Stealing Phoenix Page 15

  ‘Phee.’ Yves looked genuinely pleased to see me. ‘Hungry?’ He uncovered a plate of sandwiches which he had kept ready for me. ‘They’re all veggie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took the barstool next to him, studiously keeping my gaze off their screens. The less I knew about anything, the better.

  Victor closed his with a snap and opened a pad. ‘While you’re eating, Phoenix, would you mind telling me what you know about your parents?’

  The sandwich went to sawdust in my mouth. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to track down your birth certificate so we can get you a passport. Without that, it’s going to be really hard getting you out of the country.’

  Yves nudged me. ‘Something wrong with the sandwich? I can make you another. I think we even have some disgusting stuff called “Marmite” in stock on Sky’s insistence.’

  I swallowed. ‘No, the sandwich is fine.’ Of course they’d need papers for me, but when had I been asked if I wanted to leave the country? ‘And don’t diss Marmite—it’s the food of the gods.’

  ‘Strange British gods with cockney accents who drink Rosie Lee?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I took a crisp from a bowl in the centre of the counter.

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘Phoenix?’ Victor repeated patiently, sensing my evasion.

  ‘Call me “Phee”, please. OK, here’s what I know. I was born in Newcastle. My mother was called Sadie Corrigan. I don’t know about a father.’ By which I meant I really, really didn’t want to know. What if the birth certificate listed the Seer? But then, I didn’t know his true name so maybe no one else did? And he would hardly want an official record of his name anywhere. ‘She always said my father was someone she met on holiday in Greece. A friend among the people I live with remembered me being born. I’m not sure if it happened in a hospital. I didn’t ask him.’

  Victor gave me an encouraging nod. ‘That’s fine. If there’s a record, I’ll be able to find it from that information. We’ll start by guessing you were born in the month around Yves’s birthday. If that draws a blank, I’ll go a bit further either side. Lucky you have such an unusual name.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said in a non-committal tone.

  Yves rubbed the back of my neck. ‘You’ve not asked what the plan is.’

  I shrugged. ‘Isn’t it best if I don’t know?’

  Xav grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl and flipped it into the air, making it hover and then orbit the table before catching it. ‘You are part of this now, Phee. We keep everyone in the loop.’

  ‘But it’s dangerous. Hasn’t Yves explained?’

  ‘Dangerous smangerous,’ scoffed Xav. ‘We eat evil Savants for breakfast in our family.’

  Victor clipped him over the head. ‘Stop fooling, Xav. She won’t think we take this seriously if you clown around.’

  ‘Lighten up, bro. Phee knows I’m a sensible soul at heart.’

  ‘I do?’

  He began peeling the orange. ‘Don’t sound so sceptical. You’ll dent my confidence.’

  ‘I doubt even being run over by a rubbish truck would dent your confidence.’

  Yves gave me a hug. ‘I’m so pleased you’re such a quick judge of character. You’ve got him tagged.’

  ‘Yep, toe-tagged, in the freezer, then buried six feet under.’ Xav clutched his chest, toppling off his stool. ‘I’ll never recover from such character assassination.’

  Mr Benedict appeared in the doorway behind his son. ‘Xav, are you misbehaving? I hope you’re not teasing Phoenix.’

  Xav sprang up off the floor, trying to look the injured party. He failed. ‘Would I ever?’

  His brothers snorted.

  ‘OK, OK, maybe sometimes. But you should’ve heard what she said to me.’

  Mr Benedict shook his head with a smile. ‘Nothing you didn’t deserve.’ He came forward to take the coffee Victor had poured for him. ‘How are you, Phoenix? Feeling better after your rest?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied shyly. It was so strange seeing a father with grown-up sons. The relationship was a difficult one for me to understand: he was clearly still an authority for all of them but it was tempered by affection and respect. If you could describe someone as being the exact opposite to the Seer in the way he handled people, you might come up with someone like Mr Benedict.

  ‘Yves, why don’t you and Phoenix go out for a few hours while we get to work on her papers? Go and enjoy yourself. Get to know each other.’ Mr Benedict gave us a merry smile. ‘I’ll tell the conference people not to expect you again. Family emergency.’

  Yves bounded up at that suggestion. ‘That’s a great idea. Thanks for handling it, Dad.’

  I slowly grasped that Yves meant to leave the rest of his family when we had so much undecided, so many threats to sort through. ‘But …’

  ‘No buts, Phee.’ Yves pulled me off my stool. ‘I want you to relax and enjoy yourself for once.’

  Victor dug in his pocket and pulled out a white envelope. ‘Here, take these.’

  Yves raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Front-row seats for Wicked—supposed to be a great musical. I got them for myself and my … um … colleague from Scotland Yard, but looks now like I won’t have time to use them.’

  ‘Was that the willowy brunette detective by any chance?’ murmured Xav.

  Victor shrugged. ‘C’est la vie.’

  ‘Little brother is playing havoc with our love lives while he sorts out his own,’ complained Xav with a good-natured chuckle. ‘Glad I’m not the only one suffering.’

  Mr Benedict took my vacated stool. ‘When you both meet your soulfinders, we’ll jump through hoops for you too.’

  Xav stretched. ‘Great. Like to see Yves doing the hoops for me. Pay back big time.’

  Mr Benedict blinked, as if hearing something none of us could. ‘I’d get going, Yves, if I were you. Your mother is about to get up and I doubt she’d let you escape without another inquisition.’

  Yves laced his fingers through mine. ‘Message received. See you later. Don’t wait up.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ called Mr Benedict to our retreating backs.

  In the foyer of the Shakespeare Tower, Yves paused to check for directions on his London A–Z. I tapped my foot, irritated that the Benedicts had decided my future then organized my afternoon without asking me. I was going to have to do something about that.

  ‘You don’t need a map.’ I pushed it away. ‘Just tell me where you want to go.’

  He smiled and tucked it back in an inside pocket. ‘I forgot; I’m with a local.’

  ‘Yeah, sort of.’ I zipped up a maroon hoodie I’d borrowed from Sky. It matched Yves’s T-shirt from that first day: Wrickenridge White Water Rafting on the back. I couldn’t claim I belonged in London like he so clearly did in his little town, but I knew my way around. At least here I would be in the driving seat.

  He scanned the tickets. ‘OK. Let’s find out how good you are: the Apollo Theatre?’

  I’d picked pockets around Victoria Station on many a night when the theatres were turning out. I wonder if he’d given any thought to how I obtained my local knowledge. ‘We should go to Victoria.’

  He opened the door for me to go first and playfully bowed me through. ‘I thought we’d have something to eat first in Piccadilly but I’m in your hands.’ Somehow he made the comment very flirtatious.

  ‘Really?’ I paused and wiggled my fingers. ‘Do you trust them?’

  He took my wrists and pressed my fingers to his lips, laughing as he jostled me around a corner and out of sight of the lifts. ‘Oh yes.’ His mouth gently brushed each one, sending shivers down my arms, linking to my spine and from there to every nerve in my body.

  ‘Yves …’ He was only touching my fingertips and I was melting into a breathless heap.

  ‘Hmm?’ He didn’t break off his gentle assault, his hum resonating against my sensitized skin. Turning one hand over, he nuzzled the palm.

  ‘Should you be … doing this?’r />
  ‘Definitely.’ He progressed from my hand, up my arm to lay a kiss on my jaw. ‘Can’t kiss you with all my brothers around, so it has to be here. I’ve been dying to touch you for hours now—it was killing me.’

  ‘Touch me?’ My voice was an unimpressive squeak.

  ‘Uh-huh. You go round with this little frown mark between your brows, did you know that?’ His thumb brushed the spot. ‘Sure sign you’re worrying about something. I’ve been wanting to kiss it away.’

  I choked. ‘Like I haven’t got stuff to worry about!’

  ‘But not now. Not here.’ He moved to meet my lips. ‘You have a day off from worrying.’

  With his mouth pressed to mine, I couldn’t think of anything but the sensation of being held and caressed by my soulfinder. This gentle boy with fire in his heart had stormed my defences and made me fall for him so hard I knew the landing would likely kill me. But, oh the descent was wonderful. I didn’t want to think about what would happen when we met reality.

  Hands cruised from my shoulder blades to my waist.

  I pulled away to rest my head on his chest. ‘This is amazing.’

  ‘My kissing that good, huh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  Oops, again I’d scratched his confidence—and he’d been doing so well too. I’d been thinking about being held, something that hadn’t been part of my life for years. ‘Of course, your kissing is amazing.’

  He huffed in my hair. ‘Tell me I’m the best kisser you know and my bruised vanity may recover.’

  I rubbed his back consolingly. ‘You are. You’re the only boy I’ve kissed.’

  ‘Is that so? Are English boys blind?’ He pulled me closer.

  ‘I don’t think so. I just haven’t met any nice ones and kept away from the bad ones. The Seer doesn’t let boys get near me—not ones he doesn’t approve.’

  ‘So I could be terrible at kissing and you’d never know the difference?’

  ‘Believe me, I think I would. If any kiss made me feel this way, then it would be outlawed.’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s break the rules then.’ He tilted my chin to explore the possibilities.

  Finally, we broke apart, arms loose around each other.

  ‘So are we gonna stand here all day?’ I asked his sternum.

  ‘Yep.’ His fingers wandered through my hair, messing it up so that the feathered ends went every which way. ‘Fine by me. Who wants to see a boring old award-winning show, anyway?’

  Put it like that …

  ‘Um … me?’ I’d never been inside a theatre. I couldn’t help a thrill of anticipation at the idea of actually seeing a live performance.

  He groaned. ‘Me too. Come on then. But take a rain check on that kissing thing.’

  ‘Rain check?’ I smoothed my hair back into some semblance of order.

  ‘American speak for a delay, not a cancellation.’

  I grinned. ‘OK. I’ll go with that.’

  Caught up in the swirl of city life once on the tube, we got off at Piccadilly and joined the crowds surging up the escalators and out on to the circus, with its iconic statue of Cupid surrounded by buildings decked with flashing advertisements. Yves insisted we stop and pay our respects to the arrow-shooting god, walking around the plinth until we stood directly in the line of fire. With a wink at me, Yves mimicked being struck in the heart.

  ‘Go on: your turn.’ He waited for me to copy him.

  I looked nervously over my shoulder, not so happy to be caught in sentimental fooling around. ‘Is this, like, a tradition or something?’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘Is now.’

  Quickly, I clapped my hand to my chest. ‘Satisfied?’ I felt stupid.

  He folded his arms. ‘Nope.’

  We were attracting the attention of the tourists on the steps. A Korean couple had taken snaps of Yves staggering dramatically with a pretend arrow wound. They looked very disappointed by my feeble performance.

  ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Not until you do the Cupid-arrow thing properly.’ He leaned closer. ‘One of his arrows is nothing to the power of being a soulfinder.’

  Realizing that I had to do the full clown routine to get away from here, I went for over-acting, taking the bolt, spinning, staggering and collapsing into Yves’s arms. The tourists applauded.

  ‘And now?’

  He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Awesome. Better than mine.’ He paused. ‘Shall I do it again?’

  I tugged him away. ‘No, you nitwit. Let’s get something to eat before the show.’

  ‘What’s a nitwit?’

  ‘Look in the dictionary and there’s a picture of you.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  I smirked, but privately I wondered if he had meant anything by his fooling with Cupid’s arrow. I knew I had fallen for him but I had no expectations that he should feel anything so profound for me. How could he? I understood that the soul-finder bond might make the physical part of our relationship more intense than a normal date, but such pre-programmed instincts did not equal love. My worst fear was that he was just acting that he liked me because he knew we were stuck with each other and was too polite to hurt me. I couldn’t bear it if he was faking what he felt.

  My self-torture lasted through dinner and up to the very door of the theatre. I was pleased to see that, though some people had dressed up for the evening, Yves and I were unremarkable in our casual clothes, even in the most expensive seats. The usher waved us through, and then another member of staff conned Yves into forking out a fiver for a programme full of adverts.

  ‘They should be paying you to read that,’ I whispered as we settled into our seats.

  He refrained from commenting again on my Scrooge-like observations, restricting himself to a roll of his eyes.

  ‘But you can buy a lot for a fiver.’ I crossed my arms defensively, feeling cheap. I had an image of myself as one of those prizes kids get at hook-a-duck stalls at fairs that break in five minutes, compared to the exclusive handcrafted items around me, sold in Hamleys’ toy department. A girl two seats along had stripped off a leather coat to reveal a snug red sheath dress and gorgeous Nicole Farhi shoes with ice-pick heels. She was eyeing Yves, flicking her hair in that ‘come hither’ gesture that I’d never even attempted and knew I would not pull off if I did. I gave her a hard stare, only slightly reassured to see that Yves hadn’t noticed, his attention on the cast list. It was rather insulting to know she thought me so unimpressive as not to have considered me any contest.

  ‘I’ve read the book, but can’t imagine how they’re going to adapt it for a musical,’ Yves said to me, flicking through the programme.

  ‘What?’ I dragged my eyes away from the competition. Definitely a diamond-encrusted Barbie type.

  ‘Wicked. It’s a retelling of The Wizard of Oz from the point of view of the Wicked Witch of the West, a kind of prequel.’ And of course my genius would have read it—as well as every other important book on the planet, no doubt.

  ‘Oh.’ Even with my dysfunctional childhood I’d seen that one—Dorothy, yellow brick road, and red shoes. I’d even read the original stories by L. Frank Baum, thanks to my library-haunting habits. ‘Is there another side to tell?’

  He put his arm on the back of my chair and let it slide to rest on my shoulders. I twitched an eyebrow which made him throw back his head and laugh. ‘Smooth move, hey?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it exactly smooth. Try obvious.’ I tweaked his thumb.

  This made him laugh even louder. I could see Diamond Doll fretting, probably wondering why such a nice guy was hanging out with such a sharp-tongued girl.

  Yves ruffled my hair. ‘Sassy—I like that about you.’

  My next vinegar remark was cut short by the dimming of the lights. Yves squeezed my upper arm gently and leaned over to whisper:

  ‘Just enjoy yourself. Everything from now on is going to be just fine.’

  The performance finished at ten, turning us out on
to the street as darkness swallowed up the sky and unlit back alleys. Out on the main thoroughfares, the neon lights kept night at bay, bathing us all in the cold sunlight of the commercial twenty-four-hour day. I could hardly believe how quickly time had passed. The rainbow colours of scenery and costumes, music from a live orchestra, actors just a few metres away from me: everything had been breath-taking. I’d been on the edge of my seat the whole time, drinking in every nuance of the performance. I’d wanted to weep at the injustice dealt out to the Wicked Witch; she’d never really had a chance in a world where being pink skinned and blonde was the standard of beauty. Us skanks didn’t stand a chance against diamanté Barbies.

  Needing to walk off my temper, I strode down Victoria Street towards the illuminated tower of Big Ben; I was still buzzing with the emotion, wanting to protest at the injustice of life as the witch had tried to do. Yves had to jog to catch up with me, as I’d marched ahead when he’d stopped to exchange a few friendly words with the usher.

  ‘Phee, wait!’ He grabbed the back of my jacket. ‘What’s wrong? I thought the show was great; didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, it was fabulous. But I’m really, really cross at how it turned out.’

  He hugged me to his side. ‘Life’s not fair, even in fairytales.’

  ‘I want to go and punch the Wizard.’

  Yves bit his lip, humouring my anger on behalf of a fictional character. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Being green and misunderstood is something I can relate to—not the green bit.’ I could not—would not—bear it if Yves laughed at me, and part of me was well aware that I was being ridiculous. ‘I meant being a misfit.’

  He nodded, manfully not making fun of my snit. He hadn’t caught on to the fact that what I’d seen on stage had entwined with my self-doubts and fears like ivy on a crumbling wall. If he pulled at it with any teasing, all might come down on him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

  ‘She tried to do the right thing, but the right thing turned out to be wrong,’ I continued, now thinking of my own situation where I’d tried to protect someone I loved and dragged a whole family of innocent strangers into danger.