“What were you flapping at me for, anyway?”
“Oh, sorry. The chairperson for the four o’clock comics panel, the one who was supposed to be asking all the questions – she’s bailed. We need a new one.”
“Does Dad know?”
“Who d’you think took the call?”
“Oh no. He didn’t start another ‘You’ll never appear at another convention again’ vendetta? Because last time he did that, I had to make a grovelling phone call three weeks later to persuade someone to be one of our next guests of honour. You can imagine how much fun that was, can’t you?”
“Your future stepmother had just walked through the door when the call came through.” The mention of Bea puts me on full alert. She’s not supposed to be here! What’s she doing? This is Angelo territory. This is fan conventions and cosplayers and…our stuff. Not her kind of event, all suits and sales and Powerpoint presentations. But then she’s becoming an Angelo soon, too, isn’t she? Too soon… Oblivious to my racing thoughts, Sam is still burbling away to herself. “I’ve never seen him smile like that. Is she drugging him? It was like watching a bulldog blowing bubbles.”
“Bea’s here? She’s in the building?”
“I don’t think she was staying – said something about just passing through?”
Thank god.
“Right. Okay. So we need a new moderator to run the comics panel.”
“Yes.”
“Aaaargh. I can’t do this now. I’ve got to get back to my guy. Who’s already here that might do it?” I spin towards the membership list, which is printed in tiny, tiny font and pinned across the entire wall, because of my father’s trust issues with technology, and scoop up the walkie-talkie from the table. “Bede! Bring your comics head to ops.”
“What do you need?” On the other end of the radio, Bede is ready instantly. It’s like he has some kind of magic password to activate him, and that password is comics. He’s through the door less than a minute later.
“Here.” I chuck a highlighter at him. “Find me anyone – anyone – who can moderate the four o’clock comics panel. Artist, writer, inker, colourist, letterer, editor…anyone. Anyone who’s here and not booked for that time slot.”
“I could do it?”
“Nice try, Bede. But remember what happened with the guys from 2000AD?” I shake my head in mock-disappointment.
“That was one time. One.” He points the highlighter at me.
“Hey, Bede!” Sam pipes up. “How do you spell ‘restraining order’?”
“Shut up,” he says – but he knows none of it means anything. And they were all okay about it in the end, once Dad had offered to pay the bar bill…
“Sam? Help him. Give me a shout when you’ve found someone so I can run it past Dad.” I snatch up the clipboard…then, on second thoughts, drop it again. “I’ve got to go and wrangle Aidan Two-Names.”
I’m sure, as the door closes behind me, I can hear Sam making kissing noises at my back. If I didn’t love my best friend as much as I do, she’d be long dead by now.
Having escaped Sam’s mockery, I head back to the lobby to collect Aidan. Exactly what I’m going to do with him for the next half-hour (which is how long it’ll be before I can dump him in the green room – where he’s actually meant to be this time) I don’t know. If he’d been the Haydn Swift I imagined, the glamorous, magical, superstar debut author, I’d probably have shown him around the convention a bit and made sure he knew how marvellous it all is, and by extension, how marvellous I am. But he isn’t…at least, he sort of isn’t, and anyway it’s all a bit theoretical now because when I get back to the lobby, there is no sign of him.
I’ve lost Haydn Swift.
Well, that’s just spectacular, isn’t it?
Aidan Green, I can live without, and it’s him I can’t seem to get away from, somehow or other. But I actually need Haydn Swift because it’s my job to be looking after him; a job I begged my father for. And now I’ve lost him, which leaves me standing in the middle of the hotel lobby with the bustle of the convention crashing around me and over me like waves, not sure what to do. I feel a little…odd.
“…don’t really think that’s appropriate, Max.”
I know that voice, and I slam back against the nearest pillar, desperately hoping its owner hasn’t spotted me. I almost knock over a toddler in a Jedi robe on my way, but other than that I think I’m in the clear.
“We agreed, Bea…”
“I didn’t think you were serious about that! I know it’s the only weekend, but I’m really not sure about having our wedding reception as part of the convention…”
“And I keep telling you, it’s not part of the convention. It’ll be a private party, just at the convention.”
“Max. Max, I’m trying here, but all I keep hearing is ‘convention convention convention’.”
“It’s how it works. It’s how I work. You knew that when you met me. They’re not just a job to me.”
“But it’s not—”
“Look, love. It’s not till August. We’ll change the date of the wedding, postpone it, postpone the honeymoon – whatever makes you happy. But that weekend, I can’t just leave the convention all night. Besides, isn’t the whole point of a wedding reception to invite your friends?”
“Well, yes…”
“Most of mine will be at the convention – not to mention Lexi.”
“Are you sure about this? It’s what you want?”
“Love. I’ve been talking to the hotel up in York, and I promise it’ll be fine – better than fine. They’ll take care of us. They know me, remember?”
So Bea’s not as obsessed with conventions as Dad? She thinks they’re just a job? Maybe hers are: I don’t imagine putting on a skirt suit (I’ll take my leggings and my skinny jeans any day, thanks) and dealing with business conventions is anywhere near as…interesting as running an event where it’s perfectly normal for everyone to turn up dressed as zombies. To be honest, I can’t imagine many people wanting their wedding at either kind, but it doesn’t really surprise me that Dad does. I peer round the pillar to see the two of them, right there. Bea couldn’t look more out of place in her white shirt and big clankety bracelets, standing there in front of the queue for the toilets, but she might as well be the only person in the world as far as Dad’s concerned. He closes his hands around hers and presses her fingers to his lips and it’s like she melts. I’ve never worked out what they see in each other; you certainly wouldn’t think they’d make a couple. But they see something.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?” says Aidan in my ear, and he makes me jump so badly I think I actually make a squeaking sound.
“Jesus. And didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to sneak up on somebody?”
“I didn’t sneak. You were just so busy listening you didn’t hear me coming.” He leans out to look around the pillar, following my line of sight. “Who’s that then?”
“My dad and Bea.” The words just fall out of me. I could never be a spy – I’d be no use under torture at all.
“What’s a Bea when she’s at home?”
“They’re getting married in a couple of months.”
“Ah. Like that, is it?”
“It’s like nothing. Where did you go, anyway? I’m supposed to be herding you to the green room to get miked up.”
“Oh, I’m allowed in there now, am I? Have you got my name on your clipboard this time?”
“I’ve got Haydn’s name on my clipboard,” I say pointedly – and I’d show him, if I hadn’t left said clipboard with said list on it in the ops room. Not that he’s listening, anyway. He’s too busy smiling at someone on the other side of the lobby.
Sam.
He’s smiling at Sam.
And she’s waving at him.
Traitor.
“Aidan?” I lay a hand on his elbow to steer him towards the green room, and he yanks his arm away and touches it like I’ve burned him.
“Sorry. Sorry, wasn’t expecting that.” He glances back over at Sam, but she’s already deep in conversation with a knot of fans looking for the big comics signing. “It’s Sam, isn’t it? Your friend.”
I check my watch. “Samira.”
“She’s nice. We got talking at that party last time.”
Nicer than me, clearly.
“Yeah, Sam’s great. We should really make a move to get you ready.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he couldn’t hear me. But there’s the faintest sheen on his forehead, and his glasses keep slipping down his nose. First-time panel nerves, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m not sure I can think of anything more terrifying than having to stand up in front of a room full of strangers and convince them you’re worth listening to. The couple of times I’ve had to introduce a panel (and we’re talking “Hello, the fire exits are here, here and here. Please welcome to the stage…” – not exactly the last act of King Lear), I’ve very nearly forgotten how to speak. Most of the guests get nervous ahead of a panel, whether they want to admit to it or not; the actors are usually better at it – it’s what they do, after all – but the authors are generally a bit rubbish at coping with the pressure. I guess that’s what comes from sitting behind a computer all day and listening to the people in your head – and then having to go and talk to actual people. More than one time I’ve had to drag a writer out of the toilets where they’ve been throwing up out of sheer nerves. (I now carry mints at all times.)
Aidan falls into step alongside me as we thread our way through the hotel towards the green room. The lobby and corridors are filling with people heading to the next event. As we turn a corner, I see Nadiya shepherding a group of live action role-players, all of them in character and acting out whatever scenario they’ve agreed on today, into one of the rooms set up for their workshop. She catches sight of me, spots Aidan and starts drawing heart shapes in the air – which earns her a funny look from one of the goblins she’s holding the door for.
I mouth the words “shut up” very clearly, with a variety of associated hand gestures – just in case she can’t read my lips. She can, of course, and I can see her laughing…but then I realize she’s not looking at me. She’s looking just to my right. I follow her gaze – and there’s Aidan, his head cocked slightly to one side, his arms folded across his chest and that smug little smirk plastered across his face, watching me. Nadiya, of course, disappears into the workshop space.
“Come on,” I mutter, and shoulder my way through the bodies ahead of us. The green room is right at the far end of a long, sweeping corridor lined with stalls selling books, comics, trading cards, art and replica costumes, so getting from one end of it to the other is a cross between an assault course and shopping in the sales. The people who recognize me get out of my way; the others get trodden on. Politely. “’Scuse me, excuse me. Mind your backs, please. Coming through. Thank you, yes. On your left, thank you.” As the crush gets thicker between the main panel rooms, I have to turn back every couple of steps to check I’ve not lost Aidan. He’s still there – increasingly pale and sweaty – but at the rate we’re going, I’ll be lucky not to lose him.
“You’d better walk in front of me. I’ll steer you.”
“Is it always like this?” he asks, edging between the stalls.
“Not usually.” I sidestep a slightly wonky Dalek. “There was a pipe leak above the room we were going to use as the traders’ space – like a big marketplace for this lot – and the hotel didn’t have anywhere else that was big enough. All these guys had already paid for their tables, so we had to put them somewhere!”
He says something back, but I can’t hear it over the general noise. A burst of static from the back pocket of my jeans means someone’s trying to get hold of me on the walkie, but that’s just going to have to wait, isn’t it? There’s some jostling directly ahead and a couple of students barge their way in between me and Aidan – who chooses that moment to turn around and look panic-stricken.
He looks so different when he’s not being smug.
More like I imagined Haydn Swift would look, I suppose. Interesting. Even the chin’s not so bad from this angle.
I manage to edge my way through to him and rest my hands on his shoulders from behind, pointing him at the green room door. “The one with the sign on it.”
“What?” He leans back to catch my words. My hands are still on his shoulders – and at that moment, someone shoves me from behind, pressing me up against his back. There’s a sharp “Sorry!” but I can barely hear it over the buzzing that fills my head.
“That way!” I practically shout it into his ear.
And my hands are still on his shoulders, and I’m still pressed up against his back.
The crowd opens up around us…and I pull away. “Come on, while there’s a gap.” I half-guide, half-shove him forward, and suddenly we’re free of the crush and in front of the green room door.
Inside, Sam’s mum and Marie are checking microphone battery packs and clipping them onto guests ahead of the next set of panels. Marie spots me and holds up a finger, meaning it’ll be a minute before she can deal with Aidan.
“That felt like being perp walked,” he says, ruffling his hands through his hair and adjusting his glasses. “You know, being marched off in handcuffs and thrown against the wall of a cell?” he adds – like I didn’t know what that meant.
“Maybe you can tell people we met in jail…”
It’s my voice saying it, I’m sure. And it’s my mouth moving, my lips making the words. But I definitely, definitely did not mean to say that. Not at all.
I’ve just quoted his own book at him. I have. I’ve just quoted the line the main character uses on the girl he’s interested in.
Oh. My. God.
I just did that.
I did.
I want to die.
But instead of smugface, or a snarky clipboard comment, his face is completely unreadable, and it feels like I’m going to be stuck in a little humiliation time-bubble for ever. And then one corner of his mouth twitches into a smile.
“Deal,” he says.
“Everything all right?” Marie hurries over carrying a tangle of wires, headsets and microphone cables. “I just need to get your battery pack clipped on, then we’ll mic you up right before you soundcheck.”
“There’s a soundcheck?” Aidan sounds flustered.
Marie blinks at him. “Yes?”
“He’s a newbie, Marie. Be gentle?”
She leads him over to the far side of the room, where she starts feeding wires down the back of his shirt and checking whether the pockets of his jeans are deep enough for the battery pack.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
Sam has materialized beside me.
“Shut up.”
“I see you looking. You like him.”
“I’m doing my job, Sam.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Don’t you have something to do? Because if you don’t, I can always find something. There’s a stack of membership bags to come out of the store…”
“I am very busy indeed, thank you very much. I come bringing suck news though.”
“Suck news?” I stare at her. Occasionally, Sam could do with having some kind of phrase book to help people translate her. Sadly, I think it would probably be me that had to write it.
“Tonight’s a bust.”
She can only mean the gig. The secret gig we’ve been looking forward to for ages; the one you can only get tickets for today, on the door…and then, only if you know the password. My heart sinks. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Arse.”
As one, the room – which is much quieter than it was a second ago – glares at me. Especially Sam’s mum.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “Sorry, sorry.” I turn back to Sam and lower my voice. “They’re completely sold out? Already?”
“Yep. No fun for Sam and Lexi. No singing. No dancing. Only
sad.”
“What’s this?” Aidan wanders back over, tugging at the mic wire Marie has fed down the back of his shirt. She snaps her fingers and barks at him to leave it alone, and he drops it like a kid who’s been caught pinching sweets. “Hi, Sam. Nice to see you again.”
“Ai-dan.” Sam makes his name bounce. “You’ve met your biggest fan then?” She bats her eyelashes and jerks her head towards me. I can feel my face heating up.
“Lexi’s been looking after me before my panel.” The last word sticks in his throat. Automatically, I grab a plastic cup from the water dispenser and hand it to him. He takes it and sips at it, and I wonder whether anyone else has noticed how much his hands are shaking.
“The other authors on your panel should be here in a minute. We’ll introduce you and then you can chat and get ready, then about fifteen minutes before start time, Marie will take you through for soundcheck. Can I get you something else to drink? Or something to eat?”
“I couldn’t eat anything. That would be a bad idea.”
“You wouldn’t be the first, you know.”
“The first to what?”
“To throw up.”
“Right. Yes. No. Okay.”
Sam clears her throat. “So. I’m still here?”
“And?”
“Tonight. Where do you need me, seeing as I’m not going to be at the Carveliers gig?”
Aidan looks up from his plastic cup. “The Carveliers?”
“Sam’s favourite band.” I take the empty cup from him and lob it at the bin. It misses. Whoops. “They’re playing at the Fleece tonight, and Dad said we could go.”
“But it’s sold out. So.” Sam pouts. “Like I said, no fun for us. Sam is sad. Sad Sam.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He frowns.
“Anyway.” All this is just prolonging the agony. I need to get away from the source of my humiliation. “You’re all set here, and I’ve really got to go and…”
Be somewhere else. Be anywhere else.
“Be doing something else. And I absolutely know what that is. Yes. So.” My hands are clenching and unclenching all by themselves, and my feet are doing this weird sort of shuffle and Sam’s looking at me like I’m insane – but Aidan doesn’t notice because he’s staring at a fixed point somewhere just in front of the green room door, where the rest of his panel have just walked in. It looks, in fact, like he’s mouthing the word “Shit” to himself over and over again, and I am forgotten. Which is the way it should be.
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