That may be an exaggeration, but it feels that way from where I’m standing.
To pass the time, I tune in and out of the conversations in the queue around me.
“He is, though,” says a girl somewhere near me. “Do you think he’s single?”
I risk a casual glance around, waggling my pen like I’m counting the numbers in the queue, and I spot her. She’s a few places further down the line, with two friends. All three of them are staring at Aidan’s photo in the magazine, and each of them has a copy of Piecekeepers tucked under their arm.
“I’m going to ask him to follow me on Instagram,” says one.
“Is he even on Instagram though?”
“Is he on Snapchat? I know he’s on Twitter. I follow him,” chirps another one.
“This doesn’t say anything about Snapchat, but he’s on the others.” The first one pokes at the magazine; it must have more in there about his social media profiles than there was in the proof letter. Those profiles were just the Eagle’s Head ones. (I checked, okay?)
I scan the room. Bede’s mum and dad are over by the wine table – keeping an eye on it and waving under-eighteens towards the soft drinks while talking to Jenna, the junior Eagle’s Head publicist. Otherwise, I’m in the clear. No Sam to see what I’m doing and mock me. I slip my phone out of my pocket and open Twitter, tapping Haydn Swift into the search box. My screen fills with mentions of the book, the article, the signing right now (which will please Dad – he might not understand Twitter, but he definitely understands buzz) and a stream of selfies people have snapped with Aidan. I scroll through them. There’s a lot…and it strikes me how many of them are with girls just like those three in the queue. Do they have to lean in so close? Do they have to have a hand resting on his shoulder? Do they have to…
Sam’s voice echoes in my head: You’re worried you like a guy who doesn’t exist.
I’m not. I don’t. I don’t.
The problem is I don’t know him – not really. Pieces of him, sure – like the piece of him that wrote his book. But that still leaves a lot of him I don’t know. Haydn, Aidan… they’re the same but they’re different. That kind of reminds me of my dad, how he’s both “public Max” (friendly, genial, laughs a lot) and “home Max” (grumpy, can’t work the washing machine, always losing his phone in his office). I mentally push that comparison away. This is about Aidan, not Dad.
But who is Aidan? Could I get to know more of him than just pieces?
I didn’t do it for Sam.
All I can see is you.
Stomach flips and sweaty palms; eyes the colour of clouds in water and he smells like the sea.
I could (probably) ignore it all – if only I hadn’t read the book.
I wish I could unread it… No, I don’t.
Am I daydreaming about a guy who doesn’t exist?
But Aidan wrote Piecekeepers, didn’t he? Aidan’s the real Haydn – it’s Haydn who doesn’t exist. He’s just a name; the window dressing, the one posing for photos and signing books. Aidan, on the other hand…he is the one I see.
I search again, and there’s a Twitter account box, marked with the little blue and white “verified” tick logo. The official Twitter account for Haydn Swift, author of Piecekeepers (out this summer from Eagle’s Head Books). I click the “follow” button…and instantly realize that I’m still logged in under the convention account instead of mine. I panic-unfollow, then figure that he’s one of our guests so it doesn’t even matter. I re-follow.
He has an Instagram account, does he…?
“Seems to be going well, doesn’t it?”
Lucy is beaming at the queue – which is still going strong.
“It’s a really good turnout.” I stick my phone back in my pocket and shuffle my Post-it notes. “Definitely one of the best signings we’ve had in ages.”
“Between you and me,” she whispers, “I think the casting announcement for the film last week has made a huge difference. We’re already into the second printing for the hardback, and the official release date isn’t for another two weeks.”
“Wow. You must be really pleased!”
Up at the signing table, a girl is asking Aidan to sign straight onto her arm. I can hear her telling him she’s going to get it tattooed on permanently, and he looks like he’s trying to work out whether he can say no.
Lucy spots it too. “Oh, lord. Excuse me.” And she strides across to rescue her desperately uncomfortable author.
He doesn’t even look over at me.
Back to work then.
“Are you here for the signing? Great, can I just check how to spell your name? And that’s A…N…”
It took less than an hour for us to shift all the copies of Piecekeepers. It took significantly less time for the free drinks and snacks to disappear, but that’s conventions for you. As the last of his fans leave with their signed books – Are they fans? I guess so. Haydn has fans. Besides me, I mean. That’s…weird – Aidan caps his signing pen and stretches.
“Not so fast, cowboy,” Lucy says, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down on his seat before he can get out of it. “I need a photo.”
“I’ve been sat here for the last hour – you didn’t get one through all that?” Aidan groans.
Lucy is unrepentant. “No, I need a good one of you signing a copy. One we can use on the appearances page of the website.” She plonks one on the desk in front of him and pulls out her phone to take the picture. “Lexi – how about we get you in it too? You could pretend to be a fan!”
I ignore Aidan’s cough of amusement: my lanyard has got tangled with my necklace. “Me?” I say, trying to separate the two. “Oh, you don’t want me in it. I’m all sweaty and…”
“Come on, Lexi. It’ll make me look like less of a loser if someone else is in it.” Aidan beckons me over to the table and my insides are suddenly more tangled than my jewellery. “We can both be losers,” he adds as I stand next to him, really hoping he can’t hear how fast my heart is beating at this distance.
“Bit closer, Lexi,” says Lucy, pointing the phone’s camera at us. “Otherwise I’ve only got half your face.”
I can just imagine how awkward this photo’s going to be…but I duly oblige. Satisfied, she takes the picture.
“Great. I’ll put that up on Monday. Thanks, Lexi – and thank you so much for all this.” She waves a hand at the emptying room. “We really appreciate all the effort.”
“It’s no trouble. Really.”
“Hey, Lexi!”
Just the sound of him saying my name raises goosebumps down my spine.
Aidan Green. Haydn Swift.
You heard those girls in the line. Do you want to be stood there with them, giggling over him? Do you want to be fighting them over him? I don’t think so. Here be dragons.
No way are you sailing over that line. Nope. No chance.
“What do you think? Good for a photo?” Now the signing’s over and it’s just him and me and a couple of the other convention staff left tidying up, he’s clearly starting to relax. He has an arm slung around his cardboard cut-out’s shoulders – and he has to stand on tiptoe to do it. Just like I would have to do to put my arm around him. Not that I would want to, obviously.
“I think you make a beautiful couple,” I say. He stretches up and plants a kiss on the figure’s cheek, and it’s so ridiculous that I can’t stop myself laughing.
“Hang on. My phone.”
He’s patting his pockets, over and over – that panic-pat that everyone does when their phone or wallet isn’t where they thought it was.
“Everything okay?” I tug the largest poster down from the wall and roll it up with the kind of grace, ease and skill that only comes from years of experience; which is to say I get it all rolled up, then drop it and have to catch it as it unrolls across the floor. My words barely filter through whatever he’s doing.
Pat-pat-pat.
“It was in my back pocket earlier.”
“Have you lost your phone?”
“Yes. I had it before the panel…”
“Did you give it to Lucy or Jenna?”
“No, no. And I definitely had it before the panel. I remember checking it was off when I sat down at the table.”
“And you’ve not used it since?”
“No. I…it must have fallen out.”
He looks thoroughly depressed – but at least he has managed to lose his phone in front of the best possible person. If anyone knows how to find a lost phone, bag, book or coat – or dog – at a convention, it’s definitely me. Or, you know, Sam. But Sam’s not here right now, so yes. Still me.
“Don’t panic. It’s probably under your chair from the last panel. We’ll go back and check – yours was the last event in that room for today, so it should still be there.”
“Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.”
I cross the room and hand my walkie to Bede’s dad, who is folding up the cloth from the drinks table. “Haydn thinks he dropped his phone in panel room one – I’m just taking him back over to check.”
“Are you finished for the day then?”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“Have a good evening.” He glances at his watch and frowns at the time – nine thirty. “Well…whatever’s left of the evening anyway. See you at breakfast – the weather’s supposed to be cooler tomorrow, so that should make life a bit easier.” He takes the walkie and tucks it under his arm along with the tablecloth, heading in the direction of the ops room. This section of the convention is slowly shutting down for the night. Now, it’s all about the evening entertainment – karaoke, parties, the cosplay catwalk… Thankfully, as always, I get to stop work. I could go and catch up with the others, but I’m too tired to be good company. And too sticky. No, once we’ve tracked down this phone, I’m going to go and sit under a cool shower until I finally stop sweating.
Aidan pats his pockets – apparently at random – all the way back to panel room one, as though he thinks his phone is going to miraculously appear somewhere he’s already checked fifteen times. The main corridors are deserted now, and I can hear someone vacuuming one of the workshop rooms. Sam always complains it’s spooky, walking around a convention after-hours, but I love it. It’s not spooky at all; it’s peaceful. Calm. It feels like a completely different place to the one we’ve been running around all day, which I guess just goes to show it’s the people that make a convention. You can set up all the art shows and book stalls you like, but without the people coming to see it – the people wandering the traders’ room and arguing about whether this comic is better than that comic, the guys in the corner of the bar drinking so much coffee they vibrate and play-testing the new tabletop game they’ve designed – without them, it’s not a convention. It’s just a load of stuff.
The lights are all off in panel room one when we push the doors open. Admittedly, it does look a little eerie inside; there’s only the green glow from the emergency lighting and what’s filtering in from the corridor. My shadow sprawls across the chairs – and as I stand there, another one joins it. Aidan’s.
“Where’s the light switch?” he asks.
“On the left, beside the door.” I set off down the central aisle while he looks for the switch.
“You’re not going to wait?”
“I know where I’m going.”
As the door swings shut, the lights flicker on with an electric hum and I scramble under the table on the stage. There’s no sign of a phone here – not hidden by the convention banners between the table legs, not under the chair…not anywhere.
“Anything?” Aidan shouts from the back of the room.
“Nope. Not here.” I clamber out – and realize as I look back across at him that he’s standing exactly where I was earlier…and I’m where he was. I wonder whether he did see me… “I can try calling it, if you tell me your number?”
I look at my phone. No signal. I should have thought about that; the signal on my phone is rubbish in this building, but it’s not a problem when I have the walkie – which I usually do.
“On second thoughts, that’s not going to work. The reception’s too crappy.”
“It’s off anyway. I don’t know where else it could have gone…”
“There’s one more place I can look – the stage is hollow, so maybe it’s fallen under.”
“How?”
“If it fell out of your pocket, it could’ve got kicked off the edge and somehow got stuck?” How am I supposed to know? I’m just trying to help. “It’s a bit dark under there – can you come hold my phone for me? I’ll put the torch on.”
He hops lightly up onto the stage and edges around the table as I jump down behind, pushing the black backdrop curtains aside on their runners. I toss him my phone, the flash lit up to act as a torch. “Here. Point it that way.” I point at the black hole under the stage.
“Are you sure?” He wrinkles his nose. “I wouldn’t want to go in there.”
“I’ll have to check it after the convention anyway – we always do, just in case something’s fallen back there and got lost. You know, like an author’s phone?” I add, and immediately wish I hadn’t, because it comes out sounding a lot more snarky than I intended. I cough, like this makes it any better. “It’s fine as long as you don’t wriggle too much.”
I crawl into the gap, shuffling forward on my hands and knees and peering ahead of me into the shadows. There’s a lot of dust, a handful of paperclips and absolutely nothing else. No phone.
“Bugger,” he says when I crawl out and tell him. The dust has stuck to my sweaty legs, and there are grim grey stripes down the front of my shins. I brush the fluff off my hands as best I can.
“It’ll probably turn up in the ops room tomorrow – don’t panic. Maybe Nadiya picked it up straight after your panel finished. We find phones all the—”
There is a loud grating sound from the other end of the room. I stare at the door.
Aidan follows my gaze. “What’s the matter?”
“No. No, no, no.” Ignoring him, I scramble across the stage and run down the central aisle; my fingers close on the door handle and I turn it and…
Nothing.
The door is locked.
“Rodney? Rodney!” I bang the flat of my hand on the solid door, hard. If only there was a window, a glass panel, anything, he’d have seen us. But as it is…
Nothing.
“Lexi?”
“RODNEY!” I bang again, repeatedly.
Nothing.
We’re locked in.
As that knowledge takes root, the lights click off.
“What the…?” In the darkness, I hear Aidan trip over a chair leg, then another, then bang into the door. Finally he makes it to the lighting panel and starts flicking switches. It stays dark.
“There’s a master switch for these function rooms at the end of the corridor. Rodney must have turned it off when he locked up,” I tell him gloomily.
“Wait – did you say ‘locked up’?”
“I did.”
“You mean we’re locked in?”
“Yep.”
“How?”
“We lock the convention areas when they shut down for the night – it’s the only way to guarantee the art show and the traders’ room stay secure.” Sometimes, I wonder whether Dad swapped me for a parrot at birth. This stuff just comes out of me.
“But…aren’t you supposed to check whether there’s somebody inside first? So this doesn’t happen?” Aidan can’t believe it. Neither can I actually; I’m going to have a word with Rodney when I see him next, that’s for sure.
“I guess he forgot.”
“But you can get us out, right?”
“In what sense?”
“You must have a key?”
“Why would I have a key?”
“Because you…you’re staff. You work here, right?”
“On the convention, sure. Not at the hotel. They l
et us have one key and it stays with our certified security guard. And last time I checked, I couldn’t magically unlock doors with the force of my mind, so no. I can’t get us out. Although…” I snatch my phone back from him and point its pathetic little light at the far end of the room.
The backdrops.
I’m sure I remember…
“This way,” I say, and walk into the dark. “I’ve got an idea.” Keeping to the side of the stage, I move round to the back, making sure Aidan’s still with me. “Through here.” I reach behind me and it’s only when I’ve done it that I realize I’ve grabbed his hand. His fingers twine through mine and at any other time I would be considering what this actually means…but right now, all it means is that bloody Rodney is so worried about knocking off for his dinner that he didn’t do his job properly.
With Aidan’s fingers locked into mine, I move along the curtain until I find the edge of the fabric panels. “Here we go. It’s somewhere here…”
I fumble at the wall, and then I find what I’m looking for.
A door handle – and it turns.
The door swings open, and with a whoop I pull Aidan through it and into the light.
A couple of hours ago, we couldn’t have stood here without either being trampled or swept away; we are in a vast, galleried room packed with tables selling books, trading cards, plastic figures, T-shirts, toys, cosplay weapons, wigs, outfits…and right now, it’s totally deserted. As it’s on a different lighting circuit (one Rodney has clearly forgotten about), it’s also still lit – so unlike the panel room, we can actually see what we’re doing. Even if the light is horrible and fluorescent and makes me feel like my eyes are bleeding.
“This is amazing,” Aidan says, turning in a full circle.
I am, admittedly, less amazed. And my phone still has no signal because my network is useless here. “Yeah. It’s just swell.”
“Nobody says ‘swell’. Not unless they’re in a black-and-white film.”
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