Venus Was Her Name, page 5
Joe had mentioned it to Silvestre and Nanou, so they could be vigilant while at the same time playing down the serious nature of the notes. In truth, a nagging sense of foreboding was telling him that his past was catching up and someone out there wanted him to pay the price. For what or why, Joe wasn’t quite sure. It was hard to tell, the words were cryptic, and he hadn’t worked them out yet. ‘You are a fake. Your words a pack of lies. You sold me a dream. And left me broken. I hate you so bad.’
Dragging strands of hair from his face he sighed deeply. Christ, who the fuck was it? And then, on top of a psycho and Lance’s mounting debts and therapy bills, Gus getting sick and Ace’s wanderlust, Joe suspected his son was now in love with his long-distance girlfriend.
At least they were finally going to meet her in the flesh, his geeky mate who he talked about all the time who had ditched her boyfriend and made Ace’s year. Nanou was so excited about the visit and had been fussing for days while Joe quietly hoped the young woman was as genuine as she seemed. From all the photos Ace had shown them, Edie looked like a nice kid, down to earth, clever and talented, so he, Nanou and Silvestre had their fingers crossed. Joe wasn’t into all that Facebook shite, and neither was Jenny, but she’d got a friend to have a gander and said the kid was kosher.
Anyway, at least she wasn’t a bloody actress or a reality star, or a wannabe singer looking for an in but a literature student who was doing something with her life and right now he needed something to feel positive about. And what was more uplifting than young love? The last few years had been a nightmare, and just when he’d thought his troubles were over the notes started arriving. Karma was determined to take a chunk out of his arse, one way or another.
It had started five years back, when Denny Sullivan, the bass player, wanted to revive the band and do a reunion tour, kicking off at Glastonbury. Joe had given the idea a resounding no because when he’d called time on NorthStar, he’d meant it, no going back. Denny just wouldn’t take a hint and started an online media campaign, rallying fans, appearing on TV shows publicly cajoling Joe into reforming the band. The answer was always the same.
War was declared when Denny finally lost patience and decided to start a new band, recruiting new members because Chaz and Steve, the drummer and guitarist remained loyal and declined. Joe then forbade Denny to use the name NorthStar. Joe had written all of the songs and owned the copyright, therefore if Denny performed them, he’d have to pay royalties. Yeah, tribute bands sang his songs all the time and he wasn’t arsed about that, good luck to them if they could earn a few quid. But there was no way he was going to sit back and let someone he didn’t even like swan off and reinvent his band. Not on his nelly, as his old mam used to say.
The legal battle had been as epic as NorthStar’s rise to fame and kept the tabloids busy if nothing else. And when Joe won, just like his very expensive team of lawyers said he would, Denny had crawled back under his stone and hadn’t been heard of since.
Hell, if he wanted to start a band he could. Get some guys together, get someone to write him some songs. It wasn’t out of his reach. The man was just idle and wanted it the easy way. Denny was also stinking rich, had a cute young wife, number four, maybe five, Joe had lost count. They lived in a mansion in Buckinghamshire and had a villa in Jamaica, so it wasn’t like he was on his arse and back in Manchester, signing on the dole. That was where they’d met, in the queue at the job centre.
Joe’s bass guitarist had buggered off to Oz and Denny, a very mediocre musician, scraped his way into the band. He had always been a troublemaker, the one Gus found hard to manage then had to make excuses for when his behaviour drew bad publicity towards the band, which of course, the tabloids loved. Gus always said that Denny’s problem was that he wanted to be the star of the show. It would never happen though. That role belonged to Joe.
To be fair, Joe was no angel either. Yes, everyone knew he loved the ladies and when he said he’d slept with more women than he could remember, he wasn’t kidding. Shameful as that may sound, Joe really and truly couldn’t remember all of them. Especially the early days when he was a wild twenty-three-year-old, living his best life, the one he’d dreamed of. Nothing was off limits, the drugs, drink, groupies.
The bizarre became the norm. Too quickly, so fast it took their breath away and blew their minds like the little plastic bags of uppers and downers. They’d all lost days, weeks to whatever they swallowed, waking up in hotel rooms surrounded by naked bodies, nameless women who he’d never see again. Or maybe he did, it was all a blur.
They became hooked on it all. Being ferried about in fancy limos, flying to gigs in private jets, driving across the US in a convoy of gleaming tour buses; so far away from dossing in the back of their smelly old van on a mattress. The real, good old days.
Then there was the dark side of fame that came in flashbacks and haunted him. The things he’d seen that he knew were wrong, and the secrets he’d kept all these years for people who didn’t deserve it. This was why he’d refused to co-operate with several publishers who wanted him to write his autobiography. He couldn’t go there, skim over the truth, or lie, because to tell his story would mean digging up the past and exposing others, let alone reliving what little he remembered about the lowest points of his life; the times when two young women had lost theirs.
Instead, he’d left it to others to gossip and make up their bizarre scenarios. And why, whenever he did talk shows, Gus warned the hosts not to ask Joe about that time because if they did, he’d get up and walk out. It had happened, twice. Again, the gossipmongers loved it, social media replaying the moment when Joe Jarrett ripped out his mike and stormed off set.
Joe didn’t give a fuck about what people said. He knew his own truth and had done his best to atone for something that wasn’t his fault, not directly. Privately he’d helped, but all the money in the world wouldn’t heal broken hearts. The names he could remember, he hoped their families were okay, and the others, girls like a poor homeless kid called Pammie and those he’d tried to help through secret donations, he wished for them on shooting stars all the time.
It was always at this point in his reminiscing that Joe made himself stop and Bob, gambolling across the wet sand carrying a chunk of driftwood, helped break the cycle of misery whirling around in his head. Looking downwards into brown, trusting eyes, Joe smiled and ruffled the Labrador’s soggy fur before taking the wood and throwing it out to sea, watching a moment of innocence as his dog raced away, relishing the joy of simple pleasures.
This thought brought him back to the farm, a place where he was able to live his life in peace, away from the razzamatazz. And now he feared it was all in jeopardy. He’d already had more cameras fitted around the perimeter, although he’d ignored the advice of the firm he’d employed to ramp up security. The last thing he wanted was to erect a wall around his property, fit electric gates or have someone patrol the perimeter with dogs. He might as well go back to LA and live like a prisoner.
The beauty of his home was that it was semi-remote, wild and rugged, off the beaten track and away from the tourist route. It allowed him to do his own thing, which was write, play music, hike, eat good food and drink too much wine.
Okay, so every now and then fans would invade his precious privacy. It wasn’t a secret where he lived so they’d turn up in the village, or hover at the end of the lane hoping for a glimpse of their idol but they weren’t a problem and Joe liked to meet them. He would wander down with the dogs, sign autographs, let them take their dreaded selfies and spend time chatting. Joe didn’t want that to change.
Maybe he was overthinking it all. Feeling his mortality, getting old and maudlin, hankering after the good old days and his mam and dad and a terraced house in Manchester. In fact, he needed to go home soon, back to his roots. They were pulling him across the channel.
Whenever he went back, he’d tie up his hair, stick on a hat, be anonymous and have a wander round the city, go back to the boozer on the corner of his street, call in at his old school and bung them a few quid, give out some prizes to the kids. Yeah, he’d like that and so would Ace.
They could go before he headed to the Far East, get away just the two of them and make some more memories and in the meantime, hope that Gus and the police were right. That the notes were from some harmless crazy getting their kicks and like most things it would blow over. Like another chapter in the unwritten story of his life.
There was so much that people didn’t know, didn’t need to know either. For the past forty years he’d lead his life in public, so he had a right to keep some stuff to himself, in his heart and head. Joe accepted there was no going back and erasing the bad bits. And he would have to live with regrets, the what ifs, and lately the face of a woman who he’d loved so badly and let slip through his fingers. His secret summer lover, who should have been by his side through it all, but he’d messed up.
Joe was about to indulge himself in a bout of bittersweet torment when the hum of an engine alerted him and the dogs to a visitor. Turning, he looked towards the path that led to the beach and there as he expected was Ace, one arm raised. It said – I’m here, are you okay, Dad? Sometimes, the two of them didn’t need words. God, he loved that kid.
The dogs were already racing up the sandy pathway barking their excitement when Joe stretched creaky legs and stood, his hiking boots splashing a puddle of seawater, a high tide incoming. As he followed his hounds, Joe told himself it was time to get it together and stop his wallowing and worrying, focus on the present and Ace’s birthday.
The new cameras would tell them if anyone approached the property, and so far his letter-writing stalker hadn’t bothered them at the farm. So as long as he kept his circle close and his wits about him, all was good. Everyone he loved would be safe and crazy woman, whoever she was, could go to hell.
Chapter 5
Edie
Luckily, as her history could prove, Edie was nothing if not patient so unlike the grumblers behind and in front of her, she didn’t mind that the queue for passport control was long and slow moving. In front, a couple tutted and remarked that this was what happens when there’s no first-class option while behind, two parents juggled a red-faced toddler, a whiny older child and no doubt prayed the baby in the mum’s arm stayed asleep. Edie felt empathy for the family and rolled her eyes at the ones ahead who’d been forced to slum it with the peasants. They would get to the front eventually and in the meantime it would give her time to prepare.
She was so nervous about staying with Ace and his family, but her friends had said that was natural; meeting the parents was a biggie especially when one of them was Joe Jarrett. Edie tried to be logical about it all, but it didn’t work because even though they talked all the time on the phone and via messages this was next-level stuff.
She honestly hadn’t meant to strike up a proper friendship with Ace, and definitely didn’t expect to fall for him. What began with curiosity, had unexpectedly blossomed into a wonderful ‘thing’ and no matter what anyone might think, her feelings, pent up or otherwise were true.
She’d been following him on Instagram for ages, sticking to commenting on his photography that she genuinely admired. It wasn’t until she began a module on graphic novels that Edie plucked up the courage to ask him if he’d ever consider using his work in that way, and a private conversation opened up. Ace messaged her first. The rest had led from there, via mutual interest. His in her studies, especially when she told him all about her previous module on cultural theory, and hers in his photographic art. Then he added her on Facebook, she followed him on Twitter and soon they were messaging all the time.
They’d met five times. Four in London and once when he went to visit his aunt in Manchester. The first, she was racked with nerves as she travelled to London to interview him for her thesis. The cheapest day return ticket, a packed lunch to eat on the way because she was skint. She’d got lost on the Tube and was running late so she rang him in a panic, he said he would come and find her. She waited in Trafalgar Square and when he tapped her on the shoulder and she turned, Edie looked into brown eyes that were laughing slightly at her predicament, not her.
His voice was kind, a weird blend, a hint of a French accent and perfect English. He’d told her that he was the family translator because their closest friends, Nanou and Silvestre were French and his dad wasn’t exactly fluent and lots of things between them got lost in translation, especially because his dad had clung onto his Mancunian accent. His mum was American, so at home he spoke mostly English and then flipped to French the second his foot stepped on the school bus. Still, the moment he spoke to Edie that day in London, he sounded so familiar yet different. The barrier of a phone screen removed so that the flesh, close enough to touch, hair darker than she imagined, his frame taller and broader, too, his accent, all of it altered preconceptions.
‘Hey you. I got here as quick as I could. Hell, you look stressed.’
‘I am stressed. I got on the wrong side and when I realised, I was so squashed in I couldn’t get off straight away and ended up two stops down and had a panic attack thinking you’d not see me if I was late and…’ She stopped when Ace rested his hand on her shoulder.
‘You’re here now so why don’t we go get a drink, then have some fun?’
This threw her because she only had a few hours and a train to catch. An off-peak return and she had to get the exact one on her ticket. ‘But what about the interview?’
‘It’s fine, come on, I have an idea.’ And in that moment, as he took her hand and led her through the crowd, Edie fell for Ace.
It had been the best day ever. They chatted non-stop as they rode a London tour bus, then went on a river cruise where she asked him all her questions. He took photos, seeing things in the mundane that Edie wouldn’t have noticed, like the back of Japanese tourists’ heads as they listened to the commentary, lost in a world of jewels and towers and princes imprisoned. He’d taken photos of her, too, and some of them together and to this day, she could still feel the weight of his leather jacket as he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. It had all been so natural, innocent, simple and relaxed. They ate Chinese food in Soho, and he bought her a carrier bag of snacks for the journey home, gave her a peck on the cheek before she boarded the train wanting nothing more than a promise she would come back soon, or let him come and visit her. Edie was smitten.
He kept her company all the way back to Manchester on video call and when they lost the signal, by text. Her friends wanted to know all about it the next day, and she could tell they were slightly disappointed by her big day out and no doubt Ace himself who she made sound super ordinary because really, he was. He hadn’t introduced her to his famous dad who was in town and he hadn’t taken her to any of the places they’d want to go, like The Ritz for tea, or Annabel’s for dinner.
Edie didn’t care and kept the day for herself, like a photo in a locket that lay close enough to her heart to hear it beat when she thought of Ace. She didn’t tell her friends her innermost thoughts, about the easy-going guy who was kind of Zen in his own gentle way, hypersensitive to everything and everyone around him, a deep thinker, clever too, while at the same time he could be a bit over-particular.
Like when he invited her back to London, and planned everything down to the last detail, sending her a step-by-step itinerary and a map of the station, marking the exits, so she wouldn’t get lost. He’d paid for her ticket in first class, so she’d be safe and have something nice to eat on the journey and sent a driver to pick her up from Euston. The chauffeur even had her name on a card which he held up, like in films, which made her blush but feel special at the same time. He’d ferried her to the apartment in Notting Hill and instead of finding just Ace there, she’d met two of his friends from home who were staying too. Dominique and Charles had known Ace since they were five, and like him had no airs; one the son of farmers, the other had the misfortune (or so he said) to have teachers for parents. They’d had the best time, the four of them, listening to music, watching films, eating take-out, getting very drunk, and she wanted it never to end.
Edie was enthralled by Ace, on every level. A contradiction in so many ways, the son of a legend who preferred the company of the friends and people he’d grown up with. And even though he’d lived away from the spotlight, he morphed seamlessly into it when he wanted to, unfazed by the photos of his dad’s famous friends on the shelves, but happy to hang with some of the greats if they were in town. Ace’s photo reel and contacts list were a who’s who of A-listers who were sandwiched between the gang from the village in France. His football coach, Eban, was followed by Ed Sheeran; Daniel Craig came before Dominique.
In return, Ace took her as she was, a student studying English literature who had been brought up by her gran. She said she didn’t want to talk about her mum, saying it was painful. ‘I’ll tell you when I’m ready,’ she’d said, and he’d respected that. In total contrast to Ace, if anyone scrolled through her phone and photos she was just an average twenty-one-year-old who took lots of selfies with her uni friends; a borderline geek who posted mainly about the theatre, films and books.
There was the occasional snap of Tom, her not-bad-looking, on-off boyfriend who suddenly became a great inconvenience. If nothing else, he’d made her look legit on her profile. Not like some man-hungry stalker who longed for a famous boyfriend or a complete saddo who nobody fancied. At first, the spectre of Tom turned out to be the perfect alibi and barrier, not where Ace was concerned because she knew he was a gentleman, a good guy. It was because she didn’t trust herself.
So, she’d kept up the pretence right until the last minute, tolerating Long-Gone Tom (as she now referred to him in her head) until she couldn’t bear it anymore. When she dumped him, Edie made up an alternative story where he’d accepted a post-grad job in Canada and who was she to hold him back? There was no future in the relationship, so they’d parted friends. She didn’t want Ace to think she was mean, but the time had come to set herself free.
