Page 70 of Take My Breath Away
“Yes, I am. I don’t feel crushed, the way I did earlier. The whole thing’s going to be one step forward, two back. I just have to accept it.”
He’s looking hard at me, his gaze intense but not with the heat of minutes ago. James puts his drink down and leans forward, eyes still searing into mine. My skin’s prickling, my spine’s tingling. There’s something he wants to say to me… My stomach fills with nervy apprehension…
“If you’re still set on moving, to Brighton,” he says, the words measured and even, “I can help you out. Financially, I mean.”
“What?” I drag my jaw up from the table, and snap it closed.
“I don’t expect an answer now, but just think it about for a day or two. I know how much of a blow it was, about your parents.”
“It—it was, but why would you want to help me?”
“Why? Because it’s your dream and you’re willing to work hard to make it a reality. Even if that dream does include taking you down to bloody Brighton. I still don’t understand why you want to go to the ends of the earth. If you want to be by the water, what’s wrong with the Thames?”
His words are grumpy, but he’s smiling even if I’m not sure it reaches his eyes.
“It’s only Brighton, and I’m not there yet.”
“But it’s not here, is it?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, and whether his words are for him or for me, I have to know, I have to ask, but before I can take a breath he’s become crisp and clipped. “Give it some thought and let me know, then we can look at the details.”
Picking up his drink, he takes a sip, leans back in his seat and looks out over the busy bar, sure, confident and composed. I say nothing, as I lose the nerve to ask himwhy?
* * *
We stumble out of the bar. I’ve had another cocktail, making it three or maybe four. I should be drunk but James’ offer of help has sobered me. I’ll do as he says, and think it over. I already know what my answer will be, but my heart’s full of warmth that he’s willing to be there to catch me. To rescue me again, I suppose. But I need to stand on my own two feet, even if sometimes those feet are a bit wobbly.
“The night’s still young. We could go to a club,” he says.
“What, you want to get shirtless and bump and grind?” The idea’s hot, but I’m not the only one who’d want some of that with James, and that’s a thought that leaves me stone cold. No, I definitelydon’twant to go to a club.
He laughs. “I was actually thinking of a jazz club I know. Don’t worry, it’s not bearded blokes in Arran sweaters. It’s more mellow and bluesy. More sultry. It’s not far. Do you fancy it?”
He’s doing that one brow arched thing, his lips curved up in a smile that borders on being a smirk. And I do fancy it, very much, but it’s not all I fancy.
“Yes,” I croak.
Taking my hand in his, he leads the way. We duck down side streets, left and right and what feels like going full circle until I’ve no idea where we are. We emerge into a narrow alleyway, somewhere in Hampstead, in front of a plain door that’d be easy to walk past without noticing.
James waves my hand away when I attempt to pay for our admission. He’s already treated me in the bar, and his offer of help…
“You can get the first drink,” he says, giving me a wink.
I follow him down a flight of steps. The basement club’s dark, much darker than the lights leading down the steps from street level. My eyes have yet to adjust, and I stumble.
“Careful.” James’ breath wafts against my cheek as his hand grasps my wrist. Both his skin and breath are warm, but they send a shiver through my blood.
Now my eyes are adjusting, I can see the place is busy. It’s also bigger than I expect, given that the entrance isn’t much more than a hole in the wall. Small round tables fill the space, most of them taken up, but we find one tucked towards the back, and deep in shadow. Up at the front is a stage, set up with microphones and instruments, waiting for the band to come on.
A waitress comes to take our order; a whisky for James, but mindful of the last time I mixed my drinks, I go for a fruit juice.
“Oh, you’re going to like this,” James says, leaning forward as the band walks on to rapturous applause, cheers and whistles. “These guys are incredible musicians, but the singer’s out of this world. Mabel. She works for Rory and Jack, and she pretty much manages the bakery day-to-day.”
“What?”
I stare at the female singer, striking a pose but in a self-deprecating way as she laughs and nods her thanks to the audience. Cakes by day, clubs by night, the ultimate in a double life. She’s tall, but that’s more down to the killer heels and the gravity defying cherry-red beehive hairdo. In her oranges and lemons decorated fifties-style dress, she’s an explosion of colour and heat and I’m already a fan.
The audience settles as trombone and double bass, deep and rich, fills the space. There’s still a murmur of voices, but they fall silent when Mabel starts to sing.
Deep, rich, sultry, smoky, her voice is all of that and more.
