Cathy Kelly - Past Secrets

‘Are you lost?’ said a low voice.

Amber swivelled round. The dark, crop-haired man stood beside her, staring at her with intense blue eyes. Every nerve in her body quivered into alertness, though she tried to stay calm.

‘Lost? No.’ She shrugged, hopelessly trying to adopt the laid-back aura of the brunette in the VIP section.

‘You weren’t looking for someone?’ he asked. His voice was soft and deep, a man’s voice, not a boy’s.

Amber shook her head.

‘I thought you were looking for me,’ he added, ‘and you’ve found me.’

Amber just stared at him, concentrating on breathing.

Chat-up lines for her usually consisted of the guy asking what class she was in at school. This approach was wildly different. Amber felt her spine lengthen, some new instinct making her stand up straighter, yet slightly closer to him.

‘I wasn’t looking for you,’ she said, nonchalant. How was she doing this? She’d never spoken this way before, like a heroine from a film. ‘I was watching people. I’m an artist: I like watching people.’

‘You draw them, then?’

Amazingly, he didn’t spot that she was making this up as she went along. Buoyed up, Amber lowered her eyelids and gave him a sultry gaze she’d rehearsed in her bedroom in front of the faded line of her childhood teddy bears.

‘If I like the shape of them and the look of them, I might draw them,’ she replied coolly.

‘And me? Do you like the look of me?’ he asked.

It was noisy, so he’d moved till he was very close to her and, despite the gloom of the club, she could see that his face was moulded like a beautiful Renaissance statue: a straight, proud nose, flaring cheekbones, a finely planed forehead and a mouth so sensitive it would take a sculptor months to get right. Tightly cropped brown hair and a filament-thin cotton shirt flattened against his lean body took him into the modern era, but otherwise, he was like the historical princes of art that Amber had grown up admiring.

‘I like the look of you very much,’ she breathed, not bothering to be cool any more.

And he smiled at her, revealing an endearing dimple on one side of his mouth and perfect white teeth. Amber forgot about everything else in the world except this fabulous man. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, feel him wrap his arms around her and press his body against hers for ever. This, she thought, was love at first sight.

Karl was in a band, he told her. She introduced him to Ella and he led them over to the VIP area.

Ella squeezed Amber’s hand in delight as they were ushered past the velvet rope, but Amber was too engrossed in Karl to sense Ella’s message of ‘Wow! Look where we are now!’

Some of Karl’s as yet unsigned band were among the group. The rest, the ones who’d undoubtedly got everyone into the VIP area in the first place, were a band with an album that had just been released, the ones Marco had come to hear.

‘The Kebabs, of course I’ve heard of you! My brother came to hear you play. Tell me, you do, like tours and stuff?’ asked Ella, fascinated, as she was handed a glass of champagne.

As Ella listened to stories of life on the road, Amber barely heard a word. She was conscious only of Karl sitting beside her, with an arm loosely around the back of her seat, his leg casually close to hers.

She didn’t want to hear about anyone else, only Karl.

‘What do you do in your band?’

‘I am the band,’ Karl shrugged as if it was obvious. ‘I write the songs, I sing, I play lead guitar. The band is me.’

‘You’re an artist too.’ She smiled and took his hand, tracing the lines on it with sensitive fingers. ‘I could paint you.’

‘I could write a song about you,’ Karl said, touching her face with his other hand.

Their faces were inches apart now, Karl was drinking in every inch of her, his eyes travelling from her tawny hair, past the softness of her jaw down to the firm, high curve of her breasts highlighted in the tight little T-shirt she’d borrowed from Ella.

‘You’re so sexy,’ he whispered. His eyes roamed lower, past her waist to the rounded curve of her hips and along her jean-clad legs. For once, Amber didn’t bother trying to lift one thigh up so her leg looked thinner. There was no mistaking the fact that Karl liked her the way she was, and that was headier than any alcohol she could have drunk.

‘Get a room!’ shouted someone to them, and everyone creased up laughing.

Amber and Karl didn’t hear the jest or the insistent throbbing of the club music: they were locked into their own beat, aqua eyes in a lean face staring fiercely into grey-and-amber eyes in a gently rounded one, the red stain on each of Amber’s cheeks owing nothing to her make-up.

They moved at the same time, Karl’s arms winding around Amber’s waist, her hands spreading out to feel the heat of his torso through the thin shirt. Before her fingers had a chance to revel in the fine muscles of his back, his mouth met hers and they were kissing. It was unlike any kiss Amber had experienced: Karl’s tongue snaked into her mouth with practised ease, banishing the memory of every St Bernard slobber of a French kiss she’d ever had before. They melted against each other, his hands cupping her face, her hands raking through his hair. The heat of their bodies burned through their clothes. And long afterwards, when Amber was again capable of thinking, she realised that this was what love was all about.

As the morning bus lurched along into the city, Amber sat on the top deck in her finery and thought of how much had changed in the past two weeks. She had been a kid then, but now she was an adult.

An adult with an adult relationship. Or at least, she’d be properly having an adult relationship soon. Today, she was meeting Karl to take him home where they’d have the place to themselves all day. There was no privacy in the poky flat he shared with five other musicians. In her bedroom on Summer Street, there would be as much privacy as they needed. Briefly, Amber thought of how she’d explain it all to her mother if she arrived home early from work. She could imagine Faye’s horrified face, and how hurt she’d be to have been lied to. But Amber flicked the thought away. She’d worry about that later. Everyone had secrets, didn’t they?

Twice a week for the past six months, Faye Reid had taken an early lunch and walked a mile to the swimming pool complex near her office. The brisk walk past the mirror-windowed buildings of the docklands was soothing. Striding along the pavement, away from the incessant phones and the beehive drone of the busy recruitment company where she worked, she listened to music, watched seagulls swoop and dive towards the river, and relaxed.

Today, she had Billie Holiday on her portable CD player. Billie’s golden voice told of men who’d left and Faye thought how wonderful it was that, no matter how many times she heard Billie, it always sounded as if the guy had just that second gone, the screen door still banging behind him.

Music talked to Faye. Sound was the most evocative sense for her and the first few bars of a song on the radio could take her right back to where she’d been when she’d first heard it. She herself had a softly husky singing voice that few people had ever heard and could repeat a melody after only hearing it once. When she’d been Amber’s age, she’d always been singing but she rarely did now.

For music could be a curse too. There were still some songs she couldn’t listen to, songs that would break her heart because of the memories they brought to life.

Billie Holiday songs thankfully, for all their pain, didn’t fit into that category.

‘It’s lovely and everything, but it’s kind of depressing, Mum,’ Amber had pointed out the previous weekend about her mother’s love of exquisitely melancholy jazz.