by Alam, Donna
‘It is what it is, my friend.’
‘Bullshit is what it is. Go see my girl. Bring her the bad news in person then tell her how you’re gonna fix that shit.’
‘Not gonna lie. I’m probably the last man on earth she’d like to see.’
‘Then the bad news you’ll be bringing won’t make much difference.’
God, if you’re listening, let my guys win.
Chapter 30
Ivy
‘Let me introduce our next guest, the star of the upcoming film, Metropolis, Dylan Duffy!’
Whoops and applause precede Dylan’s entrance as he steps through a garish beaded curtain, twinkling under the studio lights. Andrew Broughton, the slightly built and overly camp chat show host, springs from a bright red retro swivel chair to be enveloped into a tight, manly embrace. I expect he’s died and gone to little gay heaven at the mere whiff of Dylan’s aftershave.
The audience’s appreciation continues as Dylan pulls back with a million-dollar smile spread wide across his handsome face.
‘That’s quite a welcome.’ Another round of applause greets Dylan’s rumbling response as he lowers himself onto a gaudy purple sofa.
‘I see you brought one or two people along with. Do you always travel with the fam?’ The presenter titters, covering his mouth with the tips of his fingers as though he’s said something scandalous.
‘Yeah, something like that.’ Dylan smiles shyly then waves in the audience direction. ‘Auntie Ann, keep the appreciation down, would ya? It’s kind of embarrassing.’
I’m pretty sure Dylan doesn’t have an Auntie Ann.
‘Y’reckon they know each other?’ Natasha asks without turning her head.
I don’t answer much beyond a shrug. Much like hers, my eyes are glued to Dylan. Dressed in a deep blue suit, he crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, a picture of manly ease and confidence. Most men look fine in a suit, but Dylan wears the shit out of his.
‘Are all famous people like that? All lovey-darling and insta-mates?’ In the periphery of my vision, I can see she’s turned her head along with her question. But from my position on the other end of the sofa, I don’t answer. I just shovel another forkful of Thai noodles into my mouth.
‘Like what?’ I mumble in answer, when it’s clear she’s waiting. The chants and whistles from the audience begin to settle, the pair on screen settling down for their interview. His hair is longer, and he hasn’t shaved. Across from me yet four hundred miles away, Dylan spreads his arms across the back of the sofa like he owns the place. Like he’s a goddamn movie star.
My heart. It’s pained.
‘Y’ken that Andrew Broughton’s gay?’
‘I do.’ Beyond his trademark pink suit, he’s often pap’d with his boyfriend and shitzu. Those two are a bit of a giveaway.
‘And what d’you think?’
‘I think what he gets up to, or whatever gets up him, is his own business.’
Nat snorts. ‘For you, that was almost funny. I meant in relation to dickalicious there.’
‘I really wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
‘So I should stick to the mighty aubergine on account of—’
‘You know what? Dickalicious is just fine.’
‘And to think, you could have gone down there and had a wee keek yourself.’
‘Yes because little Vlad here would look good in a catsuit.’ Over her own bowl of noodles, Nat frowns. ‘You know, breaking and entering? Sneaking into his room?’
Because as it turned out, I wasn’t brave enough to turn up on his hotel this weekend. I doubt I’d have gotten past his security detail anyway.
‘So,’ Andrew B begins, turning my and Nat’s attention back to the screen, ‘the upcoming remake of an oldie. Metropolis was originally released in 1927; a German film, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was released in the Weimar period and so ahead of its time, as far as futuristic film goes.’
‘An urban dystopia,’ Andrew B reads from a card in his lap. ‘And the love of a sexy robot.’ His shoulders are almost at his ears as he adds, ‘Sounds like fifty shades of tin!’ Dylan laughs and begins his denials, cut off by the presenter again. ‘Dylan Duffy, we see you’ve become a teensy bit of an enfant terrible gone good these days.’ He holds his thumb and index finger together in some semblance of measurement. ‘Just a teensy bit, I think?’
‘Well, I . . .’ As though lost for an answer, Dylan slides a hand through his thick hair. As a distraction, it works well on me. Reminds me of my husband, not the man responsible for little Vlad. The one who’d open doors for me, the one I’d laughed with, danced with, drank with.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ His answer is part tease, part sexy smile.
Cue the exhale of sighs and quivering ovaries because the audience is probably ninety-nine percent women and one percent men. Gay men.
‘Elaborate a little, shall I?’ Andrew B almost claps with glee. ‘Bon enfant, Dylan,’ he says, addressing a crowd, ‘has found himself the love of a good woman, hasn’t he?’ My Thai noodles turn to snakes in my stomach, slithering and cold. ‘Do we hear the tinkle of wedding bells?’
‘The fuckin’ beard,’ Nat grumbles.
‘If you’re hearing bells, I think you might’ve bumped your head.’ All drawling words and twinkling eyes, Dylan leans over and rubs the back of the much smaller man’s head, studiously avoiding his bald spot.
‘Look, he’s droolin’. Reckon he’s imagining him rubbing his other little head,’ scoffs Nat. ‘If that piece of man-meat was gon’nae go gay, it wouldn’t be for a twerp in a tartan three-piece suit, that’s for sure! He looks like he’s wearing a pair of curtains nicked from a hunting lodge—and bald men should never wear turtlenecks! He looks like a wee roll-on deodorant!’
‘When have you ever visited a hunting lodge?’
‘The point’s irrelevant. Watch your man.’ She points back at the TV screen with her fork, unaware how much of my man he really once was.
‘It wasn’t too long ago you were all for telling anyone who’d listen that Dylan Duffy was gay. And come to think if it, a few seconds ago, you called his potential fiancée a beard!’
She shrugs, entirely unconcerned. ‘She is a beard, just maybe not in the pretend to be straight sense. I think she’s a studio plant.’
‘I can get with that.’ A Venus flytrap.
‘Really?’ Grabbing the remote from the cushion between us, she pauses the show with Dylan frozen in a moment of confident repose. Putting down her bowl, she turns bodily to face me, cross-legged. ‘You think he’s bisexual, too, don’t you?’
‘No.’ The word is expelled on the breath of a sigh. ‘He’s just really good at getting people to do what he wants.’
Chapter 31
Dylan
I’m just going to do it—going to rip off that Band-Aid.
There’s no easy way to say this, Ivy . . . Yeah, sure, you’re surprised to see me here. No, I know you’re not pleased but put down the scissors—I can explain.
Note to self: make sure Ivy’s nowhere near sharp implements before beginning this discussion.
‘I’m so screwed,’ I say to the empty rental, slotting the key into the ignition of the pristine though basic car. I suppose this is what happens when you don’t call ahead or ask your assistant to book you some decent wheels. Yeah, I have an assistant now. I couldn’t afford to do that in this instance because questions would be asked. Questions I’ve no intentions of flagging, much less answering. I’ve just switched off my phone and slipped quietly away, but while a bad-boy image may sell movies, it’ll only get me so far in real life. Especially if I start pissing off the wrong people—specifically my new management—because then I’ll be fucked. Bye-bye movies. So long career. But I figure I’m good for a day—it’s not like I’m in the middle of filming. I’m due on location in a few days, so I should be okay for one fuckin’ day. I hope.
At least, they had a full size available, I thi
nk, as I less-than-smoothly pull away from the curb.
Christ, she’s gonna hate me. Or hate me even more, if that’s even possible. And it’s not like I haven’t given her plenty of cause. But this is something I need to do for both our sakes.
But I was such a prick to her.
I’ve just got to do it like the ad says. Man up and tell her before the whole world she’s built comes tumbling to the ground.
How about I start with . . . Ivy, baby.
Nah, that’s a pretty shite start. And one that might earn me a swift kick in the nuts.
I need to start honestly.
Cutz, I’m so sorry, but video footage of us fucking is about to be leaked to the internet . . .
I can’t say that because it’s not true. The footage won’t be leaked—it’ll be available on pay-per-view. But at least her family won’t stumble across it accidentally, I suppose.
Ivy, I’m sorry, and I don’t know where to start. The thing is someone stole something from me. Something precious to me. Something that involves you. Something of a very personal nature.
Fuck it—I’ll just say it. I have to.
‘I’ve been hacked, Ivy,’ I say aloud to the car. ‘No—robbed. Someone had access to our videos. Our fucking videos . . . yeah, our fucking videos. It’ll go live with a porn network if I can’t get it stopped, and I’m worried my legal team is gonna fail.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to do other than to say I had to come tell you in person. To assure you this wasn’t my idea or plan. Not this time.’
And this time, the clip will show your face alongside mine even if that’s not what they’re really paying to see. But if the rumours are true . . .
Is it really him?
Is his dick really that big?
I blow out a long and hard breath as I slide the steering wheel through my fingers, the navigation system directing me to make the next left.
This is going to break her. And I don’t want that. Not anymore.
I’ve only my stupidity to blame.
‘Trust the wrong fucking people,’ I mumble, unfolding myself from the car. I slam the door with a muffled thunk, point the fob to engage the lock, and pull down the bill of my ball cap. It’s not much of a disguise, but it served on the plane up from London. Flying from the States to Heathrow was easy to do incognito because first class offers privacy and cabin mates who either don’t give a fuck who you are or else feign not to. However, making my way through the airport in London was another thing. But they have security and spaces VIPs can slip through, and I never do the sunglasses thing in public areas because you’re just asking people to stare. Besides, wearing sunglasses indoors is a sure sign of a person being an asshole.
So I’ve gone AWOL, but it’s not like they won’t know where I’ve gone thanks to the internet. They’ll know I arrived in London at least, but the rest? I was pretty sneaky, even beyond the cap pulled low and the laying on thick of my grandmother’s accent. I’d boarded my second plane to Edinburgh without so much as a second glance, scoring again at the rental desk with my disguise; I guess the old guy working there isn’t a fan of my work and didn’t pay attention to the name on my credit card.
The sidewalk . . . pavement . . . is peppered with wet leaves forced to the ground in the latest Scottish summer downfall. As I cross the road to Ivy’s salon, I’m struck by how much she has achieved since leaving me.
Leaving us.
I push the door open, and a bell jingles above my head. Despite the apparent stylishness of the space, the bell is pure mom and pop store. And strangely enough, that’s who it looks like is watching the storefront. Did Ivy ever mention a grandma? Hadn’t she passed?
‘Hi—excuse me.’ A pink twinset and neat, white curls. Is that a purple stripe in the bangs? ‘Is Ivy available?’
‘Who will I say is calling?’ She returns with a polite smile.
‘That’s . . . that’s . . . he’s . . .’ From behind the counter and farther into the salon, a guy with a beard points a pair of scissors my way. There’s a kid in the chair in front of him; a boy of maybe eight or nine, and a teenage girl with a sweeping brush in her hand.
‘Spit it out, dear.’
The old lady tsks, her powdered brow furrowing in annoyance. It quickly clears as she turns back to me. ‘If I’d known the boy had a speech impediment, I would’ve advised Ivy no’ to employ him.’ I breathe out, relief, I think, when she mentions Ivy. I’m in the right place, at least. Her place. If I’d tried to imagine a space designed by Ivy, this would be it. It’s stylish, without being pretentious, and full of warmth. It’s . . . authentic. Authentic? What the fuck. I’ve been living in L.A. too long.
The old lady harrumphs in the direction of said boy, though judging by his sizeable beard, I’d say he’s anything but. But I’m not here to discuss him. And strangely, somewhere in this exchange, she must’ve held out her hand, and I must’ve taken it. Because why else would she be still holding it and patting it as she speaks?
‘Still, it’s good to help those less able, isn’t it, deary?’
I nod along with her sentiments; meanwhile, the guy holding the scissors, and if I’m not mistaken, a large chunk of the kid’s hair, is still trying to say what I’ve no time to hear. And the teenager? I’m gonna say the pot she’s been smokin’ is good because she’s just swept a pile of nothing through a door at the back of the room. Ignored by my demographic. My people would have a fit.
‘That’s . . . that’s . . . ’
Doubly annoyed, she turns her head again. ‘Ocht, get it out; I’ve got a business to run. Can you no’ see?’ She turns, smiling conspiratorially. ‘My goodness, it’s like managing care in the community.’
‘I-I-don’tbelieveit!’ he says his words falling in a rush. ‘I can see DylanDeliciousDuffy!’ His hands fall to the back of the chair, his shoulders in a sudden slump, as if it’s a relief to have the words finally out.
For once, I’m unconcerned. He might have outed me, but the kid in the chair hardly falls into my demographic and is more interested in his game. I’m pretty sure I can manage one man and one old lady. A few words. Maybe an autograph and a photograph or two? Unconcerned and in a hurry, I open my mouth to speak, beaten to it by the old dear.
‘Dylan Duffy?’ She says my name in that melodic way that Ivy has, and a beat later, her grip tightens on my hand. ‘Oh!’ She releases it just as quick, clapping both palms to her mouth, though not before she exclaims, ‘I’ve seen your boabie!’
‘I’m sorry?’ I bend a little closer, not truly sure what I’ve heard. I have the accent, sure, but it’s Scots-lite. I’ve been out of Scotland so long, I’m out of touch. ‘You’ve seen my what?’ I’m unfamiliar with the word, though I thought I’d heard plenty of slang and colloquial turns of phrase. Even the more risqué and sometimes hilarious stuff. All the kinds of things I’d persuade Ivy to repeat.
Boabie? Is that some kind of scone?
Granny doesn’t respond beyond a girlish titter. Unable to hold my gaze for more than a second or two now, she flicks her eyes to mine before darting her gaze quickly away.
‘You never have!’ the beard announces, flouncing across the room to hook his arm through hers. He sounds scandalised. Or maybe more salacious—it’s kinda hard to tell, and I don’t have the bandwidth right now. The nuances of a language are proving hard to read. His expression, though, that I read. Drool city.
‘Bo—’ I begin to ask again before shaking my head and the enquiry away. ‘Ivy,’ I repeat again. ‘Is she here?’
‘She is not, dear,’ the old lady answers. How come her cheeks are so pink?
‘Any idea where I can find her, darlin’?’
It’s not often I dig out my sexy drawl for anyone over the age of forty. Seems old chicks dig it, too, because it seems to have the desired effect. Desire being the operative word. There’s life in this old dear yet. Her eyes are all a flutter as she presses her hands to her chest.
‘Weel . . .’. She
draws the word out until it resembles anything but well as she narrows her gaze. Maybe I’m not quite as irresistible as I’d thought.
‘Go on—she’ll no’ be annoyed,’ Beard-boy exclaims, turning ally. Excitable, drooling ally. ‘At least, I wouldn’t. You can come for me suddenly, any day of the week. And I mean that . . . literally.’ Is he winking at me or fluttering his lids?
Either way, I’m being hit on . . .
I’ll take it if it’ll help.
‘Sure. I’ll make a note of that.’ I shoot him the same smile I used on the granny, though to a greater effect. Fuck, don’t swoon, man.
‘Aye, you do. If you’re ever headin’ the gay way, gimme a shout.’
‘Get away with you!’ the old lady chastises, smacking his arm.
‘I was just sayin’,’ I think he responds. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell.’ His eyes flick over me again. At least, I understand the look. The words, not so much, as his mouth turns up in one corner and he shrugs. ‘Shame.’
‘I’ll thank you to mind your neb,’ the old biddy responds, tapping her nose.
‘Ivy,’ I repeat, hoping to redirect their attention from what looks like the beginnings of a squabble. ‘I’ve come an awful long way to see her. All the way from LA.’
‘Go on,’ Beard-boy cajoles, but her expression just pinches further.
Fuck. It’s not a good sign as she straightens, pulling her arm from him and the edges of her cardigan closer across her thin chest.
‘If you’re here to upset her—’
‘Why would you think that?’ Smile, Dylan. Don’t be the asshole she can sense you are.
‘She was in an awful state after her last trip back to that place, not to mention—’ Whatever she was about to say is forced back by pursed lips. ‘Aye, well, least said soonest mended is all I’ll say about that. I’ll no’ have anyone upset her again. Not in her con—’
‘Current state of mind!’ the beard cuts in.
‘Yes, her current state of . . . of mind,’ she repeats, her gaze seeming to weigh me.
I frown, trying to make sense of what the hell’s going on here before pushing it away. We’re going around in circles. I’ll be here for a fortnight at this rate.