One Christmas Star Read online

  ‘Are you listening to me, Ray?’

  He looked up then, his eyes adjusting to the razzle-dazzle of tinsel, baubles and flickering LEDs, wound around a real fir tree sitting in the snug corner just behind his agent, Deborah. He should have worn sunglasses. Yes, it was November, and perhaps it would draw even more attention, but the cold, crisp morning had a blue sky and a bright sun sitting low down in it and here, in Christmas Coffee City, everything was lit up like Vegas.

  Ray took a swig of his coffee, the sweetness feeling unwelcome on his tongue. ‘You look tired, Deborah.’ When hungover and in doubt about your own fatigue, point the finger somewhere else…

  His comment prompted her to fuss with her always immaculate black bobbed hair. She sat a little straighter, adjusting the sleeves of her grey corporate jacket. Only when those tasks were complete did she make a response.

  ‘I don’t think you should be concerning yourself with how I look or how I might be feeling. Ray, we have a shitload of work to do if you’re going to survive this latest article.’

  ‘Are you not sleeping?’ Ray carried on, avoiding the topic they were supposed to be discussing. ‘That dog of yours still keeping you awake?’

  ‘Tucker is actually going to canine therapy now,’ Deborah informed him.

  ‘Oscar then? Talking in his sleep again, is he?’ Ray knew Deborah’s husband was always doing something that annoyed her.

  ‘Oscar doesn’t talk in his sleep. He snores… a bit… but I got him nasal dilators for his anniversary gift.’

  Ray couldn’t contain his laughter, even though it made his headache throb inside his skull. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, putting a hand to his grey woollen beanie hat, his dark brown hair escaping over his forehead and around his ears, a little shaggy, in need of a trip to the barber. ‘I’m sure more sleep allows you both to be… more romantic at other times.’ He thought for a minute. ‘What did Oscar get you for your anniversary gift?’

  Deborah began toying with the serviette her cup of masala chai was sitting on. ‘An introduction to making greeting cards on DVD.’

  He shouldn’t laugh again. But the image of his ball-breaking agent watching a programme on crafts before sitting around a table with ribbons, sequins and a glue gun just didn’t fit. He tried to squash the rising humour, but he knew his expression was already giving him away.

  ‘It was something I asked for,’ Deborah clarified. ‘Very romantic.’

  The laugh escaped and Ray picked up his coffee, needing something to put his mouth to no matter how cinnamon-infused.

  ‘Anyway, Ray, this meeting isn’t to discuss my private life, it’s to discuss yours. And yours is, as we know, a very public life that is currently splashed all over the tabloids.’

  From somewhere beneath the table, Deborah produced a newspaper and thwacked it down in front of him. Even the thud of paper stomped all over his hangover like a flat-footed chorus girl. And he had no need to re-read the headline. He had seen it all earlier, on every social media channel. And he had heard it again through the lips of Piers Morgan on Good Morning Britain.

  He took another swig of coffee and met Deborah’s eyes, shrugging. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’ He didn’t want to talk about this. He simply wanted it not to be happening…

  ‘I want you to tell me the truth,’ Deborah said in low tones. ‘I’m your agent, Ray. Your best friend in all this. But I cannot defend you unless I know what’s real and what isn’t.’ She took a breath. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand that this article says nothing at all.’ He wasn’t going to acknowledge this latest report, like he hadn’t acknowledged the previous stories sold to the press by his ex-girlfriend, Ida. He’d ridden the waves before. Granted, the other articles hadn’t been quite so damning as these were, but he’d got through it.

  ‘It calls you, and I quote, “controlling and obsessive” and “a man in love with all of life’s vices”.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Ray asked. ‘I like a drink.’ He swallowed, somehow keeping the smile on his face. Inside though it was a whole different story. Inside he was keeping a tight lid on his real emotions. Keep centred. Be strong. ‘And no one publicly persecutes David Beckham for liking Haig Club.’

  ‘Ray, this is serious. Work for you is drying up quicker than laughter at a really poor comedy club. Saturn Records are on my back to make this go away and I admit, I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘And I still don’t know what you want me to say.’ This had been his stance since the beginning of Ida’s quest – keep his head down and say nothing. Hope any story would be eclipsed by another celebrity falling from grace or EastEnders being cancelled. Except Ida seemed intent on whipping him with this. Every few weeks there was another ‘revelation’ he had to deal with. Maybe she needed the money. She was clearly still hurting from their break-up last year. Certainly, Ida had a number of issues. Perhaps it was again time to reach out to her himself. Except every time he thought about it, his instincts woke up like a sore bear rising too early from hibernation…

  ‘The story doesn’t say that you were violent to her,’ Deborah carried on. ‘But it implies it. Just close enough to put those thoughts in the public’s minds, but not close enough for us to think about suing. Although I can call the lawyer if you would like me to. Get his take on it.’

  Ray shook his head. He didn’t want to sue. Where would that get him? Although he really could do with the cash… This was Ida. She was a struggling artist. If she had got money from these newspapers, she probably needed it. There had to be more to it than her simply wanting to persecute him. Didn’t there?

  ‘Unless,’ Deborah said, leaning forward a touch, ‘there is a certain truth to this… I mean, I know Ida is highly-strung. And no one would blame you for being overwhelmed by the pressure of the music industry. It’s been a rollercoaster ride these past few years. From zero to… well, top of the charts and…’

  ‘Back to zero again,’ Ray reminded with a sideways glance. Was it his imagination or was the Christmas soundtrack playing in the café getting louder? And he wasn’t hearing any real words of solidarity from Deborah, or affirmations contrary to his statement about being at the bottom again… Had things got that bad? Were they set to get even worse?

  ‘I’m not going to beat around the proverbial bush, Ray but, making both main channels’ breakfast news and This Morning for something like this, well, it isn’t going to win you any BRIT awards any time soon.’

  He blew out a breath then, realising that he did have to do something. But what? He put a hand to his chin, his getting-rather-bushy, completely undefined beard pricking his fingertips.

  ‘Ray…’ Deborah began again.

  ‘There’s no truth in it,’ Ray said, seriously. ‘There’s no truth in any of it, at all. That’s all I can say.’ He pushed his coffee cup away. ‘Come on, Deborah, you know me. You know I may drink a little too much. You know I have taken advantage of most of the excesses this opportunity has given me, but I would never do anything like these interviews are suggesting I would.’

  ‘So, Ida is simply lying to whichever hack will listen.’

  ‘Well…’ Even now he didn’t want Ida to be in the firing line. Even when it came to saving his own skin. What was wrong with him? His dad would say he was soft, weak, not the boy he had raised on greyhound-racing and belly-busting breakfasts. A belly-busting breakfast wouldn’t have gone amiss right about now.

  ‘Ray! Please! Give me something here!’ Now Deborah was raising her voice above Frank Sinatra’s dulcet tones and a young couple, holding hands over a frosted cupcake complete with a golden star on top, turned to look at her. Ray reached forward and clasped Deborah’s hands in his. His agent immediately withdrew, snatching her hands back with an irritated tut.

  ‘You asked me to give you something,’ Ray stated.

  ‘I didn’t mean another story for the press to latch on to that highlights any of the traits mentioned in this morning’s news.’
She doffed her head towards the steamed-up window of the café. ‘You know there are reporters across the road. They might be demolishing bacon baps right now, but when they’re done murdering the morning rolls, they’re going to be snapping shots of you in here with me.’

  Ray wiped his hand over the condensation, looking through the constantly moving traffic to the adjacent pavement. There were definitely two journalist types, steaming cardboard-cup coffees resting on a frosty metal broadband cabinet, hands on cameras around their necks. He looked back to Deborah.

  ‘I can’t pay my rent,’ he admitted. ‘And my credit cards are maxed out.’

  ‘What?!’ Deborah exclaimed.

  ‘You know how it’s been,’ Ray continued. ‘The split with Ida and… the Sam Smith factor.’

  ‘You cannot blame your credit card spending on another singer’s success, unless you’ve been splashing the plastic with Sam Smith.’

  ‘He’s stopped returning my calls.’ Ray answered, forcing a grin. The truth was, his financial situation, even this situation with Ida, was not what was concerning him most. He had a hospital appointment that afternoon and he was still in two minds whether to turn up. Things came in threes and well, what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right?

  ‘OK, I’m going to be really blunt with you now, Ray, because I’m not going to waste my day sitting here listening to you talk around the houses.’ Deborah puffed a sigh. ‘I’m going to deal with only cold, hard facts from now on.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘You have two options here. You bury your head in the sand hoping all this will go away and face losing what’s left of your music career. Or, you make a statement, refute everything Ida has said and give your side of the story.’ Deborah picked up her tea. ‘I can get you on Loose Women.’

  ‘Loose Women,’ Ray said with a shake of his head.

  ‘It’s the perfect place for you to tell everyone there isn’t an ounce of truth in any of these stories. But you go at it from the right angle. Say that you respect Ida’s opinion of your relationship, but that she is… deeply troubled. Deeply troubled says you are “caring” and “compassionate”, but it also alludes to Ida being “slightly batshit crazy”.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘And then you say you hope Ida reaches out for the help she needs. That will imply to everyone that she’s one step away from a psychiatric ward.’

  Many true words were spoken in jest. Or in this case, in spin. But Ray’s gut was telling him this was all wrong. Ida did need help, but, in his heart, he knew this wasn’t the right way to go about it. Forcing her hand in the public arena might lead her to do something nuts and, despite what she was doing to him, he couldn’t have that on his conscience.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered.

  ‘You don’t know?’ Deborah replied. ‘You don’t know! Ray, if you don’t do something, say something, the world is going to draw its own conclusions based on The Sun and the Daily Mirror.’

  He pushed the coffee cup away from him. ‘The one thing I do know, Deborah… is I am not going on Loose Women.’

  Three

  Stretton Park Primary School

  ‘Tangfastic?’

  Before Emily had a chance to reply, the sharing-size bag of Haribos was pushed under her nose by Dennis Murray, the forty-something teacher of the Year Five class. He shook the plastic and all manner of gum, sugar, sweet and sour flew into Emily’s sinuses in one mammoth rush. She picked out a sweet simply to get the bag away from her nose. Popping it into her mouth, the bitterness hit her taste-buds straight off, contorting her expression. She watched, one eye squinted, as Dennis put five sweets into his mouth at once, double-chin wobbling. He was a walking, talking pick ‘n’ mix addict but still his capacity for sugary sweet treats astounded her. Simon had liked sweets – Maltesers, Minstrels, Mars Bites, all the chocolate. Simon had liked chocolate the way Emily liked cheese…

  ‘So, what do you think the budget meeting is going to be about this time?’ Dennis asked, nudging Emily’s arm as the other teachers joined them in the main hall used for assemblies, performances, lunch and meetings such as these. ‘Christmas cancelled? No unnecessary expense until we’re back in January?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emily answered. ‘But no matter what it is, I can’t protest.’ She lowered her voice and leaned a little into Dennis’s personal space. ‘Susan caught me giving Jayden Jackson help with his project this morning and I bought him a bagel because I know he isn’t getting breakfast at home.’ She wasn’t getting breakfast at home herself, but only because the cupboards always seemed to be bare now Jonah had gone. Plus, really strong coffee almost counted as a meal, didn’t it?

  Dennis sucked through his teeth, bits of gum crushed between his canines. ‘A double-whammy.’

  ‘I know,’ Emily said with a sigh. ‘I only narrowly managed to avoid the proverbial third thing because the Sellotape on the Christmas stars held out just long enough until Susan had closed the door behind her.’ But she knew she was under scrutiny and it made her nervous. She pulled at the sides of her maroon corduroy skirt, shifting her bottom on the too-small chair. Had she picked one of the children’s chairs and not a grown-up one? That was exactly how her luck was right now…

  ‘Definitely no extra baubles for the Year Six Christmas tree this year then,’ Dennis remarked, chewing on more sweets.

  Emily’s phone erupted, tweeting like a bird, from inside her all-colours vintage carpet bag. It had been a bargain. Well, actually it had been quite expensive, but it was a genuine 1950s artefact. And she’d been quite emotional on that particular visit to the antique boutique. Emotion and her love of vintage were a heady mix…

  ‘You’d better turn that off before Susan arrives,’ Dennis instructed, crunching up the now empty bag of sweets and shoving the wrapper into the pocket of his polyester suit trousers.

  Emily checked the screen of her phone. It was Jonah. Jonah texted her even more now they weren’t living together. She wondered if he was worried she would remember to feed herself if he wasn’t there to cook for her. It was fortuitous that he didn’t know about the bare cupboards…

  Jonah was a great cook, a chef at a nearby hotel, and she almost missed his hotter-than-hot chilli and jerk chicken more than she missed his company.

  What time are you getting home tonight?

  Emily furrowed her brow. Was it her imagination or did the ‘home’ part of the message seem collective? As in, their home? Maybe Jonah had already changed his mind, come back, unpacked and was preparing a Caribbean recipe right now! That thought immediately cheered her up.

  ‘Emily,’ Dennis said.

  ‘In a second,’ Emily replied, tapping out a message.

  Meeting at school. Hopefully 6 p.m. Are you moving back in?

  She had asked him if he was absolutely sure about the decision at least ten times after he had announced he was moving out, and at least ten times more since he’d actually left. She was still adjusting. To Jonah leaving and to losing Simon. Mainly, if she was honest, still to losing Simon.

  Don’t be late. I’ll make Thai 

  Jonah was making food. Jonah was going to feed her. The excitement was real. She should send a Christmas emoji. Then Jonah might also bring the festive chocolates they would have started to put on the pillows at the hotel, for after the divine green curry he was going to concoct—

  ‘Miss Parker!’

  Oh God, it was Susan’s voice at louder-than-Twickenham-on-match-day level. She looked up from her phone to see the headteacher glaring at her from the platform at the front of the room. The front of the room was only ten rows of chairs away because it really wasn’t Twickenham.

  ‘Sorry, Susan… I mean, Mrs Clark.’

  ‘As I was saying… budgets.’ A breath was sucked in, the blouson briefly relaxed. ‘I’m afraid that budgets are at the very heart of a modern school. Gone are the times when we could just order a hundred rubbers because they were on offer… or extraordinarily pretty or… they smelled nice or…’ Susan took a breath. ‘Or they
smelled nice.’

  ‘I’m glad we’re talking about erasers and not glue,’ Dennis commented under his breath. ‘Or Sharpies. I heard from my friend at the secondary school that permanent markers are the thing to sniff now.’

  ‘Gosh, really,’ Emily whispered with a shake of her head.

  ‘I, as your Head,’ Susan continued, ‘have to account for every single item we spend on. Not every ream of paper. Every sheet of paper. Even the toilet paper.’

  ‘God,’ Dennis gasped. ‘I should have brought more sweets. This is dire. This is like a good drama going a season too far… and changing the setting to Pluto.’

  Emily couldn’t disagree. They were already working against such stringent budgets already. She had decided, after Halloween, that anything festive she bought for her class she would pay for herself. Jonah was always telling her what a soft touch she was. Her parents were always telling her she would get nowhere with compassion and everywhere with a confidence-building seminar. And Simon was no longer here to have her back…

  Susan cleared her throat. ‘I am going to be doing a thorough inventory of your classrooms this week and, I’m afraid, I will have to start considering extremely carefully any requests for new supplies of anything until after…’ The pause seemed to elongate forever. ‘February.’

  ‘What?!’ Emily didn’t realise she had exclaimed so loudly or that she had got off her chair to do it either. Maybe she didn’t need those confidence-building classes after all…

  ‘Do you have something you wish to say, Miss Parker?’ Susan asked, clicking the pen she was holding on, then off, then on again.

  She should stay quiet. She should toe the line. For all Dennis’s talk about a good TV show going bad, he hadn’t stood up and, in fact, was currently shrinking down into his adult chair, folding his body into his Parka coat like it was camouflage.

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ Emily began, before hesitating. What did she want to say? That counting every sheet of paper was madness? That no one could work properly if they were worried how fast they were running down the ink in the pens?