Star Struck Read online

  Breathe.

  Or. I could stay in my room. Safe. After all, Gethryn was here, wasn’t he? I’d probably got closer to him during our aborted attempt at breakfast than I would heading downstairs any time soon, where I’d have to queue and compete and I’d still be no more than a face across a table, shoving his own picture in front of him and probably too shy to even tell him my name. I’d wait. Go down later. Yes. Later. And, in the meantime, I’d pop a Valium. That way, it would have time to work, to blunt the impact of the looks, the nudges, the comments made behind raised hands, as though I’d been struck deaf rather than scarred. With a little chemical help I could pretend I didn’t care, pretend that the whispers didn’t touch me.

  I swallowed one capsule with half a glass of water, listened briefly to the continued sounds of activity from downstairs and then swilled down another capsule to keep the first one company. Pulled a pillow to myself and cuddled it against me, exploring the cheesy soreness of my mouth cautiously with my tongue. Pined, briefly, for my laptop and tried to ignore my stomach’s cries for solid food, whilst I listened to the tidal noises travelling along the corridors.

  There was a large TV in the corner, its standby light an alluring red wink, but I couldn’t find the remote. My search did turn up a Gideon Bible in a bedside cupboard and two sachets of instant coffee, although the kettle was long gone. I remade the bed, pulling the nylon sheets taut and then spent ten minutes staring out of the window at the people in the yard.

  It wasn’t what I’d imagined conventions to be like. In my head any collection of sci-fi people was a mass of bespectacled, T-shirted, skinny guys who communicated in quotes and in-jokes and took one another’s picture posing with hardware and props. Which wasn’t me, of course, but I was different. I wasn’t just a fan, I was a FAN, and not for the space ships and the shiny rifles but for the stories, the characters, the knowledge that good would always win. The sometimes painfully beautiful speeches that Gethryn delivered, some of which had made me cry, while others had made me think hard about the nature of my life.

  But here, outside my window there were few stereotypes in evidence. Instead, large motherly women chatted to model-gorgeous girls, two guys wearing Skeel costumes from the series – enormous cylinders strapped to their backs, full-face helmets and full-body Lycra suits – posed for pictures alongside a trio of small children playing tag in the dust. The air was loud with greetings and sharp with promise. I could almost cut myself on my own potential, and yet here I was, hanging onto the window frame like a child waiting for Mummy. I hated myself for my weakness, ground my teeth with the desire to walk downstairs but somehow I couldn’t persuade my fingers to let go.

  A door opened. I could hear distinct voices from a room further up the corridor, arguing their way to their open doorway, then a pause. It gave me just long enough to scoot across to my own door and open it the crack necessary to peep out.

  ‘All you ever give a fuck about is your work,’ a roundly American voice was scolding. It had the Californian intonation that I recognised from TV, a voice with the carrying power and destructiveness of a razor-edged Frisbee. ‘Do you really not care about anything else at all? Like, say, meeting your adoring public?’

  Out came a slim tanned arm. It hooked itself around the doorframe and dug its nails into the plasterwork, as if anchoring itself against the unpleasantness inside the room. I watched, fascinated. A true American domestic! Like Jerry Springer!

  Inside the room, a dull, inaudible tone answered her and she snapped back.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s just great. I’m your agent, it’s kinda in the job description for you to need to hang around with me! Unless, you know, you never want to work again, and that’s just fucking ungrateful, Jack, you know that? It’s okay, you being some big-shot writer-guy in the UK, but the network brought you over here to write TV and in the good old US of A they like to see your face, know what I’m saying here? Hermits is for crabs!’

  I had to close the door right up to a little sliver to avoid being seen when the arm was joined by the rest of the body outside the room. This gave me the narrowest of views of my welcome distraction, but it was enough to ascertain that she was very thin, wore a tiny white vest over powder-pink jeans and had hair which obeyed the laws of physics that mine broke on a regular basis. Her face matched her arms by being brown, thin and angular. Pretty in the same way that a Wheaten Terrier is; soft and silky but with a mouth capable of inflicting great damage.

  I watched the slice of corridor as she swept along past me, then I opened the door a little further as her slender back disappeared towards the lift. I only just managed to withdraw into the room in time to avoid being seen when she stopped and turned. She was so beautifully framed by the window at the head of the stairs that it had to be deliberate, the hard Nevada light giving her a golden aura. ‘I’m tired of it,’ she directed back along the landing. ‘How can I sell an emotionally frigid pig?’

  I had to squint through the hinges in order to eyeball the pig in question. Felt a short stab of surprise at realising it was the dark-haired man I’d already run into twice and then a sense of inevitability that if he actually had a girlfriend she would be gorgeous and feisty. I could see how her blonde fragile beauty would complement his saturnine looks, and she’d need to be feisty to put up with his moody self-contemplation for very long. In fact, sod feisty, she’d have to have passed sainthood and been heading towards deification if this morning was anything to go by.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Lissa. But you’ve always known what I’m like! You of all people … But you didn’t have to come, I did. And, yeah, I know I owe them, the fans … I know it’s important to them. I know I have to show that I’m grateful for what they’ve done for Fallen Skies but … it’s hard for me.’ He lowered his voice to a still-audible-if-I-put-my-ear-to-the-crack mumble. ‘And I know what you’re going through, Liss, honestly. I appreciate it, I really do, but … You and him, what happened, it’s history now.’

  ‘Huh! History for you, maybe,’ came from the direction of the lift. It was annoying, I could only look in one direction once I’d established my position by the door, and the hinges only showed me the man – Jack, she’d called him – standing half-outside the room in pyjama bottoms and a different top from the one he’d worn earlier; this was a faded T-shirt. His hair was wild as though he’d been running his hands through it. Or she had.

  ‘I can’t help the way I am.’

  ‘And how come this fucking lift is broken again?’

  ‘Ah, whatever else you’re pinning on me, that is not my fault.’

  There was another ‘huh’, and the expression on his face changed, indicating that the woman had moved to the staircase next to the lifts and started a picturesque descent. It relaxed, further and further, until, by the time she must have reached ground level, he was almost smiling.

  I stayed totally still. Watched him walk leisurely along the corridor towards the stairs, bare feet sticky on the functional grey flooring, until he was opposite me, when he turned round and stared directly at the point where I was standing, peering between the door and the wall.

  ‘Hey.’ And the single, flat syllable sounded like home. ‘One little tip I picked up here from one of the camera guys, if you want to stay invisible, watch your shadow. By the way, nice work this morning. Takes something to get chucked out of a diner the calibre of the Broken Hill Motel. What happened, they find crack in your luggage?’

  I was so astonished at being addressed through a hole in the wall that I answered. ‘They thought Felix was … y’know, well, under the table.’

  A broken stutter of a laugh. I could only see half his face but it looked genuine. ‘Genius. I presume he wasn’t?’

  ‘Oh, no. Misunderstanding, that’s all.’ A pause. ‘Why aren’t you downstairs?’

  Another laugh. ‘No-one wants my autograph. I’m not one of the pretty boys
in front of camera. What’s your excuse?’

  I could just feel the very faint Valium-induced haze pulling down across my mind. Nothing much, a whisper of net-curtain between me and the prurient world. ‘I was … tired. Early morning, y’see, oh, of course, you were there. Fell asleep and Felix went down without me.’

  He moved, shifting his weight, but suddenly I couldn’t see his face any more. ‘You could go down now, you won’t have missed much.’

  I shrugged, hoping it made me look as though I wasn’t really bothered, rather than vulnerable and pathetic, which was what I felt. ‘Maybe in a bit.’

  His face creased into something that wasn’t a smile. ‘Look. This morning. You took off so suddenly … listen, I didn’t mean to upset you, I only – I could see something had happened; when you said it was an RTA I thought, hey, point of contact. Guess it hit you badly, yes?’

  ‘No, I was in the back of the car.’

  ‘I meant, my asking. Stirred you up. The way you shot inside, I thought I’d said something stupid, something that made you think things that you’d rather forget. I’m always doing that, talk first, think later. It’s because most of the people I talk to don’t really exist.’

  I stared for a moment. What kind of person talks to people who don’t exist? And then I remembered my late-night ‘conversations’ with Captain Lucas James. ‘No. It’s all right. I’m all right.’

  ‘Well. Sorry anyway.’ The door swung slowly open as he pushed it until I was forced out from the narrowing angle between it and the wall and faced him across the threshold. He tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, easing out the creases, and rubbed one hand around the back of his neck, mouth beginning an uncertain grin. ‘Since we both seem to be at a loose end, do you fancy popping along the landing?’ He jerked his head in the direction of his room, then had to scrape untidy hair away from his face in order to look at me again. ‘As the only two Brits left sober, I reckon we should stick together.’

  The double-bass beat which was my heart was steady. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Come on, this is a convention! You’re contractually obliged to relax and enjoy yourself and to mingle with the fan-boys. Besides, I need a fag to calm me down after that little episode.’ He inclined his head towards the stairs. ‘Bloody Lissa.’

  ‘Smoking is bad for you.’

  I got an arch look for that. ‘Right. I’ll bear it in mind. So, you up for it?’

  How come I could contemplate going to a strange man’s hotel room without a qualm when the mere thought of walking downstairs into a group of people who were fans of the same programme that I revered made the Valium work overtime? I turned the question over in my head. But the thought of spending the rest of the day alone in a room had nothing to recommend it. And there was something ineptly appealing about this shaggy-haired stranger.

  ‘Okay. But I’ll have to be quick, in case Felix comes back and misses me.’

  Another head-jerk. ‘Is he likely to? I mean, I don’t know what you two are to each other, but he did imply you weren’t lovers, and when I saw him earlier he looked like a man on a mission.’

  ‘He’s my friend.’

  ‘Just “a friend”?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s as close as it’s wise to get to a man who thinks monogamy is something you make tables out of.’

  For that I got a proper grin. ‘Great line. Might nick that one. Anyway, you coming, ’cos I’m about to gnaw off the last of my fingernails.’

  I pulled the door closed behind me and followed his barefoot and pyjama’d shape up past two doors, to the room I’d seen his girlfriend erupt from.

  He swiped his key-card. ‘You’ve not got your key?’

  ‘Think Felix took it. He wouldn’t want to disturb me by knocking to come in and, anyway, where on earth would I ever want to go?’

  ‘He’s in for a shock then.’ He held the door wide. ‘It’s a bit messy, but you don’t look like you’d mind that,’ he said, standing aside to let me pass. ‘Liss has done her usual trick of making the place look like she’s exploded in it. Came in to talk work, next thing I know she’s using my shower ’cos hers isn’t working properly or something. It’s eighty degrees out there in the daytime and she wants a hot shower? I told her to go down and ask housekeeping to fix the one in her room, but apparently it’s just easier for her to come prancing over here to use mine. And why couldn’t she take the clothes away afterwards, or at least carry them downstairs with her – some kind of hold-all might be in order, but that’s a bit too much like forward planning for Lissa – what is it with you women and clothes that you have to change every five minutes? Always with the showering and the changing … I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Sorry.’ An unabashed grin. ‘Spent too long at the keyboard again, always makes me a bit … I forget real people need gaps to reply.’

  ‘Real people?’

  A one-shoulder shrug. ‘I’m a writer. Which, weirdly, doesn’t make for great communication skills. Obviously. Words on paper, yep, that’s my forte, I can do that, no problems, oh God, shut up Jack.’

  Gosh. I’m here with one of the writers. Even the Valium couldn’t quite stop my eyes widening with a flash of hero-worship, quickly stilled in the face of those tatty pyjamas and unbrushed hair.

  The room smelled of her perfume. Sweet and pink, like overblown roses. The bed was rumpled and I had to work hard not to imagine this dark man and his preciously blonde Lissa busy rumpling it. ‘Won’t your girlfriend mind you having me in here?’

  The click and flare of a lighter. ‘I’m not intending to have you.’

  A horribly disfiguring blush rose up my cheeks and neck. I knew from experience that this would make my scar stand out even more, a jagged white against the dull red skin. Fortunately he wasn’t looking at me, but was desperately trying to get a bent remnant of cigarette into conjunction with the flame of the lighter, sucking at it until it squeaked.

  ‘Besides, Lissa isn’t my girlfriend. She was, once upon a time, and that’s not any kind of fairy-tale you’d want to hear. But, yeah, I guess you’re right, she probably wouldn’t like it all that much, so, would you mind standing out in the corridor?’

  I balanced awkwardly on one leg, not sure whether he was being serious or not. ‘It’s just, you know, I don’t want to upset anyone.’

  ‘Lissa is a big girl. She can cope with a few upsets.’ He smiled, and it was a nice smile, a proper smile. His eyes creased under the weight of it and it took away some of that look he wore that said the world had disappointed him in some way. ‘Stop worrying. Hey, what about a drink?’ He crouched down to look under the bed and I tried really hard not to stare at his pyjama bottoms, which were baggy and striped and almost cartoonishly loose, held up with a piece of frayed cord. ‘I’m not supposed to smoke in here, but sometimes … ah. White do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  He straightened up and I had to drag my eyes from their natural resting place which happened to be directly level with his flappy crotch. ‘Would you like a glass of white wine?’

  ‘It’s a bit early.’

  ‘Convention, remember? They’ll all be on the Southern Comfort downstairs and no-one will be sober until Monday. What are we now, Thursday? Can you really stand the idea of being the only person sober for five days? Might as well join them.’ A pause and his eyes looked inward for a moment, fingertips flicked in a kind of low-level mini shrug. ‘At least …’ He spun away, leaving a smoke trail like a low-flying aircraft and now I was free to stare at his back view, a crumpled picture of Mighty Boosh and a sagging pair of pyjama bottoms which managed not to make his backside look wrinkly and enormous by some fluke of tailoring. The T-shirt did nothing to cover his scarred arm but he didn’t seem to care. ‘Right. Not especially well-chilled, but still better than downstairs’ Tequila Slammers.’
He leaned forward, glass in hand. ‘Oh. My name’s Jack, by the way. And you’re …?’

  ‘Skye. Skye Threppel.’

  ‘Well, Skye. Here’s to hiding from the world.’ Jack picked up another glass from next to the laptop and raised it, seeming to toast the screensaver picture of purple-heathered moorland, as though he was blocking out the Nevada desert with a picture of home. Then he plonked himself on the floor, knees drawn up. The only chair in the room was in front of the laptop and covered in papers, so for want of anywhere else available, I sat on the bed.

  ‘Are you? Hiding from the world?’ I asked, jiggling my wine between my fingers.

  ‘Ah, now there’s the question.’

  ‘I know. That’s why my voice did that going up at the end thing,’ I replied a little sharply. I was nervous and being nervous made me edgy these days, and defensive. ‘Maybe I should write the conversation down for you.’ Jack seemed nice, a little tense perhaps, but the raw feeling of connection that we’d shared earlier had ebbed and I was concerned that maybe I’d imagined it. I couldn’t always trust the way I felt, when those feelings were built on memories or associations I could no longer recall. It was as though my body reacted in certain situations without my mind having any kind of control and I was very conscious that this made me easy to take advantage of.

  He made an appeasing gesture, holding his hands out and spilling some of his drink on the T-shirt. ‘Point to you. I’m struggling with the lack of dramatic convention.’ He sipped and looked at me over the rim of the glass.

  I felt the blush start again and the edgy sensation that my nerves had all been driven to the surface.

  ‘Maybe I should go. Rather than sit here and force you to make conversation.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jack rested his glass on his knees and looked up at me. It might have been my imagination but I was fairly certain that what was in his glass wasn’t wine. It was too clear, too transparent. ‘But I’d quite like it if you didn’t.’