Luckily, she didn’t bore me despite Waitrose’s lack of interest in her.

It was probably the fact I hadn’t shagged her yet.

Though, let’s be honest—it’s not exactly like I was charming her into a fucking Shakespearean love story. I was certain a big part of the reason why Stardust could stand the sight of me was because, the morning after the Moscow gig, Howard Lipkin, one of the biggest attorneys in Los Angeles, had bailed her brother out and dragged him back home to his wife and kid. Craig was on house arrest, and that made Indie feel pathetically content. Like he couldn’t possibly fuck up from the comfort of his home. Which, from experience, was bollocks, because both my parents were unemployed and had managed to damage Carly and me just fine, even though their arses were forever glued to the sofa, watching EastEnders and Jeremy Kyle into the afternoon—is there ever anything more depressing than watching daytime TV? I thought not, and I still do.

Barcelona was our last stop before we took a week off in London. Technically, I had a gig at the Cambridge Castle on Friday, but that was the extent of it, and the Cambridge Castle was my home field.

Barcelona was a turning point. It was a turning point because it was the place where I stupidly thought it’d be a good idea to walk into a British hipster coffee shop and grab some black coffee and English breakfast for my entourage. Should’ve known nothing good ever comes out of trying to be considerate.

Indie was up in her room, probably sewing The Paris Dress. Blake was loitering outside the shop on his goddamn mobile. With my beanie, Wayfarers, and head down, I knew I wouldn’t be recognized. It was the kind of place that would play Nazi propaganda before playing someone who managed to break onto the Billboard list, so I doubted they’d even recognize me. I was Satan to them. Suits’ Satan.

I took in the deep blue and pale pink tiles of the shop, the people in flashy blazers and thick-framed glasses and women in trendy petticoats. The breeziness of their lives. They looked so grounded. Like they had the virtue of gravity working in their favor. Me, I felt loose. Tied to nothing. Not to people and not to objects, other than Tania. I just floated through life, and the worst part was, drugs and alcohol had actually been one of the only constant things in my life. I stood in the queue. No one recognized me. It was a relief caked with worry. There was always a gnawing anxiety that nibbled at my ego whenever people overlooked me.

Was I still big?

Was I still famous?

Was I still worth it?

Was my career going downhill?

Cue to wanting to throw up my own soul for giving a fuck.

The queue was dragging. That was fine. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I thought about Indie. How we only hooked up at night. During the day, I acted like I couldn’t be bothered with her, and she acted like I exasperated her. It was only at night when we peeled our masks and our clothes off that life became bearable.

There was a row of flat-screened TVs plastered above the counter. One had the menu, the other played the show GossipCave . Menu, GossipCave . Menu, GossipCave . Bright colors and bold fonts. Showbiz programs are like junk food, so beautifully wrapped. The volume was quite high, and my eyes drifted up despite my best efforts. A bunch of millennials and a gay bloke in his mid-forties were swiveling on neon chairs in their cubicle-style, ultra-futuristic office, the floor-to-ceiling window behind them exhibiting L.A. in all its Botoxed glory. They were talking so animatedly, you’d think they were discussing the Middle East conflict.

“Do you think there’s going to be a showdown?” The older man in the Polo shirt and impeccably styled hair rested his elbows on top of some guy’s chair. All the reporters and editors nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh, absolutely,” a blond, malnourished girl exclaimed. “There’s no way around that. Alex Winslow is unhinged. I mean, he’s definitely cooking something delicious, what with the snippets from his ‘Letters from the Dead’ tour.” She clapped her hands together excitedly, brushing her tongue over her glossed lips in a way that was calculated and overtly trying and not at all like Stardust’s nervous gnawing. “But Winslow is still every inch of the reckless rock star we know. Like two weeks ago, when he attacked his drummer. He’s definitely going to let Will Bushell and Fallon Lankford know how he feels about them.”

“Apparently, he didn’t attack the drummer. There were severe sound issues and he was just frustrated. He was later photographed hugging Lucas Rafferty outside the hotel,” a guy chipped in.

Right. About that.

That had been Blake putting out one of the many fires I’d created. There were no sound issues—though I’m sure someone got fired for the non-existing one Blake reported—and the embrace I’d given Lucas outside our Berlin hotel had almost snapped his neck.

“Either way, will they even meet? I mean, chances are they won’t.” A brunette girl with bold red lipstick picked dirt from under her acrylic nails.

“They’re all going to be at Chateau De Malmaison’s Halloween event in Paris.” The older man snapped his fingers.

Someone tapped my shoulder, and I realized the queue had progressed, but I’d stayed rooted to the floor. I took a few steps forward, my eyes still glued to the screen. There was something cathartic about the pain coursing through me. It made me feel so human. So vulnerable.

“There’ll be no media at the event. And they’ll all wear masks.” The blond girl sounded disappointed. At least someone still got a mental hard-on for my personal life. Shame it wasn’t me.

“Mask or not, Will and Fallon owe Alex an explanation, don’t you think? Their engagement came as a surprise to everyone.”

For a second, I was in purgatory between my life the second before I’d heard it and my life after.

Engagement?

En-fucking-gagement?

I sucked in a slow breath. Fucking Fallon was the hottest mess Hollywood had had the displeasure of producing in this decade and Will was happily married to his work. What business did they have getting married?

“The preparations for the wedding have been going on for weeks now. Do you think they’ll invite him?”

Weeks? They’d been engaged for weeks and no one had told me? Then it dawned on me like hail. Trickling down at first, then all at once, pouring down on my fucking parade.

No Internet.

No social media.

Stay away from the laptop.

Channels in my hotel rooms hooked on news and porn and nothing else because of…