Page 77 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“You’re asking me to spend Christmas with your family?”
“I’m asking if you want to wake up with me on Christmas morning.” The words come out without thinking. I’ve gone way further than I intended—far enough that I might frighten her off. But Rachel’s not easily scared.
She holds my gaze, like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. Then she picks up both the horse and the unicorn, cradling them against her chest.
“Ask me again when you’ve finished the list,” she says.
It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either. And right now, in the middle of Harrods’ toy department, with my arms full of shopping bags and my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s doing its own drum solo, that feels like everything.
“Shall we go up to the cafe on the fifth floor?” she suggests. “Not as public as the food courts.”
“How are you coping?” I ask as we step onto the escalator. “Being publicly outed as my girlfriend?” I know Instagram went nuts after my post on Tuesday night.
“A case of ‘be careful what you wish for’, I suppose.” She tries to look nonchalant, but I can see hurt in her eyes. “Some of the comments nice. Most of them not.”
“I told you not to read them, Rache. Fuck, social media can be brutal even for people like me who are used to it. Why did you do that to yourself?”
She gives a bitter laugh.
“Suppose I was delusional enough to think we might have some people wishingus well.”
She steps off the escalator and marches up to the host station at the cafe entrance. We’re shown to a table and given menus, and it’s not until the server is gone that I pick up our conversation.
“The comments, Rachel?” I say. “What kind of not so nice?” I ask, even though I’ve got a pretty good idea. I saw some of them myself before I turned off commenting. How fucking stupid of me. I was so caught up in the magic of it all—Rachel with me, laughing and joking, stealing kisses in the backseat of the car—that I forgot one of the most basic survival skills of social media. Now the bastards have had a go at her.
“Oh, you know, the usual charming observations,” she says, staring hard at the menu but her eyes not focusing. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I say. “But neither is keeping it to yourself. Believe me, talking about it does help. I know.”
She pulls out her phone and scrolls down. “Let’s see… ‘She’s so basic compared to the models you usually date.’ That’s a popular one. ‘Give it three months before she’s posting sponsored content’. Lots think it’s all about money. Oh, and this one’s extra good. ‘How many guys before you do you think?’”
“Christ, Rachel. I should have turned off the comments from the start. That’s on me.”
“There are several saying you’ll dump me before the tour starts, but they’re not so bad—just going off old news. My personal favourite from my account before I deleted it: ‘You’re just another blonde wannabe’. Nice, huh?”
“Rachel, I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I knew what I was signing up for when I added ‘go public’ to your list.” She slaps her phone on the table. “I just didn’texpect quite so many people to weigh in on my ‘dead eyes’ and crown me public enemy number one for ‘stealing’ you from your fans.”
She tosses me a brittle smile and then turns to the server, who’s approached with tablet in hand.
“The nastier they are, the more threatened they feel,” I say, stretching out my hand to cover hers. Her eyes flicker up to mine, and I see the glint of a tear. “They can see I care about you, and they don’t like it. And it’s not fine. But I don’t know how to fix it.”
“A hot chocolate always works wonders, don’t you think?” She forces a smile. “How about you buy me one and we don’t give those arseholes any more of our time?”
Rachel’s right. A hot chocolate for her, a coffee for me and some lunch and I feel like we’ve managed to put all talk of the social media scum behind us. At least for now.
After one last stop at the first-floor Christmas shop, where Rachel spends an eye-watering amount on decorations, we step out onto the street, my arms loaded with bags.
“How the hell are you going to get this all home? Did you bring your car?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not so stupid to think I’d find a park anywhere near here.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d get you and this lot onto the back of my bike. Let me call you a cab.” I step to the edge of the kerb, scanning for one of the familiar black cabs, but there’s nothing in sight. The pre-Christmas crowds are thick on the pavement. “Perhaps we should walk down a bit,” I suggest.
I place my hand on Rachel’s waist as we try to navigate the streams of shoppers. We’re maybe fifty yards from Harrods when I hear it.
“Teddy!”
