Page 61 of Saving Ian Pope

“Uh, I’m a good boy, too.” I thrust out my lower lip.

She finally looked up from cuddling the dog. “Oh, I know. You’re averygood boy.” She chucked Scruffy under the chin and then hopped up on the counter next to the raw steak and crossed her legs, the T-shirt riding up her bare thigh.

As if I could resist her. I dropped the pepper and moved in front of her. I parted her legs and slid between them. “Did you have a good nap?”

She entwined her arms around my neck and touched her nose to mine. “Quite nice, thank you.”

“Is this a thing, now?” I plucked the material of my T-shirt away from her body. “You’re going to steal all my T-shirts?” I sniffed the neckline. “All mydirtyT-shirts. This from a woman who had to shower after a plane ride where she literally just sat in a seat for ten hours.”

“I told you. I like the dirty ones because they smell like you.” She grabbed a handful of the shirt, brought it to her nose, and inhaled.

“I’m right here. You can smell me anytime you like.” When she’d pulled up the T-shirt, the hem of it rode up over her hips, exposing her bare...everything. My hands burrowed beneath the material and encircled her small waist. “You saunter in here, wearing my dirty T-shirt and no knickers. Does this mean we’re starting in this room?”

“Starting? We already christened the bedroom.” She jumped off the counter and tugged down the shirt. “And not in front of Scruffy.”

***

I was excited to give Ivy a tour of the house and grounds and to show her around the village. She loved the office I set up for her on the ground floor with the French doors that opened onto the garden. The village charmed her, and she swooned at every old, decrepit building, insisting that we have lunch one day down the pub, minus the alcohol.

I still hadn’t given her the bad news about that, but I was working up to it.

She’d befriended the pub owner, the flower seller, and the rector at the parish church, who talked her ear off about the history of the village and the church and the graveyard. She officially knew more people here than I did.

Just like in LA, we lived in our own little bubble with me playing tour guide, this time. I even took her to Milton’s cottage, which was closed at this time of year, but I was able to arrange a private tour for her of the house and gardens. We cooked at home, went out for a few meals, watched movies in the home theater, played with Scruffy in the yard, and shagged every night.

After a few days of this idyll, we had to move into the real world, and the prospect had scared the shit out of me. We’d never functioned as a couple with work and responsibilities. Would it change anything between us?

As I went back to work in the London studio, I left her at the house alone, and she finished unpacking, set up her office, and puttered around the village, doing God knows what. She was also able to work on her book and finished it her first month here. That fact put me at ease. We seemed to fall into a comfortable pattern, and I treated recording like a nine-to-five job, making it back home for dinner every night.

As I was making good progress on the album, I decided to ask her to join me at the studio one day.

Her eyes sparkled at the invitation. “I’d love to go. Will you be able to sing a song for me? Aren’t you done recording the vocals for all the songs?”

“I am, but I can record another version of ‘My Duchess.’ That’s the song I wrote about the painting at the Getty. That’s the first ballad I’m going to release as a single from the album, unless we go with ‘Lost and Found.’” I raised my hand and ticked off my fingers. “‘Muse’ is going to be the first single, followed by ‘Van at the Greek,’ both mid-tempo, and then ‘My Duchess.’ Like I said, unless the record company lets me go with ‘Lost and Found.’”

She tilted her head as she scooped some mashed avocado onto a piece of toast. “I haven’t heard ‘Lost and Found.’ That’s the one you wrote right when you came back to England, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t the record company want you to release that as a single?”

“I actually started writing it on the flight home from LA.” Right after she dumped me. I pulled at my beard. “The lyrics are really personal. I mean I think all my lyrics this time around are personal but ‘Lost and Found’...I don’t know. I get into some things that my label would rather not have me put out there.”

“I hope you can do what you want. I can’t wait to hear them all put together. It’s kind of like having a baby with you and watching it grow.” She waved her hands in front of her pink cheeks. “I mean, not with you and not that I’d know.”

Was that a Freudian slip? Although our connection had deep roots, Ivy always wielded a shield to keep me from getting too close. She’d kept her feelings about kids to herself. She hadn’t met Thea, yet. My daughter had been at Jasper’s house in Italy with Shana and Jasper, and I didn’t want to rush anything, yet. I did want to introduce Ivy to my family up north, and they were anxious to meet her, but she’d hedged around the idea without committing to it. The notion seemed to terrify her for some reason, as if my family wouldn’t like her.

I sat down across from her, delivering a cup of tea. “I imagine it’s like writing a book. It starts with one idea or one character, and then you have a finished product that you share with other people.”

“I guess, but this time I’m on the outside of the creative process looking in. I know the songs from their infancy, from a few words and phrases and hummed melodies. I’m excited to hear the end result. And I haven’t been to the city, yet.”

“We can spend the night. Sharon will look after Scruffy. Would you rather sightsee than sit in the studio all day?” Ivy had some kind of innate drive to explore everything, like if she didn’t know the history of a place she couldn’t sit back and fully enjoy it. I was just waiting for her request to check out every display in the British Museum.

“Oh, no. I’d much rather see...and listen to how you work, if I’m not going to be a distraction.”

“Not at all, but you might be bored.”

“I don’t think so.” She crunched into her toast. “I don’t know anything about the process, so it’ll be fun to learn.”

I suddenly had a frightening vision of Ivy questioning Ronnie, the producer, and Hamza, the sound engineer, about the whole procedure. I put a finger to my lips. “As long as you’re very, very quiet.”

“Are there going to be any of the musicians there, or are they all done with their parts?”

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