Free Love Nest by Julia Llewellyn

someone else.
    But to his surprise, Kylie said she was coming.
    ‘What about your job? Your mum? Your sisters?’
    ‘There are beauty salons in London, aren’t there? There are phones. Trains. I love you, Nicky. I want to be with you.’
    And like an idiot, he’d gone along with it. It was Nick’s darkest secret, but for all his wearing of mascara and covering his arms in mystic tattoos, he was actually a bit of a coward. A childhood spent cowering in front of the TV while Mum and Dad screamed at each other in the bedroom had left him with a hatred of confrontation. Before Kylie, he’d never dumped anyone directly, he’d just stopped calling and ignored them when he’d bumped into them. They got the message, even if they didn’t like it very much. Now he both hoped and feared Kylie would quickly get homesick and hurry back to Burnley, but eight months had passed and – although she was miserable in the south – she was showing no sign of upping sticks.
    Hence his secret viewing. It was pathetic, but the only way he knew of getting the message across that he’d outgrown her was to move into a new place and not provide her with the keys.
    It wasn’t that he didn’t love her any more, because in a way he did. Kylie was warm and soft; she knew exactly how he liked his tea and how many fillings he had and that he was afraid of dogs. She had a dragon tattoo, matching his, on her left arm and she adored Jammie Dodgers. She washed his underpants and bought him new socks. There was nobody kinder, nobody more understanding of his moods. But as a rock star’s girlfriend, she was simply all wrong.
    It wasn’t just Nick who sensed this. Andrew was putting pressure on him too.
    ‘You mustn’t tell anyone you have a long-term girlfriend,’ he said, as soon as they started to hit the big time. ‘It doesn’t go with your maverick image.’ He didn’t have a problem with the other boys. They were all having it off with models, starlets, reality TV stars. Jack, the lead singer, was having a heavily publicized on-off thing with Myrelle St Angelo, who was the model of the moment. Their days were a round of drugs and private jets. But all Kylie wanted was a pint in the local followed by an evening in front of the telly.
    Nick hadn’t been entirely faithful – there’d been a handful of one-night stands on tour; you’d have to be a robot not to succumb to the temptation. But essentially he was a monogamist. He wanted to be in a couple, but just a smarter one.
    Once again, an image of the estate agent’s face passed through his mind. She was the kind of woman he ought to have at his side. Haughty. Cool. Clearly well bred.
    A plan began to formulate.
    ‘Nicky!’
    ‘Coming.’
    Tea was on the oak table in the huge sepulchral dining room. Kylie had said they should turn it into a den, but Nick refused and insisted they ate there as often as possible.
    ‘Looks good,’ he said, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.
    She blushed happily. ‘Well, it’s your favourite, ducks.’
    A bottle of white wine was opened. Drinking wine was a new thing for both of them – really they preferred lager, but Nick had decided that was no longer acceptable. The sausages were delicious and the chips were fat and greasy. Nick was fussy about food. He hated all veg except carrots, all fruit except apples, and loathed sauces. Dinners with the Prang execs were an ordeal, as they always ordered things like sashimi and oysters. He would toy with them and then stop the limo on the way home for a MaccyDs.
    He knew he had to work on making his palate more sophisticated, but the prospect of anything outside his comfort zone made him gag.
    ‘Did you get anywhere with the song?’ Kylie asked.
    ‘Not really, it’s bloody hard.’
    ‘Poor you, love,’ she smiled. There was a pause. Trying to sound relaxed, she continued. ‘I spoke to Becky. Apparently Ian says you’re going to be touring America later this year.’
    Nick paused too, before