I pull the walkie-talkie off the desk and press the button. “Bede? Nadiya? I’m going to need a carton of pineapple juice in the lobby, please? That’s pineapple in the main hotel lobby now, thank you.”
Sam raises an eyebrow, and the walkie’s speaker crackles with static, followed by Nadiya’s voice. “Pineapple? Are you sure? Not…like…tropical, or mango?”
“Yes, quite sure, thank you. Pineapple.” From the other side of the lobby, the Brother looks right at me and pauses. He’s weighing up who to irritate first – me, or Andy the editor. His eyes lock on. Target acquired. I give him a smile and jab at the walkie button again – still smiling. “Urgently, ladies and gentlemen.”
“What’s it worth?” asks Bede – but I can tell from his voice that he’s already running. My knight in shining armour…for a price. I think better of telling him how much I enjoyed his handiwork at the registration desk.
“Later. Just…get here!”
As I set the walkie back on the desk, the glow from the hotel’s lights is slowly blotted out and a great darkness falls across the registration area.
“Well, hello there, little lady! If it isn’t Laura…”
“Lexi.”
“Sure, sure. You’d have thought I’d get it right first time by now, wouldn’t you?” The Brother beams at me.
“You’d think.”
“Your name’s always there on the very tip of my tongue… And then it’s gone.” He makes a blowing sound. Sam sniggers. I stamp on her toe under the desk.
“Always lovely to see you, Damien. Are you here for the whole convention?”
“Ah, no. I’ve got to head out to Atlanta tomorrow morning – but I thought I’d just pop by and see how you were doing.”
“That’s so nice of you!”
It’s surprisingly easy to say this through gritted teeth and a dazzling smile. If you get it right, you don’t even need to move your lips.
“Actually – now I think about it – I was hoping I might catch a word with your young man, if he’s available?”
“My whatnow?”
“That writer friend of yours – Haydn Swift. I understand the two of you are…close?” I don’t like the weight the Brother puts on that last word, the way it sounds on his tongue.
“I know him a bit,” I say, aware that Sam is staring at me and her back is stiffening with every word. “We were lucky enough to host the launch of his book in June, and he’s been a guest on a couple of panels.”
“Yes, yes. Of course – I’m forgetting you had that little launch for him…”
Little. Launch.
I think you’ll find that was the worldwide first launch, thank you very much.
And then, as if I haven’t already predicted every single word to come out of his mouth, the Brother ploughs on. “Of course, we’ll be having an American launch next month, with some of the cast from the movie there too. Shame you weren’t able to bring them over, really, as it’s always such a boost to attendance. It sounds bad because the book is the thing, but it’s always the movies that people really care about, isn’t it? That’s what…draws them in.”
He holds his arms in front of him in a loose circle, then sweeps them wide open to make his point – almost giving editor Andy, who has been loitering behind him and pretending not to eavesdrop the whole time, a black eye in the process.
“Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t see you there, brother.”
Andy holds up his hands. “No, no. My fault entirely. I’ll catch up with you later, Damien – I was actually after a quick word with Lexi?” He looks from the Brother to me and back again, pointedly. The Brother doesn’t move but continues to stand his ground, beaming. I glance at Sam. She glances back at me.
Nobody moves, nobody says anything.
And then, trainers screeching on the tiled lobby floor, Bede comes pelting around the corner…and freezes. “Oh. So you won’t be needing me then?”
“Not right now, thanks… Although…” Inspiration hits. “Damien, have you had a chance to look in on the art show?”
The Brother looks puzzled. “The art show? No, I…”
No. Of course, he never goes to the art show, does he? Because an A-list artist isn’t quite the same as an A-list actor in his stupid mindset.
(Or a big-shot writer.)
The thought of Aidan again makes me ache all over. It hurts. He should be here. And instead he’s in Italy.
“We’ve got an amazing installation from a really exciting new concept artist. You have to see it – Bede will take you across, won’t you, Bede?”
“I…” Bede is floundering – but then he takes a good look at me and sees a future that holds only pain if he doesn’t get a move on. “Yes. I was just heading that way now. If you’d like to come with me…?”
Bede’s charm, when fully deployed, is an irresistible warm glow; a siren song that leads anyone within earshot to follow it…and tricks them into getting involved in a fact-off about ambergris. Which he will always win.
And so it comes to pass that the Brother, with little more than a “Well surely, brother”, finds himself being led – ever so politely – away from registration and towards an art show he has no interest in seeing, but which is far, far, far away from me.
The three of us – me, Sam and Andy from SixGuns – watch them go.
“So,” says Andy.
I wait for the rest of the sentence.
There doesn’t appear to be one.
“Picking up your press pass?” I ask – and he nods.
“Yes, that’s it.” He takes the lanyard from me and drapes it round his neck. “How’s married life treating your dad, Lexi?” Andy and Dad have known each other for years – although perhaps not quite long enough to stop Dad from making a sucking sound against his teeth when Bea suggested inviting him to their wedding. “Journalist, love,” he said, and that was that conversation finished. On the whole, I’ve always liked Andy…or at least, I did until I saw the way his eyes lit up when the Brother dropped his clanger about me and Aidan.
Ever the journalist, he doesn’t pull his punches – not even waiting for me to answer his first question before he jumps in with another one. “I didn’t know you and Haydn Swift were friends…”
“Oh, you know. Conventions.” It’s my best dismissive shrug – and I can tell from the look on his face that it’s nowhere near dismissive enough.
“He’s been to a couple now, hasn’t he?”
“Umm. He’s done programming at two for us – plus I think he tagged along with his publicist to one before that. I’m not sure.”
“I heard you were the reason he got a slot on the programme to begin with. Lucky him – and quite the prize for your father.”
This is fishing. Digging. Fish-digging…and I’m not giving him anything.
How can I, when I don’t even know where Aidan and I really stand; when I don’t know what we are or where we are? There’ve been emails, sure, but I know I’ve been distant. All that courage I thought I could summon: where did it get me? Wanting to feel closer to him and yet keeping him at arm’s length because I’m too scared to do anything else. Way to go, Lexi.
And despite my trying very, very hard not to, I miss him.
“You’ve seen the push Eagle’s Head are giving Piecekeepers,” I laugh. “And I saw the special feature you ran on it last month – so don’t give me that.”
“Your dad should be proud of you, Lex. I hope he realizes what a natural you are at this,” Andy says with a wink. I definitely like him a little less now.
“Natural? Nah. I learned from the best.” I hand the envelope with his press pack and schedule across the table. “Dad’s over in screening room two with Otto at the moment if you want to stick your head in and say hello? He’s always pleased to see you.”
“Mmm. Listen, Lexi – can I ask you something?” He leans forward ever so slightly; Sam – who until this point has been making a big show of adjusting her Catwoman claws – also leans forward eve
r so slightly as Andy glances over his shoulder to check nobody else is listening in. “Seeing as you know Haydn, what do you think of the photos from Italy?”
“Sorry? Photos?”
“We had a couple of photos in the other day – they went online this morning. Looks like he’s been keeping busy.”
“Oh?”
Suddenly my skin feels like someone has sprayed me with powdered ice. It prickles and stings and is so very, very cold – and when I speak, I can barely feel my lips; barely move my tongue.
“You haven’t seen them?” Andy is a lot more casual and offhand than he was a moment ago. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me the whole time; whatever he’s saying, he thinks this is a story and he wants to see how I’ll react. “You might want to have a look, you know, as a friend. Him and the lead actress from the Piecekeepers film…the one who’s been cast as Ali.”
NO.
The word is so loud inside my head that I only catch the very end of what he says next.
“…very cosy over breakfast in that hotel in Naples.”
No. No, no. Because I know him. I know him.
Did Andy just tell me that Aidan’s been with somebody out in Italy? An actress from the adaptation? So not only does she fit into Aidan’s Haydn-world in a way I never could, she’s playing the girl who started it all for him. Ali from the adaptation. Of all the people it could be, it’s her?
Hotel, breakfast, cosy.
Because that’s what it sounded like.
My skull fills up with the sound of my heartbeat; the sound of my blood rushing around my system. Only instead of the dull thud-thud-thud of my heart, it sounds like breakfast-actress-breakfast-actress-breakfast-actress-Ali-Ali-Ali.
“I guess you’d have to ask Haydn about that,” I say, an idiot grin welded onto my face. “Or maybe his publicist? I don’t have his Italian publisher’s details but I can give you Jenna or Lucy’s email at Eagle’s Head if…?”
“No, no.” Andy jerks away; steps back from the table. His voice is smiling and jokey again. “I just thought…you know, if you were friends…”
“Like I said – conventions.” And my voice is smiling and jokey too, and I’m playing the game because that’s what you do when you’re on this side of the table. Even more when you’re a girl; even more than that when you’re your father’s daughter.
Inside, though…
Inside, I am not Lexi Angelo.
Inside, I’m just me.
And I am in pieces.
Andy gives us a cheery wave and sets off up the corridor towards the convention area lift, opening his press pack and peering into the envelope as he goes. Beside me, Sam pulls off her mask.
“You didn’t mention anything about this after you and Aidan mailed yesterday!”
“No. No, I didn’t. And weirdly, neither did he.”
It would have to be the actress playing Ali, wouldn’t it? Andy’s words ricochet around my head like a stray bullet as I hurry down the corridor away from the registration desk. Sam can handle it, scavenger hunters and all.
We mailed. Yesterday. We pinged messages back and forth and not once did he casually say, Hey, Lexi, guess what? I hung out with a couple of guys from the film. Including film-Ali. But if he had said that, I would have thought it was absolutely fine and had no problem with it whatsoever, because why should I?
Because, obviously, I wouldn’t. I don’t.
Do I?
Because I didn’t mean to, don’t mean to…and yet this feels an awful lot like I do.
Inside, deep down inside where no one can see it, I think I do. I have a problem with it.
Lexi Angelo, are you jealous?
I thought he liked me, that’s all. In his room in York, I thought…
After all, it was me who pulled away. I was the one who took a step back. I don’t have any right to be jealous – and yet, I don’t know…maybe I expected it would take a little longer for him to turn around and go after someone else. So no, not jealous, exactly. I guess I just expected…more. I expected he’d be upfront with me about where we are – or where he is, anyway, because there isn’t really an “us”, is there?
Was I right…or was I an idiot? Either way, this sucks.
The ops room door is half-hidden, covered by a mirrored panel in a back corridor of the hotel – and as I reach to pull it open, my reflection meets me. She’s not exactly “glamorous actress” material; not in the red convention staff T-shirt that has splashes of Bede’s coffee on it, or with the crazy hair that comes from forgetting to pack conditioner and having to use the two-in-one conditioner and body lotion (how is that even a thing? Who thought that up?) in the hotel shower – or even, if you look past all that, the fingernail that’s turning suspiciously black after she managed to hit it with a hammer during the art-show build. She does not look like the sort of person you’d lean towards during breakfast on the balcony of a hotel on the Amalfi coast.
Leaning. Balcony.
Nobody said anything about leaning or balconies; Mirror-Lexi has come up with that one all on her own.
Thanks, Mirror-Lexi. Thanks for nothing.
I yank the door open.
Ops is even more chaotic than usual because, by some miracle, Dad’s team is overstaffed. Just for once we have enough people to actually run a convention and make sure everyone gets breaks and time off and food. When I told Nadiya and Bede, they actually high-fived. And cackled. I don’t know whether Dad, in a fit of post-honeymoon bliss, overbooked people, or whether everyone was so keen to meet this new, mellow version of Max Angelo that they all showed up (they never all show up). But either way, the ops room is absolutely stuffed full of people.
Which is not what I want.
What I want is for the ops room to be empty so I can sit down in peace and quiet until the pounding in my head and the shredded feeling in my heart go away – but no such luck. I’m barely through the door when the walkie in my pocket barks into life.
“We’ve lost the Doctor Who writers,” says Nadiya through the speaker. I sigh, and fumble the radio out of my pocket.
“What do you mean, ‘lost’ them? Lost them where?”
“They’ve all gone down the pub for lunch.”
“What…all of them?”
“Yep.”
I grab a schedule from the table, running a finger down the columns until I find the item I want. I look at the clock. Right.
“But we need them for their soundcheck in ten minutes…”
“That’s Doctor Who writers for you. They said they’d be back in time…”
“I can’t decide if that was supposed to be a really bad joke or not.”
Across the ops room, Marie looks up from the banquet list she’s ticking off. “Don’t worry. I know where they’ve gone. I’ll get to the end of this page and then I’ll fetch them.”
“You will? You’re amazing, Marie, you know that?”
“I do.” She tries to look serious, but then ends up smiling anyway as she shuffles the pages of her list together and tucks them into her bag on the floor. “Won’t be a sec…”
As she steps out, the sounds of the convention drift through from the corridor – more distant than normal, but still there. The sounds I normally love. Laughter and the rise and fall of voices; a smatter of applause from one of the panel rooms and music from one of the activity rooms (formal elvish dancing, by the sound of it). Today though, between that and the chatter all around me, I can’t take it. I need to be on my own. Let someone else – anyone else – take care of the convention for a while. I need to take care of my life. Putting the walkie on the table, I slip out of the room again. Nobody seems to notice – or at least, nobody asks me for anything, nobody tells me anything, nobody says anything.
I know where I’m going – there’s a spot under a table in the empty banqueting hall with my name on it.
Halfway down the corridor, I’m overtaken by Bede and Mike – one of Dad’s senior staff (The One Who Gets Things Fixed) racing past. Mi
ke doesn’t run very often. Mike is running now, and leaving a trail of curses so substantial behind him that the air virtually turns pale blue.
“Bede!” I shout after them, and Bede turns – still jogging backwards.
“Lift broke!” he shouts back.
“The lift?” Unlike a lot of hotels, this one has a single lift serving the lower floor of the convention area, and I’ve been worried about it from the start. Sam’s been using it at every available opportunity, just in case it did break down with her inside it and she had to be rescued by firemen. “Shit.”
“Mike’s going to shout at someone.”
“Who?”
“Anyone he can find! Want to come watch?”
“You go. Make sure he doesn’t get us thrown out, okay?”
Bede hurtles off in pursuit of Mike. They don’t need me; in the big picture, Mike’s higher up the food chain than I am and this is what he does. Besides, he can shout a lot louder than I can. He used to be an actor and apparently it’s something to do with breathing from the diaphragm…
The further I follow the corridor, the quieter the convention gets. The banquet hall here is at the front of the hotel overlooking the bay, the tables all set out ready for tonight. One of the staff hears me come in and pops his head around a pillar – he has an empty tray tucked under his arm and an invisible hand reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart because it makes me think of Aidan…
Outside, the rain lashes against the plate-glass windows. I’m sure there’s the whole of Cardiff Bay out there somewhere, but from here it’s just a great big wet grey smear. Like my soul.
I check the waiter’s gone and clamber under the nearest table, letting the tablecloth drop down behind me. Only then – when I know I’m alone – do I slip my phone out of my pocket. There’s no reception (as usual; why would anyone in a hotel want anything as boring as for their phone to work?) so I connect to the hotel Wi-Fi and open Instagram, typing Haydn Swift into the search bar…or gadtyn aqift as it comes out, because apparently that sausage I dropped on my phone at breakfast made more of a mess than I realized. Fortunately for me, my phone knows who I mean, and suddenly my screen is filled with blue.
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