Blazed(30)

Struck-dumb by her knowledge of our 'relationship', what else could I really do but play the fool? I'd concentrated so hard on keeping that part of my life hidden from him that I'd neglected to consider that it might find him first. Stupid, of course, when my mother was as hungry for gossip as she was. "Pardon me?"

"This is you isn't it?" Unfolding a magazine and spreading it across the table between our glasses, she tapped the page at several pictures from the night before at The Roses, showing me in varying degrees of drunkenness while always attached to Blaze. It made my heart ache to look at them. The accompanying article was as reckless to look at but I just couldn't help myself.



UK rock act Monday's Miracle stormed Tudor owned 'The Roses' in style at their highly anticipated secret gig in Mayfair last night. Founding foreman Blaze topped the bill, rejoining former bandmates Scott, Jordan and Matt for the first four songs of their set, leaving the stage with an artful leap across the two hundred and ninety-seven strong crowd.

But the ladies were left lusting when he emerged to watch his friends perform with his frequently pictured companion. Bad news folks, that foxy brunette is officially stoking his fire, and boy, does it ever burn for her!

Our insider couldn't get close enough to the inferno for an exclusive, straight from the horses mouth, skinny on how it's rocking in that casbah, but Monday's Miracle guitarist, Scott, had this to say:

"Oh yeah, they're the real thing alright... As far as girlfriends go, our man lucked out. Emmy is sexy, smart, hilarious, and drank most of us under the table. I give it a month before he whisks her off to Vegas so none of us have at her after the tour."

So that's it girls, hang up your fantasies and chuck out the best knickers you wear in case he's on the bus that might hit you if they're not fresh on— hot tamale Blaze has finally found love and we got sunburn just looking at it.



"Bloody hell." It made for difficult reading. Not two hours earlier I was the envy of the female population of Great Britain, maybe even beyond. Now it was only a matter of time before the press found out that I was the conniving slut who'd had him and lost him over the futile desperation to f*ck my best friend. My temples began to throb with a tension headache. You really blew it this time. Yeah, yeah, I know.

"And he was in your flat yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes but—" But what? But I lost two men in the space of ten minutes just by being my usual messed up self? "It's not like that, Mum. Sticking 'girlfriend' on it is just a way to make it socially acceptable for it to be public knowledge that we fu— ... had relations whenever he had a free five minutes."

"Pull the other one, Emmeline." Again, she tapped the pictures, forcing me to look at how happy we'd seemed the night before. "I've never seen you smile like that."

"Can we please change the subject?"

She curled her fist under her chin, looking at me with that worldly, all-knowing look only mothers are capable of. "You've had an argument."

"No, not an argument. We've just... reached an impasse. We're too different, incompatible. He doesn't have the time I need and—"

She straightened. "What really happened?"

Transparent as ever, I sank down in my seat sulkily and stuck my lip out like a child. "He found out about Hunter."

"Ah." I'd always had a feeling that my mother had her suspicions about what Hunter really meant to me, and I think I'd just confirmed them. "And you think that there isn't enough space in your heart for two men?"

"No, I do, I just don't think Blaze does."

"Oh Emmeline," and here came the pep talk... "men are very proud creatures, very territorial. I'm sure he's just stewing and will be beating your door down again in no time. What was the last thing he said before he left?"

" 'I'll call you'."

"Oh." After a beat, she clicked her fingers at a waitress and pointed at her glass. "We're going to need another round."

Uh huh... that was what I thought.





IVY'S DRIVER DROPPED me off at Esme's around nine in a state of near catatonia, barely able to walk, speak, yet still clasping that ridiculous sun hat. A liberal attitude towards drinking to excess was apparently a Tudor trait, residing in all of us. My family had a reputation for knowing how to throw a party, and now that reputation apparently lived independent of the name.

Nobody recognised me for a while, not until Daniel strode into the bar in his gayest finery, looking to whet his whistle after Sunday lunch with the in-laws. Somehow, the temporary camouflage that came from my new old hair was liberating. Jonathan had gone straight home, as drunk as me by all accounts, leaving Dan and I to stare across a table at each other the way we had done in so many restaurants, bars, canteens and hospital wards so many times before— me dejected and him feeling bereft of a limb in his partner's absence. He was co-dependent. He wouldn't deny it.

For Daniel, watching me was like watching a woman hang from a bungee rope. I'd plummet, then gleefully spring back up. And then I'd fall again and again, the enthusiasm of my bounce getting less and less, climbing a little less high every time until there was nothing left but down. The last time he'd seen me hanging with no gambol was when he'd been dragged out of my private room away from the sight of me screaming and struggling at doctors trying to fit a nasogastric tube. I saw that memory play through his mind sometimes, obvious from the way he paled for a second and the dark shadows crossed his eyes. It might have been worse than finding me bleeding to death and I didn't know exactly how much bounce he thought I had left.

Chris didn't join us either, apparently pissed off that I hadn't turned up the night before. As much as I appreciated that my friends were sensitive, I couldn't help but feel like they couldn't stand to see the bigger picture sometimes. I rarely acted through malice, so my actions were never a slur on them. It was hard to win when the people there to support you were as self-loathing and downtrodden as you.

The habitually quiet Sunday lull was in full swing, or lack thereof, when Esme found us, first frowning at me like she didn't recognise me, then slamming the same magazine I'd been shown by my mother down on the table.

"What the hell is this?"

"A magazine?"

"Don't act cute, Emmeline." Jesus. Esme had never used my full name before. "You were at the secret Monday's Miracle gig. With Blaze. And them. Some f*cking warning might have been nice." I should have known that my decision to monopolise the evening would come back to bite me, but I had enough alcohol in me to slur a retort.

"If you were so worried about me, all you had to do was call. Nobody ever has the sense to just call, you all have to presume the worst of Emmeline Tudor, the hopelessly f*cking suicidal."

"No, I—"

"Is it cold up there on your soapbox, Esme? Do you, she who is so naturally beautiful, really think that I don't deserve to be the centre of focus in a room sometimes? How often do I get a shoo-in standing next to you like some glorified f*cking wingman? How dare I enjoy my last blissful night with Mr Decadent without my babysitters?"

"Emmy, shut up! I'm pissed off because of the journalists who've been crawling around here all day!" Stunned out of her anger, Esme sat down next to me and drummed her fingers across the table's top. "You're a mean blonde. A hot mean blonde." An involuntary giggle escaped from my throat with the sob I'd been holding in all day. Once I started, I wouldn't stop, and nobody wanted me to lose that control. "You have that look like you're crying but the tears won't come out. What do you mean 'last night'?"

My 'crying inside' look was easily detected by my friends and seldom discussed. It only ever came as a result of a feud with Hunter and their patience was exhausted where he was concerned. Chris and Esme didn't know him well enough to rationally comment on his behaviour, Jonathan knew him only as a student and Daniel kept a rigid silence on the matter. He was grateful for the acceptance he'd been afforded as a gay outcast in a society that championed conventional lifestyles and conformity but disliked his attitude enough to not jump to his defence. Not a single one of them had the energy to rehash old debates with me and only the hint that my latent tears were for someone else drove the curiosity.

"Hunter called the flat and Blaze answered. He knows the score now, he just doesn't want to sing from it." I scrunched my eyes up and flopped forward to bury my head in the crook of Esme's neck, haunted by the memories of standing just off stage, watching him with wide-eyed wonder. "And boy, can he sing."

A faint whimper rattled in Esme's throat. It was the kind of helpless noise she made when she was speechless over something she'd been expecting for a while. I'd heard it the last time she'd been told that a book she'd been chronically obsessed with had been delayed for release by six months.