Silence.
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it.
OhgodohgodohgodhethinksI’manidiot.
And then… “The street lights. You’re talking about the street lights. There’s shapes in them – like constellations.” He glances at me, unsure. “That’s it, right?”
He got it. I knew he would.
Well…sort of.
“I see it,” he laughs. “The umbrella. And the cat.”
“And the kangaroo?”
“Where was that?”
“Over there.” I point at the curving row of orange lights. “There’s its tail, and its stomach…”
He squints into the night in silence, then shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t see it.”
“You’re not looking in the right place…”
I tail off – because that’s exactly what he said to me earlier…and because he’s not looking at the lights at all. I can see him in the fluorescent glow through the glass skylight, against the backdrop of the pier. He’s not looking at the lights. He’s looking at me.
“You’d better show me,” he says, and his voice has dropped a level. It’s quieter – barely more than a whisper.
“There.” I lean past him and point at the outline in the streets.
Our positions reversed, now it’s my body pressing against his back; my arm outstretched around him, my chin pressed against his shoulder…
And maybe he doesn’t mean it; maybe he’s just turning his head to see the outline better, or perhaps his glasses catch in my hair…but when his cheek brushes mine, he doesn’t move away.
I am on a roof with a guy who just got asked to sign a girl’s arm, and I barely know him but I know him.
WHAT DO I DO NOW?
I’m afraid that neither of us are ever going to speak again. I’m afraid I’ve lost my voice; that he’s lost his. That somehow the world has fallen silent, and nobody will ever be able to talk again – although I guess the yells from the pier and from the street below do kind of spoil that illusion. And then:
“You know it isn’t a kangaroo, don’t you?”
“What do you mean, it’s not a kangaroo?” I ask, trying to sound both casual and offended at the same time. It’s the kind of thing Sam would be able to pull off – the kind of thing she does pull off all the time – but I’m not Sam. I just sound…vaguely bored.
“It’s a crocodile. Look. That’s not its tail – that’s its mouth.”
“It’s not a crocodile.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Remind me never to ask you on an Australian tour,” he laughs, and he wraps his fingers around mine (which is still pointing, because, idiot), and starts drawing pictures in the air.
If we were in his book, our hands would leave trails of light like sparklers through the sky, glowing against the night; they would crackle and fizz with magic. But we aren’t, so they’re just mildly clammy and soundtracked by someone throwing up against a lamp post on the promenade (loudly).
It’s so hard to pull away from him that I feel it all the way through every fibre of me. It feels like someone has ripped off a layer of my skin – but I can’t stay like that, leaning into him. I can’t, because if I do it a minute longer, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to step away again.
“So maybe it could be a crocodile. Maybe. I’m not saying you’re right.”
“That’s funny, because I was absolutely going to say you were wrong.”
His voice sounds like a grin.
The wind is turning cooler, blowing more strongly now. If there’s rain coming, it won’t be long before it gets here.
I point to the door. “We should go back inside.”
“Fair enough. Besides, there was another wig I wanted to try on that stall – I’ve always thought I’d look awesome as a redhead.”
Hands in his pockets, he moves away from the railing and heads for the stairs back down to the traders’ room without a second’s hesitation, and without a single look back.
I could tell myself the dull ache in my ribs is just because I haven’t eaten, and not because he didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder at me.
I could…
The tiny tower of empty pistachio shells topples over, scattering across the carpet. I lean over to scoop as many of them up as I can, scraping them back into a heap in front of me. “I told you it was going.”
“You were playing safe.”
“You weren’t.” I throw a stray shell at him. His hand snaps out and catches it. Smugly. He drops it back on top of the pile and I start picking at bits left behind on the carpet; I can’t imagine Darknight Comics will be too happy if they come in later and tread on a load of half-eaten nuts, scavenged from a leftover crate of event supplies.
“Is there a reason we’re hiding under here?” He flicks at the edge of the white cloth draping the trader’s table above us.
“The lights are giving me a headache.” The fib is surprisingly easy to tell, falling from my mouth with worrying speed. I suppose it’s partly true – the fluorescent lights are getting to be a bit much after a whole day running around under them, and now getting stuck here. But more than anything, it just felt…right. Ever since I read Piecekeepers, since Aidan told me that I knew him because I’d read it, I’ve felt that I somehow have an unfair advantage – like I’ve been spying on him. Bringing him under the table seemed fair. This is my safe place – however stupid that sounds – and somehow, the idea of showing him that, showing him me, letting him see me…it suddenly feels like the right thing.
Besides, Rodney may decide that tonight is the night he actually does his midnight rounds, and now we’re here, it’s probably a better idea to stay put until morning and slip out when everyone else starts coming in. Fewer questions, fewer problems. And if it gives me more time with Aidan…let’s just call that a bonus.
“Isn’t your dad going to worry about you when he can’t find you?”
I was so busy thinking about Aidan that I hadn’t even noticed he was talking to me. I shake my head; a bit of pistachio skin falls out of my hair. (Always glamorous, this life. I wonder, if I wasn’t Lexi Angelo, if I was someone else – someone who’d never even been near a convention or who had never even touched a clipboard – would I have beautiful hair that was always shiny and glossy and never had bits of dust or cardboard or pistachio in it?) He watches it glide to the carpet and raises an eyebrow at me. Well, he’s never going to get that at any of his big publishing parties, is he? I provide dinner and a show.
“I doubt Dad’ll even notice I’m not around. He’ll be busy all night, and he’ll probably assume I’ve just gone to bed.” Even if he’s not doing convention stuff, the wedding seems to be taking over his head; not the actual planning – he’s got somebody else doing all that – but the Bea-wrangling. That would probably make him a Bea-keeper. Huh. Funny.
I realize Aidan has been watching every centimetre of this train of thought chug through my head.
I pick at my hair.
“He doesn’t check in on you?”
“No. Why should he?” I don’t know who’s more puzzled right now – me or Aidan. It’s like the idea of my dad not needing to know where I am every second is completely alien to him. I mean, it’s a hotel. How far could I have got?
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
“I’m a big girl, thanks. I don’t need my daddy to hold my hand, if that’s what you’re saying.”
He pulls a face. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“So what did you mean?” I try to keep it light, but I’m not sure I want it to be.
“It’s just…you’re telling me he wouldn’t be bothered about this?” He waves a hand around, presumably to illustrate the two of us, alone in a convention centre, under a table. Surrounded by pistachios. “About us?”
I ignore the “us”, even though it makes my fingernails sweat and fills my ribs with butterflies. “As long as all the merchandise is fine, no. Why should he?
”
Aidan gives me a long, hard look and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something – but then blinks and obviously changes his mind. He starts stacking the shells again.
It’s suddenly got surprisingly chilly under our table.
Our table.
Us.
I try to break the silence again and grab a couple of shells from the pile to lean against each other. “You’ll never get them to balance like that,” I say, carefully letting my two go. They immediately fall over. “And apparently, neither will I.”
“What about your mum?” He picks up my fallen shells and gently, so gently, stands them upright; his fingertips hovering a hair’s breadth from them until he’s sure they’ll stay. “You said your dad was getting married soon, but she’s not your mum, is she?”
He remembers that? “Aren’t we full of questions, Mr Green?”
“Writer. It comes with the job,” he says with a grin. “And you didn’t answer.”
“Mum lives in France. She and Dad split up years ago and got divorced when I was twelve, and I think they’re both happier with it that way.”
“And you?”
“What do you mean, and me?”
“It didn’t sound like you’re a big fan of what’s-her-name…”
“Bea,” I reply automatically. “She makes Dad happy. She’s fine.”
He opens his mouth again, and I know where this is going. It’s the how-do-you-feel? conversation again; the one Mum keeps trying to have with me – the one she’s apparently been having with Sam on my behalf. I shut him down, shaking my head again.
“No more questions – not unless I get to ask you some.”
He laughs. It’s an easy sound – and for a second I picture him slouched on a sofa somewhere, guard down and feet up. All Aidan, no Haydn, and not a signing queue in sight. Except in my head, he appears to be shirtless.
I stare very, very hard at a small hole in the carpet.
“Go on then. Ask away.”
“Where did Piecekeepers come from?”
“Jesus, Lexi,” he groans. “I didn’t realize it was an interview – you could’ve read that in the magazine…”
“No. Not the magazine answer. The real answer.”
“How do you know the magazine answer isn’t the real answer?” Suddenly, I have his attention; he looks up at me from beneath half-lowered lids, the start of a smile on his lips.
“The magazine answer is never the real answer. So?”
“That’s not fair. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“It’s completely fair. And you know you want to tell me…”
That was absolutely not what I was planning to say. Not even slightly.
I’m this close to panicking when he laughs again. Apparently, my accidental and terrible attempt at witty banter worked.
“You win. It was for a girl.”
And that’s when it happens, when I’m least expecting it – he plunges his hand into my chest, rips out my heart and tears it to pieces. Or he might as well have, anyway.
“A girl?”
Look at me. I’m so casual. Nothing hurts. This doesn’t hurt. Not at all.
“I know, I know. It’s pathetic.”
“Not. At. All. Tell. Me. More.” I enunciate every word like I’m biting pieces off a rock.
“It was ages ago, but there was…this girl. Ali. And she was into all these fantasy books, you know? Magic and secret doorways, proper Narnia stuff. And I’d always written stories, and I thought how hard can writing a whole book be? So I started writing this one to impress her.”
Ali. There’s a character called Ali in Piecekeepers. “And that was it? That’s how the book started?”
“Christ, no. That was a piece of shit. But it had magic in it, and that idea gave me another one – about magic trapped in paintings, and what would happen if it ever got out and nobody could control it.”
“So you wrote that story.”
“Yep.” With a well-aimed flick, he knocks the whole pistachio tower down. “And when I was halfway through, Ali started going out with my mate, Nick.”
“Does she know about it?”
“The book? Probably.”
“No – I mean, does she know it’s you?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Not any more. Besides, she’s another one not really into…this.” Another hand-wave. I’m going to assume “this” means “conventions” rather than the nebulous “us”.
Us.
“Well, if she doesn’t know yet, she will soon enough. It’ll be everywhere in a couple of weeks, not just at a convention. Your publishers are pushing the book hard – you’re lucky.”
“I know.” He smiles again, but it’s a sad smile somehow, not the full beam I’ve seen him give – the one that lights up his face and makes him glow from inside. “And don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful. There’s probably a million people who’d give their right hand for it – it’s just that, you know, the publicity stuff? It’s all him.”
“Him?”
“Haydn. Not…you know, me. I just want to write. All this” – he gestures out at the World Beyond the Table again – “it’s intimidating, you know?”
“Are you serious? Intimidating how?”
“Intimidating every-how. Maybe not to you – you’re used to it. But this” – another wave: isn’t he supposed to be good with actual words? – “is pretty new to me. Me-me. Aidanme. I’m still catching up.”
Where does Aidan stop and Haydn start? That was what I wanted to know, wasn’t it? And now I can see the seam where he’s stitched them both together. Haydn is the lighter one, the one who grins at the spotlight. Aidan is the one who told me his own parents haven’t read his book. They’re different, but they overlap. Two versions of the same guy. So which one am I falling for? Or am I falling for both? Because it’s pointless trying to pretend I’m not falling – I am. My name is Lexi Angelo, and I am falling hard. I was falling before tonight, before I even realized. But now I know and I’m sure of it and there’s no way I can hide from it any more.
I try another approach. “I don’t believe that your parents aren’t proud of you. I can’t believe that. They must know what a big deal this is!” I want to say what a big deal you are, or how good it is, but this feels safer.
There’s that smile again, the sad one – and this time it comes with its very own Aidan-shaped laugh. “Maybe they would be if I’d written a ‘proper’ book. Maybe one about a tortured artist who has to cut off his own thumbs or something. Or maybe a book about a middle-aged art historian – one with big words that only fifteen people in the world actually use. But not so much a book about magicians…” He stops abruptly. “Let’s not go there, okay? Not now.”
Well done, Lexi. Kick a guy while he’s down. That’s absolutely the thing to do.
“But it is a proper book. It has a cover and pages and words. Proper book. And anyway, I liked it.”
“You did.”
I more than liked it.
“More than that – you got it. And you got all the stuff about Venice too. That meant a lot.”
“I…what?” An alarm bell goes off somewhere in the back of my head. I haven’t said anything to him about the bit of the book set in Venice. I’m sure of it. In fact, the only time I’ve mentioned it is in an email…
…An email to his publicist. Thanking her for the proof copy she’d sent Dad.
…In which I gushed like a screaming fangirl about how amazing the book was and how amazing the author was and particularly – particularly – about the whole section at the start of the book where the magician and his assistant have a duel in Venice.
…An email Aidan has clearly read.
…Oh. God.
It doesn’t come out as a question. It isn’t a question. It’s more a statement of mounting horror. “Lucy showed you my email.”
“She forwarded the comments, said they were from a reviewer. There wasn’t a name – I didn’t know it was you – un
til…” He stops as though he can’t find the words. Ironic, that.
“Until what? I made a massive idiot of myself in May?”
I want to disappear. I want the ground to swallow me, the sea to dissolve me. I want to step off the roof and float away into the clouds – possibly riding on a kangaroo made entirely from embarrassment and the light from streetlamps.
“Until earlier. On the roof.”
What did I say? I said something, I must have done.
“On the roof?”
“I don’t know exactly what it was, okay? It just felt the same. It felt like you. It sounded like you do. It’s stupid. I just…it was you. I know it was.” He doesn’t sound quite so sure of himself now, not at all. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“Mayyyyybe…?”
“You just asked me if Lucy showed me your email!”
“I could’ve been talking about another email?”
“Fine.” And his smile is back, the real one. “What I meant to say is that I hope it was you.”
In my head, I flick my hair back and give him a dazzling but carefree and enigmatic smile and say something deeply witty.
In reality, I mumble something about him being clever and what time is it anyway and manage to almost elbow him in the face checking my watch.
2 a.m.
Even Dad will be winding down by now; has he noticed I’ve not been around all evening? Will he be looking around in case I walk through the bar? Text me? Try my phone?
Why would he?
Why wouldn’t he?
As Aidan picks up the pistachio shells in great big handfuls, saying something about needing to stretch his legs, I wonder why I’ve never asked that question before. Why it’s taken Aidan turning up to jolt it out of me.
He crawls out from under the table and groans as he straightens up – and then a hand appears back under the edge of the tablecloth. “Come on,” he says from outside.
He’s waiting for me to take his hand.
I slide my fingers into his, half-expecting there to be sparks.
There aren’t – at least, none that anybody could see – but I feel them all the same.
“What’s up there?” He points up to the galleried walkway running around the upper half of the room.
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