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

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I spent two months hoping that he would contact me, since he was no longer engaged. At the very least I wanted to properly explain myself, to apologise for upending his life the way I did. But he didn’t call me. Of course he bloody didn’t. And the more time went on, I realised that he never would. How could he? The disaster at his engagement garden party was widely reported and incredibly embarrassing for everyone involved. Being seen with me, his stalker, would ruin the amazing career he had started to build. We lived on different continents and the fact is that he would probably always be nervous around me. Wondering if I was secretly planning to cut his hair off while he was sleeping, or set up spy cameras in the bathroom so I could watch him pee or other weird shit that film star stalkers fantasise about. I got why he didn’t call. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean it won’t always hurt. But I’ll always have the memory of that one perfect day I spent with him. I’ll carry that day with me for as long as I’m breathing.

  Reaching the hotel, I run up the stairs and dive into the lift, zooming up to my room on the fifth floor. As I open the door, I giggle to myself once more at the sight of the gorgeously glam ball gown hanging up on the wardrobe door. With its pale blue, slightly booby lace top and massive taffeta skirt embroidered with silver thread, it’s like something out of a modern-day fairy tale or, say, a really cool romance novel.

  I shower quickly, blow-drying my hair as best I can so it lies smooth and glossy over my shoulders. I open the large cardboard box Kennedy had couriered over to my hotel this morning and laugh excitedly at the sight of the shiny gold plastic crown, dotted with fake but dazzling jewels.

  I grab the stack of books I’m intending to get signed and head back downstairs.

  My god, I cannot wait to see Kennedy again.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Nora

  Text from Kennedy: I’ll meet you at the hotel bar. Don’t forget your crown! Crown Kissers in da house! Kennedy x

  I smile widely as I spot tons of people dressed as Harcourt Royals characters, meandering around the hotel lobby. Everyone nods at each other as if we’re in on some amazing secret, which, I suppose, we are.

  My heart flips with excitement at the thought of seeing Kennedy. We’ve been in pretty close touch since I got back. Within a week of me leaving, she had used her ‘wildly impressive journalistic skills’ to find out that Erin was the one who had spilled the story to TMZ. Apparently, she’d been moonlighting for a few gossip blogs as a way to make some extra money while trying to become a serious news anchor. Kennedy felt awful because after they’d slept together she’d had a couple of glasses of wine and tipsily told Erin all the details about my trip, swearing her to absolute secrecy. Later that night, while I was in bed with Brandon and Kennedy was fast asleep in her room, Erin wandered into my sleeping area and saw the Creepy As Fuck Soulmate Procurement Wall. She snapped pictures, wrote it up and tried to sell the story to KLCLA in exchange for the junior anchor position. Because they had a big interview with Gary Montgomery set up for a few weeks’ time, and were unimpressed with her lack of loyalty to Kennedy, they didn’t want it. Right after she found out that Kennedy had gotten the anchor position, Erin went straight to the editor at TMZ and sold it to them. Kennedy told KLCLA that Erin had been moonlighting, which was strictly against the rules of the network. She was fired from KLCLA and is now working as a full-time gossip blogger, which, according to Kennedy’s intel, she despises because it’s not the highbrow news career she was so sure she deserved.

  I’ve missed Kennedy so much, but with our regular FaceTime sessions and getting to see her news reports online have kept me ticking over. I saw Brandon a few times in the background of her videos, which was more than a little awkward, having to pretend to be interested in saying hi to him. According to Kennedy, he’s still not having much luck with women or his screenplay. I hope he figures it out.

  I wait at the bar as promised, peering happily at all the fellow book geeks and their over-the-top costumes, when I hear an unmistakeable screech of joy.

  ‘Noooooorrrraaaa!’

  I spin around to find Kennedy running towards me, Winklepuff in her arms, his tongue poking out. He spots me and starts to do his little yelps. I suspect that the only reason he is excited to see me is because I am the ham lady. I pull a piece out of my handbag and feed it to him before gathering them both into a hug.

  ‘I missed you, buddy!’ I laugh as Winklepuff gobbles the ham up and snorts with joy.

  ‘Hey, what about me?’ Kennedy laughs.

  ‘I suppose I missed you too.’ I shrug with a wide grin. I notice Kennedy’s everyday green and white floral dress and bright white sneakers. ‘Oi, you’re not in costume!’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I, uh, spilled coffee on it!”

  ‘You don’t drink coffee.’

  ‘I meant chamomile tea!’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘Oh look, everyone’s going in,’ Kennedy says excitedly, pointing towards a stream of Harcourt Royals fans making their way into the hotel conference room. There’s a huge banner overhead that reads ‘The Inaugural Crown Kissers Con’.

  We follow in behind the crowd to find that the boring old hotel conference space has been transformed into a fancy palace ballroom. It’s all decorated with heavy red curtains, gold ornate chairs and long tables covered with white tablecloths. There are hundreds of twinkling fairy lights strung across the ceiling and flickering candles on every table. It’s magical! This is exactly what I imagined Princess Esme’s ballroom to look like!

  I clasp Kennedy’s shoulder in glee.

  She looks back at me, her eyes shining. ‘Very cool,’ she says, nodding approvingly. Cheesy 90’s pop songs – Bastian’s favourite musical genre – blast through the speakers as attendees wander around the room, their faces full of delight, looking at the giant cardboard posters of every Harcourt Royals book cover. On one side of the room, there’s a long buffet table filled with cucumber sandwiches, cream scones and pots of tea.

  ‘I cannot believe we’re about to meet CJ West in real life!’ I squeal.

  Kennedy laughs and ruffles Winklepuff’s head. ‘It’s pretty fucking insane.’

  A small, nerdy-looking woman on the stage, dressed as Bastian’s pet goldfish Frankie, taps a microphone and clears her throat, before asking if the music can be turned down.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the woman says. ‘And welcome to the first ever Crown Kissers Con!’

  A cheer goes up around the room. I whoop and Kennedy whistles loudly.

  ‘The members of the Crown Kissers forum and Facebook Fan Group pretty much forced CJ West into doing this today,’ the woman continues. ‘She’s brought so much joy and laughter to all of us and we thought it was about time we got to say thank you in real life. It is my absolute pleasure to welcome her to London for this – the first of what I hope will be an annual Harcourt Royals fan event. And so, without any further ado, I welcome to the stage… CJ WEST!’

  I clap and cheer and look around the room for the first sighting of the secretive author who has made every person in this room laugh and cry and swoon with her campy, kitschy stories. Kennedy plops Winklepuff down onto the floor, hands me his lead and starts walking across the room towards the woman with the microphone. Huh? Where the hell is she going?

  ‘Kennedy!’ I call out after her, but my voice is drowned out by the sound of applause. When she reaches the tiny woman, she takes the microphone from her and turns to face the crowd, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

  What the hell? I look around in confusion. Why is Kennedy… Oh SHIT. NO… no, it can’t be!

  Kennedy clears her throat. ‘It’s my true honour to be here today.’

  The whole room bursts into cheers.

  Holy shit. Kennedy, my Kennedy, is CJ West? How? Why didn’t she tell me? How did I not know this? What the hell!

  I burst into shocked laughter, a hand covering my mouth, as Kennedy speaks to the room, her head held high, warm confidence in her voice.

&
nbsp; ‘I wasn’t going to come,’ Kennedy tells the room. ‘In fact, it was my plan to never ever let anyone know that I am the writer behind these books. The reason for that? Well, I’ve grown up with parents who expected me to be someone else. Who desperately wanted me to achieve the things that they had wanted for themselves. They wanted me to write serious news stories, to be the next Kate Couric, if you will. But all I ever wanted to do, ever since I was twelve years old and reading Sweet Valley High books beneath the covers in my room, was write love stories, stories full of fun and laughter and friendship and joy.’

  She gives me a pointed look.

  I shake my head in amazement. Kennedy? KENNEDY?

  ‘I was lucky enough to get the most amazing job as a junior news anchor,’ Kennedy continues. ‘And I took it. I thought that once I did what my parents wanted for me that I’d feel satisfied somehow. That I wouldn’t feel the need to keep scribbling about Esme and Bastian every spare chance I got. But being a news anchor isn’t going to satisfy me. I know that now. The only thing that really satisfies me is writing these stories and sharing them with you guys.’

  Another cheer goes around the room.

  I look around at all these people staring at my friend Kennedy with adoration. Pride blooms in my chest.

  ‘For a long time, I was way too scared to tell anyone about my secret identity as a romance author,’ Kennedy says. ‘I was afraid I’d lose my job at the news station, that my peers would scoff at me. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to make it into a sustainable career. But then, this past summer, I was visited at my house in LA by a fellow Crown Kisser…’

  Oh! That’s me! She’s talking about me!

  ‘And, you know, she taught me something important. She taught me that sometimes you have to just fucking do what you want. What you think is right. No matter how many people laugh at you, no matter how hard it might be, no matter if it all goes seriously, seriously wrong. If you believe in it enough, then you have to try. Because, as she told me time and again, fate loves the fearless.’

  My eyes well up. I press a hand to my chest. Kennedy. My best friend. My favourite author.

  Kennedy sniffs a little, tears brimming in her eyes too.

  ‘Yesterday I quit my job,’ she reveals, putting her hands onto her hips in a sort of Wonder Woman stance. ‘And today I’m officially coming out to the world as the author of the Harcourt Royals series, CJ West!’

  The crowd goes crazy. I hear a woman to my left, who is, like me, dressed as Princess Esme, yell, ‘Ohmigod, she’s amaaaaaazing!’ People are snapping pictures and whistling and cheering out loud. This is nuts!

  I applaud with the rest of the room and before Kennedy has even fully gotten down from the stage, I pick up Winklepuff, run over to her in my big heavy ball gown and gather her into a hug.

  ‘You shit!’ I laugh. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Oh my god. I wondered how you seemed to know so much more about the books than I did! I’m in shock!’

  ‘I was going to!’ Kennedy holds her hands up. ‘I swear I was. But then you spilled to Erin about my goose and cat story on that night out and I was worried you’d somehow let it slip to someone. And, you know, I wasn’t ready for it to get out.’

  ‘Hmmm. Probably for the best.’ I nod, thinking about how my behaviour in LA wasn’t exactly the most reliable behaviour of all time. ‘Wow. We have even more to chat about now! I have a shit-ton of questions.’

  ‘And I am going to answer every one of them proudly. I have so much to tell you! I meant what I said up there. You really did inspire me to go all in, Nora.’

  Happiness and pride spread throughout my body, warming every muscle. ‘I’m so, so glad.’ I point over at the rapidly forming queue of people waiting at a table stacked with special edition Harcourt Royals books to be signed. ‘Your fans await, Ms West. Hey,’ I quip. ‘Maybe one of them is your soulmate. Ooh maybe one them has a Creepy As Fuck Soulmate Procurement Wall at home with your face on it.’

  ‘Here’s hoping,’ Kennedy giggles, giving me a quick tight hug and then straightening my crown before skipping off to her queue of adoring readers.

  The 90’s pop tunes kick back in with the Christina Aguilera’s classic ‘Genie in A Bottle’. Shaking my head in disbelief at this most brilliant turn of events, I look around for someone to talk to. The familiar nerves and desire to hide out flare, as I expect they always will do, but Dr Hark said the best thing for me to do was practise and throw myself into as many daunting situations as possible. To, as Kennedy says, go all in and exude confidence even if I don’t fully feel it. So I lift my chin, take a deep steadying breath and, pulling Winklepuff’s lead, approach a group of five or six Harcourt Royals fans chatting by one of the candlelit tables.

  ‘Hallo there!’ I say cheerfully. Hallo there? What am I? An Enid Blyton character?

  ‘Um, hey girl!’ one of the women, who is dressed as Leah Plumbow Cavendish the sexy nineteen-year-old Marchioness of Dothberry, responds with a little wave. There’s another Princess Esme here, along with two Queen Evangelines, two guys dressed as Bastian’s sexy but evil twin brother Raphael and an older woman dolled up as Courtney Bucket, the sexy power-suited manager of Dreamy Dix strip club where Bastian works. ‘Your dress is amazing!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile, brushing my hands over the ridiculously puffy skirt. ‘This skirt is so gigantic, though. I did not think through how I’m going to navigate the loo in it!’

  The group laughs and one of the Queen Evangelines looks down at her own gigantic dress and scrunches up her face. ‘It is ze same with me,’ she says, in a French accent. ‘If you help me, I’ll help you.’

  ‘I want in on this,’ says the other Princess Esme. ‘It’s like wearing my wedding dress all over again. I’ll definitely need help.’

  ‘We can all help each other. Team Toilet Rescue,’ I say, which makes a couple of them titter.

  Check me out. Holding court with strangers, admittedly they are all very lovely book geeks like me, but still. I came over here on my own. I’m living in the world, having conversations, not hiding in my house behind a fairy tale, fantasising about a future I was never willing to go out and get. Dr Hark and Imogene would be proud of me. Hell, I’m proud of me!

  When the group decide it’s a good time to join the book-signing line, I lead a bored-looking Winklepuff over to the buffet table. ‘Let me get a cup of tea,’ I tell him. ‘And then we’ll sit down and you can have some more premium ham. It’s Ocado Gold ham you, know. It’s proper fancy stuff. Only the best for my best buddy.’

  Winklepuff sits obediently at the word ham and I laugh, shaking my head at how much I missed this bloody dog.

  Grabbing a golden paper plate from the table, I stack a couple of cucumber sandwiches and a French Fancy cake atop it. I ponder the rest of the food, not quite sure whether I should add a scone too. Hmmm.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I say to myself eventually, grabbing a big jam and cream topped scone and adding it to my plate. ‘Life is too short, eh, Winklepuff?’

  I’m enjoying a rather hefty mouthful of cake when Winklepuff starts to yelp enthusiastically and then I hear the husky Texan-twanged voice I’ve thought about every single day and night for the last four months. The voice I didn’t think I would ever hear in real life again.

  ‘Nora.’

  I breathe in sharply, every hair on my body standing on end.

  My breath catches in my throat. I turn around slowly, my gob full of French Fancy, to see Gary dressed as Bastian from Harcourt Royals and looking absolutely, utterly ridiculous. He’s wearing an obscenely clingy white T-shirt, the tightest leather pants I’ve ever seen and a low-slung baseball cap that says ‘I Heart Sea Life!’. Outside of the costume he looks great, his skin tanned and clear, his face a little bit fuller than it was in Los Angeles, his eyes clear and shining. He is heart-stopping and now that he is in front of me, I realise that four months has done not one jot to diminish the way I feel about him.

  I quickly chew and swallow the
rest of the French Fancy before I choke on it. Then I look around furtively for any signs of John Alan in case Gary has rethought his decision not to press charges for my bonkers behaviour. No sign of John Alan. Phew.

  Winklepuff starts to climb up Gary’s leg.

  ‘Oi! Heel!’ I scold, but Gary picks the dog up and holds him adorably to his chest, which doesn’t help the desirous pounding in my chest.

  ‘I remember you,’ Gary says with narrowed eyes. Winklepuff licks his cheek frantically, causing Gary to pull away at the smell of his breath. ‘Oh no,’ he cries, plopping Winklepuff back onto the floor and laughing, his eyes wide in horror at the stench.

  ‘We have the same dentist,’ I deadpan, which makes absolutely no sense. It’s like I’m actively trying to get him to find me disgusting.

  Gary raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

  ‘Not really,’ I say quickly. ‘I actually have good breath, I think. I use a water flosser and extra-strength medicated mouthwash. My dentist says I have the gums of an eighteen-year-old so…’

  Shut up, Nora. Shut up!

  Gary starts to laugh out loud. I’m not quite sure why he’s laughing, but the relief of him not looking disgusted or angry at me and the shock of him being here makes me join in. We stand there for a few seconds just laughing hysterically for no tangible reason.

  What the fuck is Gary Montgomery – who I have tried and failed not to miss with every inch of my body for the last four months – doing in London, dressed as Bastian the marine biology-loving stripper?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I eventually manage to get out, wiping the tears from my face and realising that my carefully applied mascara is now likely streaked across my cheeks Alice Cooper style.