Chapter One
Six months was long enough to nurse a broken heart. Long enough to fold inward and mope about what had been lost between Nick and me. And now, as the Christmas season approached, I’d taken a firm grip of myself and finally emerged from my black, fogged gloom.
It had started with a trip to a ludicrously priced hairdresser who’d cut my hair into a sharp, jaw-length bob and given me golden highlights. It suited me, my face was small, my pale blue eyes big, and exposing my neck made my petite frame more balanced. Next I’d gone on an Oxford Street shopping spree, flexed that plastic without worrying about the cost on a range of snazzy new clothes, luxurious toiletries and decadent makeup. I hadn’t shopped since I’d taken on the job of artist relations manager back in the summer, so my bank account coped admirably.
Robbie and Ian’s girls, Jenny and Nina, had hardly recognized me; neither did the guys from Manic Machines, when I walked into the studio after my days off.
“Sylvia!” Nina exclaimed, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “You look amazing.”
“Yeah,” Robbie agreed, eyeing me up and down. “You been on holiday?”
“No, just enjoying a bit of me time.”
“Well it looks like it’s done you a world of good,” Jenny said, handing me a coffee. “I love your hair.”
I touched the ends of my bob and glanced at Tim and Dean Coltrane, the brothers in the band. They lolled side by side on a squidgy navy sofa and wore jeans and worn t-shirts. Their smoldering gazes lingered on me from beneath their matching heavy fringes. Tim seemed fascinated by my legs, which were covered in sheer black stockings, and Dean had his head cocked looking up into my face. I watched him shift in his seat and rub at the half-sleeve tattoo covering his right upper arm.
“Thanks, Jenny,” I said, taking the coffee. I took a sip and beat down a wave of intense pleasure at the way my new look had been received.
“We’ve just started blending the last track on the album,” Ian told me, leaning over a huge console crammed with sliding buttons and flashing lights.
“Great,” I said. “And guess what…” I paused and they all stared at me expectantly. “We got the Christmas Eve slot on The Claudia Tate Show.”
“Brilliant,” Tim said with a grin. “Well done.”
“Yeah, let’s hope “Slip Knot”is number one for Christmas then,” Nina said, rubbing her hands together.
“It will be,” I said confidently, plonking down my briefcase. “Sales are reaching record levels and it was only released three weeks ago.”
****
Two weeks later, beneath the red and gold tinsel sprawling around the ceiling of the BBC’s green room, I sat with the band, Jenny and Nina, waiting for Manic Machines’ slot on The Claudia Tate Show. We’d all had a glass or two of rich mulled wine, even though I was officially working, and the atmosphere held just the right amount of the anticipation of prime time TV and the relaxed hum that Christmas Eve brought.
I sat on a straight-backed couch next to Tim. He was bulkier than his brother—I guessed it was from all that hammering he did on the drums—and each time he lifted his drink to his mouth the round ball of his shoulder brushed my thin red sweater. His wide thigh, encased in black jeans, the predominant color the band wore, was pressed against my tight gray pencil skirt, and heat from his body was pouring into me, giving me a lovely tingling glow that had nothing to do with the festive wine.
I glanced at Jenny, who was sporting an enormous Ceylon sapphire on her left ring finger. The plan was for Robbie to announce their engagement on the show in a few minutes. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled as he sat with his arm wrapped around her shoulders.
Dean was perched on the arm of my chair. “What are you up to for Christmas, Sylvia?” he asked, topping up my glass.
My gaze moved up from the image of a skull smoking a joint on his t-shirt to his green eyes. “Not much,” I said as the scent of cinnamon and berries, man and musk, swirled around me. “Chilling out with the remote and a box of chocolates I expect.”
Dean pulled his mouth down. “Sounds dull.”
“After running around after you lot for months it will be a merciful relief,” I said with a laugh.
“I can think of better ways to get some relief,” Dean whispered with a twinkle in his eyes and a naughty tilt to the corner of his mouth. “Much better ways.”
“Mmm, I just bet you can.” I giggled and took a sip of my replenished drink. Lately I’d gotten used to the banter with Dean and Tim. It seemed they were always trying to evoke a blush from the tips of my toes to the top of my scalp.
“We could help you out with stress relief if you want, Sylvia,” Tim leaned into my ear to whisper. “Make sure your Christmas is a whole lot more interesting than TV and chocolate.”
I turned and almost bumped noses with him. “Well, I—”
“Come on, come on,” a sudden shrill voice called from the doorway. “You’re on in two, for goodness’ sake.”
I looked at the skinny floor director flapping his arms and shuffling his feet in the doorframe.
“Where’s your relations manager?” he directed at Robbie with a frown.