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rafe continues, still holding onto me. Ironically, Alex is standing next to him as he says his, his cheeky ghostly grin far less scary than his brother’s driving. “Didn’t you enjoy the drive? That car’s not been out for months. I only used it because I wanted to get to you quickly.”

“Put it away again,” I suggest. “Maybe get a push bike?”

“Is this a clever way of saying you don’t like my driving? Look, I’m safe. I did a track day at Silverstone with an F1 coach. He said I had talent.”

“Lewis Hamilton must be shaking in his boots,” I say drily. “All you need is a Pussycat Doll in the passenger seat and we wouldn’t be able to tell you apart. Look, don’t let me get in the way; go ahead and call Bernie Ecclestone.”

Rafe’s wide eyes, those unusual violet irises ringed with black as though an artist has lovingly traced them with a fine liner, twinkle at me.

“For your information I have driven a member of a girl band in that car, and she shrieked all the way to the O2. Maybe not a Pussycat Doll, but still. You, Cleo Carpenter, are much harder to impress.”

Rafe wants to impress me?

“Don’t look so taken aback. I’m not a completely lost case,” he says, hands still on my shoulders. “I’m mortified by how I behaved on Sunday and I’ve been kicking myself. I mean, what kind of moron waits ten years to see a woman and then balls it up in such style when she finally arrives? I wanted to make it up to you.”

“By driving like a maniac in a red phallic symbol?”

He releases my shoulders and raises his hands in surrender. “Put like that, it sounds bloody ridiculous.”

I smile at him. I can’t help it. Behind the hair he’s pushing away from his face, he’s blushing. That’s really endearing.

“Hey, you’re a pop star. It comes with the territory,” I tell him.

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “What? Behaving like a knob? I think I’ve been in the industry too long. I knew I’d turn into tosser if I didn’t get out.” He pauses and the smile slides from his face. It feels a bit like the sun has slipped behind a cloud.

“I should have listened to you,” Alex interrupts, at his brother’s side now and sounding frantic. “You were right,” he continues, even though Rafe can’t hear him. “We did need to have some time out, and we were behaving like spoilt brats. Jesus, I even did that spoilt rock-star thing where I could only have certain candles and linen in my fucking dressing room! Me! A kid from a council estate in Hayes! You were right, Rafe, and I was wrong!” He turns to me, wide eyed. “Tell, him, Cleo! Tell him that I don’t blame him for any of it and I want him to carry on writing. I want him to have his life back – we shouldn’t have both stopped living that day.”

But how can I say all this? I’ll sound like a maniac. Somehow I will broach the subject, but it will be when I think the time is right.

“Anyway, it’s getting chilly out here.” Rafe turns the collar of his coat up and gestures towards the house. “Let’s warm up inside and I’ll show you why I wanted you to come over.”

Leaving Alex shaking his head in despair, I follow Rafe up the worn stone steps and into an entrance hall with a high vaulted roof crisscrossed with huge beams. There’s a tense atmosphere, as though the building is holding its breath to see what kind of mood its owner is in today.

Rafe lobs his keys onto a table; the rattle echoes around the empty space. Dust falls through the air, dancing in the beams of sunshine that filter through the leaded windows. And yet I know we're not alone. Up in the minstrels’ gallery there’s a swish of velvet skirts, and from the corner of my eye I spot a portly figure in a ruff, who waves at me cheerily.

“Ignore them,” says Alex, now at my shoulder. “They don’t need you. They like it here – that’s why they’ve stayed. That’s Sir Henry. He built the place, and he’s always about. He’s as sick of Rafe’s moping as I am; says the house is going to rack and ruin.”

“It’s too big and dusty in here.” Rafe gives me an apologetic look as I follow him through the hall and down a passageway. The house is freezing and the doors to most of the rooms are closed. It doesn’t feel at all like a home. This is a house built to hold a large and noisy family, a house where voices should ring, fires should blaze and wonderful parties should be held for guests to dance until midnight. It’s no place for a grieving man to live alone, and I’m not surprised Rafe’s hit the bottle.

“I bought it as an investment,” he continues as we progress towards what looks like a dead end. “Thorne were making a fortune and I knew I had to do something with the money.”

“There are only so many phallic symbols a guy can drive,” I agree, and he laughs.

Rafe has a nice laugh; it’s warm and infectious. It’s a shame he doesn’t use it more often. I guess he hasn’t had much to laugh about lately.

“Yeah, and hot tubs full of famous models soon get so boring! I know it isn’t very rock and roll, but our Nan always said that bricks and mortar never let you down. I wanted to buy her council house for her, but Nan wouldn’t hear of it – she was a dyed-in-the-wool socialist – so instead I splurged on this place.” Rafe shrugs. “Aren’t Thames-side mansions the stuff of rock-star dreams? Jagger had one in Richmond and a couple of Beatles have had places near here too, or so the estate agent told me. So here I am, although I rattle around in it a bit. Natasha had big design plans for it, but those vanished about the same time she did. I haven’t had the inclination to do much with it since I bought it.”

We’re at the end of the corridor now and the gloom is so deep that even though it’s a sunny day outside the thick stone walls, it feels as though it’s the middle of the night. I try to imagine living here alone, and fail. Suddenly I have a real longing to be back in the flat and surrounded by Susie’s clutter and noise.

“This is the one room I did do up,” Rafe announces as he throws open a door at the end of the corridor. “It’s one of the few rooms I use, although until Monday I hadn’t been in here for over a year.”

He stands back and beckons me to step past. I follow him into a long room with tall windows that open onto the green banks of the Thames and the glittering river beyond; they’re curtained outside by ivy, which blows gently in the wind. As Rafe steps aside and I cross the threshold I can’t help gasping, not because of the stunning view but because I’ve been abruptly transported from a neglected medieval manor house to a state-of-the-art studio that wouldn’t be out of place in the nerve centre of an LA recording company. There’s a huge sound booth, complete with giant microphones dangling from the ceiling, banks and banks of computers and complex-looking switches, and all kinds of instruments lined up in readiness for somebody to pick them up and play. There are also several squashy black sofas, dotted with sheets of manuscript paper that are scrawled with notes and lyrics in a sloping spidery hand. Half-empty coffee cups are lined up on the low-slung coffee table and there’s an overflowing ashtray balanced on the arm of one of the leather sofas.

“Horrible habit,” Rafe sighs, seeing me look at this. Striding across the room, he picks up the ashtray and tips the contents into a bin. “It’s weird, but I only ever smoke when I’m writing. Half the time I don’t even notice I’m doing it. Alex always said it was a throwback to being a teenager and hanging out in the garage with the gang.”

I glance across the room at Alex, who’s been checking out the mixing desk.

“He’s been writing!” Alex cries, punching the air and in his excitement sending a sheaf of papers fluttering to the ground. “Yes!”

“I’ll shut the door. It’s bloody cold in here,” Rafe says, scooping up the music and then kicking the door closed with his scuffed Timberland boot. “That’s some draught, too. Have a seat, Cleo. There’s something I have to show you, or rather play you.”

Rafe seats himself in a swivel chair and begins switching on the computers, opening programs and sliding dials on the mixing desk. Intrigued, I sink into the nearest sofa and curl my legs under me, while Alex perches on the arm and rests his ankle over his knee.

“After we had coffee I came straight here,” Rafe tells me. His face is bright with the glow of the monitors and that barely contained excitement from earlier. “I didn’t leave the studio for three days. I’ve slept here, drunk gallons of coffee and spent the whole time working.” As he sets up whatever it is that he’s doing, there’s an intensity to him that makes the hairs stir on my forearms. His dark hair falls across his face and he pushes it back impatiently, his attention trained on the recording equipment. “I had a line of music running through my mind and I had to get it down. First of all I picked it out on the keyboard, then I added in a guitar rift and finally I started to hear the lyrics. I played and I wrote and I added and then suddenly nearly three days had gone by. It was like being in a dream.”

Wow. I’m a girl who’s often accused of being obsessed with her work, but even I haven’t stayed in the office for almost seventy-two hours. I’m impressed.

“That’s amazing,” I say.

Rafe spins around on his chair with such speed it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.

“Cleo, it’s more than amazing. It’s mind-blowing. I haven’t written a decent word since Alex died. I’ve wanted to – Christ, I’ve tried enough times – but it was like my ability to write had died with him. That was my punishment for what happened.”

“Rafe, what happened to Alex wasn’t your fault. It was an accident: a horrible, senseless accident. You didn’t deserve to be punished for it.”

A muscle tightens in his cheek. “You really think so?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I think!”

“Yeah, you and my shrinks, but that wasn’t how it bloody felt. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the accident play out over and over again. In my dreams I try to get out of the car and pull him back to safety but I’m always a fraction too late. My fingertips slip from his jacket or I trip, or he’s just too goddamn far away. Then I hear the screaming of brakes and the thud of a body against metal and I wake up. I can never, ever save him.”

“You couldn’t save me, fam,” Alex says. “It was impossible. Nobody could have. It was an accident.”

But of course Rafe can’t hear his brother. “I wanted to write about it,” he continues. “That’s always been my way of working things through, but it was like a tap had been turned off. No matter how hard I tried the words wouldn’t come and I couldn’t hear the music anymore. So I started to drink.”