Playing Along (32 page)

He’s thought about Lexi all day but he hasn’t tried to reach her. It’s useless. There is nothing he can say to remove himself from this mangled wreck, and if she really did get engaged yesterday, that means it must have happened after their kiss. The exquisite kiss that he thought was going to be their glue.

George puts his fingers to the keys but can only play jarred notes—jagged fragments of sound, mirroring the sharp edges he feels inside. He closes his eyes as a landslide of random words enters his mind. He doesn’t hear the door open. It takes him a few minutes to realize someone is watching.

“Where the hell have you been, mate? Should have thought to come here five hours ago.” Duncan looks like a walking zombie. His eyes are bloodshot and the veins on his forehead are popping out.

“I don’t want to talk, Dunc.”

“I’m not an idiot, I know that. Well, actually I am a bloody pillock, mate. I’ve really made a balls of it this time.”

“Welcome to my world.” George sits back on the piano stool.

“I’m just going to come right out with it, George. I think I could be the father of Fanny’s baby.”

“Say again?”

“I didn’t want to squeeze in on your action in Vegas, George, but after she left your room, she was roaming the fucking hallways in her fucking underwear. I was coming back from the casino. I doubt even a nun would have turned her down. She told me she’d been with you, but she rocks my bloody boat, mate. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?! I don’t care that you slept with her. I don’t even fancy her.”

“I know. Gabe sort of let it slip about you and Lexi. She’s got it going on, George. I think you should go for it.”

“Yeah, except Fanny’s announcement was a bit of a buzz kill, Duncan. And I found out she’s engaged.”

“Fuck that. You can change her mind. Look, George—what I’m trying to say is Fanny’s my kind of crazy. If we both shagged her then there’s a fifty-fifty chance. It’s you or me.”

“Or whoever else she bumped into that night.”

“She says it’s only been the two of us and I believe her. And something else, mate, my package was not wrapped, so I reckon all bets are on me.”

“But she told me she knew for certain I was the father.”

“Yeah well, lurking beneath those lollipops are brain cells. I called her on that. She said she’d decided that you were better father material—you know, being all sensitive and thoughtful and everything. And she’s got a point. On top of it, that dead Sebastian dude wants you to be the dad. Fuck him! Since when does a corpse have so much say?”

George looks at his phone. It’s 9:30. What should he do? Nothing’s changed. Or has it?

“George, go get your girl, mate. If the kid’s mine, we’ll both end up with our lady loves. We can have one of those tests they do in the films to find out whose boys hit the jackpot first. No offense, but I think I can guess the answer.”

Duncan’s right—a paternity test. Lexi’s leaving in the morning. Even if she’s not interested in his story about Fanny, doesn’t she owe him an explanation too? He stands up feeling like Colin Firth in
Bridget Jones
. He’d been forced to watch that film with Polly ten times one Christmas.

“No offense, taken, Duncan,” he walks over and gives his friend a hug. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me for shagging the woman of my dreams. I just want to be sure you get to do the same thing.”

LEXI
February 17
^th
, 2010
Metropolitan Hotel, London, 10:00 p.m.

The fact that George hasn’t even attempted to contact her today is only further confirmation that all of her worst fears about him were true. But then again, he’s probably heard about her ‘engagement’, so why would he bother? Lexi feels emotionally depleted. She has spent the day with Russell and Lance wandering through antique markets buying second-hand scarves and sipping scalding coffee. Tomorrow morning she’ll be on a plane back to normality. To Andrew and Carl. To Meg and Tim. To her peculiar parents and their even more peculiar dog. She can put this all behind her. One day, she’s sure she’ll look back and laugh about this week—tell her grandchildren about the English rocker who very nearly stole her heart. She’ll only being lying slightly.

London is arctic tonight. As she steps out of the taxi the icy air shocks her. She is looking forward to the warm LA sun on her cheeks. She and Lance have just come from dinner at The Wolseley, a posh art deco restaurant in Mayfair where they ate oysters and hand-cut french fries. They drank nice wine. He gave her nice compliments. He told her nice stories about the nice bridge he is designing in Paris. It’s time for her to get accustomed to ‘nice’ again and for once, try to be satisfied. As he steps out of the taxi behind her, he grabs her waist and twists her to face him. He is wearing a navy cashmere overcoat and a silk patterned scarf.

“Surely you must have mistaken me for a dapper Englishman, my dearest?” he says in a bad fake accent.

She manages a laugh, “Why yes—I thought you were Colin Firth. You mean you’re not?”

“Let me kiss you and you can make up your own mind,” Lance plants a very wet kiss on Lexi’s cold lips. She can’t get the hallway out of her mind. She can’t stop recalling how kissing George had felt like arriving home—to a place she never even knew existed.

GEORGE
17
^th
February, 2010
the corner opposite The Metropolitan Hotel, 10:00 p.m.

George had jumped on the tube, pulling his old black beanie almost over his eyes to ensure that he wasn’t recognized. As he’d sat in the carriage, speeding forward towards the next station, he couldn’t stop focusing on the sign in front of him, “Obstructing the doors can be dangerous.” He wasn’t buying that. Opening doors could hurt just as much. If he’d obstructed the doors to his heart, he wouldn’t have been sitting there then. He wouldn’t have been on his way to try to convince the woman he loves to leave her fiancé and choose him and his unborn exorcist baby instead.

He’d vaulted off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and began running towards the hotel. He is nearly there. The temperature outside is plummeting and the sky looks like a sheet of cold dark metal, but the blood is rushing through him and he’s feeling pumped.
If I can step out and sing in front of 20,000 people—I can bloody well have this conversation. I’ll just say to her—Lexi—I love you and I think you love me too. Let’s not let all of these misunderstandings obstruct our doors.
Yes! That’s what he’s going to say. He’ll just go straight to her room and—

The black taxi pulls up exactly as he skids to a stop opposite the entrance of The Metropolitan. He sees her get out of the cab, astounded that there is even a thread of luck left with his name on it. He’s just about to cross the road when he spots the bloke climbing out of the taxi behind her. Except he’s not a bloke. He’s not even a guy. He’s a man. He’s a man with an expensive coat and curly blond hair. He’s probably wearing a gold Rolex and his boxer shorts most likely have a crease down the front.

George stops himself. He’s breathing rapidly, metamorphosing instantly into the spotty, awkward teenager hiding beneath his crafted façade. He can hear Polly and Amelia sniggering at him from behind his bedroom door. He doesn’t cross the road. He stays absolutely still and watches as this man spins Lexi around, making her laugh. He continues to watch as he pulls her in closely and kisses her passionately. Just like a film. Just like Colin Firth. It’s Lexi on the big stage now. It’s Lexi who is vivid on this freezing night. Irresistible. Untouchable. Out of his league. George has obviously cast himself in the wrong role.

LEXI
February 17
^th
, 2010
Metropolitan Hotel, London, 10:00 p.m.

The fact that George hasn’t even attempted to contact her today is only further confirmation that all of her worst fears about him were true. But then again, he’s probably heard about her ‘engagement’, so why would he bother? Lexi feels emotionally depleted. She has spent the day with Russell and Lance wandering through antique markets buying second-hand scarves and sipping scalding coffee. Tomorrow morning she’ll be on a plane back to normality. To Andrew and Carl. To Meg and Tim. To her peculiar parents and their even more peculiar dog. She can put this all behind her. One day, she’s sure she’ll look back and laugh about this week—tell her grandchildren about the English rocker who very nearly stole her heart. She’ll only being lying slightly.

London is arctic tonight. As she steps out of the taxi the icy air shocks her. She is looking forward to the warm LA sun on her cheeks. She and Lance have just come from dinner at The Wolseley, a posh art deco restaurant in Mayfair where they ate oysters and hand-cut french fries. They drank nice wine. He gave her nice compliments. He told her nice stories about the nice bridge he is designing in Paris. It’s time for her to get accustomed to ‘nice’ again and for once, try to be satisfied. As he steps out of the taxi behind her, he grabs her waist and twists her to face him. He is wearing a navy cashmere overcoat and a silk patterned scarf.

“Surely you must have mistaken me for a dapper Englishman, my dearest?” he says in a bad fake accent.

She manages a laugh, “Why yes—I thought you were Colin Firth. You mean you’re not?”

“Let me kiss you and you can make up your own mind,” Lance plants a very wet kiss on Lexi’s cold lips. She can’t get the hallway out of her mind. She can’t stop recalling how kissing George had felt like arriving home—to a place she never even knew existed.

GEORGE
17
^th
February, 2010
the corner opposite The Metropolitan Hotel, 10:00 p.m.

George had jumped on the tube, pulling his old black beanie almost over his eyes to ensure that he wasn’t recognized. As he’d sat in the carriage, speeding forward towards the next station, he couldn’t stop focusing on the sign in front of him, “Obstructing the doors can be dangerous.” He wasn’t buying that. Opening doors could hurt just as much. If he’d obstructed the doors to his heart, he wouldn’t have been sitting there then. He wouldn’t have been on his way to try to convince the woman he loves to leave her fiancé and choose him and his unborn exorcist baby instead.

He’d vaulted off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and began running towards the hotel. He is nearly there. The temperature outside is plummeting and the sky looks like a sheet of cold dark metal, but the blood is rushing through him and he’s feeling pumped.
If I can step out and sing in front of 20,000 people—I can bloody well have this conversation. I’ll just say to her—Lexi—I love you and I think you love me too. Let’s not let all of these misunderstandings obstruct our doors.
Yes! That’s what he’s going to say. He’ll just go straight to her room and—

The black taxi pulls up exactly as he skids to a stop opposite the entrance of The Metropolitan. He sees her get out of the cab, astounded that there is even a thread of luck left with his name on it. He’s just about to cross the road when he spots the bloke climbing out of the taxi behind her. Except he’s not a bloke. He’s not even a guy. He’s a man. He’s a man with an expensive coat and curly blond hair. He’s probably wearing a gold Rolex and his boxer shorts most likely have a crease down the front.

George stops himself. He’s breathing rapidly, metamorphosing instantly into the spotty, awkward teenager hiding beneath his crafted façade. He can hear Polly and Amelia sniggering at him from behind his bedroom door. He doesn’t cross the road. He stays absolutely still and watches as this man spins Lexi around, making her laugh. He continues to watch as he pulls her in closely and kisses her passionately. Just like a film. Just like Colin Firth. It’s Lexi on the big stage now. It’s Lexi who is vivid on this freezing night. Irresistible. Untouchable. Out of his league. George has obviously cast himself in the wrong role.

LEXI
August 10
^th
, 2010
Venice Beach, Los Angeles

It really is the sweetest thing she has ever seen. Boris and Cherub are under the floral arch with Mildred and Russell, and they are both licking their paws. Boris has a bow tie fastened around his neck, and Cherub’s collar is a forest of freesias—most of which Boris has attempted to eat. Russell and Mildred are all in cream. Organic cotton of course. Lexi listens carefully as they exchange their vows.

“I promise to love you forever, Mildred, my precious dearest. I promise to cherish you and Cherub with tender love and care in this lifetime and beyond. And I promise to eternally honor our earth so that you and I may continue to live joyously upon her while she thrives.” Mildred presses her hand on top of Russell’s.

“I pledge, my darling Russell, to walk with you and be inspired by you. I pledge my love to you and Boris through every minute of every day. I pledge to support your quest to heal the wounds of this earth. I pledge to make certain that from here on out, your life is gooseberry free…” The congregation laughs, but Lexi also feels increasingly familiar tears in her eyes. She looks down the aisle at Andrew and Carl, Meg and Tim, and her mom and dad, and she feels blessed to have them all in her life. She has thought a lot about love in the six months since London. She still hasn’t come to any sage conclusions, other than those that billions of people have reached before her. It is unreliable. It is heavenly. It is the most bewildering feeling in the world. It can come in disguise. It isn’t easily found, and it is equally difficult to shake.

Lance and Lexi had stayed together for three months after returning from London. They had continued their nice conversations and their nice dinners and their nice sex life. They had even started watching
Mad Men
. Occasionally a Thesis song would appear on Lexi’s iPod while on shuffle and she would feel her heart shift to the left a little, as if trying to make room for the pain. When the song ended, her heart moved back into its correct position. At the end of April, she deleted the album from all of her playlists. Lexi couldn’t help but feel that Lance was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to pounce on her again with the shiny ring. Since coming back from London she had been battling a pervasive numbness in her chest—a fear that never again would she watch those neon colored spirals dance above her head in abandon, the way they had when she was with George. After Lance’s second trip to Paris Lexi sat him down and said, “Let’s talk.”