The scary thing is, though, that I can’t really imagine my life being any other way. I’m not even sure who I am – what I am – when I’m not being “Max Angelo’s daughter”. It’s never really been an issue before – I thought everything would just carry on the way it always has for ever, and that was fine. Now, though? I can’t be as certain. Is that really what I want? To always stay the same? Same old Lexi, same old clipboard, for ever and ever.
This world is where I belong, and I know that. I’m good at it and I love it – but I don’t think I’ve ever really looked beyond it. I never wanted to, I guess, because I feel like here’s where I’m most me… But things are changing…with Dad and Bea…and now with Aidan…just the memory of the scent of him, the feel of his shoulder under my cheek, sets off fireworks underneath my skin. Suddenly it feels like everything has changed.
Dad sighs and shakes his head like I’m the worst daughter in the world. Maybe I am. How would I know? How would he? All I know is how to be this version of me – and this morning, me has had enough.
“Lexi, just so you know, I’ve never doubted you before, but this…episode is making me question your judgement.”
“Excuse me?”
“Try to see it from my point of view, hmm? You’ve never even been on a date, and now – this. What would you think if you were me? If you were Bea…?”
I can’t believe he’s brought her into it – not Mum, who would actually have a right to a point of view. “Talk about bad judgement,” I mutter – but not quietly enough.
His eyes narrow down to lasers, boring straight into me.
“Go to your room.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Your room. Go there, now – and stay there. I don’t want to see you on the convention floor this morning. Maybe some sleep will adjust your attitude.”
“But—”
“No.” He turns his back on me. “I’m not listening to another word. Room. Now.”
I think my dad just grounded me. In a hotel.
I make sure I stamp on every single stair on the way down to the floor my room is on. When I pass one of the hotel’s housekeeping staff admittedly I stomp a little less hard, because housekeeping are intimidating and once you’ve had to stand in a guest of honour’s trashed hotel room begging them not to charge you for the damages, you gain a certain level of respect for them. (The housekeeping staff, that is. Not the guest of honour. She’s been banned from every convention in Europe now; it’s quite an achievement.) But once he’s gone past, I carry on stomping just the same – and slam the door to my room for good measure. If my father is suddenly going to start treating me like a kid, I’m going to behave like one. That’ll show him.
While he’s three floors above me, unable to hear me or see me and probably not even thinking about me at all.
Umm.
But at least I won’t be there, running around at his beck and call, will I? And that’s down to him. I’m just doing what I’m told, for better or worse.
And that? That’ll really show him.
I try Sam’s mobile; it goes to voicemail. She probably wouldn’t have time to talk anyway – especially if I’m not allowed down to the convention floor this morning. Even though Sunday mornings are pretty quiet, she’ll still be picking up the slack, which means she’s going to be annoyed with me – and that means I’ll have to give her a minute-by-minute account of last night before she’ll let me whinge about Dad.
My fingers curl around my phone; I could try Mum. Maybe she’d listen…or maybe she’d agree with Dad. Not about the convention and the risk of damaging the traders’ room…but about getting myself locked in there with Aidan. And staying locked in there. I can even hear her voice in my mind, picture her shaking her head at Leonie across the room…
Besides, I already feel bad about that Bea comment – I just wasn’t expecting Dad to bring her into the conversation, especially after that dating comment. Like it’s any of her business. Like it’s any of his. It’s not that I’ve not wanted to go on a date, maybe even – gasp! – have a boyfriend…but I’ve not really met anyone who made me feel like they’d be worth the trouble, or worth spending the pitiful amount of precious spare time I actually have with. And that’s fine. Or at least it was until my own father decided to weaponize my choices…
No. I won’t call Mum.
But I will have that shower…
I don’t hear the phone when it rings the first time, mostly because I went to sleep with my head under both the hotel pillows and it’s a better version of the world under here. It’s like being eaten by a giant marshmallow, which is comforting because if I were to be eaten by a giant marshmallow then all my troubles would be over, and it feels like a fittingly ridiculous way to go out.
But apparently my phone has something important to tell me, because when I do hear it and drag it under Marshmallowpillow Mountain, there are a stack of missed calls from Sam. There’s been a crisis – of course there has. Even as I’m holding it, it rings again – although thankfully no one’s there to hear me squeak.
“Sam?”
“Sorry to wake you, Lex…”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh. But your dad said…”
“I bet he said plenty.”
“Is everything okay? You sound all muffled.”
“I’m confined to quarters, so I’m under my pillow.”
“What? Why?”
“Why pillow, or why grounded?”
“Either.”
“Long story.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with this.
“It’s fine – I’ll be down later. What’s up?”
“It’s Aidan. He was looking for you.”
“Aidan?” I move so fast that the pillows bounce halfway to the door.
“Yeah, he was leaving and wanted to say goodbye, I think.”
“Leaving?” No. No, no, no. He can’t leave. Not yet. I was going to look for him. Why didn’t I try his mobile, see if he found it? Anything, rather than just flop around here? I’m an idiot. A pure-grade, solid gold idiot. Being eaten by a marshmallow is too good for me. “When? When is he going?”
“Soon? I don’t know – I saw him about five minutes ago.”
“Did he find his phone?”
“I don’t know, Lexi!”
“Stop him.”
“What?”
“Just…oh, staple yourself to his leg if you have to, but don’t let him leave!”
I can’t find my shoe. One is right where I left it, at the end of my bed. The other should be next to it.
It isn’t.
I hang off the mattress, scooping the shoe I can see up and peering underneath the bed. Nope. Not there. I can’t go down with only one shoe, can I?
Can I?
I could say it was some kind of cosplay?
No.
I hobble round the whole room – twice – one shoe on, the other off (obviously), looking under the bed, in the wardrobe, under the dressing table, everywhere – until I spot the very end of a trainer lace poking out from behind the bathroom door. I lunge for it, grab it…and the bathroom door swings all the way open, knocking my make-up bag off the edge of the sink with a crash, the contents scattering all over the tiled floor.
Aaaaaaaaargh.
I slam the door on the whole mess and half-hop, half-run to the end of the hall, slamming my thumb onto the lift button so hard it hurts – and it’s only as I hop into the lift, still doing up my second shoelace, that I remember I left my wallet, my key and my phone in my room. All I have is the clothes I’m wearing and my convention lanyard, tucked into the pocket where I stuck it after my shower.
Oh, arsebiscuits.
The lobby is full of people checking out of the hotel, milling about with their bags and saying goodbye to friends…but none of them is Aidan. Not one. Across the floor, Sam spots me and waves a hand above her head, pointing at the revolving door out onto the street. “He just le
ft,” she yells over the burble of voices. “His train…”
Train.
Train.
Right.
I make the kind of dash that usually gets you a sportsperson of the year award and throw myself at the revolving door. Just before it spits me out onto the pavement, I hear Sam shouting, “Where are you going?”
I am going to the station, Samira.
If that’s where Aidan’s gone, it’s where I need to go too – even if it’s only to say goodbye. Because after last night, I can’t just let him go; I have to see him one more time. So I am going to the station.
Somehow.
As if by magic, a taxi pulls up at the entrance to the hotel and the door opens. It’s an elderly couple with a mountain of luggage. I try to make my shuffling from one foot to the other as discreet as possible and even help them with their bags – and as soon as they’re halfway up the steps, I throw myself into the back of the taxi.
“Station, please. And if you could, you know, be a bit brisk about it?”
The cabbie turns round in the seat and stares at me. “You what?”
“I need to get to the station. Now!”
“All right, love. Calm down.”
Every light is red. Every single light. Every junction is blocked by buses or cars or what appears to be a tricycle towing a small cart behind it.
“Shit.”
“Your mother know you talk like that?” He stops at yet another red light and turns around to grin at me, draping an arm around the back of his seat.
I’m so extraordinarily not in the mood.
“My mother’s a literature professor who lives in France with her girlfriend. I imagine the only comment she’d make about my language would be if I punctuated it badly.” While he’s been busy gawping at me, the light has turned green. Someone behind us hoots impatiently. “Can we go?”
He opens his mouth and closes it without a sound and before I know it, the station is directly ahead.
And I have no money.
It would have been great if I had thought of this before I got in the taxi.
“Five eighty, love.”
“Right. Small problem.”
His face shifts; he is no longer the chirpy, banter-loving cabbie of a minute ago. He’s now a heavy-set middle-aged guy I’ve just tried to rip off (as he sees it, anyway). “How small?” he asks, right after he locks all the doors.
“So, I have to catch someone before they get the train – will you wait?”
“I’ll charge you for it. And you pay upfront.”
“Umm.”
“Still a problem?”
I pat my pockets, just in case there’s a miraculous ten pound note in there (I live in hope). There isn’t – but there is my lanyard.
“This!” I wave it at him like it’s made of pure gold. “Take this…”
“I ain’t going to a convention.”
“No, no. It’s mine – and I need it.”
“No cash? No waiting.” He folds his arms and glares at me.
“Not even with collateral?”
“No.” He pauses – and for a second I think he’s about to change his mind. I look as lost and helpless as I possibly can, and then he says, “Five eighty. No waiting.”
Not changing his mind, then. Fine. I can walk back, but first, I have to get out of here.
“Okay. Okay. Right. I don’t have the cash, but if you go back to the hotel where you picked me up and ask for…” I skim through the list of Dad’s staff – there’s no point sending him to Sam, is there? – “Marie, she’ll sort you out. I swear.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s the best I can do! Please?”
“It’ll be a return fare,” he says reluctantly.
“Yes, yes.”
The doors unlock, and I’m out.
I have not thought this plan through. I don’t know where Aidan is, where he’s going, whether he’s still here. I don’t even know what I’m doing.
Departure board. Yes.
I scan the list of trains, looking for anything that might be the right thing. Most of them go to London. Would he be getting a London train? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t—
“Platform four for the train to Bristol Temple Meads. Will any passengers planning to travel to Bristol Temple Meads please board the train immediately, as it is ready to depart.”
Bristol.
I look up at the board.
Bath. I live in Bath.
The stop before Bristol Temple Meads is Bath.
The gates for the platform are almost directly ahead of me. I run for them, hearing the train’s engines rumble into life. The guard is pacing up and down the platform, waiting for the last stragglers to get on board…
And there he is. Halfway up the platform, walking away from me; grey T-shirt, jeans and a scruffy backpack. Hair like a thundercloud, and I would know that walk anywhere. I would know him anywhere, across the biggest room or in the biggest crowd, because I know him.
I can see him.
“Aidan!” I lean over the ticket gates, and I can’t tell if the ache under my ribs is from the gate digging into my stomach or from the thought of him leaving before I…what? Have the chance to say goodbye? I don’t know, but I need to see him. I need to leave some kind of mark on him, the way he’s left a mark on me. Because all I can think is that he has left his name tattooed across the inside of my head and I have to—
The last door slams and the guard blows his whistle, hopping onto the train at the very last moment.
With a rumble that grows to a roar, the train pulls out of the station and Aidan is gone.
Having served out my morning’s grounding, I spend the afternoon closing down registration and helping the traders pack up their stuff and cart it down to the hotel’s loading dock. It’s a relief not to be with Sam or Nadiya, not to have to listen to the chatter of a hall full of people or smile and give directions to this room, that room, the toilets, a coffee shop, somewhere-I-can-get-some-rock-as-a-souvenir. I even volunteer to help dismantle the art show, where the empty galleries are haunted by Aidan. He is everywhere I look, everywhere I turn.
Dismantling the art show keeps me out of everyone’s way until we’re officially closed – which is exactly what I want. By the time I come down from the gallery and head to the lobby with the last bag of rubbish, the hotel has started to take on a ghost-ship feel. As I’m on my way down the corridor, someone turns off the traders’ room lights and the cavernous space is left dark and deserted…except for one table, still draped in a white tablecloth and lit by evening sunlight fractured through the glass roof. If I look carefully enough, I wonder whether I’ll still see a handful of pistachio shells under there?
I drop the rubbish bag off with the hotel porter, who gives me a nod. “All done then?” he asks, disappearing the bag into his cupboard.
“All packed up. You can have your hotel back now.” I try and make the smile look real, but I think it probably misses by a long way.
“You say that, but we’ve got a political lot coming in tomorrow.” He rolls his eyes – whoever they are, they’re clearly not his political party of choice.
“Well, hopefully they’ll be more trouble than we were,” I say brightly – then stop. “I mean,” I try, “hopefully we’ll have been less trouble than…?”
He leans on the edge of his desk, eyebrows raised and clearly enjoying my ineptitude.
I give up. “I want you to like us best, okay?”
“Will do.” He gives me a mock salute as I turn towards the bar, where Dad and everybody else are sitting around a couple of the large booth tables in various states of exhaustion. Sam has her head down on one table and Nadiya and Bede are comparing notes on who had the worst problem to deal with. (From what I can tell, Bede’s was the more depressing – after spending two hours setting all the candles up in the banqueting hall for the gala dinner, he accidentally turned off the extra air-con. The room got so hot they melted and turned into A+ gothic drib
bly candelabra – onto the white linen tablecloths and napkins.) Meanwhile their parents and the other staff all stare blankly into their drinks, knackered. Marie, sitting a few seats along from Dad and nursing a large rum and Coke, gives me a smile and slides my lanyard across the table at me.
“Sorry,” I say, sheepishly. “How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Dad looks from Marie to me, and back to Marie. “Anything I need to know about?”
“No, Max,” she says firmly, and takes a sip of her drink. I love Marie a bit.
Dad pats the cushioned seat next to him. “Sit down, Lexi.”
I sit. But I do it in a grudging way – obviously.
“Did I ever tell you about my first convention?”
I don’t know what I was expecting; he’s not the kind of dad who carries on a bollocking he started giving you earlier – his attention span’s too short, for one thing. But the trip down memory lane is still a bit of a surprise.
“You held it in the back room of a pub in Waterloo and there were three—”
“Not that one,” he says, from behind the glass of wine he’s drinking. “My first convention. The first one I ever went to.”
This is new.
“No…?”
“It was a comic convention. Not like the ones today though.” He puts his glass down, and I don’t think he even knows I’m here any more. “Not much more than a couple of collectors in a village hall, with a few boxes of books. My father – your grandfather, but you never met him, he died before you were born – took me on a Saturday afternoon. I’ve always remembered the way it smelled, the feel of the comics and listening to those men talking about the stories in there and who had which issues…”
I’ve never heard this story before. Not in all the times I’ve heard him talk about how he got into conventions; he’s never talked about the first one he went to. He never talks about when he was growing up, not to me, not ever. Not until now.
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