Page 57 of Worth Every Game
She probably has a gig. This was idiotic. God knows how long I’m going to have to wait. I sit on the sofa and pull out my phone, typing Elly’s name into all the social media channels again.
Still nothing.
She's had a week to take action on my advice, but she hasn't. I was probably way too harsh on her. But how can someone so talented be so reluctant to share their ability? If it were me, I’d have been singing from the rooftops for years. Revelling in the groupies and fans or whatever the fuck women I’d have following me around on account of my guitar playing and kick-arse vocal skills.
Perhaps I ought to apologise… but then,why? I’m right. She needs to get a grip and suck up the pain of putting herself out in the world, unless she wants to stay stuck right where she is for the rest of her life.
A noise outside startles me.Shit. Elly could be back any minute. I rush to light the candles on the kitchen table, but, seeing the flickering light illuminate the kitchen, nerves cascade over me as forceful as the downpour that night I picked Elly up in my car.
What the hell am I doing?This looks like I’m seriously trying to seduce her rather than mess around and have a little fun. This doesn’t look like a game, this looks…romantic.Fuck… it looks like Icare. Not that I don’t care… but…shit…do I?
I’m questioning everything I’ve done this evening, but I don’t have time to make sense of it because a key sounds in the lock.
How do I make this look less like a date and more like… a game? Less ‘I’ve been an arse so I’ve cooked dinner for you’ and more, ‘I’m ready to forgive and forget, if you’re prepared to play’?
I catch sight of the apron featuring Michaelangelo’s David, which I slung over the back of a kitchen chair when I finished cooking. It’s just the thing to take the edge off… but I need to be pretty fucking quick.
21
ELLY
The memory of everything that happened at the Marchmont Arms this evening is occupying my thoughts like a lump of old meat, foetid and penetrating every inch of space with its stench. On top of that, my inner critic has been beating me up like a twenty-stone man armed with a cat-o’-nine-tails. I’m flayed raw inside. The chants are stuck on repeat.I’m wasting my time, I’ll never make it, I’m no good, I’m a joke, I’ll never get out of the Marchmont, and maybe they won’t even want me there anymore.
A black cloud of doom is swirling around me, smothering all my enthusiasm for life. For music. For the guitar and my songs and performing.
Maybe Jack was right. If I was going to come to anything, it would have happened already. Maybe he only made out that he thought I was any good that night in the flat because he wanted to sleep with me, which is exactly what I’d expect of him. Or at least I would have before I moved in here. Now, I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe he just likes the game. The chase. He wants to win.
An unhealthy rage, directed at Jack, surges through me. Somewhere, buried deep, I’m aware that what happened at the Marchmont tonight wasn’t his fault… that it has nothing to do with him. But as I unlock the door to his great big fancy house, I want to lay all the blame at his feet. His big stupid rich-man feet, in his big stupid rich-man shoes.
The lights are on in the kitchen, which surprises me. I really hope I’m not about to come face to face with Jack. I might bite his balls off, and I wouldn't be fucking sorry about it.
I contemplate tiptoeing up to my room but I haven’t eaten and something smells really,reallygood… I poke my head into the kitchen, but there’s no sign of him, so I walk in. There is, however, a giant pot on the hob. He’s been cooking.Weird. He hasn’t cooked since I moved in here.
There’s also an open bottle of wine on the island next to an empty glass. Jack must have finished up earlier and left it out. Which is also a bit weird, seeing as he’s such a neat freak. I shrug and help myself to a clean glass and pour myself some. I shouldn’t drink, especially not after last time, because I’m using the booze to numb my pain and that’s a slippery slope, but I don’t care enough to restrain myself.
I sit quietly sipping, letting the alcohol soothe the anger boiling in my blood. The lights go off. My heart leaps.What the hell? A power cut?
It’s only then I notice that there are candles flickering on the table behind me. It’s set for two people.
Crap. Jack must have a date. Just what I fucking need right now… to have to deal with him and one of his women. Something curdles in my stomach at the thought, and I wince.Awful. Maybe the noise of them having sex will keep me up all night.
Now that I come to think of it, I haven’t seen Jack with anyone since I moved in. He hasn’t brought a date back here at all. Itwas bound to happen eventually, and it would be tonight when I’m feeling super shit about myself. She’s probably gorgeous and sexy and—
Music starts, interrupting my thoughts. It’s low, but loud enough that I know exactly what it is. Barry White.You’re the First, The last, My everything. It’s coming through the inbuilt speaker system in the ceiling.God, that’s cheesy. So Jack.
What a fucking arsehole. A low burn smolders beneath my ribcage, a red hot coal of rage sitting behind the bone, waiting to burst into flame. Jack Lansen has life all sorted. Women falling at his feet, more money than he knows what to do with, a promotion to the Hawkston Board by the age of thirty-five. And he looks insanely good in those suits he wears. And in only his boxers, he's even better.
Ugh.I definitely hate him. One hundred per cent sure.
I knock back a full glass of wine in one go and get to my feet. If Jack’s going to be getting it on with some random woman, I better get out of here quick. Take my misery upstairs to my room. I don’t want to see him right now, not after what happened at the Marchmont.
“Well, hello there.”
Jack’s deep voice sounds from somewhere behind me, and I spin to find him leaning against the door to the utility room, the darting light from the candles making him look almost spectral. For a second, I think he’s entirely naked, but then I realise he’s wearing an apron printed with Michaelangelo’s David. But every visible part of Jack, his feet, his ankles, his calves, his arms, his shoulders, are bare.
Is he naked under there?
He smiles, flashing his great big cheeky grin that would make other women melt. That would normally make me melt, but today, after everything I’ve been through… his smilebreaksme, and, staring at him in his stupid apron, Barry White pulsingthrough the speakers, candlelight flickering over the room, I start to cry.