Unconventional

by Maggie Harcourt

“Three?” I look at the pair of wristbands he’s holding out.

  “These are guest bands, which means you have to be signed in. By me. Sorry.”

  I’m in the middle of thinking up a cutting (yet gently witty and reasonably grateful) reply when Sam leaps forward and snatches the bands out of his hand with a grin. “Thank you! That’s amazing! You’re amazing! I…” She freezes mid-dance. “These are…these… These are VIP bands. They…they…”

  “Did I forget to mention? These bands come with an invite to go backstage after the show.”

  The sound that comes out of Sam’s mouth is like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s a sort of yelpy squeaky hiccup-cough. She looks like she’s about to burst into tears any moment too. I’ve never seen her so happy; it’s like seeing a kid version of Sam in front of me – and in that second, in that heartbeat, I want to hug Aidan for doing this for her. I really, really want to – particularly when she starts running laps around the lobby, narrowly avoiding one of the hotel staff on his way out of the bar carrying a tray of cocktails. (Whoops. Dad’ll hear about that.) I can’t be grudging about it at all.

  Instead, I look Aidan in the eye. “Thank you. I mean it – really. Thank you. She’d been looking forward to the gig for months. You’ve made her weekend. Year. Life.”

  “It’s no problem,” he says with a shrug – and maybe it’s the lighting in here, but I could swear he looks a little more flushed than he did a minute ago. And over Sam, dancing around the lobby, and the noise of a group of Musketeers meeting up ahead of dinner, I’m not completely sure whether he actually says anything else or whether it’s a trick of the acoustics. But – for one insane second – it almost sounds like he says, “Besides, I didn’t do it for Sam.”

  The Fleece is – not surprisingly – packed. It smells…warm. Sweaty – but in a good sort of way. It smells like dancing; like hundreds of feet attached to hundreds of people bouncing up and down on the floor and trying not to bash into the narrow pillars holding up the ceiling. Sam hasn’t stopped grinning all night – not since we walked past the long, long line at the door and flashed our wristbands while Aidan signed us in with a casual, “We’re on the list.”

  “You hear that?” Sam squeezed my arm so hard I thought she was going to break it. “We’re. On. The. List.”

  “Sam? You are the least cool person I know. The very least cool.”

  But it was cool, and so is being here, surrounded by people who aren’t about to turn around and ask me for something. These are just people. There’s nobody here I have to look after – apart from Sam, who’s pogoing like her life depends on it somewhere in the middle of the floor.

  I pick my way through the wall of People I Am Not Responsible For to find Aidan, lurking at the back where it’s quieter and the air’s cooler – not that it smells much better.

  “Everything okay?” He has to raise his voice over the music and the crowd’s singing (shouting).

  “It’s great! I just needed a breather.”

  “Sam’s still out there?”

  I give him something between a nod and a shrug.

  I lean over the bar and shout to the barman for a couple of bottles of water. He nods to show he heard me, and carries on pulling pints of lager for people who have already ordered.

  Aidan sidles up alongside me. “I meant to say thank you – for today.”

  “What do you mean?” The barman bangs two sealed bottles of water down in front of me and I pull out a handful of change – but Aidan shakes his head.

  “I’ve got this.”

  “No – you got us in.”

  “It’s a couple of bottles of water, Lexi,” he says as he pays. “It’s not like you’re stinging me for a magnum of vodka.”

  “I thought only wine, champagne and stuff, came in magnums?”

  “Sounds like you know more about it than I do.” He raises an eyebrow at me like he’s trying to be provocative. “Get through a lot of magnums, do we?”

  I snort, picking up the bottles and tucking one under my arm for Sam. “I’ve been helping my dad on these conventions since I was a kid. One of the first proper jobs he gave me was to check the F&B orders.”

  Aidan frowns. “Eff and bee?”

  “Food and beverage. It’s what the hotel charge for…” I catch myself right before his eyes glaze over. “Wow. Sorry. This is the most boring conversation in the world, right here. It’s hard to switch this stuff off sometimes.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like what? Checking the F&B? God, no. That’s a nightmare.”

  “I meant the conventions. Helping your dad.”

  “I do. It’s hard to fit it all in sometimes, but I really, really do.” I gulp down half my water in one go.

  “Fit it in?”

  “Around sixth-form college. Apparently, running a convention doesn’t count as a good enough reason to get off doing essays. I’ve tried.”

  “Why don’t you ask your dad if you can do less?”

  I choke on the mouthful of water I’ve half-swallowed.

  “Do less? For the conventions, you mean?”

  “Uh, yes?” He looks puzzled.

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I love it.” I ponder this, then decide I need to explain a bit more coherently than that. “At least, I love it when everything goes right.”

  “And when it doesn’t?”

  “Then I love it a bit less, maybe? But I do still love it.” I cock my head to one side and look at him – and even though his face is neutral, scanning the crowd, I think what I’ve said makes sense to him. “I imagine it’s a bit like writing, from what I’ve heard authors say.”

  “Funny,” he says. “I was just thinking the same thing. On a good day, it’s the best thing in the world, but on a bad day…” He winces. “Can’t seem to stop doing it though.” His pained expression turns to a grin. “I guess you know how that feels.”

  The room is suddenly hotter than I imagined a place could ever be. I am standing on the surface of the sun.

  I am changing the subject.

  “Talking about writing…I know you said your book wasn’t your parents’ sort of thing, but they must be pretty proud of you, right?” I wave my bottle at Aidan by way of punctuation – and slosh water all over his shoes. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Proud? Why?”

  “You’re an author. You write books, and then you get to go and read things you made up in your own head to other people and they listen. That’s pretty impressive.”

  “You think it’s impressive?” His eyes narrow, and somehow they look warmer, lighter. Almost mischievous.

  Ah. “I was theoretically saying that some people might find it impressive.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I’m my father’s daughter. You’ve got to be a pretty big deal to impress me.”

  “Like my book did, you mean?”

  I don’t know how to answer. Is this a game? Is it a way to avoid talking about his parents – because don’t think for one second I didn’t notice that particular conversational swerve?

  Am I supposed to have a clever comeback? Or am I meant to tell him the truth?

  And what if I get it wrong?

  “I didn’t do it for Sam…”

  What if I imagined he said that; and what if he actually did?

  “Where did you go? I’m dying out there! Oh, water. Amazing.”

  Sam saves me.

  Sam always saves me; sometimes from other people, more often from myself.

  But this time, do I even want to be saved?

  She snatches the second bottle of water from under my arm and downs the whole thing.

  “How good are they? HOW good? Are you coming back or what?” She grabs my hand and starts towing me into the middle of the crowd – then stops. “Hold up.” She drops my hand. “Did I just…were you guys…what was that?”

  I shake my head and laugh. “I don’t even know.”

  E
ven in the dim light, I can see her eyes narrow at me.

  “Lexi Angelo. You like him.”

  “I do not.”

  “You. Do.” Her whole face lights up with it, this shining realization she’s had. “And you know what? You are going right back over there to—”

  A loud squeal of feedback from the stage makes everyone comedy-groan.

  “We’re almost done for the night, but we’ve got time for one more song.”

  A round of applause. Cheering, and a few shouts for more.

  “And we actually want to dedicate this one to somebody here tonight, kind of a friend of a friend of the band – can we have the house lights on, maybe?”

  The lights around the bar fade up a little – and Elis, the Carveliers’s singer, peers out into the crowd.

  “Sam? Where are you?”

  I feel Sam tense. “It’s not me,” she whispers – more to herself than to me.

  Nobody answers.

  On the stage, Elis shades his eyes with the flat of one hand, the other keeping his guitar slung behind his back. “Samira?”

  Nobody answers.

  It feels like the silence drags on for ever. She’s shaking. She’s actually shaking; I can see the great lion’s mane of her (natural, for once) hair moving.

  I crack. I stick one hand straight up and wave it madly, pulling at her arm with the other. “She’s here!” I yell. Elis looks right at us as I half-drag, half-carry her through the crowd as it parts in front of us. “Sam’s here!” I risk a glance back at her face midway to the stage and she looks totally dazed; she’s either about to burst out laughing or into tears. It could go either way. I get her all the way to the front and park her right in front of Elis, who beams down at her.

  “Nice to meet you, Sam. You having a good time?”

  “’s.” She nods, but you’d have to be standing where I am to hear her.

  “Do you know ‘Sung in a Minor Key’?’

  “’S.” Louder this time – loud enough for him to hear.

  “You want to hear it?”

  She doesn’t even manage to make a sound this time. Just a nod, and a smile so wide it could blind the moon.

  As the Carveliers launch into their last song of the night and Sam beams and sings along, I look round – and right at the very back of the room, behind all the faces and through all the voices, I’m sure I see him.

  He’s smiling, and he’s looking right at me.

  To:

  From:

  Date: 7 June; 14:32

  Subject: Haydn Swift / PIECEKEEPERS launch confirmation

  Dear Max,

  Lovely to speak to you yesterday – and thank you again for all the support you’ve been giving us with the PIECEKEEPERS publicity push. Our commissioning editor Rebecca has asked me to let you know how much she appreciates it, and she’ll be in touch directly soon.

  In the meantime, can we go ahead and confirm that launch slot for Haydn at the convention at the end of this month? We’d really like to do something with you in Brighton – the book isn’t officially released until just after the convention, but we can arrange for stock to be shipped to the venue as an exclusive.

  Haydn’s asked me to pass on his thanks to Lexi for looking after him so well during his events – and to you for inviting him. I understand from my colleague Jenna that you’ve asked him to take part in one of the larger author panels next time around – when are we likely to have a time for this? (Obviously, I don’t want him to have to rush between the launch and panel events if at all possible…)

  Very best,

  Lucy

  To:

  From:

  Date: 7 June; 15:25

  Subject: Re: Haydn Swift / PIECEKEEPERS launch confirmation

  Hi Lucy,

  Thanks for your message. I’m happy to confirm the 8 p.m. slot on the Saturday for the PIECEKEEPERS launch – you’ll have the main signing room for an hour. If you have any associated publicity materials to display (posters, cut-outs, bookmarks and so on) please send them direct to the hotel CLEARLY MARKED FOR MY ATTENTION and labelled PIECEKEEPERS LAUNCH – or alternatively, bring them along to the convention operations office AT LEAST three hours before the event is due to start.

  For a launch of this size, we would generally suggest providing a glass of wine/soft drink with every book purchased; it does seem to help bring in the crowds – and more importantly, gets them in the mood for book buying!

  I attach the hotel’s F&B sheet, which – as you will see – has a range of catering options from the hotel’s house wine (red/white/both) and orange juice through sparkling wine up to champagne and canapés, depending on your budget.

  Please complete the form as appropriate and send it back to Lexi at the usual email address no later than June 15th. Either Lexi or Marie will be in touch in due course regarding general programming.

  We look forward to welcoming you, Jenna and your author to our convention later in the month.

  Max

  “Are we sure proper clothes are compulsory? I really do have a gold bikini in my suitcase…”

  “Leia’s slave bikini? I don’t think so.” I glare at Sam across the top of the copy of SixGuns magazine she’s using as an impromptu fan. “And that’s mine,” I add, yanking it out of her sweaty hands.

  “Take it. It’s not even helping.” She slumps across the ops office desk, peeling her T-shirt away from the back of her shoulders with one hand. “And those windows really don’t open?”

  “Nope. I tried.”

  There are windows along one entire wall of the ops room in this hotel. They don’t look out onto anything more exciting than the grimy concrete of a blank wall – and while they’re all sealed shut “for security purposes”, the one thing they do let in is the sun, even with the feeble, tissue-thin curtains drawn – which is in full-on June heatwave mode. I have never been so hot in my entire life.

  Across the road from the hotel, the beaches of Brighton and Hove are packed with people in varying shades of crimson; this morning, the traditional “heatwave” photo of them spread across the pebbles was on the front pages of all the newspapers. This did not go down well with a convention crew stuck in the un-air-conditioned bowels of a hotel for two days, getting increasingly sticky and sweary and sweaty. It may be great weather for sunbathing, but it’s pretty miserable for a convention that takes place entirely indoors. Thanks to Dad’s…robust conversation with the hotel manager, we’ve managed to get additional fans installed in all the panel and screening rooms, but the author’s reading room is like an oven, and a couple of them have already gone rogue and led their audiences outside and across the road to the seafront and read there. I don’t blame them at all. Even if it did seriously piss Dad off.

  “Is that your boyfriend’s cover?” Bede slides the magazine down to his end of the desk.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He turns it face-up, and there is Aidan. The photographer has put him on the steps to the National Gallery, and obviously told him to look “moody”, because he’s half-scowling, half-squinting at the camera. Naturally they’ve got him holding out his hand and photoshopped some kind of weird glowing ball into it – because, magic. And I’m relatively sure that moody squint is because he’s not wearing his glasses, so he can’t even see the camera.

  “Look at it. There’s no glowy magic balls in Piecekeepers,” I mutter.

  Bede makes a snorting sound that could have been a rubbish attempt to hide a laugh. “At least they didn’t put him in a cloak with one of those big floppy hoods. You know – Traditional Fantasy Book Cover Number One.”

  “Hooded Man With Sword?”

  “Hooded Man With Big Shiny Magic Glowing—”

  “Stop.” I hold up my hand. “Can’t.”

  “Well, I think he looks good,” Sam says, perking up and spinning the magazine back along the desk, away from Bede. “And there’s a massive interview inside.
They loved the book too.” She flips it open to the start of Aidan’s feature: a full-page photo (thankfully without the ball) and a three-page interview. “Oooh. Have you seen who’s been cast as Jamie in the film?”

  “Mmm.” If I rest my forehead on the desk and then lift it ever so slightly, there’s a second when it feels like my skin is stuck to the wood and peeling off my face. It’s the weirdest sensation. I do it again.

  “Hey! Look! There’s a thing about us in the event reviews page! Well. Not us, exactly…”

  “Where?” Bede scrambles round to her, peering over her shoulder. “‘Last month’s convention…blah blah blah…big names…yaddah yaddah…but the procession of Angelo’s greatest hits…” He stops suddenly. I know what that means.

  “Hit me,” I tell the desk.

  “No, it’s…”

  “They’re being bitchy about Dad again, aren’t they?”

  “Really, it’s fine. Just the usual boring stuff.”

  “Who wrote it?”

  “I dunno. There’s no name – it’s just the regular convention column.”

  “Give it here?” I click my fingers and Bede slides the magazine back to me. Peeling my face off the desk again, I sit up and focus. He’s right; there’s no byline on the article, but a quick flip to the contributors listing confirms my suspicions.

  “There.” I plant my fingertip alongside one name and put my head back on the wood. It’s cooler than the air.

  “Damien Woodman?”

  I actually hear Sam pull a face. “The Brother.”

  “Bingo.”

  “So what’s that about?”

  “One: he never misses a chance to get a dig in, not when it comes to that column. Two: I bet you any money he’s going to try and book Aidan for one of his autumn events. Any money you like. And I bet he’ll do what he always does and make it about the film adaptation – there’ll be a panel with someone from the studio, and a couple of the actors and the screenwriter…”

  “I heard someone say it was going to be Joss Whe—”

  “Quite. And Aidan will be tacked on the end like a crap show pony with ribbons in its tail.”

  We all take a moment to ponder this particularly vivid mental image.