“No, you have to hold it higher! We all have to be in the picture or it doesn’t count!”
“And to think you picked me for this honour. How very, very lucky I am.” Sam’s voice rings with sarcasm, but she sighs and lets the scavenger hunt group crowd around her for their photo. As soon as they have it, they huddle round a phone muttering about the next clue, then they snatch their team sign back from her and trot off down the corridor in search of another victim. She scowls at them until they’re out of sight.
“That’s the ninth group this morning. Ninth. How much longer is this game running?”
“Apparently, until tomorrow morning. Sorry. Not my call.”
“Your dad’s letting an unofficial scavenger hunt run over the whole convention?”
“What can I say? He’s been surprisingly mellow since he and Bea got back from their honeymoon.”
“Yeah, well. I’d be pretty mellow if I’d just spent ten days in the Seychelles too.” She flicks a piece of rubbish into the bin under the registration desk. “Oh no…”
Another little cluster of scavengers appear around the corner, clutching their team sign. This lot appear to be called Team Mothers of Dragon. Not “Mother of Dragons”, which would actually make sense, but “Mothers of Dragon”. I don’t even know where to start.
“Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact…” I whisper as they close in – but it’s too late, and they swarm around her. Above the chatter and noise, I hear her growling “Touch the mask and I will end you”, and then they freeze for their picture and just like that, they’re gone.
“Ten,” she mutters.
“You’re dressed like Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman, and I only have my incredibly exciting staff lanyard. Of course it’s you they’re going to want their photo with.”
She groans and pulls at the plait of hair she’s wound around the top of her forehead. “How many have you had to do?”
“One. Apparently I look too miserable.” It makes me laugh just saying it.
“Who said that?”
“Your group number three. They spotted me first, but decided against it.” I shrug and toss the folder of membership notes into the box under the registration desk as two late arrivals wander up. Apparently, Bede has implemented a new and exciting filing system for the remaining registration packs, so I have to go through the whole lot searching for “Emma and Rosie”. I’m going to kill him this time, I really am. The two of them look Sam up and down as I rummage, and it feels like an age before I can finally hand over their badges; Sam smiles and says “Miaow?” and they smile back at her.
“Your costume is awesome,” says Emma – which of course makes Sam smile even more. After they’ve gone, she hops up onto the desk and sits there, swinging her feet back and forth and carrying on exactly where she left off.
“What I don’t get is why it’s only us – by which I mean me – they’re asking for photos with. If it’s supposed to be a picture with any of the convention staff, why aren’t they asking my mum and dad – or Bede, or Nadiya?”
“Because – apart from the fact that, as you just heard, your costume is pretty cool – parents are intimidating, Bede threatened to insert the phone of the last one who asked him into their bodily orifice of choice—”
“Ouch!”
“—sideways, and the last time I saw Nadiya, she was going to check on the water in the quiet room and loudly telling everyone within earshot that there’s no cameras allowed in there. So.”
Sam tips her head to one side and adjusts her mask. She looks too thoughtful for my liking, and I shake my head. “No. I need you here. I’m not losing you to the quiet room too.”
“Ten, Lexi. Ten.”
“Sorry, Sam. They’re asking permission – and as long as they don’t break the rules there’s nothing I can do. You know that. Dad’s given them the okay.”
“I miss your bachelor dad. The mean one.”
“Mmm.”
I do too, in a way. He’s been so happy since he and Bea got back from their trip and Bea finally moved in properly. Most of her stuff’s still at her old house, and they spend half their time there; supposedly they’re sorting everything out and cleaning it ready to rent, but I suspect they’re not actually getting that much cleaning done. It makes me feel a bit queasy, so I try not to think about it. What it has meant, though, is that I’ve been left to pick up a lot of the last-minute convention crises – and maybe it’s my imagination, or maybe the universe thinks I’ve had it too easy over the last couple of events and been slacking off with Aidan, but there seem to be more of them than usual:
Entire crate of freebie comics disappearing somewhere between the warehouse and here? Check.
Film panel pulled at the last minute because the cast all got called back for reshoots? Check.
Hotel losing all the banquet confirmations? Check.
Guest of honour getting trapped at airport by hurricane while returning from overseas research trip the day before the convention? Check-checkity-check.
Thanks, Dad. I did vent about this to Mum on her flying visit to see how I was doing on my own (not burning the house down, getting arrested or running off to join the circus – like my life isn’t close enough to the last one already?). After we got the usual “don’t fall behind with your coursework” and “how are you feeling about LIFE?” business out of the way, things were pretty normal – by which I mean that we mostly talked about Dad.
“Lexi, your father is like a small child,” Mum said, stirring the pan of tomato sauce she was cooking. “Picture him as a toddler, if you will. A toddler with a Rolodex.”
“That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”
“And, like a toddler – or a dictator – he’s used to people doing what he expects them to do.”
“A benevolent dictator?”
“Well, I might not go quite that far…”
“I don’t get it! He tells me he doesn’t want to make the same mistakes he did before, and that’s fine – but how’s it okay to just dump everything on me? He has an actual assistant he pays for this stuff. And to think I believed all the ‘better parent’ bollocks he gave me.”
“As I said, sweetheart. A toddler. He doesn’t like doing things differently. Remember, it’s your life. And he’ll respect you for standing up for yourself. You should be proud of who you are – we’re both proud of you already.”
I snorted.
There was a pause, then she cleared her throat. And then, quietly: “Did he really say that? About making mistakes?”
“Yes…?” I wasn’t quite sure why it mattered; they’ve been divorced so long already.
She rested the spoon against the rim of the pan and rummaged in her pocket for a tissue. There was something that sounded almost like a sniffle as she dabbed at her eyes. “Well, now. Those onions,” she said, and then she was stirring again and telling me all about some art project Leonie has got involved in. Something to do with old cooking pots – very Leonie – but I wasn’t really listening. Because Mum was right. She usually is. She comes over from France, puts her bag down and, within an hour, she’s filled the freezer, fixed the boiler and sorted my life out – or at least told me what I should do to sort it out myself.
The crate of comics turned up – like they usually do. We found a substitute film panel. I had copies of all the banquet reservations (of course I did – what am I, some kind of newbie?). And between us, the stranded guest of honour, his publicist and I managed to charm him a seat on the first available flight and all four of its connections… The worst disaster I’ve had to manage onsite so far is Sam’s panic when she couldn’t find one of her Catwoman gloves this morning – which she announced at 5 a.m. It turned up inside a book in her second suitcase. Of course it did. But the net result of all of this is that I am tired.
Tired…and trying very, very hard not to think about Aidan. Or to keep going over the last time we were together. It’s not like we haven’t been in touch since the night of the wedding, but it’s mostly been by email. I think we’re both telling ourselves it’s because of schedules: it’s too hard to find time to talk…but really I wonder if it’s because it’s just too hard to find anything to say. And I can’t decide whether I was an idiot, or whether I was right – or whether it’s possible to be both at the same time. Sam, naturally, has Many Thoughts about this, and has only just got to the point where she doesn’t feel compelled to share every single one of them with me. Mostly because I threatened to come into her room and stuff a sock in her mouth if she carried on.
“Uh-oh.” Sam swivels on the table and slides off, dropping into the chair next to mine.
“What?”
“It’s that guy. From the magazine.”
“Super-specific Samira strikes again. That should be your superhero name – and you’ve already got the outfit, so—”
“No, look. Him.” She puts both her hands on my head and turns it so I’m looking straight into the lobby.
“Oh, shit. Not him.”
“See? That’s what I’m saying.”
“No – not magazine guy – that’s Andy from SixGuns. Him!” I jerk my head at the figure behind Andy, bearing down on him like a tidal wave. Editors, I can handle this morning. The Brother, I cannot.
I pull the walkie-talkie off the desk and press the button. “Bede? Nadiya? I’m going to need a carton of pineapple juice in the lobby, please? That’s pineapple in the main hotel lobby now, thank you.”
Sam raises an eyebrow, and the walkie’s speaker crackles with static, followed by Nadiya’s voice. “Pineapple? Are you sure? Not…like…tropical, or mango?”
“Yes, quite sure, thank you. Pineapple.” From the other side of the lobby, the Brother looks right at me and pauses. He’s weighing up who to irritate first – me, or Andy the editor. His eyes lock on. Target acquired. I give him a smile and jab at the walkie button again – still smiling. “Urgently, ladies and gentlemen.”
“What’s it worth?” asks Bede – but I can tell from his voice that he’s already running. My knight in shining armour…for a price. I think better of telling him how much I enjoyed his handiwork at the registration desk.
“Later. Just…get here!”
As I set the walkie back on the desk, the glow from the hotel’s lights is slowly blotted out and a great darkness falls across the registration area.
“Well, hello there, little lady! If it isn’t Laura…”
“Lexi.”
“Sure, sure. You’d have thought I’d get it right first time by now, wouldn’t you?” The Brother beams at me.
“You’d think.”
“Your name’s always there on the very tip of my tongue… And then it’s gone.” He makes a blowing sound. Sam sniggers. I stamp on her toe under the desk.
“Always lovely to see you, Damien. Are you here for the whole convention?”
“Ah, no. I’ve got to head out to Atlanta tomorrow morning – but I thought I’d just pop by and see how you were doing.”
“That’s so nice of you!”
It’s surprisingly easy to say this through gritted teeth and a dazzling smile. If you get it right, you don’t even need to move your lips.
“Actually – now I think about it – I was hoping I might catch a word with your young man, if he’s available?”
“My whatnow?”
“That writer friend of yours – Haydn Swift. I understand the two of you are…close?” I don’t like the weight the Brother puts on that last word, the way it sounds on his tongue.
“I know him a bit,” I say, aware that Sam is staring at me and her back is stiffening with every word. “We were lucky enough to host the launch of his book in June, and he’s been a guest on a couple of panels.”
“Yes, yes. Of course – I’m forgetting you had that little launch for him…”
Little. Launch.
I think you’ll find that was the worldwide first launch, thank you very much.
And then, as if I haven’t already predicted every single word to come out of his mouth, the Brother ploughs on. “Of course, we’ll be having an American launch next month, with some of the cast from the movie there too. Shame you weren’t able to bring them over, really, as it’s always such a boost to attendance. It sounds bad because the book is the thing, but it’s always the movies that people really care about, isn’t it? That’s what…draws them in.”
He holds his arms in front of him in a loose circle, then sweeps them wide open to make his point – almost giving editor Andy, who has been loitering behind him and pretending not to eavesdrop the whole time, a black eye in the process.
“Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t see you there, brother.”
Andy holds up his hands. “No, no. My fault entirely. I’ll catch up with you later, Damien – I was actually after a quick word with Lexi?” He looks from the Brother to me and back again, pointedly. The Brother doesn’t move but continues to stand his ground, beaming. I glance at Sam. She glances back at me.
Nobody moves, nobody says anything.
And then, trainers screeching on the tiled lobby floor, Bede comes pelting around the corner…and freezes. “Oh. So you won’t be needing me then?”
“Not right now, thanks… Although…” Inspiration hits. “Damien, have you had a chance to look in on the art show?”
The Brother looks puzzled. “The art show? No, I…”
No. Of course, he never goes to the art show, does he? Because an A-list artist isn’t quite the same as an A-list actor in his stupid mindset.
(Or a big-shot writer.)
The thought of Aidan again makes me ache all over. It hurts. He should be here. And instead he’s in Italy.
“We’ve got an amazing installation from a really exciting new concept artist. You have to see it – Bede will take you across, won’t you, Bede?”
“I…” Bede is floundering – but then he takes a good look at me and sees a future that holds only pain if he doesn’t get a move on. “Yes. I was just heading that way now. If you’d like to come with me…?”
Bede’s charm, when fully deployed, is an irresistible warm glow; a siren song that leads anyone within earshot to follow it…and tricks them into getting involved in a fact-off about ambergris. Which he will always win.
And so it comes to pass that the Brother, with little more than a “Well surely, brother”, finds himself being led – ever so politely – away from registration and towards an art show he has no interest in seeing, but which is far, far, far away from me.
The three of us – me, Sam and Andy from SixGuns – watch them go.
“So,” says Andy.
I wait for the rest of the sentence.
There doesn’t appear to be one.
“Picking up your press pass?” I ask – and he nods.
“Yes, that’s it.” He takes the lanyard from me and drapes it round his neck. “How’s married life treating your dad, Lexi?” Andy and Dad have known each other for years – although perhaps not quite long enough to stop Dad from making a sucking sound against his teeth when Bea suggested inviting him to their wedding. “Journalist, love,” he said, and that was that conversation finished. On the whole, I’ve always liked Andy…or at least, I did until I saw the way his eyes lit up when the Brother dropped his clanger about me and Aidan.
Ever the journalist, he doesn’t pull his punches – not even waiting for me to answer his first question before he jumps in with another one. “I didn’t know you and Haydn Swift were friends…”
“Oh, you know. Conventions.” It’s my best dismissive shrug – and I can tell from the look on his face that it’s nowhere near dismissive enough.
“He’s been to a couple now, hasn’t he?”
“Umm. He’s done programming at two for us – plus I think he tagged along with his publicist to one before that. I’m not sure.”
“I heard you were the reason he got a slot on the programme to begin with. Lucky him – and quite the prize for your father.”
This is fishing. Digging. Fish-digging…and I’m not giving him anything.
How can I, when I don’t even know where Aidan and I really stand; when I don’t know what we are or where we are? There’ve been emails, sure, but I know I’ve been distant. All that courage I thought I could summon: where did it get me? Wanting to feel closer to him and yet keeping him at arm’s length because I’m too scared to do anything else. Way to go, Lexi.
And despite my trying very, very hard not to, I miss him.
“You’ve seen the push Eagle’s Head are giving Piecekeepers,” I laugh. “And I saw the special feature you ran on it last month – so don’t give me that.”
“Your dad should be proud of you, Lex. I hope he realizes what a natural you are at this,” Andy says with a wink. I definitely like him a little less now.
“Natural? Nah. I learned from the best.” I hand the envelope with his press pack and schedule across the table. “Dad’s over in screening room two with Otto at the moment if you want to stick your head in and say hello? He’s always pleased to see you.”
“Mmm. Listen, Lexi – can I ask you something?” He leans forward ever so slightly; Sam – who until this point has been making a big show of adjusting her Catwoman claws – also leans forward ever so slightly as Andy glances over his shoulder to check nobody else is listening in. “Seeing as you know Haydn, what do you think of the photos from Italy?”
“Sorry? Photos?”
“We had a couple of photos in the other day – they went online this morning. Looks like he’s been keeping busy.”
“Oh?”
Suddenly my skin feels like someone has sprayed me with powdered ice. It prickles and stings and is so very, very cold – and when I speak, I can barely feel my lips; barely move my tongue.
“You haven’t seen them?” Andy is a lot more casual and offhand than he was a moment ago. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me the whole time; whatever he’s saying, he thinks this is a story and he wants to see how I’ll react. “You might want to have a look, you know, as a friend. Him and the lead actress from the Piecekeepers film…the one who’s been cast as Ali.”
NO.
The word is so loud inside my head that I only catch the very end of what he says next.
“…very cosy over breakfast in that hotel in Naples.”
No. No, no. Because I know him. I know him.
Did Andy just tell me that Aidan’s been with somebody out in Italy? An actress from the adaptation? So not only does she fit into Aidan’s Haydn-world in a way I never could, she’s playing the girl who started it all for him. Ali from the adaptation. Of all the people it could be, it’s her?
Hotel, breakfast, cosy.
Because that’s what it sounded like.
My skull fills up with the sound of my heartbeat; the sound of my blood rushing around my system. Only instead of the dull thud-thud-thud of my heart, it sounds like breakfast-actress-breakfast-actress-breakfast-actress-Ali-Ali-Ali.
“I guess you’d have to ask Haydn about that,” I say, an idiot grin welded onto my face. “Or maybe his publicist? I don’t have his Italian publisher’s details but I can give you Jenna or Lucy’s email at Eagle’s Head if…?”
“No, no.” Andy jerks away; steps back from the table. His voice is smiling and jokey again. “I just thought…you know, if you were friends…”
“Like I said – conventions.” And my voice is smiling and jokey too, and I’m playing the game because that’s what you do when you’re on this side of the table. Even more when you’re a girl; even more than that when you’re your father’s daughter.
Inside, though…
Inside, I am not Lexi Angelo.
Inside, I’m just me.
And I am in pieces.
Andy gives us a cheery wave and sets off up the corridor towards the convention area lift, opening his press pack and peering into the envelope as he goes. Beside me, Sam pulls off her mask.
“You didn’t mention anything about this after you and Aidan mailed yesterday!”
“No. No, I didn’t. And weirdly, neither did he.”