You Don't Have to Say You Love Me by Sarra Manning
‘Dying,’ she reiterated, and now she realised that she was in bed, which had been a very comfy bed the last time she’d slept in it, but now it felt as if she was lying on a pile of rocks, and even though she had the quilt and Max’s arm tucked around her, she was still cold and clammy. Neve tried to raise her head but her gaze collided with the stripy wallpaper and as well as searing her retinas, it was making her stomach heave. ‘Sick. Going to be sick.’
‘Sweetheart, I don’t think so,’ Max said, stroking the back of her neck with feather-soft fingers. ‘You’ve already thrown up just about everything you’ve eaten in the last week.’
‘Urgh …’ Had she? The night before was a big gaping hole in her memory. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know what happened but I got a phone call from the Head of Hotel Security at three in the morning asking me if I could identify a raving madwoman in a silver dress who couldn’t remember her room number but insisted that someone called Max Pancake was sleeping there. They thought you might be a hack from the Sunday Mirror pretending to be absolutely spannered as a way of getting into the hotel.’
‘Oh, no …’
‘Yeah, apparently Ronaldo’s staying in one of the penthouse suites and I saw Wayne and Coleen in the bar last night. Anyway, as you were staggering down the corridor, you told me very proudly that you’d lost your phone and you’d just eaten two pieces of KFC and a bag of chips.’
‘KFC? Oh, God …’
‘But I wouldn’t worry about that because after you’d tried to persuade me to have my wicked way with you, you started throwing up and you didn’t stop, not for hours. I thought you were going to sleep curled around the toilet at one point.’
‘Goodness …’
The blanks Max was filling in weren’t coming as a total surprise and Neve started to see a slideshow of images: being followed by a flashing, yelling pack of paparazzi everywhere they went, velvet ropes being unclipped, a tutorial from Kelly and Mandy on how to strut rather than walk, a table full of empty glasses and a clutch of bedraggled cocktail umbrellas.
There was the boy who wouldn’t leave her alone at Dry Bar until Kelly mentioned that he played for Manchester United’s youth team and was only fifteen. She remembered Mandy going at ten accompanied by two hulking bodyguards, after making the girls solemnly promise that they’d leave the bar they were in no later than eleven. Obviously they’d still been raging well past eleven because Neve could now distinctly recall hitting Canal Street where she’d sung ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ in a karaoke bar with Dolly Parton. A very masculine-looking Dolly Parton and …
‘I think I danced on a podium. Why would I do that?’
‘Please tell me there’s photos.’ Max’s voice bubbled with barely contained laughter though it couldn’t have been much fun for him, when she’d got back in such a drunken state.
‘Sorry I got you out of bed,’ Neve mumbled, carefully and slowly rolling over so she was lying on her back. The movement made the room and her stomach lurch alarmingly.
‘I wasn’t in bed. I was pacing the floor and worrying that you were dead in a ditch somewhere when you didn’t answer your phone the first ten times that I called it.’
‘Oh God. Alcohol bad. Very, very bad.’
‘It is very bad but I think you’ll live to drink another glass of champagne,’ Max said, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at Neve who was lying with her eyes shut. ‘You’ll probably feel better once you’ve had a shower.’
‘It will kill me.’
‘No, it won’t, it will just feel that way for the first five minutes,’ Max said, sitting up, which made the bed move and Neve moan piteously. ‘I’m going to ask Housekeeping to send someone up to sort out the bathroom and then you’ll have to get up, because I hate to break it to you, Neve, but we’re attending the Wedding of the Year in five hours.’
Neve tried to tell Max that she couldn’t leave the bed, much less stand unaided for the foreseeable future, but he was already getting up. She could hear him pottering about the room, speaking in a low voice on the phone as she let herself drift in and out of sleep, barely stirring even when two chambermaids arrived to start work on the bathroom. Maybe it was shame that forced her back to sleep, when she heard one of them say, ‘We’re going to need more bleach. A lot more bleach.’
The second time that Neve opened her eyes, she realised that she wasn’t going to die. Not until she’d cleaned her teeth anyway. She threw back the covers and tried to pass on a message to her brain that she really wanted to move her legs.
‘Hey! What are you doing? Let me help you.’ Max was standing in the bathroom doorway and Neve could only gape at him in amazement.
‘You’re wearing a suit,’ she pointed out with razor-sharp powers of deduction, because he was indeed wearing a black, slim-fitting, beautifully cut suit with a snowy-white shirt. Even his hair had been tamed into submission with what looked like an entire tub of Brylcreem. Only the toes of his red socks poking out from the bottom of his trousers jarred against the general dapperness of his ensemble. ‘You look so smart.’
Max put his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I hate wearing a suit,’ he scowled. ‘I’m not putting on my tie until I hear the first notes of “The Wedding March”.’
He moved over to the bed and gently levered Neve to a standing position. She swayed uncertainly for a moment, then decided that she could remain vertical, as long as Max kept hold of her arm. ‘I need to clean my teeth,’ she said, as they started the slow, perilous walk to the bathroom, passing a crumpled heap of silver sequins on the way.
At some time during last night’s shenanigans Neve had stripped, or had been stripped, down to bra and knickers, but she still felt too wretched to care. Max hadn’t been so traumatised by the sight of Neve’s wobbly thighs, sagging paunch and all the other horrors that she usually kept hidden, that he’d done a runner. In fact, he was being incredibly sweet and patient as he carefully steered her to the bathroom as if she was made of spun glass.
‘What you need is a really good fry-up,’ he told Neve, grinning as she winced. ‘But I’ll order you some tea and toast to start with. You’re still looking really peaky.’
Peaky was the greatest understatement of all time, Neve decided as she looked in the mirror while she brushed her teeth. The foam wedge was poking out of Medusa-like tendrils of hair and she had black eye make-up smeared around her eyes and running in sooty rivulets down her cheeks, where it mixed with the remains of her red lipstick.
She looked and felt a whole lot better after showering and washing her hair, apart from the bruising around her eyes, where she’d burst blood vessels from retching so violently.
‘People are going to think I’ve been knocking you about,’ Max said, when Neve emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white robe and a towel wound turban-style around her head. ‘We need to send out for some heavy-duty concealer.’
‘Just in case you didn’t hear me the first time, I want you to know that I’m never, ever drinking alcohol again,’ Neve sniffed, pouring herself a cup of tea but avoiding the toast that had also arrived – she didn’t feel ready for solids just yet. ‘But thank you for taking care of me.’
She sat down on the sofa next to Max and took another slightly incredulous look at him. Yes, it wasn’t a DT. He was wearing a suit. ‘You look so spiffy.’
‘Spiffy?’ Max nearly spat out a mouthful of toast and jam. ‘You’re the only person I know who uses words that I’ve only read in books.’
Neve wrapped her fingers around her cup and took a cautious sip of tea. It tasted like the nectar of the gods, and when Max put his arm around her and she snuggled against him, head on his shoulder, she decided that her hangover wasn’t terminal. She might just make it through the day intact and even manage to smile in the wedding photos.
‘I want you to eat at least one piece of toast, then you’re going to have to slap on the war paint,’ Max murmured as if he could read her thoughts. ‘C
Even given the fragile state of her health, Neve was looking forward to the wedding. Not just shamelessly gawping at the celebrities who’d be attending, or even hanging out with her gang of new best friends who’d promised to point out all the celebrities to her, but mostly she couldn’t wait to spend the day with Max. He was in an insanely good mood and when Max was in an insanely good mood, cracking jokes, his eyes twinkling, he was such fun to be around.
‘You’re much better at mocking than I am,’ Neve said.
Max bowed his head in acknowledgement of that indisputable fact. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Neevy, you do a nice line in an acidic quip. Now, eat a piece of toast like a good little girl.’
She was halfway through a piece of dry toast when Max’s phone rang.
‘It’s Bill,’ he said, looking at the caller display. ‘Probably calling to ask if anyone’s seen Kelly. God knows what time she got home last night.’
Neve’s last memory of Kelly was seeing her doing tequila slammers in the karaoke bar so she pulled a dubious face, which made Max laugh as he answered the phone.
‘Bill? How is the father of the bride this morning?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘Lovely day for a WA … white wedding.’
She was still draped over Max’s shoulder so Neve could feel the exact moment that he tensed up, before he even said, ‘Oh, right. Yeah, that does sound like a bit of a problem.’
Not wanting to eavesdrop, Neve stood up and, munching unenthusiastically on her toast, began to assemble her wedding outfit. She hoped that last night’s KFC hadn’t gone straight to her hips.
‘No, it’s OK. Of course I understand,’ Max was saying in a tight, strained voice as if it, whatever it was, was not at all OK. ‘Well, you can tell Mandy to stop crying for starters. It’s not the end of the world and she’ll be gutted when she looks at the photos twenty years from now and she’s got bloodshot eyes.’
Neve glanced over at Max who was sitting hunched over, elbows on his knees and a miserable look on his face. ‘Really, Bill, it’s fine. To tell you the truth, Neve’s been sick all night – must have been something that she ate – and she’s probably better off spending the day in bed.’
Something bad had happened, though Neve was foggy on the details. For a moment she wondered if either Mandy or Darren had called off the wedding, but that couldn’t be it because there wouldn’t still be wedding photos that Mandy had to look picture-perfect for. Maybe they’d over-booked the church or … oh God, she’d made such an exhibition of herself last night that they didn’t want her anywhere near the wedding party in case she started knocking back the Veuve Cliquot again.
‘Honestly, Bill, you don’t have to do that. It’s all good. Wish Mandy all the best for me and I’ll talk to her when she gets back from St Barts, OK?’
Neve was just debating whether to unzip the garment bag and put on her trouser suit, when Max hung up.
‘Well, you needn’t bother with that,’ he said. ‘In fact, if you want to go back to bed, then I’m not going to stop you.’
‘What’s happened? Has the wedding been called off? Did I do something so terrible last night that they don’t want—’
‘You’re not the problem, I am.’ Max smiled thinly. ‘I’m not allowed to go to the wedding.’
‘But why?’ Neve hung up the garment bag and tottered over to the sofa so she could take Max’s hand and …
Max tutted and pulled away. ‘No hand-holding, remember?’ he snapped, and she knew he was upset and angry over the mysterious phone call and was taking it out on her because she was the only person in range, but it still hurt.
Neve sat down close to Max in the hope that she could emit rays of sympathy and support through her thick terry-towelling robe. ‘Please tell me what happened.’
‘Well, you don’t sell the rights to your engagement, wedding and honeymoon for two million quid without signing a lengthy legal contract with lots of clauses,’ Max explained, leaning back against the cushions as if he was totally at ease with the situation. It might have been more convincing if his voice wasn’t catching on every other word as if it hurt to breathe. ‘Turns out that journalists who aren’t employed by Voila magazine are prohibited from attending the wedding …’
‘But you’re going as a friend!’
‘… in any capacity, professional or otherwise,’ Max parroted in a toneless voice. ‘Mandy’s agent had to go through the guest-list with the magazine’s celebrity fixer this morning and all hell broke loose.’
‘Well, it’s morally reprehensible to auction off an access-all-areas pass to your wedding day anyway,’ Neve said crossly, because even though she liked Mandy, she really did, she liked Max a whole lot more.
‘No long words, Neevy, not right now.’ Max smiled another one of those teeth-baring excuses for a smile. ‘That little bitch. I’ve made her hundreds of thousands of pounds.’
‘If I were you, I’d have nothing more to do with her. It’s a shocking way to treat somebody.’
‘Yes, it is, but then that little bitch has made me tens of thousands of pounds,’ Max said bitterly. ‘Well, at least we don’t have to spend ages sitting in a draughty church and then choke down dry chicken in a cream sauce at the reception while Mandy mugs for the cameras.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Neve offered. It seemed an inadequate thing to say when Max was sitting there, his body so tightly wound that Neve was frightened to touch him, and an awful grimace instead of a smile on his face.
‘Yeah, well, this whole weekend has been a complete waste of petrol,’ Max said, standing up. ‘We might just as well head back to London.’ He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair. ‘I need to clear my head. You can go back to bed for an hour, if you want.’
‘Are you all right?’ It was a dumb question. Neve knew that as soon as she’d said it. ‘Well, of course you’re not. I saw you with Bill and Jean on Thursday night and I could tell that you’re more than Mandy’s ghost-writer. You’re part of the family, Max, so I—’
‘No! I’m not part of the family,’ Max said sharply, as he headed for the door. ‘Sure, I’m fun to have around but that’s part of the job. All it really comes down to is how much use I am to the McIntyre brand, and right now, I’m no fucking use at all.’
He slammed the door behind him and for one tense moment Neve thought the piece of toast was going to reappear, but it didn’t and she could sit on the sofa and burst into tears.
Neve wasn’t a big crier but the excesses of the night before had left her feeling shaky and fragile. Mostly she was crying because Max was angry and hurt, and that made her feel angry and hurt by proxy, especially as she didn’t know how to make him feel better. Even if she did, she wasn’t sure that Max would let her come close enough to try.
If she hadn’t lost her phone, which was probably being used to make a very long, very expensive call to an overseas number at that very moment, Neve knew there were any number of people she could call who’d offer her all sorts of advice: Celia, her mum, Philip, Chloe, Rose, even Gustav who, after lecturing her on the hidden calories in alcohol, would tell Neve to go for a long run, which would make her feel better. And she knew, like she knew the fat units, calorie content and number of carbs in over four hundred different types of food, that if she called her father, he’d drop everything to fetch her and bring her home.
She had all these people in her life and sure, Max knew hundreds of people and he might call them his friends, but when it really came down to it, he had no one who was really there for him when he was hurting, except a Staffordshire Bull Terrier with severe boundary issues. And her. Max deserved to have a bigger support network than one girl and a dog.
When Max returned nearly two hours later, Neve’s eyes were even more puffy than the last time he’d seen her, but she was pale, composed and had read her way through the Guardian, CityLife, the hotel information pa
‘You’re dressed,’ Max said, as he shut the door behind him. ‘Are you packed too?’
‘No.’ There had been a long speech planned, but seeing Max walk through the door with the same cold, remote look on his face made it clear that this wasn’t the time for long speeches. Instead, Neve got to her feet and hurled herself at Max.
He immediately went rigid, trying to squirm away as she wrapped her arms tight around him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Shut up and let me hold you,’ Neve mumbled, though she wasn’t holding him so much as restraining him.
‘I don’t need to be held,’ Max said stiffly. ‘You’re being stupid.’ And to show Neve just how stupid she was being, he kept his arms by his sides and a long-suffering look on his face as she stroked his back and pecked at his cheeks with her lips.
It was like hugging a concrete girder and Neve wondered what she needed to do to get through to Max, because she was all out of ideas. ‘I’m not just your pancake girlfriend, I’m your friend,’ she told him fiercely. ‘I’m going to care about you and worry about you and want you to be happy whether you like it or not. So you’d better get used to it, all right?’
Max’s lips twisted as if he had a whole lot to say about that and none of it good. Then he murmured something too quietly for Neve to hear.
‘What was that?’
‘Can you let go?’ Max asked, still rigid in her embrace. It sounded horribly portentous – as if he was asking her to do more than drop her arms.
Neve loosened her grip, but kept her hands around Max’s waist, because all of a sudden it seemed terribly important to keep a connection between them. ‘What did you just say?’
Max wouldn’t look at Neve but stared at a spot above her head. ‘I said that you wouldn’t want me as your friend, or anything else, if you knew what I was really like.’
‘What are you really like?’ Neve asked, though she was dreading the answer.
Max wrenched himself away from her then, as if he couldn’t bear to be touched. He walked over to the window. ‘I’m a fuck-up,’ he said harshly. ‘Everything in my life is fucked up, and the only reason that I’m in this fake relationship with you is because my therapist thought it would be a good idea.’