Dead Romantic (12 page)

Well, not just yet, anyway…

“Looks like you’ve had a busy morning,” I remark as I attempt to join her amidst her purchases. There are so many bags the army could pop up here and use them as an assault course.

Susie shoots me a warning look from beneath her matted fringe. “Don’t start, Cleo. I have to buy Christmas presents.”

I hold up my hands. “I haven’t said a word. So, who’s lucky enough to be receiving gifts from Selfridges then? And who did you raid the lingerie department
for?”

She has the grace to look a bit abashed. “Bloody hell, Cleo. What are you, some sort of psychic?”

Unfortunately yes, that’s exactly what I’m starting to think I am.

“It’s only a few bits and pieces for the ward Christmas party,” she continues, rummaging in one of her bags and pulling out what looks like two glittery gold napkins tied together with dental floss. “I got this too, from a little shop I found. The new doctors have just started their rotation and I want to make a good impression.”

“You’ll certainly make some kind of impression in that, although I’m not sure that
good
is quite the word I’d use,” I say doubtfully. Even Katie Price would hesitate to wear such a revealing outfit.

“Any impression, babes, is what counts,” Susie says happily, shoving the dress back into the bag. “One of the Second Years, Dave, is lush. He looks a bit like Harry Styles – well, sort of. I’m going to be the present he unwraps this Christmas, just you wait. Cougar Town, one-way ticket!”

Brilliant. There goes my peaceful Yule. Susie’s bound to pull, she always does, and I’ll have to listen to them doing their impression of the Discovery Channel
right the way through from the Queen’s Speech to the
EastEnders
special. Maybe I’ll visit Dad after all.

“Are you all right, Cleo? You look ever so pale. Is your head hurting?” Susie is in nurse mode now and scalpel sharp. She frowns. “I must admit I was a bit alarmed when you texted to say you were joining me.”

“So now my keeping to the promise of a girly shopping day is evidence of my brain injury?” I force a laugh, but it sounds a bit strange even to my own ears and Suse looks even more concerned. She knows me and I’ve never willingly joined her on a trawl around the West End.

“Honestly,” I say quickly before she can leap in, “I’m fine. But you’re right: I have been working too hard, so I’ve decided to take a day off.”

My best friend stares at me as though I’ve just sprouted another head. “If I wasn’t worried before, I’m really worried now. You’ve taken a whole day off work? To go shopping? What’s going on here?”

I’m not surprised Suse is worried. I know I’m acting oddly.

“Absolutely nothing,” I fib as I fix my attention on my coffee rather than on my best friend’s inquisitive face. “I just felt like a change of scene and spending some time with you. There’s nothing going on except me addressing my work–life balance.”

“Hmm,” says Susie, unconvinced.

We sip our lattes thoughtfully for a few moments. Once I’m sure she’s stopped looking at me as though she’s doing my obs and checking for signs of a brain injury (which, let’s face it, for me would include taking days off work and going girly shopping in the West End), I say idly, “Suse, have you ever heard of a group called Thorne?”

“Like, duh! Of course I have! Everyone’s heard of Thorne. They were supposed to be the next Coldplay
but hotter, you know?”

No, I don’t know. Besides, I can’t say I find Alex Thorne hot anymore – not unless you count making my blood boil with annoyance.

“What’s the sudden interest in them?” Susie wants to know. “Is it because their Christmas number one’s being played everywhere?”

I wish. Wouldn’t that make life simple? Much simpler than, say,
no, it’s because I’m being haunted by a dead band member.

“Yes, that’s it.” I nod like the insurance dog. Goodness, this head injury is certainly turning me into a dreadful liar. “I think I must have been on fieldwork in Egypt when they were on the scene. It was quite a few years ago, right?”

As if on cue, the music in the café changes from Bing Crosby dreaming about a white Christmas to the same miserable song that’s already been played by the musicians in the stairwell. It’s about as cheerful as a Goth convention for the extra depressed.

“Wow, spooky! Talk about weird timing. This is their Christmas song!” Eyes like saucers, Susie dives for her iPhone and starts tapping away.

“This is Thorne?”

“Yep. It’s their Christmas number one. Honestly, Cleo, it’s like you actually live in ancient Egypt sometimes! Everyone knows ‘One Christmas Kiss’. It won gazillions of awards and it’s got this amazing story behind it. Come on, you must know it? It plays at all the Christmas parties.”

“Those will be the parties I don’t go to,” I point out, and Susie pulls a face.

“We are
so
changing that this Christmas! Hey! I know! Why don’t I help you choose an outfit for the museum Christmas do? You could have one like mine – they were on sale. Sexy Si won’t be able to resist.”

I can’t help laughing at this idea, even though Sexy Si will be giving me a very wide berth, if the look on his face when I last saw him is anything to go by. Besides, apart from the fact that the museum do is a fairly staid affair, I’d probably fit about half a boob into a tiny frock like that and end up getting arrested or giving Professor Hamilton a heart attack. All in all it would be about as good for my career as having delusional experiences on a daily basis.

Which leads me back to the subject in hand…

“So the song?” I prompt. Susie is a terror for getting distracted.

“It’s the second-bestselling Christmas single of all time – according to Wiki, anyway,” she reads. I can’t help remembering how Alex told me I ought to know better than to trust wiki entries. Why this makes me smile I have no idea, given that he’s the cause of all my problems.

“Go on,” I say.

“It could just be made up, of course, but there’s the most romantic story ever to the song. Rafe Thorne wrote it – I think he wrote all the songs – and it’s about this girl he met one Christmas Eve. Apparently he was on a railway platform in the middle of nowhere – you know, travelling home with his guitar over his back and all that – when he met his soul mate. He knew straight away that she was the one for him. They were all alone, the snow was falling and he kissed her while the Christmas bells rang across the countryside. Isn’t that just the most romantic thing ever?” She closes her eyes dreamily, which is just as well because she can’t see the shock on my face. Then she starts to sing, “‘
Falling in love with the drifting of snow, how could I ever have let her go? One perfect night, a love like this, an angel’s touch, one Christmas kiss.’
And then he let her go and he never saw her again, the muppet!”

There’s a rushing in my ears, as if a high-speed locomotive is tearing through my brain. The blood feels as though it’s draining from my body and I’m cold from head to foot even without Alex being nearby. This isn’t possible. It can’t be true. But if I were to put on my logical head and start analysing the evidence, what would I say then? There seem to be quite a few coincidences…

“God, I wish something like that would happen to me,” Susie is saying longingly. Her voice sounds as though it’s coming from a thousand miles away. “If I’m lucky it’s a snog by the photocopier or a grope under the mistletoe at Christmas. No one’s going to write a song about that, are they?”

I shake my head, a response that’s good enough for Suse because she’s on a roll now.

“Can you imagine being immortalised in a song like that? Anyway, it’s a bit sad really because he missed the one chance of being with the love of his life, his soul mate. Their paths only crossed for that one moment; it was love at first sight and then he lost her.”

He didn’t lose her. He never called! She waited and waited and waited but he never got in touch. Anyway, she wasn’t lost. She was in Egypt doing her fieldwork, ironically enough trying to bury her unpleasant memories by digging up the past.

That’s probably not quite so romantic.

There’s a pause because Susie’s waiting for me to say something.

“Err, Cleo? Isn’t this the bit where you’re supposed to tell me it’s all bollocks, and there’s no such thing as true love or soul mates? Love’s just a chemical reaction to encourage the species to propagate?”

Wow. Don’t I usually sound a right barrel of laughs? She’s not wrong, though: normally this is
exactly
the sort of thing I would say, because once upon a time I did think I’d met my soul mate – only to be bitterly disappointed. But today my vocal cords have gone on strike, along with my logic, my reason and all the other things that keep me sane.

“It was so tragic what happened to Alex Thorne, too; he was gorgeous,” Susie sighs.

Flipping annoying
sums him up much better in my opinion. Still, whether I’m annoyed with Alex or not, I must admit I’m curious now.

“So the band broke up after Alex was killed in the car accident?”

“Pretty much. Alex was the lead singer but his brother, Rafe, was the one who wrote the music. He was supposed to be a genius. You never saw much of Rafe: he was in the background and he hardly ever did press stuff. The rumour was that he wanted to give up the band and just write.”

“What happened to Rafe?” My mouth is so dry I’m amazed I can speak at all. This is really him, the brother that Alex is so keen I help him reach. Is it possible that his brother is also my Christmas stranger? This has to be one coincidence too far.

Then again, coincidences do happen. Maybe my Christmas stranger was someone else entirely.

Susie maximises the screen with her thumb and forefinger and squints at it. “Wiki doesn’t say much more, but I read in
The Sun
that Rafe Thorne hasn’t written a note for years. I think he’s pretty much a recluse. Here, have a look.”

The iPhone is scooted across the table – but I don’t even need to look at it to know what I’m going to see. Staring up at me with those wide-spaced violet eyes and a serious expression is a face I’ve not seen for a very long time. Ten years, in fact.

It’s impossible.

Rafe Thorne, Alex’s brother and Britpop legend, is none other than my Christmas stranger.

Chapter 12

My shock at seeing the face of my Christmas Eve stranger again is so profound that Susie’s able to drag me around Selfridges for another couple of hours. Usually I’m driven crazy by her disorganised approach to shopping – which entails zooming backwards and forwards to look at things over and over again, with not a list in sight – but right now I’m glad of an excuse not to have to think. It’s far better to concentrate on glittery things and frocks than to try to figure out what’s happening to me. While I’m being frogmarched in and out of changing rooms and giving my credit card a hammering, at least I can’t be thinking about the way my life is beginning to fall apart at the seams.

The world around me looks absolutely normal, give or take all the Christmas paraphernalia. There are no shoppers dressed in the fashions of bygone eras and so far Alex hasn’t peered at me over a rack of clothes or waved at me from across the designer section – but even so, I’m not sure I can trust my senses anymore. Everything in my world has shifted and all my certainties have turned to quicksand. It’s the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me and, try as I might, I’m struggling to come up with a logical explanation.

I’m starting to worry that there isn’t one, which leads me to one very unwelcome conclusion: this is actually happening.

While Susie’s been chatting away I’ve been so deep in thought that she’s managed to draw me into Topshop in Oxford Circus, fill my arms with party dresses and goodness knows what else, and shove me into a changing room. If she thinks it weird that I’m not protesting or taking exception to her choice of outfits, she’s far too busy taking advantage of my distractedness to say anything. After all, this is her chance to get me into some bright colours and funky Kate Moss designs, and Suse isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth by questioning my state of mind. Why let a head injury get in the way of a makeover?

I lock the changing-room door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. Did I really kiss Rafe Thorne all those years ago? Was it his mouth, softer than the brush of butterfly wings, that had skimmed mine? And was it his fingers that had so tenderly wiped away my tears? As I pull off my boots and unpeel my wrap dress, I might be staring at a floor-length mirror and a pile of party outfits, but in my mind’s eye it’s a snowy railway platform that I’m seeing: a moment frozen in time, a perfect moment to which nothing before or since could ever compare. Every detail is as fresh as if we’d only met hours earlier rather than a decade before. Of course it was him. There was no mistaking those unusual eyes, almost violet in colour; they’d leapt out of the screen, every bit as compelling online as they’d been in real life. My perfect stranger is Rafe Thorne, rock legend and brother of the phantom who saved my life and has been following me ever since.

Hang on, that’s a thought. Does Alex know who I am? Does he know I’m the girl from the song? And if so, why hasn’t he said anything?

“Because I didn’t want to freak you out.”

I’m certainly freaking out now, because Alex is sitting on the floor looking up at me – and apart from the fact that he’s made me jump out of my skin, I’m in my bra and knickers. At least today’s are white but that’s not the point! I’ve had quite enough of men seeing me in my underwear lately and, whether he’s dead or not, I’m certainly not making an exception for Alex Thorne – he of the playboy reputation and dubious taste in pervy ghost friends.

“You can’t come in here!” I screech snatching up my dress and shielding my body with it like a prudish Victorian sea bather. “I’m changing!”

“Oh chill out, Cleo,” drawls Alex. “I’ve seen it all before. Besides, you don’t believe in me, remember, so what’s the problem? Nice knickers by the way, although I did prefer the spotty ones! Sexy! Woof!”