Trust Me (Beggar's Choice #2) (10 page)

“Oh my God yes!” I realise with a
start of surprise that I really am. My appetite suffers when I’m tired or sad,
and food lost its flavour for me when Sam died. I almost felt guilty to be
enjoying food when he was dead, but today everything smells wonderful. Sid
piles my plate high with delicious turkey and trimmings until I protest. “I’ll
never eat all that,” I smile.

“You need to,” he says seriously.
“You need to eat properly. I’ve noticed that you never do and you’ll be ill.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say gently,
taking the plate away from him and only just managing to lift it onto the table
because it’s so heavy. Charlie is across from us and he waggles a bottle of
wine at us.

“Red, white or rose?” he asks.

“Rose please.” I smile my thanks
at him but Sid hesitates.

“Actually, no mate. I think I’ll have
a glass of the Baileys that Nell bought.” And he flourishes the bottle that I
didn’t see him bring in with him. Charlie stares at him with his mouth hanging
open slightly for a second, until Mabe reaches up and gently closes it for him
which brings him back to himself.

“Well okay then.” He smiles and I
realise, not for the first time, that these are kind men. “I think I’ll have
one myself.”

“What sort is it?” Mabe asks with
a smirk.

“Mint.” I’m trying very hard not
to smile.

“There are different kinds?”
Charlie gulps. “Wow, I just thought there were one.” He and Sid look dubiously
at their glasses, and then as if prompted they open their mouths and fling the
drink down like they’re doing a shot. They instantly both shudder and hold
their fists to their mouths.

“Wow,” chokes Sid, trying
valiantly not to look sick. “That’s really something.”

“Um,” hums Charlie, wiping his
fingers over his mouth repeatedly. “Lovely and so … sweet.”

Mabe and I look at each other and
instantly break into laughter. “You hate it don’t you?” I laugh at Sid and he
grimaces.

“I’m sorry but I really do babe.
It’s absolutely disgusting.”

“Well don’t have any more then.
More for Mabe and I.”

“Really?” he replies thankfully,
holding out his glass to Charlie who fills it with red wine quickly. “Thank
fuck for that.”

We sit over dinner for ages
talking until the sky darkens into a greyish red outside. Christmas music is
playing in the background, and while Sid has stuck by my side like glue he’s
now abandoned me to move around taking pictures with a camera that looks
exorbitantly expensive while people protest half-heartedly. Mabe watches him
with a fond smile playing on her lips. “Sid and that bloody camera,” she says
and Mick laughs.

“You can’t go for a piss nowadays
without David Bailey pouncing on you.”

“Has he always liked
photography?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine.

“No, he took it up after he came
out of rehab,” she says. “He needed some new hobbies that were less
destructive, and thankfully this and running seem to have caught on.”

“He runs?” I trace my eyes over
his body because he really does have a classic runner’s body, long and lean and
roped with muscle, slim hips and long, long legs. Becoming aware that Mabe is
watching me with a knowing smile on her face I pretend to wipe drool off my
face, and she bursts into laughter. Charlie is deep in conversation with Seth,
his arm slung over the back of Mabe’s chair, but at her laughter he turns
around.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say hurriedly. “Just
on about running as a hobby.”

“Do you run?” he asks, casting a
quick look down my body which I’m sure in the old days would have had player
written all over it, but now lacks any real appreciation at all.

“I do. I love it but it’s just
finding the time to do it.”

“Well, both Sid and I run every
day so you’ll have to come with us while we’re away.”

“I’d like that,” I reply shyly
and turn to Mabe. “Do you run?”

Charlie laughs. “Not unless she’s
on fire,” and then ducks as she elbows him.

Mick sighs heavily and taps his
fists on the table. “I’m fucking sick of you lot and your fitness obsessions. I
bet if I’d been friends with The Rolling Stones there’d have been none of this
eating salad and running until your bollocks fall off.”

“I’m sure that’s an urban myth
about the bollocks,” Sid says thoughtfully.

“Maybe, but you can bet your life
that Mick Jagger is more interesting than you lot of girly fuckers. It’ll be
Pilates next you watch,” he concludes in utter disgust.

At this point Mrs M who has been
nodding off after singlehandedly drinking what seems like three bottles of
wine, stirs and breaks in. “Ah, Mick Jagger,” she purrs drunkenly. “Now there
was a man with stamina, and hung like a fucking horse may God bless him.”

“Pardon!” squeaks Lucy and
there’s silence for a second which is broken by Sid breaking into loud peals of
laughter. Eventually he calms down although he keeps snorting. The Pogues and
Kirsty McColl are crooning ‘Fairytale in New York’ in the background and Mick
points at me.

“Fucking loved you lot singing
this the other night. Nelly you’re a bleeding genius on that fiddle love.”

“Thank you Mick,” I laugh. We’d
sung it as the encore at the last gig before Christmas and it had gone down a
storm.

“I miss those days,” he says meditatively.
“Do you remember when we were kids there was always a big thing about what was
going to be the Christmas Number One and all the big bands put out proper
Christmas songs. There was none of that X Factor shit - just brilliant music.”

Bram laughs at him. “I wouldn’t
call it brilliant music.”

“Bramley love, that music puts
your shit to shame. You’re just jealous because you can’t write anything as
good as ‘The Frog Chorus’.”

“Yes,” he says seriously. “Once I
heard that I hung up my bass because where could music go after that?”

“You may sneer mate but I’ve seen
your iPod. It’s got some right corny crap on it. I think you’ve even got some
Barry White on there.”

“Take that back,” Bram says
loudly over the laughter. “I have not.”

“You have, and Celine Dion. I
think you listen to that, crying in bed at night. My heart will go onnnn,” he
warbles. “Aaah!” This is because Bram has launched himself at him, and laughing
he has fallen under the table.

“Okay,” says Seth ignoring the
kerfuffle under the table, and getting to his feet he claps his large hands
together. “Come on you fuckers, time for presents.” Everyone gets up happily
and troops out of the room towards I presume the lounge except for me. I’m
slightly panic stricken now because obviously I haven’t got any presents for
anyone. I’d given little gifts to everyone at the last gig but that’s not
nearly enough after accepting their hospitality all day. Sid has risen to his
feet but he must catch the panic on my face because he draws me to my feet. “Actually
I’m going to show Nell over the house,” he says to Charlie and Mabe. “You carry
on without me.”

“Okay mate.” Charlie claps him on
the shoulder and they wander out.

“No, you can’t do that Sid,” I
protest. “It’s Christmas with your family!”

“Fuck them,” he smiles. “I have
all year with them. I’m going to spend some time with you,” and then hesitation
crosses his face. “Unless you don’t want to because if you want we can go with
everyone else.”

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “I
want to see the house.”

A smile crosses his full lips and
he holds his hand out to me. “Come on then but I’ve got to warn you it’s in a
bad way.” I follow him through the downstairs rooms as he shows me a huge
kitchen with space for a breakfast table and a settee next to some tall windows,
and then various rooms which will be in turn a study, a laundry room and games
room. Everything is either stripped down or in a state of total disrepair.

“Why is it so run down?” I ask as
we descend into the cellars which apparently are going to be for a proper wine
storage area and a gym.

“It belonged to an old lady who
was rich but a bit eccentric and she died intestate so that rumbled on for
years while the house went further downhill. I’d always liked it. I used to
walk past it on my way to the tube most mornings and it always fascinated me.”

I trail my fingers over the rough
brick and shiver slightly because it’s so cold down here you can see your
breath in the air. He exclaims. “You’re freezing. Come on I’ll show you
upstairs.”

As we make our way up the huge
staircase he keeps a watchful hold on me. Seeing my glance he laughs. “With my
luck you’ll plummet to your death through a bannister.”

“Your luck?” I question lightly.
“A lot of people would say that you’ve got a lot of luck about you.”

His expression darkens. “They’d
know fuck all then.” We come to a stop and he sighs. “No, that’s wrong. I
have
had a lot of luck. Not many bands make it big and here we are. Not many people
can survive an overdose. Not many people can get out from under drugs and get
clean. I know I’m lucky, it’s just sometimes it’s hard to see luck when people
I care about are still in pain.”

He looks at me and I’m sure that
he’s talking about Leah. “You can only deal with yourself Sid,” I say softly.
“At the end of the day it’s not luck that got you clean it’s you, and that’s
the only person you can think of.”

He presses my hand hard and then
shakes his mood off. “Come on,” he tugs my hand. “I want to show you something
brilliant.” Laughing slightly I follow him down the hall and up two sets of
stairs to a set of French windows which he proceeds to swing open and then pull
me out onto a balustrade and I gasp. We’re at the top of the house and
whichever way I look there’s a panoramic view of London, all lit up in its
night time colours of lime, yellow, blue and red. A fierce wind is blowing,
making the hundreds of street lights in the distance flicker like tiny, white
Christmas lights in the dark. The wind blows my hair around wildly and I move
out towards the edge holding my head up to it, feeling it clean in my face. Sid
exclaims and then his warm hand pulls me back sharply. “The balustrade’s a bit
flimsy. Don’t get too close to it because it’s not safe.” I nod in acquiescence
but I realise that although I feel wild, paradoxically I still feel safe which
is totally down to him. I shiver and he draws me into his body so that he wraps
around me from behind and I relax into his warmth. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”
he whispers into my ear and it’s almost as if I can feel the sweet gust of his
breath between my legs. I nod shakily.

“I’d never come down if this was
mine,” I say and it’s true. There’s a sense of emptiness and peace up here
amongst the twinkling lights.

“I come up here a lot,” he
admits. “I like to think up here.”

“What do you think about?” I’m
suddenly bold because he can’t see my face.

He tenses. “Well, at the moment,
you,” he whispers and I still in surprise.

“Why?” I ask slowly, willing him
to answer but he reluctantly drops his hands as if I’ve broken the spell.

“Well about which fucking awful
drink you’ll bring here next,” he laughs, and I sigh inwardly because I’m not
going to get my answer.

Taking his hand I let him draw me
back into the attics and wait while he locks the doors. “Sid,” I say suddenly,
thinking of a question that I wanted to ask him. “If you’ve been here for a few
months why haven’t you got more done? I’d have thought that a rock star like
you would have thrown money at it to make it happen.”

He laughs. “Because I’m doing a lot
of it myself,” he says happily, and I stand stock still in amazement.

“
You
?”

“Don’t say it so disbelievingly,”
he teases. “Yes, me. I started out helping the workmen out and then found out
that I actually liked it. It’s quite therapeutic in its own way, and I want to
live here for a long time so it should be me that does the work. In a fanciful
way I feel like the house will appreciate it.”

I smile at him but a deep shudder
runs through me. He snaps his fingers at me. “Come on, I’ve just remembered
that I’ve got something for you.”

“For me?” I ask in mystification.
“Where is it?”

“In my bedroom.” He draws me down
the stairs to the landing on the next floor, which despite being huge has only
a couple of doors opening off it. He stops outside one of them and looks at me.

“Okay,” I say drawing out the
word. “You’ve got something for me in your bedroom have you? You have no idea
how many men have used that line on me.”

His eyes darken. “Did it work?”
he asks in a low voice and my smile drops.

“Not so far.”

Not replying he grabs my hand and
draws me through the open doorway, switching the light on as he does. I gasp
because the room is huge and there’s been quite a lot of work done in here.
He’s obviously knocked a few walls down and made one room out of a few bedrooms.
A massive sleigh bed rests against one wall, facing floor to ceiling windows
looking down onto what I know is the dark garden. Above the bed and covering
most of the wall hangs a modern, abstract painting with bold, stormy strokes of
greys, whites, bright blue and yellow. Two bedside cupboards flank the bed with
wide, grey shaded lamps on them, and a couple of chests of drawers sit against
the wall with loose change, guitar picks and bits and bobs emptied over them. A
half open door shows what looks like a dressing room with racks of clothing
hanging neatly. On the left I see a sitting area with two bright blue settees
and a massive flat screen TV on the wall, and through an open door there’s a
large bathroom with acres of gleaming tiles and a double sink with a claw foot
tub next to another big window. You could lie in that bath and look at the
night sky. I sigh but it’s the bed that draws my attention. It’s huge with
masses of grey and white striped pillows, and the matching duvet and bright blue
bedspread are still tumbled as if he’d just stepped out of his bed and left. I
bet if I lay there now I would get a huge instant dose of his Sid scent, that
mixture of citrus and spice and an undertone of something that’s just him.