‘I had posters of her on my wall when I was a kid,’ he told Tony.
‘Jesus,’ said Tony. ‘Don’t tellherthat!’
Christie Blackmore knew how to party. She took over the Library Bar, dispensed with the pianist, and played the piano into the small hours. Everyone sang along, and she would hear no excuses when she asked Will to sing a duet. She ordered so many shots Ed had to help Reu to his room before midnight. Her entourage was about thirty strong, all friendly, but very loud. By 4 a.m. most had left and even Matty was calling it a night. Will stood up to leave with him when Christie said, ‘Do you want to hear our new song? It’s not finished yet, but it’s nearly there.’
Will was getting a headache. He should go to bed, but how often did you get the chance to hear an Underdogs record before its release?
‘That’d be brilliant.’
He was having trouble walking straight as the three of them headed to the lifts. Matty was even worse, stumbling over nothing and landing on his arse in the corridor. Christie appeared completely unaffected by all the tequila slammers she’d knocked back.
Matty stumbled out of the lift at the tenth floor. He couldn’t be persuaded to join them, and zigzagged off down the corridor. Christie pressed the button for the penthouse, and at the top floor, they walked the length of the corridor to the double door entrance to her suite.
She swung them open to reveal a wood-panelled living room with leather sofas and bookshelves reaching up to the high ceiling. A grand piano stood gleaming before a twinkling slice of the New York skyline.
‘Wow!’ He went to the window. The first glimmer of sunrise glowed pink behind the Chrysler to his left, and the Empire State rose to a point on the right.
‘Drink?’ She handed him a glass of something amber coloured on ice.
‘Thanks.’ He shouldn’t drink any more – his head was killing him.
An ivory key made a brighttinkwhen he pressed down on it.
‘Do you play?’ she asked.
‘Only “Chopsticks”.’
‘You should learn. I started playing piano around your age.’ She fiddled with the stereo. ‘This is that song I was telling you about.’
He settled on a sofa as music filled the room. Her song was fantastic. It pissed all over what he had been working on that week. He’d always loved her voice. He felt like pinchinghimself: he was in a penthouse suite overlooking Manhattan, listening to the latest Underdogs song before anyone else. With Christie Blackmore.
He splayed his arms along the back of the sofa. His eyelids were heavy, he closed his eyes and let the music wash over him.
The jerk of his head woke him with a start.
He blinked. Christie Blackmore was kneeling before him. Jesus, he must be dreaming. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, but she was still there, sliding her hands up his thighs.
‘What are you doing?’ His speech was slurred.
‘Worshipping you, like everybody else,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that why we do it? For adoration?’
The feel of her fingers on his fly was enough to get things stirring.
‘Wait…’
All communication from his brain stalled.
‘Relax, enjoy it.’
Oh God, what was she doing with her tongue?
She looked up at him through her thick eyelashes, the same look that had followed him around his room when he was a teenager. He remembered listening to her husky vocals alone in his room with her poster on the wall watching him, whatever he was doing.
No, no, no.
He struggled to find the words to refuse politely.
Christ, why did he need to be polite?