Trust (London Love #5)

“There’s a Travelodge at the services, otherwise we’d be looking at an Airbnb or something.”

“Could work.”

“Or we could buy a blow-up mattress.” I giggled. “That actually sounds rather rude. Could make a great song title.”

“You and your lyrics.” He reached over and tapped my knee.

“Hands on the wheel, Driver!” I sounded like my mum. I was half worried I was turning into her.

“Shut up. Talk to me about song lyrics.”

“Can’t do both,” I pointed out.

“G.”

“I wrote one called ‘Arrested in Las Vegas’.”

“Have you ever been arrested in Las Vegas?” He was so bloody cute when he smiled.

“Nah. But it’s about a couple going to Vegas, and then she leaves him alone in a hotel room, so he smashes it up thinking she’s left him, when in reality she just went to get herself a nice dress. The chorus goes like this. My future out the window, watch it hit the dust. Specs of grey to hide the sunshine, the light fading from my life. I lie to myself, thinking I can handle it. Let her out of my head and out of my heart, yet she’s absolutely everywhere. Everywhere I turn, her scent still lingers. The sweetness of her breath. The taste of her skin. My head is off the rails, and I’ll get myself arrested in Vegas, so pull that lever one more time.”

“Okay?” He changed lanes again.

“You’re really not impressed, are you?” I didn’t mind. He was just who he was.

“I’d listen to it. I don’t dance. Can’t wiggle my hips like you do.”

“It’s just choreography. They tell us how to move. Where to stand. We have colour-coordinated tape all over the place. Marks on the ground. Our mics are taped up so we know which one is ours. It’s not that complicated.”

“Don’t put yourself down. I know it’s all choreographed, but that’s not what’s important,” he said, and then he grimaced. “What do I know? Nothing, really, but I’ve seen you live. Twice, actually.”

“Yeah, I told Lauren to make sure you got tickets. I was hoping you used them.”

“’Course I did.” He laughed. “Would I miss seeing Blitz?”

“You hate our songs,” I teased him.

“‘Torrential’ is actually a good song. I like the beat.”

“Yeah?”

“You have a great voice. Sometimes when you sing, it’s…mesmerising. And I like how you are on stage. You’re always talking to people in the audience, making daft jokes.”

“They give me jokes to tell. I have an earpiece. They even tell me who I should speak to in the audience, like, ‘Boy in pink top holding a placard saying Suck my dick, Dieter.’ I’m supposed to turn things like that into a joke. Tell them off for being naughty. Pretend to give them my room key or something, just to make people laugh. It’s not always fun. Sometimes I enjoy it. Sometimes I just want to scream at everyone to shut the fuck up so I can hear myself think. That’s mostly when I haven’t been jammed full of anti-anxiety meds and stuff like that. Makes me mellow and chill. Also improves my vocal range, according to… Shit. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Then don’t. Talk to me about the house. Furniture. Something mundane.”

“Bookshelves?”

He laughed. Shook his head.

“We should try reading. I could order us some books. Thrillers or something. Just add the entire top one hundred on the bestselling list to the cart and check it out.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he muttered. “I prefer watching TV. Nature programmes. Documentaries. Dad loves true crime.”

“Yeah. TV is good. I tend to watch things on my laptop. Shit. I had to give it back. It’s with the law firm, I think. Turns out it was full of spyware. I was going to order a new one, but I forgot. I used to watch cooking channels a lot. I’d like to learn to cook. Make meals, proper tasty things.”

“I make great bacon sandwiches.”