Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series)

by Nick Spalding

  Fuck it, maybe I will.

  'Well, as I said, it's nice to meet you Willy... I mean William.'

  Now please let go of my hand so I can wash it.

  Thankfully he does so, allowing me to scuttle over to the sink. 'Can I get a picture?' Willy Fingers asks before I can start to wash my hands. He produces an iPhone from his pocket and gives me an expectant smile.

  Oh, fabulous. Now I get to have a selfie taken with a man whose penis I've technically just touched by association. My eyes are also bloodshot from all the booze Craig has pumped into me, and my hair is thoroughly dishevelled for much the same reason.

  But never upset a punter, right?

  I attempt to look happy for the picture, which is very difficult, given that I've been plagued with two man willy fingers for a good half minute now. William has no problem looking happy, and gives it his best Cheshire Cat as the flash goes off.

  'Thank you so much, Jamie!' he tells me. 'My wife will be amazed when I tell her!'

  My wife will be rolling in the aisles mate, so I think you'll get the better end of the bargain on that one. 'Pleasure,' I tell him with a drunken slur.

  'I won't disturb you any longer,' Willy Fingers says, before making his way back out of the toilets, leaving me to ponder what the hell just happened.

  I give my hands a thorough wash, and shamble back to the table, where Craig is merrily making his way through another Glen Fiddich on the rocks.

  'Feeling better there, are you?' he asks, swilling the ice around in the glass.

  I unconsciously look down at my hands for a second. 'I think so.' I then glance at my watch and decide it's time to make a stand. 'Craig, it's been a lovely evening but I want to... want to get a good night's sleep before t'm'rrw.'

  'Ah, you must have time for a last nifter?'

  I hold up an unsteady hand. 'No. No. Thank you. No. No. I'm quite fine. Quite, quite fine.'

  'Fair enough! I'll get the bill, and we'll get out of here.'

  I am amazed. Craig has capitulated. And all I needed to do was get stinking drunk to be brave enough to stand up to him. Given that the whole reason for standing up to him was so that I didn't get stinking drunk, it's a bit of a moot point, but we'll try to ignore that fact, and hold on to the last sliver of pride that wasn't washed away with the willy fingers.

  London when you're shitfaced is an odd place. In any normal town, by the time you reach that state, the evening is usually winding down, and most people are going home. Not in the capital though. It's quite possible to drink yourself into a stupor, and still be able to keep on drinking well into the early hours.

  I don't think I'd have the stamina to live here. I don't know what would give out first, my heart or my liver. I can understand why local people use cocaine. You need the bloody stuff just to get to last orders.

  The cab pulls up to The Dorchester Hotel, and the door is opened by a doorman who looks positively delighted to be greeting a blind drunkard at just gone 10.30 on a Thursday night. I don't quite fall flat on my face as I get out of the car, but it's a close run thing.

  'G'night Craiginin,' I say to my agent from the kerb. He chuckles and waves to me, before the doorman shuts the car door. We both watch the cab speed away into the West London night.

  I turn and look at the doorman with a wide-eyed expression of amusement. 'Thas a very nice peaked cap you have there, my friend.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Can I have a go on it?'

  'I don't think so, sir.'

  'Are you sure? I think I'd look smashin'. '

  'Shall we get you to your room, sir?'

  'Thas probably a good idea. This is after all, the Dorchesser 'otel. The las' thing you want is Jamie Newmanan stinking up the place, eh?'

  'Let me get the door for you sir.'

  'Than' you, my cappy friend. Thas very, very kin' of you.'

  I stumble through the large doorway and am forced to shield my eyes from the scorching bright lights inside. It's not actually scorching in the slightest, but I find rampant inebriation brings out the worst in my photosensitivity.

  At the counter, the young blonde haired concierge sees me coming and steals himself. 'Good evening, sir.'

  'G'd evenin.' I fumble around in the back pocket of my trousers for a good four and a half hours (at least I'm sure that's what it felt like to him), before producing my room key card. I hold the mighty plastic oblong aloft in one proud hand. 'Now then! Can you please tell me what room I am in? I have to confess, I'm a little forget... forgetful this evenin'.'

  'What's your name, sir?'

  'What?' I don't really want to give him my name. It's one thing to be an anonymous drunkard standing in the foyer of one of the most expensive hotels in the country, it's quite another to have your identity known as you do so. 'Can't you jus' run this thing through the compuper?' I giggle expansively. 'Compuper. I said compuper didn' I?'

  'You did, sir.'

  'Iss not a compuper is it?'

  'No sir.'

  No sir! It's a compuTER!'

  'That's right sir.'

  I lean on the counter. 'You know, you're very good at remainin' polite when you're talkin' to a pissed twat. Well done you!'

  'Thank you, sir. We receive extensive training. I will still need your name, sir.'

  'Alright Charlie, keep your hair on.' The guy's nametag reads Serge, but he looks like a Charlie to me, so fuck it. 'My name's Jamie Newman.' So that's it, my name is out of the bag, and Charlie here will go off and tell all his friends how much of a drunk that writer bloke is.

  I do have a cunning plan though, to throw him off the scent. 'Yes, my name is Jamie Newmananan, but I most certainly do NOT write books!'

  'Is that right, Mr Newman?'

  'It is! The name is a comple' coindicince... a comple' cosindidence... a comple' cosidernence. It's not me.'

  'Of course, Mr Newman. You're staying in room 216, with your wife I believe.' One of his eyebrows imperceptibly arches as he says this. I get his meaning, even in my shambolic state.

  I tap my nose. 'She's no' comin' until t'm'rr'w Charlie. Everythin' is absoluley fine.'

  'I'm delighted to hear it.' Serge holds a hand out. 'The elevators are that way, Mr Newman. Have a good night.'

  'Than' you Charlie. I certainly will. G'dnight to you too.'

  Luckily, I manage to resist the temptation to give Serge's earlobe a kiss, and walk my way cautiously over to the lift.

  A mere three quarters of an hour later, I open the door to my hotel room. I would explain why it took me three quarters of an hour to get there, but I can't remember for the life of me. There may have been a pot plant involved.

  Precisely thirty two seconds after that, I am fast asleep on the bed, with my face buried in the pillow.

  I stay that way until 4 in the morning, when the chunder fairy pays me a visit and I have to go and speak to God on the porcelain telephone for half an hour.

  The morning dawns bright, sunny... and like Hell on Earth.

  My eyeballs are stuck together, my tongue is 93% carpet, my head throbs like a hammered thumb.

  This is not a hangover, this is a hangallthewayaroundandbackagain.

  Other than to secure a glass of cool refreshing water - a process which takes me a good ten minutes - I don't stir from my comatose state until midday. I would probably still be lying there now, were it not for the phone call from my glorious wife, checking up on me.

  'So... hungover then?' she asks, hearing my tone of voice. Shame fills every pore. I'd promised Laura I'd be a good boy.

  'No! I feel fine sweetheart!' I try to say as brightly as possible. The charade might have worked, were it not for the fact that I sound like Barry White after smoking a packet of menthols. 'I'm just off down the gym in a minute!'

  The bark of laughter that comes down the phone is so loud, I have to move the earpiece away from my ear for a moment. 'Okay Jamie,' Laura chuckles. 'You have fun at the gym, and I'll see you this evening.'

  I decide not to
press my luck. 'Okay. What have you got planned for the afternoon?'

  'Oh, not much. Not much at all,' Laura responds, with a mumble that lets me know she's doing something she doesn't want to talk about. I've been with my wife for a long time now, so I can tell from her tone that the thing she doesn't want to talk about is quite, quite embarrassing. I would get into it more, but I have to go and shave the carpet off my tongue before braving lunch somewhere.

  I say goodbye to Laura, get off the bed... and try my hardest to start functioning like a normal human being. I have a book launch tonight, so I'd better at least be able to fake it for a few hours.

  The rest of the day goes by in something of a haze, thanks to a heady combination of Anadin Extra and strong, hot coffee from the nearest Costa. In fact, the coffee is doing me so much good that by about 5pm I am able to sit in the cafe itself, slowly digesting a slice of banana bread while I make my way through the fifth latte of the day. This takes me through to six, when I know Laura is arriving at the hotel, so I order another coffee and amble back to The Dorchester with caffeine flowing satisfyingly through my veins as I do so. My stupendous headache has even softened to a dull thud at the back of my head - a marked improvement from earlier in the day.

  I am even able to raise a smile at the prospect of seeing Laura as I swipe the room key card to number 216.

  'Oh fuckery biggins!' I hear Laura scream from inside the room. My hand pauses ever so briefly on the door handle.

  If you back away now son, you can be at Heathrow Airport in an hour, and on a plane to Belize in two, my cowardly brain tells me.

  Luckily for my continued existence, my hand is having none of it, and opens the door to see what awaits me inside.

  'Hey baby,' I say as cheerfully as possible. 'Er... are you okay? I hope you managed to get checked in alri - '

  I spot Laura's hunched form in the bathroom doorway and the words die on my lips. Then I see the broken table lamp, and what looks disturbingly like lumps of warm poo sliding down the wall behind it. 'What the hell's going on?' I ask, looking back at my wife, who has moved towards me, so that I can see her face properly.

  Laura is yellow.

  Laura is really, really yellow.

  Why is Laura yellow?

  …

  Hang on.

  Is she yellow?

  Is she actually yellow? Or is this hangover worse than I thought?

  I've never heard of unchecked alcohol consumption causing hallucinations like this, but I suppose it's possible.

  'Why is your face yellow?' I ask, hesitantly. If she says 'what are you talking about?' in response, I'd best be making my way to the nearest casualty department.

  Laura doesn't come out with this, but what she does say is so, so much worse.

  'You! This is all your fault!' she shrieks, one finger pointing at my poor, hungover face.

  'What the hell have I done?' I bite back loudly, setting off the headache again.

  'You... you bought me that bloody fake tan!!'

  'What?!' I say in utter confusion.

  I don't get a follow up answer. Laura points a shaking finger at me for a moment, before storming back into the bathroom, slamming the door in my face as she does so.

  In a mere thirty seconds, my world has gone from gentle, caffeine soaked calm, to violent, blood pumping confusion.

  I would be surprised by this rapid turn of events, but then I've been married for nearly ten years now, so it's pretty much par for the course.

  Laura's Diary

  Wednesday, February 17th

  Dear Mum,

  So, let's recap: I am an idiot, and my husband is an alcoholic. My face is bright yellow, his is pale grey - and both have to show themselves at a party in less than an hour, to celebrate the launch of a book neither of us look remotely capable of writing.

  Excellent.

  'It's not that bad, baby,' Jamie tells me, as he pops two more Anadin into his mouth and finishes doing up his tie. I am once again struck with sublime jealousy that he can be ready for a night out in under five minutes, even with a perishing hangover.

  'Really?' I reply, not believing a bloody word.

  'No! In a certain light you can hardly tell your skin is a bit... er... lemony.'

  'In a certain light, eh?'

  'Yeah. In a certain light.'

  'Would that 'certain light' be not very much light at all, Jamie? Possibly even no light? Possibly pitch fucking black?'

  Jamie grimaces. There is simply no good way out of this conversation for him, and he knows it. 'Honestly, it's not that bad...'

  He is saved from having to lie anymore by his phone going off. He answers, and listens to what the person on the other end is saying for a few moments. 'Okay mate,' he replies. 'We'll be down shortly.'

  Jamie ends the call, and looks back at me with mild fear in his eyes. 'The car's here, sweet. We kind of have to go?'

  'Yes! Yes!' I say, flapping my hands at him. 'Just let me have one more look in the mirror.'

  Which, no matter how hard I wish it, is unable to show me anything other than a woman in her late thirties with what looks like a severe case of jaundice.

  She does look dynamite in the dark blue gown and bolero though. Even her knobbly knees are behaving themselves, hidden as they are behind the pair of opaque tights she was lucky enough to pick up in Next last weekend.

  Maybe, just maybe, these elements will detract from the colour of my skin enough for people not to notice it.

  Hah! Who am I kidding?

  With one last despairing sigh, I attempt to rearrange my face into something resembling the appearance of a good mood. 'Come on then, husband of mine. Let's go hob with the nobs.'

  Jamie takes my arm and we leave the safe confines of the Dorchester hotel room, our yellow and grey faces now on display for the world to see.

  The first person out of the seven billion on this planet to notice my little issue is Kyle the chauffeur.

  'Good evening, Mr and Mrs Newman. You both look lovel - you both look very nice. Looking forward to the party?'

  He's good, but he's not that good. The shift from 'lovely' to 'very nice' is a self evident downgrade, one that not even a practiced chauffeur can hide. 'Yes, we are!' Jamie says a little too brightly.

  Kyle's eyes linger on my face just a bit longer than they need to. 'Let me get the door for you, Mrs Newman,' he eventually says.

  'Thanks,' I say drily and get into the car with some relief. In here, for the next twenty minutes at least, no-one will be able to see what I look like. Except Kyle in his rear view mirror of course, which he starts to glance into as soon as we've left the kerb outside The Dorchester. The look on his face is one of mild befuddlement.

  I take Jamie's hand. 'I don't think I can do this. I look ridiculous.'

  'No you don't. You look fine.'

  He's lying, but the soothing tone of his voice takes the edge off a bit.

  By the time we reach Watermill Publishing's Soho offices, I'm relatively calm, having spent the interim period sat in the back of the car, whispering motivational phrases under my breath to psyche myself up. Most of these consist of a load of old blather from those stupid posters - like it not mattering what's on the surface, it's the person inside that counts; or, if you act like you're confident, then you'll be confident.

  Unfortunately I can't think of one that goes: it doesn't matter how much of a yellow clown face you have, you still have a heart of gold, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. But then we arrive, so there's no more time to mentally prepare myself anyway.

  Kyle gets my car door again, assiduously not looking at my face as he does so.

  The second person to spot my problem is the girl at the reception desk of Watermill Publishing. I walk towards her across the glass and marble floored atrium, just waiting for her to look up and notice us coming.

  When she does I am treated to an expression that I'll have to get used to over the next few hours. There's a brief look of polite recognition, followe
d by a creasing of the forehead in confusion, rapidly followed by wide-eyed surprise when she realises that the person she's talking to is quite clearly a looney. Finally, we get a smattering of guilt, as she realises that I probably have something wrong with me and she shouldn't be judging too harshly.

  'Good evening, Mr and Mrs Newman,' the girl says, clearly having been told we were coming. 'The party is being held in our conference lounge on the seventh floor. I'll sign you in. If you'd just like to take the lift over to your left, you'll be greeted when you arrive.'

  'Thank you Kate,' Jamie says, and I whip my head around to look at him. I'm not a jealous woman, but the receptionist is in her mid-twenties and annoyingly pretty. She doesn't look like Pacman either, so the fact that my husband is on first name terms with her raises the suspicion monster from its deep slumber.

  'Kate, eh?' I say to him as we cross to the lift.

  Jamie catches sight of my expression and sighs. 'She's a big fan of the books, dear. I know her name because she had me sign her copy of Love From Both Sides yesterday.'

  My irrational jealous is immediately quelled. Kathy has gone from being a potential love rival who needs her eyes clawing out, to a valuable fan who I love and adore, all in the space of one short explanatory sentence.

  In the lift, my nerves take hold again. People are going to laugh at me. They may even point when my back is turned. From now on I shall be known as Laura 'Pacman' Newman, the yellow faced maniac who writes romantic comedies with her long suffering alcoholic husband.

  'Seriously Jamie, I don't think I can do this. It's going to be far too embarrassing!'

  'You'll be okay,' he disagrees. 'We'll both be okay.'

  'Both?'

  'Well, yeah. I am feeling pretty rough, sweetheart.'

  'Don't you dare try to compare my yellowness with your self-inflicted hangover, Jamie Newman,' I chide, and squeeze his hand tightly. 'Oh, think of something to get us out of this! I can't do it!'

  But it's too late. The lift is slowing, and any second now the doors will go ping.

  Jamie looks at me for a moment, then his eyes widen. 'I've thought of something!'