by John, Ashley
“I think you should leave me alone,” she growled at him, “before I call the police. Policía! You hear that?”
The boy smirked as his eyes flicked down to his phone, letting her know that he got the shot he wanted. She wondered how long it would be until it was sold to a blog.
“Here you go,” Marcus scurried over and handed her the cocktail.
“I'm leaving,” she spat at him, slamming the drink straight onto the table, spilling half of it over the metallic surface.
“What? Why?” Marcus looked heartbroken, “We're going to have such a good night.”
She unclasped her bag and saw the Euros that Marcus had got for her in the afternoon.
“You stay,” she flicked her long blonde hair dramatically over her shoulder, “I'm not staying in a place like this. It's full of weirdoes and perverts.”
The man had left the booth, but a group of people had already sneakily slid in to it and were already deep in conversation with each other.
Marcus begged Delilah all the way to the door, but she'd made her mind up. The hotel was calling, and she wanted to be in the safety of her room more than anything. Spain wasn't the luxurious country she'd hoped for.
“You stay,” she said again, “go and fuck that cute guy behind the bar. Have a good night.”
She walked to the end of the cobbled street alone to where she could see a tiny taxi rank. When she told them where she wanted to go, she was relieved when he jumped into the driver's seat without any further questions. As they drove past the club, Marcus was standing in the doorway clutching the gayest cocktail Delilah had ever seen, looking like a wounded puppy. He'd no doubt be stumbling back to the hotel with a guy in the early hours of the morning.
Thankfully, the taxi drove quickly and quietly to the hotel, which only appeared to be around the corner. He didn't try to talk to her, although she caught his eyes glancing tiredly at her a few times through the mirror. After she'd thrown a handful notes to him from the backseat, she jumped out of the cab and headed towards the tiny entrance of the hotel. She was almost happy to see Julia scowling at her from behind the desk.
“You back early,” Julia said.
She didn't seem to be asking a question, it was just an observation. She scanned Delilah's short black dress, rolled her eyes and went back to the watching what looked like a Tele Novella on a tiny, flickering television. The clock behind the desk told her it wasn't even 10pm. She knew it was probably far too early to go to bed, but there was nothing else for her to do.
Her stiletto heel hit the first step, but a familiar voice floated down the corridor towards her. For a moment, she thought it was talking to her, but it was speaking in Spanish. Looking up the stairs, she imagined spending the rest of the night alone in her air-conditioning-less and mini-bar-less bedroom. Wavering on the step, she glanced down the corridor in the direction of the voice. She could hear other voices, but one was floating above the din of the crowd. On the wall, a tiny sign saying 'bar' with a hand pointing in the direction of the noise told her where Marcus had retrieved the drinks from.
Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she yanked her dress down her thighs, slung her bag over her shoulder and headed in the direction of the noise.
Chapter 7
The bar was exactly what Delilah had been expecting. It looked nothing like the nightclub she'd just left and it looked nothing like any bar she'd ever been in. In the corner sat a counter which she assumed was the bar. Behind it, sat a shelf with a few half-empty bottles and another shelf with badly washed glasses. The rest of the room was filled with miss-matched chairs, which looked like it was filled with locals, rather than people staying in the hotel. She was sure she recognized one of the men who wolf whistled at her from his scooter when she first arrived.
Every pair of eyes landed on her when she opened the door, and was more aware than ever at how revealing all of the clothes she'd brought with her were. She nearly turned back on her heels, but the journalist caught her eye and a warm and inviting smile erupted across his face as he spoke to a man in Spanish, as they leaned against the shabby bar.
It was that smile that compelled her to take a seat on one of the rickety stools at the other end of the bar. It was that smile that stopped her rushing back up to her room to spend the night staring at the walls, drinking wine alone.
“What can I do for you?” the bartender asked.
Delilah breathed a deep sigh of relief that the man actually spoke some English. She didn't want another repeat of breakfast. She was many things, but she didn't want to look like a damsel in distress.
“Do you have a cocktail menu?” she asked, setting her bag on the counter and pulling out the wad of colorful currency.
The middle-aged man laughed, and threw his towel over his shoulder as he tried to figure out if she was joking or not. When she smiled at him waiting for an answer, he burst out laughing before shouting out something in Spanish to the rest of the men in the bar, who all followed suit and joined in laughing.
She felt every pair of eyes staring at her even more. The only eyes that didn't look at her to laugh were the journalists. He didn't turn his head, he just kept talking to the man in Spanish.
“We have vodka and wine,” he said loudly and slowly, dramatically pointing to each bottle in turn.
“I'll have vodka and lemonade,” she sighed, leaning her elbows on the bar and rubbing her temples.
Her straight blonde hair fell forwards over her face as she waited for the man to make her drink. The journalist's presence was strong at the end of the bar. She could feel how much he was enjoying her constant mess-ups.
“Word to the wise, the vodka here tastes like it was made in a toilet,” the familiar New York accent tickled the side of her face.
She quickly sat up at the bar, with her hair still messily over her face. Before she had a chance to pull her compact from her bag to sort it out, the journalist's hand reached out, and delicately tucked it behind her ear. She didn't want it tucking behind her ear, but she didn't recoil in disgust at him being so forward. There was something exciting about the way the tips of his fingers brushed against her cheek as he did it.
“I don't really care right now,” she snapped, almost like a reaction.
As the bar man set the cloudy glass in front of her, she glanced at the journalist, but he was smiling peacefully at her. His eyes looked warm and fuzzy, like he'd enjoyed one too many 'toilet vodkas' himself. Without invitation, he jumped up on to the stool next to Delilah, joining her in leaning on the bar. For a moment, they looked ahead in an awkward silence.
After a sip of the drink, she knew that the Spanish bar tender had no idea about measures. It tasted like 90% 'toilet vodka' and 10% lemonade.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Delilah winced through the burning.
“Told you,” the smugness returned.
“And like I said,” she took another long sip to prove the point, “I don't really care what it tastes like.”
The second sip wasn't any better. In fact, it seemed to burn even more as it joined the first sip in her empty stomach. She suddenly regretted skipping dinner so she wouldn't consume too many calories before the big show.
“What's up?” he propped his elbow on the bar and turned to look at her.
He was wearing a dark denim shirt, open at the chest as usual. This time, it was open enough for Delilah to see his darkly tanned stomach, which tightly rippled as he let his body curl against the bar.
“Who said anything was wrong?” she tried to take another sip, but stopped after the first drop touched her lips.
He chuckled softly as she slid the drink across the bar. His gruff voice tickled her stomach more than the alcohol.
“You don't look like the type of girl who would drink local vodka if she didn't need to,” he raised his dark brows, which arched above his thick rimmed glasses.
The dimples re-appeared as he smiled softly.
“You don't know what type of girl I am."
As she reapplied her nude lipstick, she noticed the hair that he'd tucked over her ear in her compact mirror. Pursing her lips together, she snapped the compact shut and turned to stare at the nameless stranger.
“You're right,” he nodded his head to the side, “I don't. Apart from what I've read on your Wiki page.”
“And why would you read that?” she mumbled.
For a moment, he looked like a deer in the headlights. Something told Delilah that he hadn't meant to share that piece of information.
“It made for quite an interesting read,” the amused look reappeared, “Signed at 18. Hailed as the next big thing in music. A string of successful singles, and an album on the way. Plays guitar. Birthday in May.”
“So you're a stalker now?” she meant it as a joke, but it came out harsher.
Delilah had a habit of coming across as a bitch, and there was something about the journalist that brought that bitch out in full force.
“I was bored,” he spun around on the chair and sat up straight to face the bar again.
His aftershave hit Delilah's sense as he did, making her stomach flutter.
“And why did you feel the need to find out so much about me?”
She stared at him in silence for a second as he thought of the answer. She could tell he was trying to think of the best way to put it without sounding creepy. If he was any other guy, she'd think he was creepy and leave immediately, but something kept her glued to the seat. Delilah wouldn't tell him, but it was something about the way he treated her like a normal girl that intrigued and excited her.
“I told you before,” he said seriously, “I was interested.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he shrugged, dimples on show.
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to figure him out, but it was like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces still not put into place.
“I'm not interesting,” she opened her bag and rooted around before pulling out her phone.
She stared blankly at the screen, not knowing what she was going to do with it.
“Sure you are,” he voice quiet, “it's not every day I get to study someone like you.”
Dropping her phone, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and glared at him before snapping, “Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?”
He chuckled, dropping his head into his hand to stare at her as if he was an adoring child.
“Because you're interesting,” he said.
“You can't just answer 'I'm interested because you're interesting'. That makes no sense."
“Sure it does. It makes perfect sense.”
“I'm not here for you to study,” she lowered her head towards him, “I'm here, in the pits of hell, to do a job and get out of here.”
In her mind, they were going to be her final words before she stormed off dramatically leaving the journalist to mull over what she'd said, but her perfectly round cheeks stayed glued to the stool.
He smirked at her again.
“Of course you're interesting. How does a girl from East London end up becoming an international pop star that only stays in luxury resorts. From what I've read, you should feel right at home in places like this.”
The bar looked just like the places her mother would take her when she was a kid.
“That's the point,” she mumbled, “this is how I grew up. I got myself out of that and now I'm something.”
“But you're still that same girl, right? Underneath it all?”
She tried to think about that girl. Delilah Smith. They told her 'Smith' was bland and 'White' was mysterious. Delilah Smith was still very much inside, but she hadn't come out to play in a long, long time.
“Don't assume to know me. I don't know you, and you don't know me, and that's how it should stay,” she could feel her voice rising, but she didn't care.
The journalist had hit a nerve.
“So why are you still here?” his dark eyes narrowed on her, “You could have walked out at any moment.”
Her eyes darted to the door over the man's head.
“I'm leaving,” she didn't move.
“Fine,” he smiled, “but don't you want to stay and have a real conversation about real things for once?”
“I do have real conversations,” she shot back.
“So let's have one,” he winked, “let's be daring and actually talk.”
Delilah almost said no, but she bit her tongue. The man made her skin itch, but she found herself hanging on his every word. Glancing to the door, she made her decision.
“I don't even know your name."
His smile spread from ear to ear as he held out his hand.
“Nolan Rigby,” he repositioned his glasses with his free hand.
His grip was firm and strong. His fingers lingered on hers, before she pulled her hands away and rested them on her lap. His touch still lingered on her skin.
Nolan wasn't a name she'd heard before, but somehow it made sense. He looked like a Nolan. In her head, she'd been referring to him as 'journalist'.
“You're looking at me funny,” he whispered, “does the name not fit?”
“No,” she found herself smiling, “it fits.”
“Good. Because it's the only one I got.”
She smiled again and nearly laughed, but stopped herself. With a name to the face, he seemed less threatening, but she still didn't want to let her defenses down to the stranger.
“Do you always have to make those stupid jokes?” she quipped.
“You think they're stupid?” he laughed.
“Very.”
“So why do I catch you stopping yourself laughing every time.”
She half-smiled again, but stopped herself. Just like every journalist she'd ever met, he didn't miss anything.
“I'm laughing at you, not with you.”
“As long as you're laughing, that's all that matters,” he smiled cheekily, “you seem to pout far too much.”
“I do not!”
“Oh, you so do. You have this 'diva bitch face' that you do whenever you see me. It's something like this.”
He wrinkled his nose, pursed his lips and gave her a disgusted look as he recoiled his head. He had her down to a fine art.
“I never look like that,” she circled her index finger around his face.
“This beautiful?” he winked at her, jokingly stroking his jaw with the back of his hand.
Reaching out, she gently pushed his arm, but quickly recoiled and sat on her fingers. She was acting like somebody she didn't know.
“You think so highly of yourself, don't you?”
“Not really,” he shrugged, “I just like to make light of situations. There's nothing wrong with laughing.”
“It gives you wrinkles,” Delilah said coolly.
“It's worth it though,” his tongue ran across his soft, pink lips.
“So, are you going to tell me what made you drink the worst vodka in the world?”
Delilah had almost forgotten about Marcus and the sleazy guy in the bar. She told him everything, but he didn't seem to look surprised.
“Most of those local places don't really like 'strangers'. It's a territorial thing. When a beautiful and exotic looking girl walks into a bar, it makes people do strange things.”
Beautiful and exotic? It didn't sound sleazy or like a come-on, it just sounded like he was being honest. Under the fake hair, layers of makeup and skimpy outfits, Delilah knew she was a plain girl fooling everybody into believing she was sexy.
“Marcus is probably there right now making out with a Spanish boy,” Delilah decided to take a sip of the vodka, but instantly wished she hadn't.
“I wouldn't have let you come back here on your own.”
“I can look after myself!” she said defensively.
“You obviously can, but I'd still want to make sure you got home safely.”
Again, he looked honest and genuine. There was no hint of flirtation in his voice, which was so refreshing
for Delilah. She found herself wanting him to flirt, so then at least she could place the feelings he gave her in her stomach.
“I don't need a man to save me, just so you know,” she pointed at him, “I've managed to tackle my way through this industry on my own, and it's not been easy. This girl can still handle herself.”
“That's the East-End in you,” he winked as he leaned further into his hand.
It sounded like something her mother would say. It only made her realize she hadn't spoken to her for over a month, and made the homesickness she'd felt for a long time, rumble away.
“I don't feel like that East-End girl anymore,” she laughed, “that's been truly stamped out of me.”
“You shouldn't need to change for anybody,” Nolan whispered.
A strand of hair freed itself as she turned to face him. Without hesitation, he reached out and tucked it behind her ear again.
“Try and tell that to my manager Tony.”
“Okay, where is he?” Nolan glanced around the bar.
Delilah had almost forgotten that it was filled with men mumbling in Spanish to each other.
“In LA, in hospital recovering from a hip replacement.”
“Not so easy then,” he winked, “I'll be sure to write a strongly worded letter.”
She couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, but it warmed her. She couldn't imagine André telling her not to change. The truth was, André barely knew her, and their relationship only came about after both of their managers introduced them for a photo opportunity when she was in Paris. They got talking and there was some chemistry, but she was sure it was purely sexual. There wasn't much else going on.
“Tony's not a bad guy, it's just the way the game works.”
“Should it be?”
Delilah shrugged. She'd thought about it before, but she never argued. She cared about the money she sent back to her family far too much to jeopardize her situation.
“I'm not in a position to change it.”
“Of course you are!” he whispered, “You should be able to create whatever art you want.”
“That doesn't make money.”
She could feel herself getting angry at the questioning. Mainly because, something inside her agreed with everything he was saying. It was as if he was awakening Delilah Smith with every word.