by Alexis Hall
“What would you want to be asked?”
“Oh, anything that doesn’t secretly want to be ‘what happened to your penis?’ The same questions every other actor gets. I suppose I just want to talk about my job.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
And then I froze, gripped by an idea. An idea that—like my dissertation—was either great or terrible, and I wouldn’t know which until I saw what people thought of it. Except did I really want to live the rest of my life as someone who’d pissed off Poppy Carrie? But, then, if I didn’t, I’d have to live as someone who’d completely blanked what might have been a perfect opportunity.
“Well.” Oh shit. I was speaking. “I know this isn’t the best time to mention this, but you could always talk to me, if you wanted.”
Her smile, if anything, grew even warmer. “I think I’d like being interviewed by you.”
I sealed my lips before a startled “are you sure” could escape. And I didn’t faint either (though I resolved to run mad later). But, oh fuck, what was I supposed to do now? The last interview I’d conducted had been for the Sebby Hall Bog Sheet. And the subject of it had been the spider plant in the Junior Common Room.
“Do I contact your…publicist to get something set up?” I asked, doing my very best impression of a professional person. “I mean, I’m freelance at the moment so I’m available whenever.”
A slight pause. Then, “How about now?”
I managed an affirmative squeak.
She laughed. “I was thinking, perhaps, we could just keep on as we are. And see what comes out of it.”
Holy shit. An exclusive interview with Poppy Carrie. This was probably the sort of thing that changed your life. And it was happening right the fuck now. Except…as much as I wanted this, I also wanted to do it right. Which would have to involve some honesty. I braced myself for disaster. “Look, I should tell you, I’ve never done anything like this before. I might balls it up beyond redemption.”
“Maybe you will. But”—she met my eyes over the rim of her cup—“I have a feeling you won’t.”
I thought about it for a moment. Maybe I had that feeling too. “Is it okay if I record it on my phone?”
She nodded. “I’ve almost finished my tea, though. Would you like another smoothie?”
“For this?” I grinned. “I’m going to need a fucking muffin.”
* * *
Afterward, I sat in my hotel room, ate my way through a king’s ransom of snacks, and tried to translate recorded words into written words while keeping, somehow, the feeling of them. And the truth of the person who had spoken them.
And it was fucking impossible.
Give me “Ten Mineral Waters You Absolutely Must Try” or “An Intimate Guide to Tending the Boylawn” any day.
This was too vast. Too complex. Too real.
My ability to language had become this octopus, all flailing tentacles and squishiness, resisting my best attempts to corral it into the shapes I needed.
Ahhhhh.
I threw myself onto the bed and rolled about, kicking my feet, expertly converting mental distress into physical dramatics. Weirdly, it helped. Cleared my head. And, probably as a Pavlovian reaction to all the wanking I’d got up to recently, made me think of Caspian. Specifically what he’d said to me on the plane back from Kinlochbervie: that wanting something meant letting yourself be vulnerable.
And I wanted—oh how I wanted—to do a good job with this.
Not just for me and my career. But for Poppy.
She deserved an interview that captured at least something of who she was. Her anger and her kindness, her charisma and her strength.
Fuck it fuck it fuck it.
I sat up and grabbed my laptop. Slammed every door in my brain that didn’t lead to Poppy Carrie.
Wrote: Eat it, motherbitches.
Kept writing: Poppy Carrie isn’t like you think she is. And then she’s not like that either.
Soon there was nothing but the hours passing. The words ebbing and flowing across my screen.
Chapter 18
The next day, I said goodbye to Nik, made sure it wasn’t stupid o’clock in England, and rang Bellerose.
He answered quickly, just like always. “Hello, Arden.”
“Knitted anything cool?”
“I sincerely wish I hadn’t told you that.”
“Do you make your own yarn and stuff as well, or do you buy it?”
“My yarn is none of your business. Now, is there something you need?”
I couldn’t quite contain an eager squeak. “I’m ready to come home.”
“Caspian will be delighted. When would you like the jet?”
Oh dear God. I was never going to get used to being able to order a plane like a pizza. “As soon as possible?”
There was a pause. Presumably Bellerose was…actually, I had no idea. Calculating stuff? Organizing things? “You will be departing at nine a.m. tomorrow. Be at the airport in good time.”
“Yay. Thank you.” Since Bellerose couldn’t see me, and I was in a city where nobody knew me, I skipped about excitedly. “Will you let Caspian know? In case you see him before he picks up a message?”
“Of course. Though I should tell you he has a social engagement in the evening and therefore may not be available to meet you when you arrive.”
I stopped skipping. But, honestly, what had I been expecting? That a man like Caspian Hart would have nothing on his schedule? Or that he’d be able to drop everything for me? “It’s okay. I get it. Thanks again, Bellerose.”
“See you soon, Arden.”
Disappointment drowned me in its bitter tide. And I slumped onto the bed, on the verge of tears, trying to figure out if I was overreacting or not. I mean, I knew this wasn’t Caspian’s fault. It wasn’t a value judgment on my importance to him or a reflection of my place in his life.
It was sucky circumstances.
But I guess I’d got used to his availability. To being busy, and hurried, and in the middle of something while he scheduled and rescheduled around me. And now the clock was striking midnight. The spell was breaking. And tomorrow I’d be in London, my time turned back into mice and pumpkins: not special at all.
Then my phone rang.
It was Caspian and, for a split second, I thought about not answering. I don’t know why—just that I was feeling bad, and wanting in some hopelessly petty and non-specific way to make him be the thwarted one, the disappointed one, the one who was always waiting and dreaming and hoping. Then I realized I was being a complete wanker, and picked up.
“I’m so sorry,” said Caspian, rather breathlessly, “my mother’s holding one of her charity auctions tomorrow. And I can’t fail to attend.”
Oh great. A charity auction. Could I be any more selfish?
“I understand.” I said, only lying a little bit. “It’s okay.”
But Caspian made a sound perilously close to a growl. “It’s not okay, Arden. It’s been weeks. I need to see you.”
God. Had I really thought I wanted him to suffer? Because I didn’t. It was awful, hearing him so frustrated and unhappy, whatever my own feelings on the matter. “Can you come round after? I’ll wait up?”
“These things always run late.”
“I don’t care. I’ll be jet lagged as fuck anyway.”
There was nothing to hear exactly, but I somehow got the impression he was pacing. I could imagine it all too easily—his long strides tearing his office to shreds, turning his windows to walls, his walls to bars.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please, Caspian.”
“I’m sorry, I’m acting like a child. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“That’s perfect.” I did my happiest grin at the phone, in the hope he could sense it somehow. “I can’t wait.”
Another restless silence.
“What time do you arrive?”
“Yikes, I have no idea. I’m flying out at nine and the flight is, what, seven hours but then there’
s time zones and—”
“So you’ll be back in England around eight or nine.”
“I will?” I found it pretty sexy that he could figure that shit out instantly. Although it did slightly remind me of the time he’d destroyed my family at Carcassonne.
“I’ll pick you up from the airport and take you home. Then I can head on to the event.”
That sounded amazing. But also like it would be a pain in the arse to him. “You really don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. So I will.”
I fell back, swooning on the bed. “Yes, Mr. Hart.”
He laughed, but there was rough note at the heart of it. So I knew that, in his own way, he was swooning too.
When he was gone, I settled down with my laptop and reread what I’d written about Poppy Carrie. Unfortunately, at this point, I was incapable of assessing it with any degree of criticality. It could have been brilliant, it could have been terrible, most likely it was somewhere in the middle. At any rate, it was clear there was nothing more I could do with it. So, instead, I tortured myself over my cover letter. And, finally, sent that—along with a sample of the interview itself—to Milieu.
Then there was nothing for it but to have an early night. I wasn’t sure what Bellerose had meant by “be at the airport in good time” but he’d sounded sufficiently ominous about it that I knew I definitely didn’t want to be in bad time. And so it seemed reasonable to set my alarm for 5 a.m.
Except, when it actually went off at 5 a.m., I learned it wasn’t reasonable at all.
Dragging myself out of bed like a zombie from a fresh grave, I dressed, threw my stuff into my suitcase, and went to acquire breakfast. I was drooping over toast and orange juice when I realized my T-shirt was on inside-out.
And, y’know, I just couldn’t find the will to care.
Somehow, I managed to check out, get in the car, and get to the airport. Do the airport things. In one of the special lounges I was starting to take for granted, I slipped into a weird stupor, almost halfway between being asleep and being awake, and way less satisfying than either. At the back of my mind, though, I was secretly rejoicing in my borderline comatose state. An international flight was going to be a piece of cake if I could successfully spend it sleeping.
But my brain rebelled about five minutes after take-off. And, suddenly, I was wildly alert and barely able to sit still. Bouncing off the walls of Caspian’s plane.
All I could think was: I’m going home.
I’m going to see Caspian.
And I couldn’t seem to make myself understand that I was, actually, very tired. And had a long journey ahead of me. Instead my heart wanted to soar through the skies and skim the ocean waves.
For seven fucking hours.
Nrrrrghhh.
I would have said it was the worst journey ever except I’d flown out in the first place because my best friend had been hit by a car. And that was the sort of thing that could really hold its own at the top of your “rubbish travel experiences” list.
By the time we were dithering about in London airspace, waiting for permission to land, I had given up on everything except lying flat on my back in the middle of the floor, just about managing not to whine audibly because the cabin crew didn’t deserve that.
Internally, though? It was whine city.
I’m here, I texted Caspian. With, frankly, extraordinary dignity and forbearance.
And then, I’m back—and in time for your birthday, along with a flourishing collection of smileys to Ellery. yay was her reply.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I was finally back on British soil…well, British tarmac. But the moment I’d been passport-stamped and custom-checked, and released from the posh-person pen, there he was: Caspian Hart, waiting for me, among the scatter of strangers outside.
It was weird, I know, but I found him without consciously having to look. As if some part of me already knew how to find him. The rest of the world reduced to nothing but a painted backdrop.
He was wearing the midnight blue suit I’d seen first at Oxford. And I’d somehow forgotten how beautiful he was. I mean, not really. But the difference between reality and memory was like Dorothy arriving in Oz. I could see color again. Endless shades of Caspian: the twist of silver in the blue of his eyes, the not-quite-black of his hair, the pale lips that lost all their severity in the redness of kissing.
God. He made me dizzy. My stomach churn and my heart flutter. My knees literally weak. How could he be even a little bit mine? I think I might have fallen over—just reeled and flopped to the floor—if he hadn’t swept me into his arms.
I felt his breath against my cheek. And all he said was Arden. But it was so full of longing and joy and relief and possession that it hardly sounded like my name anymore.
It sounded like mine.
And then he was kissing me. A full-on fuck the world, I’m never getting on a plane again Casablanca kiss. A kiss to break the edges of skin itself and make you two, and one, and whole, and together, and everything between.
Chapter 19
Come on,” Caspian said, letting me go at last.
Once again, my body decided that the best place for me was in a wobbly heap on the ground, but he grabbed my hand just in time. And pulled me, along with my case, toward the exit. Into the waiting—oh fuck—limo.
And onto his lap.
Where we kissed again. Again. Again. Forever.
As the streets of London unraveled around us in ribbons of gold.
Finally, we stopped. Mainly, I think, for breathing purposes, rather than any particular desire to separate our mouths.
“I’m going to put a collar round your neck,” Caspian murmured, “and chain you to my bed.”
Thankfully I knew how to interpret this. “I missed you too.”
I thought he might laugh. But, instead, he pulled me against him so tightly that I flailed and squeaked like a squeezy toy. “Oh Arden.”
“It me,” I wheezed.
“My Arden.” He pressed his face against the crook of my shoulder. “You make me so happy.”
I wasn’t sure what to say so I snuggled. Snuggled like hell. What were ribs for anyway? And, besides, it was rare for him to let me get this close, his need to be touched, his need for me, overwhelming his need for control.
“How do you have this power?” he asked.
From anyone else, it would have been a rhetorical. But he sounded so genuinely bewildered—almost plaintive—that I did my best to answer. “We like each other. It’s not magic.”
“It’s magic to me.” He slid a palm up the back of my neck and into my hair. Made me look at him. His eyes were wild and a little shadowed. Hadn’t he been sleeping well? “I don’t deserve this. Or you.”
Urgh. That was a mood-killer. It reminded me of some of the stuff he’d said about Nathaniel and now I knew more about their relationship it was not a comparison I relished. To put it mildly.
Since I was unusually unrestrained, I took major advantage, cupping his face gently between my hands and brushing my lips across his again. “Caspian, I love that I’m a good thing in your life. Please don’t take that away from me.”
“I’m sorry.” A shudder ran through him and I felt it in my fingertips.
“And you deserve me. You have a right to be happy.”
“I’m just…not used to it.”
“Then get used to it, Mr. Hart.”
My world tilted abruptly. Probably because I was tilting abruptly. I landed on my back on the seat of the limo and Caspian came down on top of me. And it was ridiculous—we were all limbs and elbows, and there wasn’t actually enough room, so one of his knees was on the floor and my foot was in the air, and everything was hot and clumsy and precarious and desperate. We’d gone from Casablanca to “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” rolling around like horny teenagers, our mouths clashing as much as they were kissing, and our hands tangled up in each other, and I loved it.
It took me somewhere I’d
never been. Gave me something I never thought I’d have, since I’d spent my adolescence mostly playing board games, walking on the beach, and wanking (not all at the same time obviously). Sex wasn’t really on the cards until I got to university, where being skinny, queer, and bookish wasn’t an unsurmountable triple threat of nope. Also I didn’t have to walk miles to find a human who wasn’t related to me or in love with someone related to me or married to someone who was in love with someone related to me. Things got easier, personally and logistically, is what I’m saying. And I made up for lost time. Boy, did I make up for lost time.
But, in the strangest sort of way, this felt timeless. It didn’t matter that I’d just disembarked from a private jet and we were in the back of a Rolls on the way to a luxury apartment in Kensington. This was every behind-the-bike sheds snog I’d never had. A fumbling mess of hope and eagerness and sheer impossible joy.
I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or giggle.
Or, y’know, come in my jeans. Because it was fucking ludicrously sexy. Being kissed like you were better than dignity. More important than air.
“I’m not going to that damn party,” Caspian gasped. “I’m not.”
That brought me back to the here and now with a bump. “I though you said it was a charity thing your mum was organizing?”
“It is. But have you any idea how many such events I have attended over the years? I want, and will have, this evening with you.”
Oh dear. Conflict.
On the one hand: Caspian being all bossy, which I found incredibly hot. On the other hand: fucking charity. And probably there was a special place in hell for people who stopped good deeds happening because they wanted to get laid.
“I’ll still be here tomorrow,” I said.
“It’s already been too long, Arden. I’m done with waiting.”
He got all with the lips and hands again, so I was pretty distracted. And, even when I remembered there were protests I ought to be making, I kept putting them off because…well…kissing was better. Eventually, though, I drifted out of the sensual haze and gave his shoulder a little shove. “Caspian. Stop. Seriously.”