Having escaped Sam’s mockery, I head back to the lobby to collect Aidan. Exactly what I’m going to do with him for the next half-hour (which is how long it’ll be before I can dump him in the green room – where he’s actually meant to be this time) I don’t know. If he’d been the Haydn Swift I imagined, the glamorous, magical, superstar debut author, I’d probably have shown him around the convention a bit and made sure he knew how marvellous it all is, and by extension, how marvellous I am. But he isn’t…at least, he sort of isn’t, and anyway it’s all a bit theoretical now because when I get back to the lobby, there is no sign of him.
I’ve lost Haydn Swift.
Well, that’s just spectacular, isn’t it?
Aidan Green, I can live without, and it’s him I can’t seem to get away from, somehow or other. But I actually need Haydn Swift because it’s my job to be looking after him; a job I begged my father for. And now I’ve lost him, which leaves me standing in the middle of the hotel lobby with the bustle of the convention crashing around me and over me like waves, not sure what to do. I feel a little…odd.
“…don’t really think that’s appropriate, Max.”
I know that voice, and I slam back against the nearest pillar, desperately hoping its owner hasn’t spotted me. I almost knock over a toddler in a Jedi robe on my way, but other than that I think I’m in the clear.
“We agreed, Bea…”
“I didn’t think you were serious about that! I know it’s the only weekend, but I’m really not sure about having our wedding reception as part of the convention…”
“And I keep telling you, it’s not part of the convention. It’ll be a private party, just at the convention.”
“Max. Max, I’m trying here, but all I keep hearing is ‘convention convention convention’.”
“It’s how it works. It’s how I work. You knew that when you met me. They’re not just a job to me.”
“But it’s not—”
“Look, love. It’s not till August. We’ll change the date of the wedding, postpone it, postpone the honeymoon – whatever makes you happy. But that weekend, I can’t just leave the convention all night. Besides, isn’t the whole point of a wedding reception to invite your friends?”
“Well, yes…”
“Most of mine will be at the convention – not to mention Lexi.”
“Are you sure about this? It’s what you want?”
“Love. I’ve been talking to the hotel up in York, and I promise it’ll be fine – better than fine. They’ll take care of us. They know me, remember?”
So Bea’s not as obsessed with conventions as Dad? She thinks they’re just a job? Maybe hers are: I don’t imagine putting on a skirt suit (I’ll take my leggings and my skinny jeans any day, thanks) and dealing with business conventions is anywhere near as…interesting as running an event where it’s perfectly normal for everyone to turn up dressed as zombies. To be honest, I can’t imagine many people wanting their wedding at either kind, but it doesn’t really surprise me that Dad does. I peer round the pillar to see the two of them, right there. Bea couldn’t look more out of place in her white shirt and big clankety bracelets, standing there in front of the queue for the toilets, but she might as well be the only person in the world as far as Dad’s concerned. He closes his hands around hers and presses her fingers to his lips and it’s like she melts. I’ve never worked out what they see in each other; you certainly wouldn’t think they’d make a couple. But they see something.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?” says Aidan in my ear, and he makes me jump so badly I think I actually make a squeaking sound.
“Jesus. And didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to sneak up on somebody?”
“I didn’t sneak. You were just so busy listening you didn’t hear me coming.” He leans out to look around the pillar, following my line of sight. “Who’s that then?”
“My dad and Bea.” The words just fall out of me. I could never be a spy – I’d be no use under torture at all.
“What’s a Bea when she’s at home?”
“They’re getting married in a couple of months.”
“Ah. Like that, is it?”
“It’s like nothing. Where did you go, anyway? I’m supposed to be herding you to the green room to get miked up.”
“Oh, I’m allowed in there now, am I? Have you got my name on your clipboard this time?”
“I’ve got Haydn’s name on my clipboard,” I say pointedly – and I’d show him, if I hadn’t left said clipboard with said list on it in the ops room. Not that he’s listening, anyway. He’s too busy smiling at someone on the other side of the lobby.
Sam.
He’s smiling at Sam.
And she’s waving at him.
Traitor.
“Aidan?” I lay a hand on his elbow to steer him towards the green room, and he yanks his arm away and touches it like I’ve burned him.
“Sorry. Sorry, wasn’t expecting that.” He glances back over at Sam, but she’s already deep in conversation with a knot of fans looking for the big comics signing. “It’s Sam, isn’t it? Your friend.”
I check my watch. “Samira.”
“She’s nice. We got talking at that party last time.”
Nicer than me, clearly.
“Yeah, Sam’s great. We should really make a move to get you ready.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he couldn’t hear me. But there’s the faintest sheen on his forehead, and his glasses keep slipping down his nose. First-time panel nerves, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m not sure I can think of anything more terrifying than having to stand up in front of a room full of strangers and convince them you’re worth listening to. The couple of times I’ve had to introduce a panel (and we’re talking “Hello, the fire exits are here, here and here. Please welcome to the stage…” – not exactly the last act of King Lear), I’ve very nearly forgotten how to speak. Most of the guests get nervous ahead of a panel, whether they want to admit to it or not; the actors are usually better at it – it’s what they do, after all – but the authors are generally a bit rubbish at coping with the pressure. I guess that’s what comes from sitting behind a computer all day and listening to the people in your head – and then having to go and talk to actual people. More than one time I’ve had to drag a writer out of the toilets where they’ve been throwing up out of sheer nerves. (I now carry mints at all times.)
Aidan falls into step alongside me as we thread our way through the hotel towards the green room. The lobby and corridors are filling with people heading to the next event. As we turn a corner, I see Nadiya shepherding a group of live action role-players, all of them in character and acting out whatever scenario they’ve agreed on today, into one of the rooms set up for their workshop. She catches sight of me, spots Aidan and starts drawing heart shapes in the air – which earns her a funny look from one of the goblins she’s holding the door for.
I mouth the words “shut up” very clearly, with a variety of associated hand gestures – just in case she can’t read my lips. She can, of course, and I can see her laughing…but then I realize she’s not looking at me. She’s looking just to my right. I follow her gaze – and there’s Aidan, his head cocked slightly to one side, his arms folded across his chest and that smug little smirk plastered across his face, watching me. Nadiya, of course, disappears into the workshop space.
“Come on,” I mutter, and shoulder my way through the bodies ahead of us. The green room is right at the far end of a long, sweeping corridor lined with stalls selling books, comics, trading cards, art and replica costumes, so getting from one end of it to the other is a cross between an assault course and shopping in the sales. The people who recognize me get out of my way; the others get trodden on. Politely. “’Scuse me, excuse me. Mind your backs, please. Coming through. Thank you, yes. On your left, thank you.” As the crush gets thicker between the main panel rooms, I have to turn back every couple of steps to check I’ve not lost Aidan. He’s still there – increasingly pale and sweaty – but at the rate we’re going, I’ll be lucky not to lose him.
“You’d better walk in front of me. I’ll steer you.”
“Is it always like this?” he asks, edging between the stalls.
“Not usually.” I sidestep a slightly wonky Dalek. “There was a pipe leak above the room we were going to use as the traders’ space – like a big marketplace for this lot – and the hotel didn’t have anywhere else that was big enough. All these guys had already paid for their tables, so we had to put them somewhere!”
He says something back, but I can’t hear it over the general noise. A burst of static from the back pocket of my jeans means someone’s trying to get hold of me on the walkie, but that’s just going to have to wait, isn’t it? There’s some jostling directly ahead and a couple of students barge their way in between me and Aidan – who chooses that moment to turn around and look panic-stricken.
He looks so different when he’s not being smug.
More like I imagined Haydn Swift would look, I suppose. Interesting. Even the chin’s not so bad from this angle.
I manage to edge my way through to him and rest my hands on his shoulders from behind, pointing him at the green room door. “The one with the sign on it.”
“What?” He leans back to catch my words. My hands are still on his shoulders – and at that moment, someone shoves me from behind, pressing me up against his back. There’s a sharp “Sorry!” but I can barely hear it over the buzzing that fills my head.
“That way!” I practically shout it into his ear.
And my hands are still on his shoulders, and I’m still pressed up against his back.
The crowd opens up around us…and I pull away. “Come on, while there’s a gap.” I half-guide, half-shove him forward, and suddenly we’re free of the crush and in front of the green room door.
Inside, Sam’s mum and Marie are checking microphone battery packs and clipping them onto guests ahead of the next set of panels. Marie spots me and holds up a finger, meaning it’ll be a minute before she can deal with Aidan.
“That felt like being perp walked,” he says, ruffling his hands through his hair and adjusting his glasses. “You know, being marched off in handcuffs and thrown against the wall of a cell?” he adds – like I didn’t know what that meant.
“Maybe you can tell people we met in jail…”
It’s my voice saying it, I’m sure. And it’s my mouth moving, my lips making the words. But I definitely, definitely did not mean to say that. Not at all.
I’ve just quoted his own book at him. I have. I’ve just quoted the line the main character uses on the girl he’s interested in.
Oh. My. God.
I just did that.
I did.
I want to die.
But instead of smugface, or a snarky clipboard comment, his face is completely unreadable, and it feels like I’m going to be stuck in a little humiliation time-bubble for ever. And then one corner of his mouth twitches into a smile.
“Deal,” he says.
“Everything all right?” Marie hurries over carrying a tangle of wires, headsets and microphone cables. “I just need to get your battery pack clipped on, then we’ll mic you up right before you soundcheck.”
“There’s a soundcheck?” Aidan sounds flustered.
Marie blinks at him. “Yes?”
“He’s a newbie, Marie. Be gentle?”
She leads him over to the far side of the room, where she starts feeding wires down the back of his shirt and checking whether the pockets of his jeans are deep enough for the battery pack.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
Sam has materialized beside me.
“Shut up.”
“I see you looking. You like him.”
“I’m doing my job, Sam.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Don’t you have something to do? Because if you don’t, I can always find something. There’s a stack of membership bags to come out of the store…”
“I am very busy indeed, thank you very much. I come bringing suck news though.”
“Suck news?” I stare at her. Occasionally, Sam could do with having some kind of phrase book to help people translate her. Sadly, I think it would probably be me that had to write it.
“Tonight’s a bust.”
She can only mean the gig. The secret gig we’ve been looking forward to for ages; the one you can only get tickets for today, on the door…and then, only if you know the password. My heart sinks. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Arse.”
As one, the room – which is much quieter than it was a second ago – glares at me. Especially Sam’s mum.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “Sorry, sorry.” I turn back to Sam and lower my voice. “They’re completely sold out? Already?”
“Yep. No fun for Sam and Lexi. No singing. No dancing. Only sad.”
“What’s this?” Aidan wanders back over, tugging at the mic wire Marie has fed down the back of his shirt. She snaps her fingers and barks at him to leave it alone, and he drops it like a kid who’s been caught pinching sweets. “Hi, Sam. Nice to see you again.”
“Ai-dan.” Sam makes his name bounce. “You’ve met your biggest fan then?” She bats her eyelashes and jerks her head towards me. I can feel my face heating up.
“Lexi’s been looking after me before my panel.” The last word sticks in his throat. Automatically, I grab a plastic cup from the water dispenser and hand it to him. He takes it and sips at it, and I wonder whether anyone else has noticed how much his hands are shaking.
“The other authors on your panel should be here in a minute. We’ll introduce you and then you can chat and get ready, then about fifteen minutes before start time, Marie will take you through for soundcheck. Can I get you something else to drink? Or something to eat?”
“I couldn’t eat anything. That would be a bad idea.”
“You wouldn’t be the first, you know.”
“The first to what?”
“To throw up.”
“Right. Yes. No. Okay.”
Sam clears her throat. “So. I’m still here?”
“And?”
“Tonight. Where do you need me, seeing as I’m not going to be at the Carveliers gig?”
Aidan looks up from his plastic cup. “The Carveliers?”
“Sam’s favourite band.” I take the empty cup from him and lob it at the bin. It misses. Whoops. “They’re playing at the Fleece tonight, and Dad said we could go.”
“But it’s sold out. So.” Sam pouts. “Like I said, no fun for us. Sam is sad. Sad Sam.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He frowns.
“Anyway.” All this is just prolonging the agony. I need to get away from the source of my humiliation. “You’re all set here, and I’ve really got to go and…”
Be somewhere else. Be anywhere else.
“Be doing something else. And I absolutely know what that is. Yes. So.” My hands are clenching and unclenching all by themselves, and my feet are doing this weird sort of shuffle and Sam’s looking at me like I’m insane – but Aidan doesn’t notice because he’s staring at a fixed point somewhere just in front of the green room door, where the rest of his panel have just walked in. It looks, in fact, like he’s mouthing the word “Shit” to himself over and over again, and I am forgotten. Which is the way it should be.
“Come on, Sam. Got to get back to work!” I loop my arm through hers and tug her towards the door. “Good luck on the panel!”
Aidan’s attention snaps back to me. “What do I do afterwards? For the reading?”
“Come back here, half an hour beforehand. I’ll take you over.”
He nods. “Will you let me back in, or…?” He’s only half-joking.
The sound that leaves my throat is a very unhappy one because I am not in the mood for more clipboard jokes, but something makes me stop at the door. Maybe it’s knowing this is his first panel and he’s nervous – and part of my job is to make sure he relaxes. Maybe it’s because I want to say it. Or maybe it’s because I can still feel his eyes on me, all the way over here, and somehow it’s like stepping into the sunshine when you’ve been in a dark room. “By the way – the book’s amazing. I really did love it.”
I run away before he has the chance to reply. Abandoning Sam, I run all the way down the busy corridor, all the way through the lobby and past reception, down the stairs to the creepy basement banquet hall and sharp right into the ladies’ toilets, where I slam the door shut behind me and lock it, leaning my forehead against it and listening to my heart pound in my ears.
Right.
Right.
Aidan looks much happier when I see him in the green room before his reading. I feel a little guilty when I see him actually. I’d meant to stick my head into the panel room and see how he was doing, but the hour disappeared thanks to an air-conditioning crisis in one of the workshop rooms, where everyone was sitting huddled in their coats like they were about to go ice-fishing – not that the hotel’s maintenance guy seemed too bothered. To start with, he tried the usual I’ll-get-to-it-when-I-get-to-it line they all trot out when it’s a girl (me) talking to them. I’m used to it – although I can’t help but wonder whether they’d pull the same bollocks with my dad… Still. After a bit of “persuading” – mostly me threatening to withhold part of the convention facilities bill in my most righteous voice – the air-con problem is resolved, and I’m doing a round of the green room with my clipboard (of course) and not at all checking every time the door opens in case it’s Aidan.
And if I were, it would only be to make sure he isn’t late for his reading.
Naturally.
When he does walk in, he’s talking to someone behind him – Will, another author and the moderator from Aidan’s panel, who also blurbed his book in that press release. They’re in the middle of a conversation by the look of it, and Aidan almost walks right past me. He does, at first, stopping dead three steps past me and swivelling on his heels.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” I drop the clipboard onto the table. “How’d it go?”
“Good. I think. I mean, I don’t feel like I made a complete idiot of myself, so that’s probably good, right?”
“Generally. Did you get any questions?”
“A few. Not so much for me, because nobody knows who the hell I am, but the others were pretty nice and made sure I wasn’t just sitting there grinning like an idiot.”
“They’re a good bunch.” I smile at Will, who’s helping himself to a beer from the green room fridge and sitting down to check his phone. He’s an old hand at conventions now; this is at least his third season, so he doesn’t need any babysitting. I catch his eye and he gives me a smile back, raising his beer in acknowledgement. “So,” I turn back to Aidan. “Reading.”
“Reading.” He makes a gulping sound.
“There’s nothing to worry about, I promise. No radio mic for this one – there’s a static mic on the lectern.”
“Mmmm?”
“So I’ll take you in, and I’ll give you a signal when it’s time – after that, you can start when you’re ready.” I pick up the clipboard again – reluctantly – but he doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s water in there for you if you need it.”
“Mmmm.”
“One thing – we really have to keep to time, or everything ends up running late and I get yelled at. I’ll be at the back, and I’ll give you a five-minute signal.”
“Sorry – five-minute signal?”
He hasn’t been listening to a word I’ve said, has he?
“Five minutes before the end. If you’re coming up to the end of your reading, you can ask if there’s any questions – or you can always finish early. Up to you.”
“So…I just…read?”
“That’s generally how a reading goes. Jenna went through this with you, right?”
He ignores my question. “Out loud. Read.”
“Ye-es?”
“To people.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Any chance no one will turn up?” He sounds like he’s only half-joking, and I can’t decide whether an empty room is his greatest wish or his worst fear – or both at the same time.
“No.” Not if I have anything to do with it, at least. Aidan or Haydn, I don’t care; there are going to be people in that room, listening to him read from that book – even if I have to drag them in by their toes.
Aidan fidgets with the strap of his watch. “Has anyone ever…you know, forgotten how to read?”
“Forgotten how to read?”
“From nerves or whatever.”
“No.”
“Right.”
“Still, there’s a first time for everything…”
“Oh.” His eyes widen and I swear I can see pure, distilled terror spinning in them. Great. I was trying to be funny, but now I feel even more guilty than I already did.
“I’m kidding. Everybody’s nervous before their first reading, but you’re going to be great. I promise.”
“Mmmm.” He shakes his hands down by his sides; tips his head from side to side.
“Almost time. Have you got your book?”
“My book?”
“Or script – whatever you’re reading from.”
“Oh. Sure. Yes. Going to need that, aren’t I?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a narrow sheaf of papers. They’re pages, torn from a book and folded to fit into his jeans.
I stare in horror at the paper he’s holding. “Is that…did you tear up a proof?”
He looks at me blankly. “Yes?”
“You tore up the proof for your book? Your first book?”
He turns them over in his hands. “I’ve got a couple of them. And it’s a big book. Heavy.”
I have never seen anyone tear up the proof copy of their first book before. Never.
But then, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like Aidan Green before.
The author reading rooms are two small meeting rooms, opposite each other across the main corridor. Both doors are open, and Bede is changing the “Reading Here…” sign on room two, where one of our Big Names is about to read. Aidan spots the name on the door and shakes his head.
“I might as well give up and go home now.”
I steer him into room number one, where a handful of people are already settled into their seats and waiting – probably off the back of his panel appearance this morning. I pull the last reader’s sign off the door and stick up Haydn Swift’s. Aidan stares at it as though he’s forgotten who that is.
“Go make yourself comfortable at the lectern if you like. You’ve got a couple of minutes.”
But he’s not listening to me. He’s in that place they all go to in their heads: unfolding his pages (torn pages, from a proof – wait till I tell Bede!) and scanning them, his lips moving along with the words as he gauges his speed.
“Wait – Lexi!”
“Yep?” I stuff my ball of sign-sticking Blu-tac back in my pocket.
“There’s swearing. In the bit I was going to read. I didn’t even think about it until…” He gives a pointed glance around the room. Well, there’s no kids there, but it’s a whole different thing dropping an F-bomb on your computer to doing it in a roomful of strangers.
“See how you go. It depends on the actual swearing, really…” I glance at my watch. I need him up at the lectern, ready to start. A couple of stragglers slip past us and take seats at the back of the room. “My dad always says it’s the words people get offended by – not the intensity or the emotion, you know? So maybe just censor it if you’re worried. Can you do that while you’re reading?”
“Censor it?”
I really, really need him to start – or we’re going to fall behind. Bede’s already shut the door to the other room, which means they’ve started. I practically shove Aidan at the lectern. “Think about it this way – they bleep out swearing on television sometimes, don’t they? But you don’t lose the feel of it. You still get everything behind it.”
It’s like a light bulb goes on in his head. “Right. Thanks.”
The second he steps behind the lectern, Aidan vanishes and Haydn takes his place. It’s the strangest thing, because I don’t know what happened, or how. I just know that the guy standing there taking a sip of water from the glass isn’t the guy who was panicking about forgetting how to make sounds in public. This guy is confident and smiling and – not to put too fine a point on it – ever so slightly arrogant. I find myself wondering whether there were seedlings of Haydn when I met him that first time; sure as hell feels like it.
I decide against closing the door. The corridor outside is fairly quiet (at long last) and Aidan’s voice carries well: an open door might just entice a few more people in. He starts his reading and I recognize this section of the book – it’s the confrontation between Jamie, the main character, and one of the Piecekeepers. It’s a good choice and, sure enough, another couple of listeners appear in the doorway. They pause; then Aidan reads a joke and they edge into the room and sit down. And even though it’s not me reading and it’s not my book and it’s not like he’s my friend or anything…I feel a swell of pride because in a tiny way, this is down to me. I brought him here.
I’m good at this. The picking guests, getting them in front of an audience who may never have heard of them, but who might just leave as devoted and lifelong fans. The planning the panels to put people on, who to put them with… I know I can do this. I’m better than I would be at anything else, and I know it. And I won’t let someone like Aidan Green throw me off balance.
Aidan’s crowd grows – slowly but surely, a steady trickle of people come in and take a seat. We’re ten minutes into a twenty-five minute slot, and he’s found his stride. His words flow; sentences wind their way around the dull beige walls of the meeting room and paint them with colour. The hotel we’re sitting in becomes the Piecekeepers’ headquarters – all ancient stone walls hung with oil paintings and tapestries: art from across time and around the world. His pace picks up as he reaches Jamie’s argument with the Curator, and I take a second to check the rest of the afternoon on my clipboard.
“‘Give me the bleeping key.’”
The spell is broken with a jolt. I look up. Did I imagine that?
He’s still reading. “‘What did you say?’
“I said, ‘Give me the bleeping key!’”
Then it hits me. He’s censoring himself. He’s bleeping himself.
Just. Like. I. Said.
I did this.
Oh. My. God.
Sam scuttles across from the door; I didn’t even know she was there, but she must have stopped to listen. She leans over the back of my seat in the last row.
“What the hell’s he doing?” she hisses. “He sounds like a shit grime track!”
“He was worried about swearing…” I mumble from behind my hands, which are now clamped over my mouth. It doesn’t stop her (a) hearing, and (b) figuring out what I’ve done.
“This is you?!”
“No. Yes. Oh god.” I hide behind my clipboard. “Is it really bad?”
We both look up at him – Sam from behind my chair, me from behind my board. We look at the room, at everyone listening. None of them seem bothered. More importantly, none of them seem bored. Nobody’s got up and left and nobody’s checking their phones or whispering to their mates.
They’re listening – and so are we. Without even meaning to, Sam has slipped into the seat beside mine and is leaning forward as though it will help her to hear better, get her closer to what happens next.
I can’t blame her; Aidan’s a natural. It’s like he was made for this, and I could listen to him read for hours.
I mean, it is my favourite bit of the book. Of course. That’s what it is.