He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner!

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I sit on the sofa and Winklepuff jumps up onto my knees. I scratch behind his ear in his favourite spot and he rewards me with a little kiss on my hand.

  Brandon grabs a couple of beers from the fridge and puts them onto the driftwood coffee table before plucking Winklepuff off my knees and plopping him gently onto the floor.

  ‘So, Nora. Where were we?’ he asks, tilting his head to the side and leaning in to kiss me again.

  I pull back and squint at his face. He is very handsome. Definitely a more traditional-looking romantic lead. I run my hands over his muscled arms and feel a flicker of desire deep inside.

  ‘You want to come to my room?’ he asks.

  I hesitate, Gary’s face flashing through my head, the vision of being in the ocean with him, laughing and splashing each other, my whole body feeling light with joy. And then I think of him being deliriously happy with Tori. How he thinks I’m a Plain Jane Stalker Weirdo.

  Ouch.

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘Yes I do.’

  Brandon scoops me up like some sort of caveman, laughing and audibly grunting with effort as he does, and carries me upstairs to his bedroom.

  The curtains are closed in his room so I can’t really see the décor, although I can see that the room is lined with shelves full of books and his desk is piled high with papers and scribbled notes like my old desk used to be, back when I couldn’t get enough of writing songs. I take a deep breath. It smells lovely and fresh in here. Like sea kelp and almonds.

  Things move quickly and after a millisecond’s more kissing, we drunkenly remove each other’s clothes, dramatically flinging them to various corners of the room, the pair of us panting hard and fast.

  When I am naked, Brandon runs his hand across my belly.

  ‘I’ve never seen one like this before,’ he smiles, poking it slightly. ‘It’s soft. Hmmm. I like it.’

  ‘I like it too,’ I say, lifting my chin.

  I peer at his perfectly sculpted belly. That’s nice too. I run my hands down it. He groans. I look into his eyes. They look horny and very blue and slightly sad. I expect mine look pretty similar.

  I just want to forget this whole day. To escape my heart and my head and just be in my body.

  ‘I think you should take off your trousers,’ I say.

  He agrees.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Gary

  Hey,

  I felt so bad about getting so angry at Tori (even though it was Aileen who announced our ‘engagement’) that when she asked if she could organize an official engagement party, I said yes. It would have happened eventually anyway, right? I mean, it didn’t help that Tori got down on her knees and begged me, sobbing and pleading. What the fuck is a person supposed to do when someone they love is on their knees and begging?

  Ira says I agree to things like this because I need everyone to be happy all of the time. Probably something to do with my dad being in a state of grief my whole life. It can’t be as simple as that, can it? Either way, I now have an engagement party in the works. Tori and Aileen want to invite press and possible sponsor partners for Tori’s Instagram page, which sounds fucking gross and, for some reason, I’m going along with it. Of course I was going to propose to Tori in my own time, but now it’s all become some sort of PR exercise.

  Aileen has always done right by me and I owe Tori everything. I have to suck it up. Seth reckons I need to shut the whole thing down, do things the way I think they ought to be done, but I don’t even know what that is? With this and the stalker, the unending attention from Justice of The Peace, the whole bodyguard thing and the pressure to do a good job on Nightcar, I just don’t want to cause any more shit for myself.

  I spoke to Pops about it and he said that as long I was happy, then he was happy. Am I happy? Can you be happy if you’re not sure you’re happy? I love Tori. She’s good for me. She’s smart and sexy, and isn’t this ambition, this tenacity of hers, one of the things I fell for when we met? Maybe I just need to fucking relax about things for once.

  Anyway, I snuck out to surf this morning, which didn’t clear my head at all but made me feel awesome about the progress I’m making. After that I slipped on my cap and sunglasses because John Alan says I should not leave the house without them and I took the stalker’s glasses back to the Chinese Theater in case she needed them. They were really cool glasses too, like the ones that Esme wears in Harcourt Royals. I handed them in to the theater manager, who then took me to look at my now dried handprints.

  When I reached the cement, I looked real close and, right there, on the edge of the stone, was the slightly blurry imprint of a surprised-looking face. I could barely make it out, but it was there. The ridiculousness of it made me laugh so hard that tears came to my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. The theater manager kept apologizing and saying they could organize to have the stone recast. I said no fucking way. I think every time I want to laugh harder than I ever have done before, all I have to do is walk down to Hollywood Boulevard and spot that odd little face imprint in the cement.

  Aside from the surprisingly cheering faceprint I’m still feeling pretty shitty about the past couple of days, but as Ira says, one can always find three amazing things to be happy for. So here goes.

  That surprised-looking face print in my handprint flagstone. It will make me laugh forever.

  Tori wants live music at the engagement garden party she’s planning so I emailed that awesome Adam Levine tribute singer I met in the Lyft to sing a couple songs. Tori didn’t seem too keen, but kept quiet considering I’m agreeing to every other thing she wants. The singer—Billy Fever—messaged me straight back and said that he would be delighted to perform for us. He was so happy that I had remembered him and said I was his number one fan—in joint place with some other person.

  I’m having a late brunch with Seth and Olive today. Olive keeps telling us about some British food called black pudding, which sounds truly fucking gross. I’m seeing Ira afterwards, so it will be great to talk things through with him. Writing in the journal is helping, but not enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Nora

  Text from Imogene I thought we agreed that you were coming home? Nora! I’m worried about you. Please don’t try to meet Gary Montgomery again. I don’t want you to get into trouble… Ring me! Im.

  I wake up after a terrible and fitful sleep. I open one eye to look at the clock on the wall: 10.30 a.m. Shit. Kennedy is off having her big audition and interview and I didn’t even get up in time to wish her good luck! Damn it. I send a psychic message of good luck across the universe and hope that it reaches her, although, frankly, my belief in the cosmos has been massively eroded over the last twenty-four hours. Stoopid, lying cosmos.

  I sit up, grab a warm bottle of water from the bedside table, down it and thank god that Brandon and I agreed I should go back to my own bed before daybreak. I can’t even begin to imagine the awkwardness of waking up beside him this morning.

  The sex was good. Surprisingly good, actually. Brandon certainly knew what he was doing. It successfully distracted me from the way I feel, at least for a little while and hopefully it did the same for him. But hung-over pillow talk with a one-night stand? A one night stand? No, thank you.

  I pull on my dressing gown and mooch out into the living room, apologising to Winklepuff as I do for getting up so late and leaving him without an early-morning walk.

  As I enter the kitchen to make a cup of tea, I shriek in fright as I bump into a tiny red-haired woman rummaging through the drawers.

  ‘Erin!’ I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest. ‘I didn’t know you were here!’

  ‘Oh hey,’ Kennedy’s work nemesis/ex-hook-up jumps back from the drawer and smiles widely as if she couldn’t be more thrilled to see me. ‘I was just looking for a teaspoon. It’s Nora, right? Kennedy’s little internet friend?’

  ‘Yep.’ I nod, reaching over to pluck a teaspoon from the cutlery caddy on the worktop. I hand
it to Erin, who uses it to stir a cup of tea. ‘Though less of the little. It was a real effort to grow this belly.’ I pat my tummy and Erin laughs out loud, her head thrown back. Huh. It’s been a while since I’ve been brave enough to be myself around strangers, to say what pops into my head without worrying it’s the wrong thing. I think my time in LA has whittled the nerves away without me even realising. I laugh with Erin, noticing as I do that she’s dressed in Kennedy’s blue stripy nightshirt. Well well well. Did she stay over? I thought Kennedy was working on her audition last night? ‘Is Kennedy at the news station already?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, yeah, she left super early to get a blow-out beforehand. Her mom booked her an appointment with some stylist on Rodeo Drive. Anyway, she said I could help myself to tea before I left. I’ve got my audition this afternoon! Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck but… I obviously want Kennedy to get the job!’

  ‘Ha, yes… right! Of course you do.’

  Erin stands there in the doorway of the kitchen as if this is her house and she’s waiting for me to leave. Something about her is definitely a little off…

  ‘Oooookay then,’ I say after it’s clear there is no more small talk to be had. ‘I’m going to get a shower. You can let yourself out, right?’

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah…’ Erin grins, taking a sip of her tea and leaning against the kitchen counter. ‘I’ll see you around, I guess.’

  ‘I’m actually leaving in a few days.’

  ‘Hmmm, that’s good.’

  ‘Good? What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh nothing! Ignore me. I’m still half-asleep.’ She closes her eyes and does a little snore before laughing that over-the-top laugh again, although I’m not sure what’s funny. Shrugging, I head to the shower. By the time I get out, Erin has left.

  After getting dressed in jean shorts and the loosest vest top I’ve packed, a yellow cotton thing that still stretches obscenely across my chest, I smother on a ton of factor 50 sun cream, take some Advil, down a pint of water and pull on my comfy trainers. I head out with Winklepuff and catch the bus down to Marina Del Ray, which Kennedy recommended as one of his favourite places to pee. I’ve brought my notebook and pen because my heart is aching and my brain is jumbled with thoughts, worries and emotions. After yesterday I know that one of the best ways to process it all is to write it down.

  By the time we’ve reached the marina and Winklepuff has done his business, my shower-wet hair has air dried. I twist the long locks and pull them over one shoulder. Then, heading into a dog-friendly café, I order a pot of extra strong coffee and am absolutely delighted to find a full English breakfast with actual black pudding on the menu, rather than all the usual chia seed pudding and egg-white omelettes that are all over Venice Beach.

  After texting back Imogene, reassuring her that I’m okay and that a few more days here won’t make a difference, I eat my breakfast, sharing the bacon and sausage with Winklepuff, who looks like he’s going to shit himself with excitement at these new forbidden flavours. When we’re finished, he licks my knee for three straight minutes as a sloppy, smelly thank you. I am disgusted, but touched. I think I finally get what all the fuss about dogs is. They are super cool.

  Feeling buoyed up by the breakfast and the extra strong coffee, I pop Winklepuff onto my knees, where he curls up for a post-meat snooze, open up my laptop and do a solid hour of prioritised virtual admin tasks, almost bashing my head in with boredom multiple times throughout. When I’m done, I open up my notebook and tentatively start to sketch out more of the lyrics that have been racing non-stop around my head.

  When I’ve finished the first verse of another melancholic song about lost love, I tie Winklepuff’s lead around my wooden chair and head to the loo, my bladder full to the brim with coffee. Once I’ve finished my business, I head out of the cubicle towards a shiny tiled mirror bank, framed with little light bulbs like in an old Hollywood movie. Another woman stands beside me, trying her best to gather her wild curls into a mustard-coloured scrunchy that does not want to hold them. She smiles at me. Her rosy cheeks and amused eyes look slightly familiar.

  ‘My god, it’s so hot,’ she says, fanning her hands in front of her face. ‘I need to put my sweaty hair in a bobble, but there’s too much of it! For Fleperty’s sake!’

  ‘Oh! You’re British!’ I exclaim. ‘Me too. You’re the first Brit I’ve met out here.’

  ‘Hey, wow! You’re northern, right? Where are you from?’

  ‘A little village outside of Sheffield,’ I say.

  ‘A little village outside of Manchester!’ she counters happily.

  ‘I’m Nora,’ I say, slightly waving at her.

  ‘I’m Olive. Olive Brewster.’ She waves back, giving up with the bobble and shoving it in the pink bumbag slung around her waist. ‘I’ve been here in the US for two years, usually in New York, but I’ve come to visit a friend in LA with my boyfriend. Was gagging for an English breakfast, which is why we came here. I properly miss England.’

  ‘That was a fine breakfast, right?’ I say. ‘I had a hangover and that black pudding fixed me.’

  ‘Same here! The guys I’m here with think the whole concept of black pudding is disgusting,’ she tilts her head towards the door. ‘But they’re just dumb Americans who know nothing.’

  I laugh and re-twist my hair over my shoulder in the mirror.

  ‘I saw you scribbling away out there with your dog,’ Olive continues. ‘Do you want to join our gang? We’re having a little hair of the dog. Would be brill to have another Brit at the table, even things out a bit.’

  Ordinarily I would decline an invitation from a complete stranger to dine with her and her ‘gang’, much preferring to be on my own, but as I noted this morning, my usual nerves with new people have softened considerably since I’ve been in LA. In fact, I might even be starting to enjoy it.

  ‘Yes please,’ I grin. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Hoorah! We’re sitting on the other side of the place from you,’ she tells me as we leave the bathroom.

  I untie Winklepuff from the table leg, grab my stuff and follow Olive over to a table where two men are sitting next to each other wearing baseball caps and sunglasses. Oh. These guys look like a pair of chumps. Olive seemed so cool too! Who even wears sunglasses inside?

  ‘Hey, you two turds!’ Olive says to the two guys. ‘I found another Brit in the loos. She’s from a village not too far away from me and I like her. So she is going to join us for Bloody Marys.’ She turns to me. ‘Nora, this is Seth, love of my life, and Gary. Guys, this is Nora.’

  ‘Hey! Welcome,’ Seth says warmly, taking off his sunglasses and looking much less of a douchebag for doing so. He flashes Olive the smile of a man completely obsessed by her. She gazes back at him with total heart eyes. That’s how Mum and Dad used to look at each other. I get a pang in my chest and look away.

  The other guy takes off his sunglasses, giving me a friendly wave and a warm smile. It takes me about five whole chaotic seconds to realise that the man smiling at me is Gary Montgomery.

  Oh my god.

  He tells me to take a seat.

  Oh my god.

  My mouth opens and closes a few times before I plonk myself down in the booth next to Olive. Does Gary not recognise me from yesterday at the Chinese Theatre? He is giving me a curious look as if maybe he recognises me, but it doesn’t seem to be angry in any way. I wait for him to point at me and declare ‘You’re the Plain Jane stalker who’s been trying to attack me!’

  He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t seem to have a clue who I am.

  Olive catches me staring and bounces her hand at her forehead. ‘Shit. I keep forgetting you’re super famous,’ she says to Gary. She turns to me and laughs. ‘Sorry! I should have warned you in the toilets. It’s always a shock for people to see him in real life. I remember when beloved pop icon Beyoncé was the musical guest on our show – I work at Sunday Night Live with Seth – and I almost vommed on her shoes, I was so taken aback. These two are total g
oons, so no need to feel weird or shy.’

  I look closer at Seth and recognise him from YouTube clips of the legendary New York comedy show.

  ‘Wow,’ is about all I can get out. My eyes cautiously flick back to Gary and I’m pretty sure my face has gone bright red. I can feel my cheeks buzzing. My breath feels so heavy that I’m sure everyone in the café can hear me panting. This is how I felt the first time I saw him at the cinema. But I was in a dark room then. I could disguise it. Holy shit!

  ‘You all right?’ Olive giggles, pouring Bloody Mary from a jug into a glass and sliding it over to me.

  I nod quickly. ‘Mmhhhm,’ I say because my brain doesn’t seem to want to form full sentences.

  ‘A few years ago, I saw Robert De Niro in Zabar’s,’ Seth says. ‘I approached him and before I could stop myself, I found myself inviting him out for a drink. He said, polite as can be, “No thanks, pal.” I was mortified. I don’t know what possessed me.’

  ‘Who’s this fella?’ Gary asks me, bending down to tickle Winklepuff’s head, who returns the affection with a single lick of Gary’s hand.

  ‘T-th-this…’ I clear my throat, willing myself to pull my shit together and not completely freak out. ‘This is Winklepuff. I’m staying with friends for a couple of weeks and helping to look after him.’

  ‘He’s nice,’ Gary says casually as if he isn’t Gary Montgomery and this is all completely normal. ‘He’s a cool dog, I can tell.’

  The urge to stroke Gary’s face, to tell him what I feel about him, to ask if we could just leave here and spoon each other for the rest of the night is strong. Dangerously strong. Shit. I know now that this is just a weird infatuation that I’m going to have to figure out in therapy when I get home, but, my god, it feels so real.

  I realise that everyone is waiting for me to say something else, because that’s how conversation works between normal people. But my brain seems to be malfunctioning. I don’t know what to say. Say something, Nora!