Dead Romantic (28 page)

“I didn’t think you were coming back until after the weekend!” Susie squeaks, shooting past me and lobbing jeans and a shirt at our masticating guest. “Put some clothes on, Dave, for heaven’s sake! Don’t just sit there.”

Normally I’d be narked to find the milk gone, the place looking as though a bomb had gone off and Susie’s latest conquest ensconced in the flat, but this morning I feel as though I’m drifting along on a cloud of marshmallow. Nothing can upset me today. As the train had clattered through the frosty countryside I’d been unable to stop smiling. Even alighting at Marylebone and being confronted with Christmas in all its garish consumerist glory hadn’t managed to take the edge off my good mood.

After Rafe had kissed me we’d stared at one another.

“I hadn’t expected to do that,” he’d said finally, tracing the curve of my cheek with his hand, “but I’m very glad I did.”

I’d been too alarmed by the racing of my pulse to speak. If it was going at this speed after just one kiss, what on earth would have happened if we hadn’t paused?

Instead, my hand had stolen out to echo his gesture. The rough graze of his stubble against my fingers and the brush of his lips on my palm when he’d turned his head and kissed it had taken my breath away. In an all-too-rapid heartbeat, sensible Cleo had vanished – and when Rafe’s arms had slipped around my waist and pulled me close I’d been unable to think straight. I’d wound my fingers into his hair and touched my lips to his again, our kisses growing ever more urgent until we’d finally broken apart, laughing and breathless. Then Rafe had drawn me close again, slowly and tenderly this time, murmuring that he’d been waiting for me ever since that long-ago snowy Christmas. At that point I’d melted, just like the snowflakes had when they’d landed on our cheeks. Perhaps it was all nonsense springing from the euphoria of Rafe writing again – according to the press Rafe had been far from lonely during the past decade – but I was past caring. It was like being a teenager all over again.

Or, more accurately, it was like being a nineteen-year-old on a lonely railway platform…

Much later on, as I’d lain in Rafe’s arms, bathed in the blushed light of the rising sun, I hadn’t regretted a moment. It was as though I’d slipped out of myself, level-headed Cleo with her research and her well-organised life, and become somebody else. Who this new Cleo was I had no idea. She saw ghosts, took time off work and slept with rock stars. That really had been one big bang on the head: my world was now inside out and upside down. Did I wish it had never happened? That I had never seen Alex, or been drawn into a world that was about as far removed from my sensible existence as possible? Life before my accident had been so safe and ordered; that was how I’d liked it. My father had been miles away, my attraction to Simon had mostly been an intellectual one – or so I keep telling myself – and my work had kept me busy. Aamon had been a research project rather than a gap-toothed boy who constantly wanted to play football, and I’d been able to walk down the street without seeing people who weren’t really there. There had been no danger of being hurt because I had kept myself so safe. Then again, there had been very little chance of taking a risk either.

When Rafe had tightened his arms around me and pulled me closer, grazing my temple with his lips, I’d known instantly that whatever the cost was, I couldn’t regret a second that had led me to this moment. I could feel his heart thrumming against my own, beating together with mine, beating the same, and I never wanted to move. It had been almost painful to tear myself away from him, hence my late arrival back in London. Saying goodbye to him outside my father’s house had taken a supreme effort of will.

“I’ve got to go,” I’d said finally. “I’m already really late. I should have been at the museum for opening time. That would have made finding Simon a whole lot easier.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Rafe had offered, his hands holding mind as we sat in the car. “This Simon sounds like a total prick.” His fingers had strengthened their grip and his eyes had narrowed dangerously. We’d talked late into the night, him excitedly about putting his new song out as a free download, me less excitedly about Simon taking my statue and generally behaving oddly.

“If he’s prepared to steal your belongings, who knows what else he might do,” Rafe had warned.

I’d smiled at this, unused to having a knight in shining armour. “Simon’s an academic, Rafe, not a Bond villain. He’s just got a bit carried away, that’s all.” I wink at him. “Professional academia can be pretty cut-throat, you know!”

He’d whistled. “So I’m learning. And there was I just thinking you all dug about in holes and looked at relics! I didn’t think academic espionage went on.”

“Haven’t you seen
Indiana Jones
?” I’d joked, and Rafe had grinned.

“Now I have all sorts of exciting images of you cracking whips!” He’d leaned forwards and kissed me. “Now get out of this car and go to work before I kidnap you and drag you back to bed. No more playing hooky.”

I’d watched him drive off, and only when the bright red car had turned the corner had I let myself into the house. Would I see him again? Or was this it?

Calm down, I’d told myself firmly while I’d packed my things. You’re behaving like a teenager. Focus on work. The Assistant Director’s job. Your research. Simon’s unacceptable behaviour. But try as I might I couldn’t rip my thoughts away from Rafe Thorne. His scent, the texture of his skin next to mine, the warmth of his lips against the hollow of my throat, the weight of his body pressing into mine…

“Cleo? Hello? I just said I’m really sorry about the mess and Dave is on his way out. Aren’t you, Dave?” Susie waves her hand in front of my nose and with a jolt I realise I’m in our kitchen rather than curled up on the sofa in Rafe’s studio with his arms around me and my mouth swollen from his kisses.

Susie stares at me hard for a moment and then her eyes widen. “Oh my God! I don’t believe it! Cleo Rose Carpenter! You’ve been with a guy!”

Have I got the word
slapper
written across my head or something?

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” I bluff. “I’m just running late, that’s all, and I popped back here because I needed to change into my work clothes.”

Susie puts her hands on my shoulders and gazes up at me, her brow crinkling for a moment as she stands on her tiptoes. “You’ve got a soppy look on your face that I’ve never seen before, your hair’s wild and
you’re running late
! You don’t fool me, Cleo Carpenter. Normally I can set my clock by you. And you’re not worried about the mess or my... err… friend? Something’s up and for once I don’t think it’s work.”

 “It’s fine about Dave,” I assure her. “I’m not your mum. How’s it going on Giraffe Ward?”

“Don’t you dare try and change the subject! Dave, be useful: get dressed and fetch us some more milk. Cleo and I need tea.”

Dave stretches and yawns widely, and once he’s dispatched Susie does her best to drag details, any details, out of me. There’s no way I’m telling her anything, though. She’ll be unbearable enough if she thinks there’s something going on; if she finds out it’s Rafe Thorne I’ve been seeing there’ll be no stopping her.

And am I? Seeing Rafe, I mean? It’s not as though we’ve made any plans to see one another again. Maybe this was a one-off? A blip in our otherwise separate lives? Perhaps rock stars do this all the time.

Duh. Of course they do. Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll, right?

It’s shocking how this thought makes my heart lurch, and as much as I’d love to pour my woes out to my best friend I don’t dare because I don’t think I’ll ever stop. So no matter how much tea she brews or how many probing questions she asks, I still don’t give anything away.

Eventually Susie gives up and when Dave returns, bearing milk, croissants and a big bunch of flowers, she’s sufficiently distracted for me to escape into my room and change. Ten minutes later I return in a black trouser suit, my satchel over my shoulder and with my curls tamed into a bun.

The same curls that last night Rafe wound around his fingers, so that he could pull me closer and closer until we melted into one another…

“Penny for them!” Alex chirps, at my side as I walk to work and matching me stride for stride. He gives me a cheeky sideways look. “Hmm, you look tired, Dr Carpenter. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

“Not you as well. Can’t I get any privacy?” Then a dreadful thought occurs to me. “You weren’t–”

“Ew! Of course not! Who do you think I am? Hank? Of course I wasn’t there! Give me some credit. I made myself scarce, don’t you worry.”

I
was
worried. Having a ghost following me around is starting to make me paranoid.

“So, is it on? You and Rafe?” Alex continues. He dances in front of me now, scooting backwards and grinning like a loon.

“I don’t know,” I say. The sun is shining and above the grey rooftops the sky is bright blue. Hey, I’m smiling again. What’s up with me?

“Well, I do.” Alex beams at me. “You were the key. I knew it. I always knew it and I can’t thank you enough. I know it hasn’t been easy for you and I know I’ve disrupted your life but,” he pauses and gives me a hopeful look, “maybe it hasn’t been all bad?”

An image flashes through my mind, of Rafe’s eyes holding mine, his mouth just a kiss away and the moonlight silvering his hair. I know that just for this memory alone every disruptive second has been worth it a million times over.

“No,” I say softly, “not all bad by any means, Alex.”

I’m at the foot of the museum steps now. A steady stream of visitors moves up and down them. I pause at the bottom and let the human tide flow round me. The sun shines brightly, glancing off the glass doors and bouncing over the pavement. Yet its light trickles right through Alex, and my breath still clouds the air around me as goosebumps ripple across my arms.

“Rafe’s writing again,” I say slowly. “He seems to be starting to accept that he isn’t to blame for what happened to you. You’ve succeeded, Alex.”

Alex nods. “So why am I still here? Why haven’t I drifted into the light with an angelic chorus singing me to my eternal rest?”

“I have no idea,” I say.

I glance about and, when I focus, I know I’m seeing all kinds of things that aren’t really there, or at least that aren’t really there in the conventional sense. Take that Victorian gent doffing his hat to me, for instance. I guess in a weird way I’ve just started to get used to all of it.

“Do you stay?” I ask. “Or do we need to get somebody to, I don’t know, move you on?”

Alex frowns. “I honestly haven’t a clue. Maybe it isn’t the right time yet? I have a feeling my journey isn’t over yet. Maybe there’s something else I have to do?”

I sincerely hope not. I dread to think what other hare-brained schemes Alex might dream up. I’ll be a laughing stock by the time he’s finished.

“And what about the others?” I wave my hand in the direction of a man on a penny-farthing who’s bowling merrily along, followed by a soldier on a horse. “Will I stop seeing them when you go?”

“I have no idea,” says Alex. “But to be honest, Cleo, I don’t think you seeing ghosts has anything to do with me being about. Maybe this is something you have to deal with from now on?”

“Great. Just wonderful.”

“I think you had a dormant psychic ability and that wallop on the bonce awoke it. Didn’t your old man say that your mum and your grandmother both had the gift?”

“It’s a gift I want to give back,” I grumble, but Alex has vanished and since there’s no point talking to thin air I mount the steps and enter the museum.

Oh, it’s good to be back! Once in the foyer I feel like myself again, the confident and in-control Dr Carpenter. I nod hello to various colleagues, take a detour through the exhibitions just to check everything is in order, and then leave the public areas for the peace of the offices – if there can be such a thing as peace when Aamon is shrieking and cartwheeling down the corridor, followed by the yowling cat. I’m surprised just how pleased I am to see them both. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, at least in their case.

I don’t hold the same sentiment for Dr Simon Welsh, however. As I rap my knuckles on his office door I psyche myself up to ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at when he took my statue. How dare he help himself to my personal belongings?

I knock loudly but there’s no answer, so I knock again, twice as hard just in case he hasn’t heard or is hiding. I call out too. There’s no escaping from me, Sneaky Simon. Come on out and give me back my statue. Or else.

“Simon? Are you there? It’s Cleo.”

There’s still silence, which is frustrating because I was ready to charge in and read him the riot act. It’s quite an anti-climax to be all geared up for a confrontation, only to discover that the person you need to have it out with has gone AWOL. There are quite a few other bones I have to pick with Simon, too. He’s lucky this isn’t the Natural History Museum: their entire dinosaur exhibition probably wouldn’t contain enough bones for all the picking I intend to do. What did I ever see in him?

I check my watch. It’s just gone noon, and he doesn’t usually take lunch this early. Where on earth is he?

“Hello Cleo! Welcome back. You look better!”

It’s Dawn and today must be one her days for escorting school kids around: she’s in full Egyptian garb, complete with rubber asp and half of the Maybelline counter plastered over her face. It’s a bit drag-queen-meets-
Carry on Cleo
for my taste, but who am I to spoil the fun? Besides, I hardly made a great success of the exercise myself. At least Dawn’s Cleopatra doesn’t flash her backside at people.

“Thanks, but I haven’t actually been ill. I was spending some time with my father,” I say patiently. Our junior is well known for getting the wrong end of the stick. She once typed up a private collector’s name as Crispy Cock rather than Chris Peacock; although it made all of us howl with mirth, it nearly resulted in the offended elderly gentleman withdrawing the artefact he’d loaned us. Only some careful sweet-talking on my part prevented him from making an official complaint.