The bar manager rang the bell for last orders, and Marc announced that the next number would be the band’s final song. Hannah rejoiced. Given it was for the venue to organise the breakdown and clean-up of today’s wedding, she could credibly take this as her cue to leave.
James and Ella were on the dance floor, their arms around one another as if no one else existed – and not for the first time in recent weeks, Hannah felt a pang of something like longing. She smiled at the sight of Peter pulling a slightly worse for wear Anne to her feet and steering her towards the dance floor, too.
Hannah raised a hand to signal she was going. When Ella caught her eye, she shook her head to indicate she didn’t want to interrupt the moment. A guitar had already started strumming gently, announcing the start of the last dance. They’d all exchanged thanks and well wishes earlier, anyway, with Anne assuring Hannah she’d be recommending Eventurous to everyone she knew.
As surreptitiously as possible, Hannah made her way towards the function room’s exit. Over the opening bars of his final song, as keyboards and drums joined guitar and bass, Marc spoke into his microphone. ‘This last trackis about true love – the sort that’s forever,’ he said. Hannah felt her blood run cold, and her feet resisted all instructions to keep moving. ‘It’s appropriate for our happy couple tonight, but for me, too,’ Marc went on. ‘Though in my case, I can only hope I’ll get my happy-ever-after.’ A note of melancholy had crept into his voice. It sounded practised.Totallyinauthentic. ‘This one’s for .?.?. for someone I was happy to bump into today, even though seeing her made me sad. It’s for you, Red.’ He waved his arm in Hannah’s general direction, and – even if there’d been five other redheaded women in the room – his meaning would have been unmistakable.
Hannah felt her mouth drop open. He hadnevercalled her ‘Red’ – not once – but inventing the nickname gave him cover. It allowed him to call her out, obliquely but effectively. With plausible deniability.
Her cheeks heated with instant mortification. There was a murmur of surprise that quickly morphed into soft coos of sympathy – sympathy forhim, she realised. This room was full of Marc’s fans: people who’d been listening to his music for years, and who followed him online. No one who saw her scarlet face could fail to concludeshewas the subject of his recent ‘heartbroken’ ramblings. He’d left her no space or opportunity for self-defence; this was a client’swedding, and he was the one with a microphone in his hand. As if things weren’t bad enough, he’d also started singing into it.
The song was ‘Meant To Be’: an appropriate closing track given the occasion, and bearing in mind it was Lite Sky’s biggest hit. It was also a pointed choice, selected for the sake of causing Hannah maximum embarrassment. It liberally rhymed the phrases ‘you and me’, ‘meant to be’, ‘beneath the tree’ and ‘running free’. Hannah was no poet, but recent exposure to Marc’s back catalogue had pretty much convinced her that Alfie, her five-year-old nephew, could have written some of his lyrics.
Feeling sick with anger and humiliation, Hannah turned away – but not before she saw the disappointed look on Anne’s face. She felt it like a stab to the heart. For months, the woman had thought the sun shone from Hannah’s rear end. Now, she wore the expression of someone whose previously perfect day had been marred at the last minute by the airing of irrelevant dirty laundry. It was a professional blow like none Hannah had suffered in years, and it landed on her like a smack from a sledgehammer.
She made for the cloakroom and riffled through the racks until she found her jacket and handbag. She figured she had a little under four minutes to get to the van if she wanted to avoid Marc, who’d surely seek her out the second his song was done. Part of her burned with the urge to confront him, but this wasn’t the time or the place. The last thing she wanted was for there to be any sort of altercation within her clients’ earshot.
Briefly, she wished she drove a less distinctive vehicle or had Uber-ed here. If that were the case, she might go and hide in the toilets for a while; let him think she’d departed, then sneak out when she was confident he’d left himself.
As that idea entered her head, Hannah realised how far past normal this situation had progressed. She remembered what Jude had said to her outside Renfrew Manor last weekend: ‘What if he knows full well that it could hurt you, badly, and simply doesn’t care?’ Tonight, Marc had crossed a Rubicon Hannah would never have thought he’d get near. He’d implied she was some sort of cold, unfeeling harlot in front of a room full of people – in a professional setting where she wasemployed. And he’d done it without reservation or remorse.
For the first time she considered that, if this carried on, it could actually damage her business. In her line of work, she couldn’t afford to be deemed unreliable, unfeeling or untrustworthy. Nor did she want anyone to assume she was some wannabe ‘Layla’: the sort of person who’d relish the exposure he’d been giving her, however backhandedly. Hannah had always sought to shrink into the background at the weddings and events she organised – to be a quiet facilitator, never the centre of attention. But prospective clients might well assume otherwise, if Marc didn’t stop this madness.
And what, she asked herself, was it allfor? She didn’t believe for a second that it was about wanting her back. Marc was a player – someone who bounced from one woman to another, moving on the moment he got bored. Hannah had gone out with him partly because she’d been sure there’d be very few feelings involved. She didn’t think this was a matter of him actually being hurt, unless the mortal wound was to his pride.
On the other hand, the popularity of his social media profiles had surged since he started ‘baring his soul’. And hehadmentioned discussions with his former record label.?.?. A chill went through Hannah as she was struck by the idea this was all some PR ploy – and that he was frustrated she wasn’t playing along. Could it be that he hoped publicly winning Hannah back would establish him as this generation’s Dylan?
She reached the van, pressed the button on the driver’s side door to unlock it, then yanked it open.
‘Trying to avoid me?’ Marc said.
She jumped and turned, discovering he was far closer than she felt comfortable with. It seemed he’d been tailing her, his rubber-soled trainers masking the sound of his feet on the tarmac as he followed her across the car park.
She considered diving into the driver’s seat, then slamming and locking the door. Before she could act on the impulse, though, Marc leaned in and placed a hand on top of it, fingers closed around the edge. It was a seemingly casual gesture that nevertheless implied control.
For a moment, Hannah wondered if Lorcan’s beef wellington was about to make a reappearance. With some effort, she swallowed down her mingled panic and rage, determined not to give Marc the satisfaction of knowing he’d spooked her.
‘If I was, could you blame me?’ Hannah said, looking squarely into his eyes in the hope he’d blink first.
Her steadiness seemed to surprise him, and he hesitated for a few seconds. ‘What’s all this really about, Marc?’ Hannah demanded, pressing her advantage. ‘Why are you dragging me on your socials when I’ve done nothing to deserve it? Anddon’tsay it’s because your heart’s broken, because we both know that’s pure bullshit.’
‘How can you say that? I’mwreckedover you, Hannah,’ he argued. ‘And I’m not dragging you on my channels – not at all. I’ve never even named you.’
‘You named metonight– or as good as!’ she cried, remembering slightly too late that, across the car park, there was now a crowd of wedding guests queuing for taxis. ‘It was the second time you’vededicated a songto me in a professional setting, with no regard for the effect it might have on me,’ she continued, trying to modulate her tone. ‘What’s your aim here? Why are you doing this?’
‘Because it’s how Ifeel,’ Marc said, deadly serious. ‘I’m a songwriter, an artist – I’m compelled to speak my truth, share my emotions. I have fans, Hannah – people who want that honesty from me because it helps them to process their own feelings. And because I want you back, obviously.’
‘I don’t think you do!’ Hannah insisted, unable to stomach directly addressing hisI’m so very artypontificating. ‘And even if that was true, you can’thaveme back! I was very clear with you when I ended things: I don’t want to be with you. None of this drama is going to change my mind.’
‘Hannah, why are you running away from me?’ Marc asked, seeming truly confused. It struck Hannah that she might have been the first person to dump him in a long time .?.?. possiblyever. ‘We were good together. We had a good time. I know you’ve been hurt in the past, but—’
‘You knownothingabout how I’ve been hurt in the past,’ Hannah snapped, regretting the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. They hinted at deep feelings he had no right to know existed.
‘You need to stop with the TikToks and the songs, and with saying or doing anything that could link them tome,’ Hannah said, with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I’m keeping a record, now, just so you know – screen-grabbing and downloading stuff. If you carry on, I’m going to seek legal advice. I’ve been clear about my feelings, and this is now a form of harassment. I’m asking you to end it.’
Marc’s eyes went round, then narrowed quizzically, like she was a small child behaving in a way he couldn’t comprehend. He inched slightly closer. ‘Look at you,’ he said, eyes searching her face in a way that made her want to slap him. ‘And look at how you’re misinterpreting every move I make. I share a few emotional songs online, and you see it as an attack – even though you’re not tagged and never mentioned. I’m honest about the fact I miss you, and you take it as some kind of threat. You know, most of my fanbase have said how romantic it is that I haven’t just written you off – that I’ve made it clear I’m still here for you, if you want to talk.’
‘But you don’t care about me!’ Hannah hissed. ‘We were barely even together. I don’t think this is about us at all. So what’s your game? What’s your angle?’