Dead Romantic (31 page)

“There’ll be a way to prove what that scoundrel has done. You just have to find it,” Henry Wellby continues firmly. “Come on, girl. You’re supposed to be brilliant. That’s what they all say here, and now’s the time to prove it. All you have to do is think hard and it will come to you. We’ll help too if we can.”

Aamon nods and the cat leaps onto the desk, rubbing its bony head against the computer monitor. In spite of my despair I can’t help smiling. I have a world-famous Egyptologist on my side and a pharaoh, and maybe even Rafe too.

That’s some team. Simon Welsh should be very afraid.

“You’re right,” I say slowly and with a growing sense of determination. “He can’t get away with this. We need a plan.”

I pick up my pencil and gnaw the end thoughtfully. There has to be a way. All I need to do now is figure it out.

Chapter 24

“He did what?” Susie is so shocked that her fork, laden with cheesy lasagne, is frozen halfway between the plate and her lips. Gloopy meat sauce splashes onto the white tablecloth, but for once I don’t move to mop it up. What are a few splashes of lasagne in the general scheme of things? Let’s face it: I’ve got a far bigger mess to clean up.

It’s early evening and, after a fruitless day spent mostly pacing up and down my office muttering
bastard
at regular intervals, I’ve left work and met Susie for supper in a pretty little Italian restaurant just off Covent Garden. My head is still spinning and so far I’ve not touched my seafood risotto, but a fair amount of red wine seems to have slipped down my neck.

“He stole all my research and passed it off as his own,” I repeat. “And then he swapped my application with his and now he’s the Assistant Director of our department.”

Susie’s jaw falls open. More lasagne splatters onto the tablecloth. “No way! Seriously?”

“Seriously. I know it sounds far-fetched, and believe me he’s done a great job of making me look like a brain-injured lunatic at work, but that’s exactly what’s happened.” I slosh some more wine into my glass and swirl it about miserably. “Simon stole my passwords and copied everything that was on my laptop, and now I haven’t got any proof that it was my work to begin with. And before you ask, no, I haven’t got my work saved anywhere else. He’s wiped the backup files and stolen my USB stick.”

“Bloody hell. What a mess. Can’t you tell somebody at work?”

I laugh bitterly. “I did try but Simon’s managed to twist everything so that it looks as though I’m the one out to wreck his career.”

Susie lowers her fork. “I take it this is the same Simon who came round to the flat and took the statue? Tallish? Stocky?”

I nod.

“Bastard!” Susie’s fork clatters onto her plate. “He walked in as cool as anything and chatted away. He was so convincing. I really thought you’d said he could borrow it. Cleo, I’m so sorry. He had me totally fooled. I even made him a cup of tea. I wish I’d spat in it now.”

She looks distraught and I reach forward and lay a hand on her arm. “Hey, don’t blame yourself; he’s totally plausible. Even I was sucked in for a while. And of course the whole head-injury thing has been a gift for him. He’s passing off any objections I make as evidence that I’m not up to being at work.”

I rip off a chunk of garlic ciabatta, wishing that it had voodoo powers and that somewhere Simon was writhing around in agony. It’s only when my mouth is too crammed with bread for me to speak that Susie says carefully, “You must admit though, you have been acting a little bit strangely lately: not quite yourself.”

Over Susie’s shoulder I see an elderly gentleman in eighteenth-century dress; meanwhile, Aamon and the cat are squashed up next to me on the red velvet banquette. They’ve stuck to me like glue since the incident in the Professor’s office. To be honest, I’m finding it rather comforting to have them around. At least Aamon still believes in me. There’s no sign of Alex, so maybe he’s managed to drift off to wherever it is he’s supposed to be. Who knows? Certainly not me. I don’t feel like I know anything anymore. My world has been turned upside down, so yes, it’s safe to say I’m not quite myself. But still, I think I might remember if I’d donated a whole year’s work to Wanker Welsh. I’m not
that
deranged.

“Not that I’m doubting you at all,” Susie adds hastily. “No way. It’s just that you do seem a bit different – in a good way, of course! I’m thrilled you’re not so bothered about mess these days, and Dave thinks you’re totally great.”

I gulp down the garlic bread. “Stop trying to dig yourself out of a hole. For your information, I still care about mess and I’d rather not bump into semi-naked junior doctors over the Cornflakes. And before you ask, no, I’m not about to lend you the rent.”

Susie pulls a hurt face. “I wasn’t going to say that. I just think you seem happier since you hurt your head, which probably sounds crazy given what’s been going on, but you’ve been less obsessed with work. And you’ve spent some time with your dad. These are good changes.”

“Now look where they’ve got me,” I say gloomily. Susie does have a point: work hasn’t been my number-one priority lately. Getting shot of Alex has been.

“Talking of work,” I continue, spearing a fat pink prawn on my fork, “unless I can think of a way to clear my name in the next week or so you’ll be able to make as much mess as you like and keep a male harem if you feel the urge. The Professor wants me to go on a year’s sabbatical to Luxor. They want rid of me.”

“Can they do that?”

I put my fork down. My appetite has vanished because, yes, it seems that they can. “It will be under the guise of career development, but in effect it’s a handy way to smooth over an awkward situation. I guess I either take the sabbatical or I could go and work elsewhere.”

“Leave the museum? But you love your work!” Susie looks shocked. “But, then again, you love Egypt too.”

I nod. “I do, and normally I’d be there like a shot – but this is different, Suse. It’s leaving under a cloud and there’s no way I want to do that. I have to clear my name and get my work back. I just need to figure out how.”

We return to our food for a bit, both deep in thought. Susie puts forward a couple of ideas about being a honeytrap and getting Simon to confess, but since he’s already met her the plan soon gets derailed. She even offers to speak to the Professor and tell him that I never authorised her to part with the statue, but what would that prove? It’s still Simon’s word against mine.

“Egypt it is, then,” Susie says gloomily as we scrape up the final smears of tiramisu.

The sweet pudding curdles in my stomach. A whole year in Egypt. Once upon a time you wouldn’t have seen me for dust, but now I’m reluctant to leave England. There’s my father, for one thing. I don’t want to leave him behind just when we’ve started to rebuild our relationship. And then there’s Rafe…

I’ve tried hard not to think about him today – I’ve needed my wits about me – but I just haven’t been able to stop myself. Even in the middle of a full-on career meltdown I’ve caught myself drifting away into thoughts of him: the way he held my face between his hands and kissed me as though he’d never let me go again, his mouth soft and full on mine. My fingers steal to my lips. It feels as if I’ve always known Rafe Thorne – which is ridiculous, given that we’ve probably spent less than twenty-four hours in each other’s company. But what if there is a person you’re meant to be with? How many of us ever get to recognise that person or be with them? It might be a fleeting encounter on a train or perhaps passing each other in a crowd; your eyes meet and you know with every fibre of your being that that person is the other part of you. That’s how I felt about Rafe on the snowy railway platform all those years ago, and that’s exactly how I felt about him last night.

“Out with it.” Pudding finished and wine glass drained, Susie gives me a stern look. “Who is he?”

“Who is who?” I try to bluff, but I’m a redhead so now I’m the colour of the velvet seat.

Susie gives a cry of triumph. “The guy who’s put that soppy look on your face. Don’t try and deny it! I know you, Cleo Carpenter, and I’ve never once seen you look like this.
And
you rolled in this morning with a daft smile, your hair in a tangle and looking like you hadn’t slept all night. Don’t hold back on me! Spill!”

My hair had been tangled because Rafe had spent hours threading my curls around his fingers and pressing kisses into them. I hadn’t slept all night either. And the daft smile? Everything to do with what we’d been doing while the rest of the world was sleeping. If I close my eyes I can still see his face silvered by the moonlight and feel his lips tracing the curve of my throat. Even all these hours on I can still sense his skin against mine and the rasp of his stubble against my neck, and shivers dance across my limbs.

“Just somebody I used to know a long time ago,” I say.

She rubs her hands together in glee. “I knew it! I am never wrong! So, Dr Oh-So-Secretive-Carpenter, when are you seeing him again?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t made any plans.”

Aamon is under the table playing some involved game with the cat, and an icy draught whisks around us. At least I think that’s caused by Aamon. It might be the thought of not seeing Rafe again that chills me.

“Well, duh! Call him and make some,” says Susie. “Honestly, Cleo, you are hopeless. If he’s the reason you’ve started to relax then he’s got my vote.”

I suppose that in a roundabout way Rafe is the reason I’ve changed. Alex is certainly the reason my life has been totally disrupted.

I pull a face. “You’re right, Suse, I am hopeless. I don’t even have his number.”

“You’re going to wait for him to call you? Babe, we don’t have to sit by the phone anymore! We’re all equal now. Don’t play text chess; life’s far too short. Find his number and call him!”

While Susie gives me the benefit of her wide and varied love life, filling me in on how to tell if a guy is
into me,
I pay the bill and then we stroll arm in arm along Floral Street and into the piazza. It’s bitterly cold tonight and everyone is wrapped up in thick coats and big scarves, but even the biting north wind can’t whip the smiles from the faces of the late-night shoppers. Before I can protest, Susie’s grabbing my hand and tugging me into various shops, where we end up buying all sorts of odds and ends that she thinks will be great presents, but which we both know she’ll end up keeping.

We’re just leaving the covered market and heading for the Underground station when two buskers break into a rendition of “One Christmas Kiss”.
Usually I run for the hills as soon as I hear those opening chords, but this time I stop and listen to every word until Covent Garden melts away and I’m standing back on the empty platform, circled by Rafe’s arms and with the snow silently drifting down. When the buskers finish to enthusiastic applause I find that my cheeks are wet.

“Blimey,” says Susie, handing me a crumpled bit of tissue. “You have got it bad.”

I dash the tears away. “Sorry. Bit of a weird day.” Week. Month. Delete as appropriate.

“That song reminds me of something I saw trending on Twitter earlier,” she tells me as, arm in arm, we thread our way through the crowds. “It’s by a band called Thorne. I think I told you about them once? They came to an end when the lead singer died, remember?”

I nod. How could I ever forget?

“Apparently the lead singer’s brother, Rafe Thorne, who’s been pretty much a recluse since then, has just put a new song out as a free download. Everyone’s going mad for it and the press have freaked.” Susie fishes out her iPhone and scrolls to her Twitter feed. “It’s like Elvis popping back into the building and recording again. People are going crazy because Rafe Thorne is gorgeous!”

I close my eyes and picture Rafe’s slow, stomach-flipping smile. Even when I open them again I can still see him.

“Apparently it’s the fastest downloaded track this year. Everyone’s talking about it.” Her expression grows dreamy. “It’s a beautiful song, Cleo. It’s called ‘Sunrise Girl’. She saved him from despair and every day the sun rises in her smile. God, I’m happy if Dave puts the loo seat down. Whoever she is and wherever she is, she’s a lucky cow. He’s crazy about her.”

Susie dives into the Underground station, but I’m rooted to the pavement with her words echoing round and round in my head. People and ghosts – I can hardly tell them apart these days – swirl past me, but I barely notice them any more than I notice the wind slicing into my face or feel the jostling elbows of the other commuters. Suddenly Simon, the museum and even all those months of lost research don’t seem to matter nearly as much as they did earlier. My heart is rising like a helium balloon. The message in this song couldn’t be any clearer: Rafe feels about me the same way that I feel about him. I’m tingling from head to foot. The twinkling lights and Christmas decorations don’t seem out of place now. I realise that the world is full of wonder and magic. How have I ever doubted this?

“You did it, Alex,” I whisper into the cold night. “You really did it! Rafe Thorne is back on the music scene!”

Chapter 25

It’s no good. No matter how hard I try I just can’t seem to come up with a foolproof way to prove that Simon Welsh has lied, cheated and thieved his way to the Assistant Director’s job. Everything I think of falls at the first hurdle because there’s no evidence –anything I might say will just be interpreted as sour grapes. I spend the next four days alternately racking my brains for a solution and then wondering why I haven’t heard from Rafe. At night I lie awake in the flat, watching the shadows swish across the ceilings when cars pass by, and reliving the night we spent together. Then, just to torture myself a little bit more, I listen to “Sunrise Girl”. Like practically everyone else in Britain, I’ve downloaded it. Unlike everyone else, though, I pore over the lyrics as a miser might pore over his gold; I analyse each line and every piece of imagery until my head spins. When I was in Covent Garden with Susie I was so sure there was a message in that song for me. Almost a week later and with no sign of Rafe, I’m not so certain. My judgment recently hasn’t been particularly great, has it?