“And the statue?”
“That’s the one.”
“But it’s perfect as it is! Actually perfect. I mean, it’s not quite as good as the first scene – the one where that Piecekeeper, Lizzie, meets Jamie in the gallery and there’s all the dust and stuff, and she’s completely amazing and he’s…” I stop. It’s too much. Be cool, Lexi. Be. Cool. “So, umm, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Perfect.”
He cocks his head to one side and looks at me carefully, as though he’s about to say something, and then he changes his mind. Instead, he turns his back and finishes making the tea, handing me a mug. “They can do what they want with it – it’s in the contract.”
“But they still ask you?”
“It’s more to keep me onside than because they care what I think. They don’t want me turning around and telling people they’ve ruined the book.”
“They haven’t though, have they?” The thought of Jamie, of Ali and Lizzie, of Lancelot and the Curator being…mangled by someone who doesn’t understand and doesn’t care and doesn’t care that they don’t understand…it makes me feel sick.
“They haven’t.”
He takes a sip of his tea and I take a sip of mine, and the air in the room changes. It’s like someone has drawn a thin curtain, a grey veil, right across the middle of the room and I’m on one side and he’s on the other.
“Lexi…”
His voice is different, and I can already hear it.
Trips to Detroit. Meetings with producers. Coffees and lunches and drinks with his agent, with his publishers. Press conferences and signings and all the things that Haydn Swift takes in his stride…
How could I compete?
I can’t, can I?
I’m just the girl with the clipboard and the Post-its, checking the clock and asking people how to spell their names. I’ve always been okay with that; more than okay with it. I’m happy out of the spotlight. I’m not the show, I run the show.
His world is the reverse of mine, isn’t it? His is signings and photo shoots, mine is hotel service corridors and soundchecking other people.
“Mmm?” I am casual.
“I’m sorry, but…”
I gulp down all the rest of my tea in a single swallow and burn every part of my mouth, tongue and throat.
“…I’m going to have to miss the next convention. I know I’m supposed to be on a panel, and I know this is going to be a pain and I really am sorry.” He pauses; frowns. “I meant to tell you earlier, but…I didn’t want to.”
“Oh.”
How can so much fit into such a small word?
My “Oh” is everything – it has to be.
It has to be “Oh really?”
It has to be “Oh no.”
It has to be “Oh, that wasn’t what I thought you were going to say.”
It has to be “Oh, what does this mean?”
It has to be “Oh…when will I see you again?”
It has to be “Oh, is this it already? The moment where we find we aren’t such a good fit after all?”
But all I say – and all he hears – is “Oh.”
“It’s for the book. There’s a bunch of festivals and stuff in Italy in September, and my Italian publishers need me to go.”
“Oh.”
“It’s only one convention though – I’ll be back for October’s. And I’ll call you. Maybe we could do something in between…?”
He’ll call me. Sure. I thought he understood me, but with one breath, I feel like he’s dismissed everything – my whole world. Because it’s too small for him. With one easy shrug, a handful of words, he’s swept aside what was left of the defences I was already dismantling, the walls I was ready to let him inside…and he has turned me to dust.
I stepped into the storm and it has crushed me.
Funny things, words. Big words, small words; words that are bigger on the inside and packed tight with feeling. They can make us fall in love, and they can break our hearts and we’re powerless against them.
I thought it didn’t matter, that it was okay to not be in control of this one thing. That it would not burn me from the inside out and that I didn’t have to be afraid of it. I’d met someone who actually understood my world, someone who got how much all this means to me and wanted to be a part of it – a part of my life – but now it turns out that other things come first. Of course they do. They always do, don’t they? For everyone.
Maybe Aidan had it right the first time after all; I’m just the one with the clipboard. Maybe that’s all I can ever be – maybe that’s why I’ve never looked beyond it. Maybe that’s all I’m meant to be. Maybe it’s better that way. And he’s better off with his signing queue and his spotlight. That’s what he wants and what he’s worked for, even if it’s leaving me behind. Because how could I keep up anyway? He jets off to Italy, and I’m in the back rooms of a convention centre.
I’m just not brave enough. I want to be. I want to be brave enough, but I can’t. It turns out I care just a little too much.
“Lexi? Lexi? Are you okay?”
The mug has slipped from my fingers and is lying on its side on his bed. At least it was empty.
Am I okay?
“I should go. It’s late.” I pick up the mug and pass it to him. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Lexi? Is everything…did I do something wrong?”
“Night, Aidan.”
I can’t look at him as I move for the door. I can’t. I can’t let him see how hard this is, how much it hurts already…
My fingers close around the handle, press it down, and I pull the door towards me. It starts to open and I’m almost there, almost safe – and then I can feel him behind me as he leans over me, his hand stretching past me to push the door shut again – gently, softly. And I can smell him; that scent of warm skin and the sea. I can hear him breathing…and I want to turn around and I don’t want to turn around. I want to run away from him and I want to run to him. Into him.
“Lexi?” His voice is barely a whisper and I can’t bear to move. He is a spell that has been cast on me and I don’t want it to break, but already the illusion is coming apart.
We stand there for ever, him and me – and if I turn around, I’ll never be able to leave and his name will be etched even deeper into me and when the end of our story comes – and it will – it’ll hurt even more than it does now.
Because he is Haydn Swift, and I am not enough.
“Goodnight, Aidan.”
The spell shatters. He drops his hand and steps back. And maybe he doesn’t understand what just happened and maybe he does. I don’t know, but all he says is: “See you around, Lexi.”
I can barely see my way back to my room for tears – and when I close the door on the world, I turn to find the connecting door between our rooms open and Sam sitting on my bed in her pyjamas, reading.
“So? Tell me everythi—” She looks over the top of her book; sees me, drops it. “Lexi. Lexi – what happened?”
And I tell her, because of all the people on this planet, Sam is the only one who will understand. She is the only one who won’t make it seem crazy when it comes out of my mouth: that in the end I didn’t just walk away from Aidan, I ran. I ran because I’m just Lexi and my world is all I am. And all I am isn’t what he wants.
LEXI
So, he sent me another email. Do I reply?
SAM
You really want me to tell you what I think?
Yes.
Actually, no.
I want you to validate what I think.
You’re not allowed an opinion.
No change there.
Well, what do you think?
I’m thinking…no?
OK.
“OK I agree”, or “OK I’m saying this because you just told me to validate you”?
Yes.
Yes the first one, or yes the second one, or just plain yes to be annoying?
Yes.
SAMIRA!
[
SAM is typing…]
[…]
[…]
[…]
Question: do you like him?
What’s that got to do with it?
Everything. It’s got everything to do with it.
You know I like him.
So why are you asking me?
Because…I don’t know. It’s AIDAN.
And he’s…him and I’m me.
And I’m just not…you know?
Sometimes, the things that are worth fighting for, the things that matter, are the things that could hurt us the most. But they hurt because they make us FEEL.
You’ve been binge-watching GREY’S ANATOMY again, haven’t you?
No.
Maybe.
You don’t know me.
Now stop being such a loser and go reply to that email…
Before I do it for you.
“No, you have to hold it higher! We all have to be in the picture or it doesn’t count!”
“And to think you picked me for this honour. How very, very lucky I am.” Sam’s voice rings with sarcasm, but she sighs and lets the scavenger hunt group crowd around her for their photo. As soon as they have it, they huddle round a phone muttering about the next clue, then they snatch their team sign back from her and trot off down the corridor in search of another victim. She scowls at them until they’re out of sight.
“That’s the ninth group this morning. Ninth. How much longer is this game running?”
“Apparently, until tomorrow morning. Sorry. Not my call.”
“Your dad’s letting an unofficial scavenger hunt run over the whole convention?”
“What can I say? He’s been surprisingly mellow since he and Bea got back from their honeymoon.”
“Yeah, well. I’d be pretty mellow if I’d just spent ten days in the Seychelles too.” She flicks a piece of rubbish into the bin under the registration desk. “Oh no…”
Another little cluster of scavengers appear around the corner, clutching their team sign. This lot appear to be called Team Mothers of Dragon. Not “Mother of Dragons”, which would actually make sense, but “Mothers of Dragon”. I don’t even know where to start.
“Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact…” I whisper as they close in – but it’s too late, and they swarm around her. Above the chatter and noise, I hear her growling “Touch the mask and I will end you”, and then they freeze for their picture and just like that, they’re gone.
“Ten,” she mutters.
“You’re dressed like Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman, and I only have my incredibly exciting staff lanyard. Of course it’s you they’re going to want their photo with.”
She groans and pulls at the plait of hair she’s wound around the top of her forehead. “How many have you had to do?”
“One. Apparently I look too miserable.” It makes me laugh just saying it.
“Who said that?”
“Your group number three. They spotted me first, but decided against it.” I shrug and toss the folder of membership notes into the box under the registration desk as two late arrivals wander up. Apparently, Bede has implemented a new and exciting filing system for the remaining registration packs, so I have to go through the whole lot searching for “Emma and Rosie”. I’m going to kill him this time, I really am. The two of them look Sam up and down as I rummage, and it feels like an age before I can finally hand over their badges; Sam smiles and says “Miaow?” and they smile back at her.
“Your costume is awesome,” says Emma – which of course makes Sam smile even more. After they’ve gone, she hops up onto the desk and sits there, swinging her feet back and forth and carrying on exactly where she left off.
“What I don’t get is why it’s only us – by which I mean me – they’re asking for photos with. If it’s supposed to be a picture with any of the convention staff, why aren’t they asking my mum and dad – or Bede, or Nadiya?”
“Because – apart from the fact that, as you just heard, your costume is pretty cool – parents are intimidating, Bede threatened to insert the phone of the last one who asked him into their bodily orifice of choice—”
“Ouch!”
“—sideways, and the last time I saw Nadiya, she was going to check on the water in the quiet room and loudly telling everyone within earshot that there’s no cameras allowed in there. So.”
Sam tips her head to one side and adjusts her mask. She looks too thoughtful for my liking, and I shake my head. “No. I need you here. I’m not losing you to the quiet room too.”
“Ten, Lexi. Ten.”
“Sorry, Sam. They’re asking permission – and as long as they don’t break the rules there’s nothing I can do. You know that. Dad’s given them the okay.”
“I miss your bachelor dad. The mean one.”
“Mmm.”
I do too, in a way. He’s been so happy since he and Bea got back from their trip and Bea finally moved in properly. Most of her stuff’s still at her old house, and they spend half their time there; supposedly they’re sorting everything out and cleaning it ready to rent, but I suspect they’re not actually getting that much cleaning done. It makes me feel a bit queasy, so I try not to think about it. What it has meant, though, is that I’ve been left to pick up a lot of the last-minute convention crises – and maybe it’s my imagination, or maybe the universe thinks I’ve had it too easy over the last couple of events and been slacking off with Aidan, but there seem to be more of them than usual:
Entire crate of freebie comics disappearing somewhere between the warehouse and here? Check.
Film panel pulled at the last minute because the cast all got called back for reshoots? Check.
Hotel losing all the banquet confirmations? Check.
Guest of honour getting trapped at airport by hurricane while returning from overseas research trip the day before the convention? Check-checkity-check.
Thanks, Dad. I did vent about this to Mum on her flying visit to see how I was doing on my own (not burning the house down, getting arrested or running off to join the circus – like my life isn’t close enough to the last one already?). After we got the usual “don’t fall behind with your coursework” and “how are you feeling about LIFE?” business out of the way, things were pretty normal – by which I mean that we mostly talked about Dad.
“Lexi, your father is like a small child,” Mum said, stirring the pan of tomato sauce she was cooking. “Picture him as a toddler, if you will. A toddler with a Rolodex.”
“That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”
“And, like a toddler – or a dictator – he’s used to people doing what he expects them to do.”
“A benevolent dictator?”
“Well, I might not go quite that far…”
“I don’t get it! He tells me he doesn’t want to make the same mistakes he did before, and that’s fine – but how’s it okay to just dump everything on me? He has an actual assistant he pays for this stuff. And to think I believed all the ‘better parent’ bollocks he gave me.”
“As I said, sweetheart. A toddler. He doesn’t like doing things differently. Remember, it’s your life. And he’ll respect you for standing up for yourself. You should be proud of who you are – we’re both proud of you already.”
I snorted.
There was a pause, then she cleared her throat. And then, quietly: “Did he really say that? About making mistakes?”
“Yes…?” I wasn’t quite sure why it mattered; they’ve been divorced so long already.
She rested the spoon against the rim of the pan and rummaged in her pocket for a tissue. There was something that sounded almost like a sniffle as she dabbed at her eyes. “Well, now. Those onions,” she said, and then she was stirring again and telling me all about some art project Leonie has got involved in. Something to do with old cooking pots – very Leonie – but I wasn’t really listening. Because Mum was right. She usually is. She comes over from France, puts her bag down and, within an hour, she’s fill
ed the freezer, fixed the boiler and sorted my life out – or at least told me what I should do to sort it out myself.
The crate of comics turned up – like they usually do. We found a substitute film panel. I had copies of all the banquet reservations (of course I did – what am I, some kind of newbie?). And between us, the stranded guest of honour, his publicist and I managed to charm him a seat on the first available flight and all four of its connections… The worst disaster I’ve had to manage onsite so far is Sam’s panic when she couldn’t find one of her Catwoman gloves this morning – which she announced at 5 a.m. It turned up inside a book in her second suitcase. Of course it did. But the net result of all of this is that I am tired.
Tired…and trying very, very hard not to think about Aidan. Or to keep going over the last time we were together. It’s not like we haven’t been in touch since the night of the wedding, but it’s mostly been by email. I think we’re both telling ourselves it’s because of schedules: it’s too hard to find time to talk…but really I wonder if it’s because it’s just too hard to find anything to say. And I can’t decide whether I was an idiot, or whether I was right – or whether it’s possible to be both at the same time. Sam, naturally, has Many Thoughts about this, and has only just got to the point where she doesn’t feel compelled to share every single one of them with me. Mostly because I threatened to come into her room and stuff a sock in her mouth if she carried on.
“Uh-oh.” Sam swivels on the table and slides off, dropping into the chair next to mine.
“What?”
“It’s that guy. From the magazine.”
“Super-specific Samira strikes again. That should be your superhero name – and you’ve already got the outfit, so—”
“No, look. Him.” She puts both her hands on my head and turns it so I’m looking straight into the lobby.
“Oh, shit. Not him.”
“See? That’s what I’m saying.”
“No – not magazine guy – that’s Andy from SixGuns. Him!” I jerk my head at the figure behind Andy, bearing down on him like a tidal wave. Editors, I can handle this morning. The Brother, I cannot.
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