“Ah.”
“Too much?” It does look vaguely like a princess exploded in here.
“No.” He sniffs again. “Lilies.”
“You’re allergic?”
“Mmm.” He nods towards a table all the way across the room, beside an open French window onto the hotel terrace. “I’ll be all right over there though.”
This suits me just fine; that table is about as far away from Dad and Bea and the centre of attention as it’s possible to get – and there’s even a well-placed white voile curtain wafting about in the breeze to shield us too. This is good. Dad’s always been pretty happy with being on show, but I can’t think of anything worse. Put me in the spotlight and I shrivel up and turn to dust.
I flap at my dad and catch his eye, miming an elaborate display about me sitting at that table instead of with him and Bea. He looks puzzled, then points at me and gives me a thumbs up. So that was easy. Now all I have to do is catch Sam – who is already flirting with one of the waiters.
“Sam. Sam. Sam.” I try to draw her attention to me, to the table, to Aidan, to the room…
Nothing.
She’s curling a strand of hair round and round her finger and waving her other hand around in what looks like her standard You-must-be-so-strong/important/clever gesture. I shouldn’t take the piss; she’s used it to get us an extra hand building an art show before now. She finally realizes I’m waiting for her and grins, then shrugs, then heads towards me. I point to the table and she nods. “Good pick.”
I move my pointing finger towards Aidan. “Hay fever.”
Sam winces, and then winks at the waiter – who winks back.
“Sam!”
“What?”
“Leave the poor guy alone!”
“He’s pretty.”
“It’s my father’s wedding.”
“And weddings are so romantic,” she says, leaning around me to stare at Aidan.
I hold my hands up. “I surrender. And I’m going to get the walkie.”
I thread my way across the now-crowded room congratulating Dad and Bea, and kick off my shoes, throwing them under the table where Aidan is checking his phone. “I’ve got to run over and get the walkie-talkie. Back in a minute.”
“Want me to come?”
“Want me to write your next book, seeing as you’re apparently up for switching jobs all of a sudden?”
“Is that an offer? Because this whole writing business is actual work, you know.” He leans back in his chair.
This is the clipboard all over again, isn’t it? Well, if that’s how this is going to be… “I’ll be two minutes – and then you can tell me just how hard it is to be you, okay?”
Aidan picks up a napkin (which has been folded into some kind of bird – or possibly a bear, it’s hard to be sure) and throws it at me.
Fair. But I still think I win.
When I step through the heavy wooden doors and into the hotel corridor, it feels like slipping underwater. The floor out here is marble tiles, smooth and cool under my bare feet, and with the convention mostly happening at the other side of the building, everything seems calm. One of the guests of honour for the event is waiting for the lift up to her room and gives me a smile as I walk past. “I love your dress,” she says. “Who are you cosplaying?”
“A dutiful daughter.”
She looks puzzled – then her smile widens. “You’re Max’s kid, aren’t you? Give him my love for today. We go way back. Way back,” she says again, for emphasis…and I try not to let my smile slip. I know what “we go way back” usually means and I don’t want that in my head, thank you very much. Also: kid? No.
“I’ll pass that on to him. And his wife.”
The lift pings. She gets in, and I shove through the fire door and into the stairwell down to the back of the convention area. To say the floor here is slightly less clean would be the understatement of the year, and I can practically feel the soles of my feet turning grey as I jump down the stairs. On the other side of the stairwell door, the convention is running at its usual level of cheerful insanity. A group of guys in matching Zombie Hunter T-shirts look me up and down as I pass them, and one of them stage-whispers, “Is she supposed to be Cinderella or what?” at the others. I turn around and drop them a curtsey. They immediately huddle together for safety, and I head on towards the ops office – where I walk into a full-scale argument.
Nadiya and Bede are yelling at each other from opposite sides of the room; Nadiya holding a sheaf of printouts, Bede standing with his hands on his hips and scowling.
“Woah.” I close the door behind me. “What’s going on?”
“That stupid kid…” mutters Nadiya, before shaking her head and pressing her lips together under Bede’s glare.
“What stupid kid?”
“It’s nothing,” Bede groans. “We’re handling it.”
“What. Stupid. Kid?”
“One of the temp staff we brought in to help cover this afternoon. He’s bunked off.”
“He’s what?”
“He didn’t show for his second shift after his break, and now he’s not coming back.”
“Did he say why?”
“Apparently,” Bede says with so much eye-rolling it’s a miracle his eyeballs don’t just keep on spinning, “he told Eric to tell Marie to tell Nadiya that he wasn’t feeling well and was going to lie down.”
“He didn’t speak to either of you in person?”
“No.”
“And he didn’t ask anyone to cover him?”
“No.”
I’m not sure what my face does, but both Bede and Nadiya take a step back. In Nadiya’s case, this means actually having to step around a chair, but she seems to think having something between her and me might not be the worst idea.
I breathe in. I breathe out. And when I’m calm enough, I try again… “Has anyone checked on him?”
“That’s the thing,” Nadiya mutters. “We just saw—”
“I just saw him,” Bede interrupts. “He’s at the big book launch in event room three, chattering away to a couple of the guests.”
“Oh, you’re kidding.” This is not what I wanted to hear.
“Yeah,” Nadiya chips in, waving her paperwork. “And now Bede wants to pull his membership, and cancel the payment for his room and make him pay for it himself.”
“And Nadiya won’t let me,” Bede mutters, folding his arms across his chest. Nadiya clutches the paperwork closer and sticks her tongue out. It’s like refereeing a fight between a couple of toddlers.
“Okay. Okay. I’m just here for the walkie.” I pick it up from the nearest table.
“Lexi!”
“Fine.” I hold up my hands, walkie and all. “Give me the rota sheet, Nadiya.”
She hands it over and I spread it out on the table, running a finger along one of the columns. “Pen?”
Bede fishes a pen out of his pocket and hands it to me.
I look up at him. “It’s green. You know only psychopaths write in green ink, right?”
“Not true. The head of MI6 signs letters in green ink.”
“I rest my case.” I’m not in the mood to get into a fact-off with Bede – I’d lose anyway. “Look. If you move them…here” – I circle one name in green ink and draw a big arrow across the sheet – “and switch these two…”
“Oh,” says Bede, peering over my shoulder. “That kind of works.”
Behind me, I hear Nadiya thump his back. “See? Told you Lexi would fix it.”
“Any other disasters I need to know about?” I hand Bede the amended schedule…then change my mind and give it to Nadiya.
He glares at both of us. “The backdrop in the green room fell down?”
“That’s not a disaster. That was inevitable. I only stuck it up with drawing pins.”
“We know. The sword-fighting guy sat on one.”
“Ah.”
“He was fine about it – he thought we were pranking him.”
&n
bsp; “He did?”
“I told you he was weird when I checked him at registration.”
“Weird, yes. You were right. I get it. So, before I go – any other actual disasters?”
Nadiya flutters her eyelashes. “How’s Aidan?”
I side-eye her. “I’ll see you later.” And I leave the pair of them to it; right now, they deserve each other.
Dad raises an eyebrow at me from beside Bea when he spots the walkie-talkie – it’s his usual way of asking-without-asking whether he needs to start panicking or looking for fire extinguishers, bags of dog treats or a shovel (true story). He doesn’t need to know about the staffing hiccup, so I give him a thumbs up – but at the exact same moment, Bea takes hold of his elbow and steers him on to the next group of guests. I’m left signalling to his retreating back. It’s for the best. I’ve seen him smile more today than I think I have done in the past year. He looks younger too; he’s standing straighter and seems less…tired.
Back when he realized it was serious with Bea, he insisted we all go out to dinner together. It wasn’t great. She picked where we went, and it was a very Bea sort of place, with starchy tablecloths and eighteen knives and forks and at least three glasses for each person. She was wearing a long white dress and she had all these bangles stacked up her arm so she jangled every time she moved. The whole evening, all I could think about was the White Witch from Narnia. How could my dad like her? She was so different from Mum. (Even now, I can’t see a single thing about them that’s alike except that their birthdays are both in August. Maybe Dad’s just really into Leos?)
Then, I was scared about what it all meant for the future, for Dad and me: who wouldn’t be? But watching them now, I feel different. Bea’s touch drops from Dad’s elbow, and suddenly they’re holding hands. I can see his finger sliding across the new wedding ring on her finger, as though he can’t quite believe it’s really there. As though he can’t believe his luck.
Mum always says it isn’t luck, being happy. It’s about being brave. Being brave and letting the right people in; the people who make you better just by knowing them, people who make you stronger for loving them. I think she’s right. She went through all those years with Dad, and then she left. She didn’t have to take the job in Nantes, and she didn’t have to let Leonie in…but she did. And sure, you could say that maybe it was all down to some alignment of the stars – but I like to think that she knew somehow; that some part of her knew Leonie was one of those people who are worth the risk. She took that risk, and I don’t remember her ever being as happy as she is now. Looking at Dad and Bea now, I think I can see the same.
If you believe all happiness is just down to luck, you might as well give up – because you’ll never be lucky enough or happy enough. Not if that’s what you really think.
I think we make our own happiness – and this is Dad’s way of making his. Maybe we have to choose to be happy. Maybe we have to take that risk.
Maybe I should just…be brave.
“Lexi.” Aidan’s nose is decidedly redder than when I left, and the whites of his eyes are looking a bit pink.
“Hmm?” I tear my gaze away from Dad and Bea.
“Over there.” He leans in close beside me; his chest pressing against my shoulder, one arm around me, the other hand pointing at something across the room.
“I see…people?”
“Look. Over there. In front of the big wooden panel thing. With the green shirt.”
I look.
Ah.
“Is that who I think it is?” he asks – and there’s something thin about his voice. Something nervous…
Aidan Green is a fanboy.
This could be fun.
“You like his books?” I ask, casually.
“I have all of them, even the crazy rare ones. He’s pretty much my favourite author. Ever. It was his books that made me want to write.”
“Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“Oh, nothing. Just never had you down as a fan of his.”
“You’re joking, right? He’s amazing. People think his books are just horror, but they’re not – there’s so much—”
“Do you want me to get Dad to introduce you?”
“What? God, no. No. Yes. No.”
“He’d love to – he loves showing off. And anyway, Steve’s lovely.”
Is he going to take the bait? Is he?
“You know him?”
3…
2…
1…
I turn to face Aidan. “You do know he’s my godfather, don’t you?”
Aidan, the big-shot writer with the lily allergy, pulls his glasses off and wipes them on the end of his tie. He blinks at me with grey and pink eyes, and opens his mouth…then closes it again and puts his glasses back on.
“Godfather.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Right. Did not see that one coming.”
“Should have.”
“Should have. Yes.” He tips his head slightly. “You’re not winding me up, are you?”
“Nope. Want to meet Steve?”
“Steve your godfather.”
“Steve my godfather, yes.”
“Absolutely.”
I guess everyone’s a fan of someone; even Haydn Swift.
The grandfather clock in the corner of the reception room must have chimed before now, but I swear the first time I hear it is when it strikes two.
2 a.m.
Maybe the ribbons and the lilies and the napkins and the people and everything else drowned it out or sort of swallowed the sound. I can sympathize. But two in the morning comes and it rings out clear and sharp.
It’s always two in the morning at convention parties. It’s like the centre of gravity, only for time.
Dad and Bea have settled at the big round table in the middle of the room and they look pretty comfortable. It’s littered with wine bottles and empty glasses from the hotel bar, and all Dad’s long-time convention buddies have pulled up their own chairs and are trading stories about The Old Days. Bea’s friends and family disappeared hours ago, but she’s still here and listening to them all talking about conventions from days gone by. Even if she’s not got much love for a fan convention and all its trimmings, she looks pretty happy…but then I guess she would, wouldn’t she? Not only is it her wedding day, she’s getting to hear all these stories about who her husband used to be. It’s the best of both for her – she gets to laugh at the past and look forward to the future.
“Your dad looks happy,” says Aidan from across our table. His eyes seem to have gone back to normal – as has his hair, which he’d tried to comb back earlier but which is now just as wild as it’s ever been. His tie has also disappeared.
“He does,” I say, studying them. Marie has just finished telling Bea about the time the whole convention committee got stuck in a hotel lift and had to be rescued by the fire brigade. Dad is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes with one hand while the other rests on Bea’s shoulder. Not only do they look like they belong together, they look like they belong there, at the centre of that little knot of people. Maybe if she can see that; maybe if Dad doesn’t make the same mistake again with work…
“You, on the other hand, look knackered.”
“Too much to do. And you’re full of charm, aren’t you?”
“Don’t need charm with a face like this, do I?” He beams at me and sticks his chin out even further.
“Hmm.” Before I can stop myself, I’ve lifted my hand – and it’s like I’m watching from behind a thick sheet of glass because there’s nothing I can do… It’s another Lexi who curls her fingers around his jaw; another Lexi who traces the dimple in his chin with her thumb. Another Lexi altogether who runs the very tip of her finger along the bottom line of his lip.
Another Lexi does it all…but it’s my heart that starts beating out of rhythm. My pulse that races, my lungs that suddenly can’t get enough air.
He looks at me and I look at him.
Last time this happened, I managed to yawn in his face – and as soon as I think it, the urge to yawn becomes overwhelming. In fact, if I don’t yawn right now, the top of my head’s going to fall off.
I’m not going to yawn. Not this time.
And if I don’t…what then? Where do we go from here? I feel like we’re dancing around something, around each other. Around the obvious – at least to me – which is that he’s him, and I’m me; I’m in the shadows and he sort of is too…but then he’s not. When we’re alone and it’s just him and me, somewhere in the shadows – on the roof, or even falling asleep in a corner; that’s when I feel like we fit. But when he’s in the spotlight, signing and having his photo taken? I don’t know. I’ve watched him on the stage, and while he was up there, he was someone else. He was Haydn. And there’ll be more panels, more conventions, more Haydn for him… But it’s Aidan I want, and I don’t know how to handle that other side of him, his life, his world. It isn’t me – and how could I compete with that?
Right now, I don’t care.
My fingers are still resting on his face, creeping into his hair. I’m breathing him in like oxygen. And when he slides his hand into my hair, running it through his fingers, it’s my hair – I’m not some other version of myself any more. I feel it, with every nerve I have, like a current beneath my skin.
It isn’t luck or chance or fate or whatever it’s called; that’s not what makes us happy. We are. We do it. We make the choice.
Take the risk.
Step into the storm.
Aidan leans in so close that his jaw grazes mine, his skin hot against me as he whispers in my ear. “Who’s the guy sitting next to your dad?”
That’s not what I was expecting. I flick a quick glance over my shoulder at the big table. “It’s his friend Alasdair. Why?”
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