‘I’m in set design, so the hours can be odd. Is it a problem that I’m here? At my own house?’ His eyes flick down at my escaping breasts, the corner of his mouth upturning slightly.
I lift my chin, trying my hardest not to just run over to the beach and bury myself in the sand, never to emerge. ‘No, of course not. I-I never said that…’ I stutter. ‘I, um, really appreciate you letting me stay here.’
‘I didn’t get much of a say in the matter.’ Jeez. He is prickly.
He stares at me, his bloodshot blue eyes are stony and severe. I do not like him.
After a moment of excruciatingly awkward nothingness, Brandon sighs and stands up from the bench. ‘Great chat. Okay, well, I’m only back to grab my tennis racket and my laptop. I’ll be out of your hair soon, stranger.’
‘I didn’t… and I’m not a stranger. I’m, um, Nora Tucker. I’m q-quite nice and reasonably normal! Ha ha.’
‘I’m sure.’ He pauses for a second. ‘And CJ West is, what, your secret alias?’
Of course. He heard me give a fake name on the phone. I cough. ‘It’s… erm… Yes. It’s, well, it’s complicated.’
His mouth twitches and he lightly kicks his foot against the porch fence. ‘Is “it” something to do with the “soulmate” you’re here to meet? The one you’ve never actually met in real life?’
‘Kennedy told you about why I’m here?’ I ask, my face flushing red before I remember that Kennedy does not know that the Gary who is the object of my mission is America’s hottest movie star, Gary Montgomery. She thinks he is just some random non-famous Gary. Which means that all she will have told her apparently dickish brother is that I’m here to connect with a normal man who I have normal feelings for, which is perfectly reasonable and normal behaviour.
‘Of course she told me,’ Brandon says. ‘She may be blasé about who she lets stay in our house because she’s sweet and open-hearted, but I prefer to gather a little more intel.’
‘Oh.’ I nod over and over while Brandon stares at me with narrowed eyes as if trying to force me into spilling some dark secret, some reason why his sister shouldn’t trust me.
‘I have no secrets!’ I blurt out eventually, immediately covering my mouth with my hands.
Brandon snorts and pushes his blonde hair back from his face. ‘Everybody has secrets.’ Then his blue eyes glint and he mumbles, almost to himself, ‘Especially the people you least expect.’
Am I supposed to know what he’s talking about?
‘Yes. Right.’ I say as if I do.
Winklepuff interrupts this odd moment by eagerly scrambling up Brandon’s legs. Brandon picks him up and scrunches up his face while Winklepuff frantically licks it. He ruffles the dog’s head and sets him back down onto the porch floor before striding back into the house, only to return less than a minute later with a tennis racquet-shaped case, a gym bag and a laptop.
‘Take it from me,’ he says, his expression cold. ‘You’re kidding yourself if you think soulmates are anything more than a construct developed by commercial gift companies preying on googly-eyed mooning idiots.’
My mouth opens and closes angrily as I try to form a response to this horrible and blatantly untrue statement. I’m not a googly-eyed mooning idiot. Mum and Dad were not googly-eyed mooning idiots. The surge of rage in my chest pushes me to stand up for myself. What a cynical, rude, grumpy person this guy is. The polar opposite of his lovely sister.
‘What is wrong with you?’ I ask, shooting up from the bench. ‘Haven’t you got a heart?’
He shrugs and half laughs at me. ‘I suppose not, no.’
And with that, he turns on his heel, jumps off the porch steps and heads down the beach.
What the hell was that? I blow the air out from my nose and notice that my heart is beating faster than it has any right to. Ugh. What a prick. People aren’t rude to me very often. They mostly don’t seem to notice me, which is exactly as I like it. To have someone be directly rude to me as an adult woman is very disconcerting. And then, as if to top everything off, Winklepuff crouches right by my foot and pushes out a tiny plant-based turd.
This trip is not going well. At all.
Chapter Sixteen
Gary
Hey.
Being famous is weird, man. I mean, I always suspected it would be, everyone knowing your face and your business and being suddenly interested in you. I hoped that my acting would be good enough to make a mark, to have my name known, but I didn’t expect it to happen so fucking fast. Neither did anyone else, to be honest. I remember Aileen telling me when I first signed with her that this business was a long game and that most people making a living being an actor have over thirty IMDB credits to their name. I had two at the time.
Speaking of Aileen and fame being completely weird, she just called me and opened up the conversation with the words ‘You better be careful.’ Which is a real ominous thing to say at any point in a conversation, not least the very beginning of one.
‘Uh, what?’ I’d replied, wondering if she had accidentally dialled my number instead of someone she had some altercation with, which wouldn’t be the first time.
But no. She meant me.
‘I’ve had a whole bunch of women calling recently, trying to get in touch with you, saying they knew you at school, college, old jobs, that kind of hokey shit.’
‘Who? Did you give them my number?’ I asked. I was never Mr Popular Jock at college, or school for that matter, but there are a few friends I’d be up for reconnecting with. People who knew me before this strange success are in short supply, and hanging out with Seth has made me realise that I could definitely do with a few more of them.
‘Creepers, stalkers, weirdos, that’s who. This can happen when charismatic, talented men get famous,’ Aileen said knowingly.
‘How do you know they’re not for real?’ I’d asked.
Aileen made an exasperated noise. ‘Because I tested them!’
‘Tested them?’
‘Asked them real questions and trick questions. Rooted them out like sneaky little rats. One of the broads calling was British! She put on some hokey Yank accent, and – get this – she said she was Martin Scorsese’s assistant. The brass balls of these chicks.’
‘Are you absolutely positively sure she wasn’t for real? Because you know how I feel about Martin Scorsese.’
‘Trust me. You’re a great artist, darling, but Martin Scorsese isn’t casting for anything right now.’
‘Oh,’ I’d said, feeling vaguely disappointed.
‘Yes, Oh. So be careful. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.’
‘Because I make you so much money?’ I’d joked.
‘Because I love you, even if you are a pain in my ass. And Tori is finally fuckin’ happy because of you, miracle of miracles. And these fangirls, honey, they can be real bunny boilers. I’ve heard all kinds of horror stories, you don’t even know. You don’t wanna know.’
‘Good job I don’t have a bunny.’
‘You have a dog.’
I thought of Janet. And how she’s so goofy and trusting. If any nefarious fan or stranger with a vendetta wanted to coax her away, they wouldn’t have to try too hard beyond holding a brightly colored ball within a five-meter radius. So, yeah, at that point I assured Aileen that I would keep an eye out for any creepers, stalkers and weirdos. I have no idea how on earth I’m supposed to actually do that; people don’t exactly introduce themselves as such, do they? I’m not that worried, to be honest. Fans are part of the business and I signed up for this, didn’t I? And Ira told me that I needed to work on my inclination to worry too much about bad things happening in the future. He says that because my mom died giving birth to me, I’ve grown up constantly expecting disaster to return to my life and that I need to learn how to live in the present. Hmmm I wonder how am I supposed to live in the present if I’m constantly on the lookout for creepers, stalkers and weirdos? I’ll ask Ira at our next session, like i
t’s a totally common thing to ask.
I’m about to take Janet for a walk and so here are my three amazing things before I go.
Aileen might be nuts, but she and Tori believed in me when no one else did and on the eve of shooting my next project I feel real grateful for that.
Seth and Olive are having a ball in LA. We’re mostly just kicking back with beers and snacks (Seth insists on meatball pizzas). Olive’s having meetings with managers who are loving her script and I’m still trying to get Aileen to read it so she can see how perfect I would be for the part of Joseph. I don’t care if it’s not the lead part. The script is so damn funny. Having Seth and Olive stay is great. I wish they lived here all the time, but they seem pretty wedded to New York. Besides, I’m not sure Tori is as enamored with them as I am. She told me last night that she thought they were a little ‘much’ because they’re forever telling jokes and trying to get each other to laugh. I reassured her that they would be returning to Manhattan in a couple weeks and then everything would be back to normal.
Yesterday I managed to stand up on my surfboard for ten whole seconds without falling into the ocean. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if some odd blonde Swedish-looking family were staring and pointing as I eventually toppled into the water. Anyway, I am proud of those ten seconds and I’m going back out again later for another lesson. I already can’t wait. I feel like I can breathe out there.
Chapter Seventeen
Nora
Text from Imogene: God, you need to reply to my message, Nora! What time is it there even? I need to know you are alive and safely arrived on American soil. Also I have emailed you a list of therapists and some grief support groups you can contact when you return. I know I said that if Gary Montgomery is really your soulmate you don’t have to do anything I say ever again, but we both know that Gary Montgomery is NOT your soulmate and that you’re there to see that for yourself and snap yourself out of this. So it seems prudent to start preparing options for how we’re going to get you into a better place once you return home. Text me back! Gotta go. Dan is peeved because the light from my phone screen is keeping him awake. Im xx
After Brandon leaves, I respond to a glut of messages from Imogene. Her insistence that I am entirely wrong about everything just makes me more determined to create a better, more concerted plan for meeting Gary. So I spend the rest of the morning researching and googling and making spider-graph suggestions of where I might encounter him. I use Kennedy’s printer to print out paparazzi photos from restaurants he seems to frequent. I print out a couple of maps and the address of Gould Management, as well as a few screenshots of any of Tori’s Instagram posts that feature Gary. I also find a forum full of celebrity sightings and write down all of the places that Gary has been spotted. When I’m done, I fold up all the papers and neatly tuck them in between the pages of my notebook.
In the afternoon, I take Winklepuff for a walk and feel ever more suspicious of his supposed vegan lifestyle when he drags me towards a local deli, sitting down neatly in front of the door as if he has been there before. I head in and get him some good ham and myself a cheese toastie, although it’s nowhere near as good as the ones I make myself; the cheese is all plasticky and the bread is full of seeds. Yeuch.
Outside the deli, Winklepuff sits obediently, his neck arching, seemingly jonesing for some meat.
‘You know just what this is, don’t you?’ I say, taking out a small piece of pork from the waxed paper. ‘It’s ham.’
At the word ham, he rolls onto his hind legs and starts to beg.
‘Very curious,’ I say with narrowed eyes, feeding him pieces, which he gobbles up as if it is the elixir of the heavens, licking his chops afterwards.
I walk a now very satisfied dog through the bustling beachside street, stopping every so often to pour some bottled water into a little fold-out bowl Kennedy gave to me. The vitamin D hitting my skin, along with the smell of salty sea and sweet candy floss from a nearby truck, brightens my mood and starts to distract me from the shitshow that was this morning.
It’s like a whole other world here. Everyone is tanned and smiling and active and most of them look so joyful and colourful. It’s a pretty stark contrast to the drizzly greyness and drudgery of Brigglesford. As expected, no one even glances at me, which makes me feel much better about the world’s tightest dress and its awe-inspiring effect on my boobs. I am, frankly, imperceptible compared to the people I’ve seen knocking about so far, including a woman wearing nothing but gold body paint on her top half and a guy in his twenties casually riding a unicycle and wearing a bowler hat.
I’ve been meandering about for an hour or so when my face and arms start to tingle. It occurs to me that I’m a complete idiot who did not put a high enough factor of sun cream onto the very, very pale English skin basking in this relentless Californian sun. I glance down at my arms to see that they are super pink. Eek. I pull out my phone and take a quick look in the camera screen. My face and nose are cherry red. Damn. I need to get indoors as soon as possible.
I hurry back with Winklepuff, who is obeying every order I give him now that I am officially his meat dealer. I quickly stop at a cute little cart selling flowers and plants and buy a small bunch of daisies for Kennedy. Then I dart into a grocery shop and grab a bottle of white wine for when we hang out later. Of course I have no plans to tell her about who Gary really is, but a few glasses of wine will help me to feel better about deceiving someone who has shown me nothing but kindness.
As I let myself into Kennedy’s house, sweaty and knackered, I realise pretty swiftly that I needn’t worry about revealing my real reasons for being here. Oh no. Kennedy is standing in the middle of the living room, and laying in a scattered circle on the floor around her are the Gary Montgomery research print-outs.
Kennedy is holding up my notebook, open at the page where I have written Nora Loves Gary along with approximately two hundred and fifty-three hearts of various sizes.
‘I think we need to talk,’ she says, waving the notebook in her hands, her eyes wide and looking more than a little frightened.
Shit. If my face wasn’t already mega red from sunburn, it would be blushing furiously by now. My body stiffens with mortification.
Kennedy is just staring at me, her mouth slightly agape. She takes a tiny step backwards, away from me. She clearly thinks I am creepy and dangerous.
Wait… Why was she going through my private stuff? Is… is she creepy and dangerous? I take a step backwards too and narrow my eyes.
Kennedy must read my mind because she pinkens and gestures towards my bedroom area, the heavy curtain now flung open. ‘I only went in there to lay out some welcome to LA crystals for you!’
I glance at the bed and there, laid out in the shape of a heart, is an array of small, differently coloured rocks.
‘I moved your notebook to make room for the crystal arrangement and I must have held it upside down because all of… this… fell out…’
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes. I have no reasoning that sounds anything less than seriously wacko.
This looks bad. This looks really really bad.
Kennedy gently picks up my printouts and places them on the coffee table in neat rows. Photos of Gary, printed out from the internet, his university graduation info, his IMDB page, articles, maps and screenshots of Tori’s social media. Shit. I absolutely look like I’m preparing to murder Gary Montgomery. Like I’m planning to put all these pics and papers and printouts up on a corkboard with some connecting coloured string and words like ‘die!’ and ‘I will soon have my revenge!’ scrawled all over it in blood-red lipstick.
Kennedy clears her throat. ‘I can’t believe I’m asking this, but… is this… is this guy, this soulmate you’re here for… is it, um, is it Gary Montgomery, as in the Gary Montgomery? Like, the star of the biggest movie in the world right now? The guy who looks like a sexier, more dangerous version of Adam Driver? Wow. How on earth did you meet him online
? Wait, did you even meet him online? Why do you have all these unsettling printouts? I have so many questions! Are you here for more nefarious reasons than you led me to believe? And, wait, why is your face so red? I’m so confused. Who are you? Are you even the Nora I know from the Harcourt Royals forums? My god, are you even a Crown Kisser?’
I look down at my flip-flopped feet, which are still puffy from the flight. Winklepuff is gazing up at me with devotion, his belly full of illicit ham.
There’s no backing out of the truth. If I have any chance of not getting kicked out of this house or, worse, ruining my budding friendship with Kennedy forever, I need to come clean about the real reason I’m here.
I take a big breath and muster up every ounce of courage I have.
‘I am Nora Tucker, a true Crown Kisser, a genuine Harcourt Royals s-superfan, Bastian-Esme shipper and I… well, yes I, erm, think my soulmate might be Gary Montgomery. The movie star. He, um, he actually doesn’t know I’m here. And the reason he doesn’t know that is… because we’ve n-never met. Not online, not in real life. He’s never even heard my name. I saw him in a f-film at the cinema a few days ago—’
‘Justice of The Peace?’
‘Yes, Justice of The Peace. And when I saw his face, I just felt the strongest sensation go through my whole body. Like he was the one single person on earth that I was supposed to b-be with.’
‘Ho-lee shit,’ Kennedy breathes. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you do know that pretty much everyone who has seen Justice of The Peace has a huge crush on Gary Montgomery? I mean, he’s no Joseph Gordon-Levitt, but everyone has a thing for him right now.’
‘I don’t think it’s just a crush!’ I protest with a sigh, stepping towards Kennedy and feeling relief when she doesn’t take another fearful step back.
As clearly as I can, I explain to her about how I’ve always believed in soulmates. How my mum and dad were soulmates, how they were so truly, deeply happy because of each other, how they were joyful pretty much every day because they got to hang out together. I tell her that I think my life has a chance to be magical if I could have what Mum and Dad had. I tell her that Imogene thinks that my coming here and getting rejected by Gary is the only way to end this delusion. How she thinks that me feeling a film actor might be my one true love is just an excuse for me to never give anyone else a try, to exist in a state of grief and depression forever and ever until I die surrounded by romance novels and DVDs, literal comfort blankets and the crumbs of too many bags of crisps.
He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner! Page 8