by Jessica Ashe
“I’m sorry. It must be hard for you doing it all by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. My parents help out a lot. That’s why I’m able to work nights and come here to Birmingham with you.”
“I take it Emma’s mother is not in the picture?”
“No,” Damon replies. He’s silent for a few seconds and I think he’s going to leave it there, but then he adds “she passed away a few years ago.”
My heart breaks on his behalf. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to lose a partner. Losing a father was bad enough, but there’s something inevitable about your parents dying. It happens to everyone at some point. Losing your partner so young is something I don’t think I could deal with.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say.
“It’s okay. You talked to me about your father.”
“Were you married?”
“No. We’d been together about four years when she died. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that, but it’s fair to say the two of us would never have made it another year anyway. We were drifting apart pretty quickly. In fact, we were pretty much racing in opposite directions. The only reason it’s still so painful is because of the impact on Emma.”
“Emma seems like a great kid.” The words sound hollow. Everyone says things like that when they talk about other people’s children, but in this case I really do mean it. She looks happy, in a way that only children can. I miss that feeling.
“Emma’s all I live for these days. That probably sounds a bit sad, but it’s not supposed to. There’s nothing more satisfying than doing something that makes her smile. Except for eating McDonald’s. I hate that shit.”
“Can’t blame you. This food is much nicer.”
“Sure… I probably won’t be bringing her here too often though. I’m not sure she appreciates food enough to warrant a £40 starter. Speaking of Emma, I’d better check in.”
Damon grabs his phone and disappears to the other end of the restaurant to make a call. I open up my social media feeds and check my notifications because that’s what I do when I’m not talking to someone. Sure enough, I find a photo of Damon and I eating dinner. As Damon promised, the account publishing the photo seems to think it’s a working dinner. Spending time in my hotel room might be slightly harder to excuse though.
The main course arrives just as Damon is returning to the table, so we have another excuse not to ‘work.’
“Three guesses what Emma talked about the entire time,” Damon says. “She’s added all of your albums to her Christmas list.”
“You mean she doesn’t already have them?” I tease.
“Good point. I hear your stuff all the time from her bedroom. I guess she streams it. Legally, of course.”
“Of course. Well, I’m sure we can get Santa to come a little early this year.”
“So… you’re saying I’ll have to listen to even more of your music?”
“Yes. And it’s going to get in your head like it does for everyone else. Give it a few months and you’ll be singing along in the shower, too.”
“You’ll never be able to prove that unless you’re in the shower with me.”
I blush so brightly I’m sure the redness of my cheeks will be visible to the photographer outside. “Nice try. The really embarrassing bit will be when you start humming the tunes in front of all your colleagues.”
“They won’t let me live that down in a hurry,” Damon admits. “They’re good blokes though.”
“Glad to hear it. The rest of the staff there are bloody useless.”
“They are?”
“Yep. They constantly lose stuff. I’ve had clothes go missing, makeup, moisturizer, my favorite strawberry lip gloss, and even a wig apparently.”
“You wear wigs?”
“Yeah, sometimes. There’s one performance I do wearing a long blonde wig. My hair’s too wavy to really throw around. That wig’s gone missing now though, so I guess I’ll have to cope.”
After our meal, Damon and I go through the routine again because the photographer is still standing outside. He’s still by himself, which I think means our meal isn’t exciting enough for him to rally the troops. Now what?
Damon wants to come back to my hotel, and I definitely want him to. That doesn’t mean he can. I like him. I know it’s silly, and I know we haven’t known each other long, but I do like him. I’ve never been with a man I’ve actually been into. I’ve liked some of them, but I’ve never really been into them. There’s a difference.
Maybe I’m just going through a rebellious stage? Damon referred to himself over dinner as my ‘bit of rough,’ and perhaps he’s right. Before you know it I’ll be back to dating nice Hollywood actors. It’s a cliché. I’ve seen it done a million times before, and now I’m in the middle of it myself.
What will Katrina say?
What will Mom say?
What would Dad have said?
“Can I get you anything else?” The owner of the restaurant has come over to collect what is probably a hefty sum of money from me. I usually pay about $10,000 to close a restaurant for the night. Birmingham isn’t the most expensive part of the country, so I reckon Katrina offered something in the region of £5,000 pounds. It’s a small price to pay for a nice night out.
“I think we’re done here,” Damon says as he puts away his guitar. “Can we just get the bill please?”
“Um, I think it’s best I settle up,” I say. “You can pay next time.”
“It’s fine, I can pay. I’m not that hard up.”
“Actually, sir, madam,” the owner says, “tonight is on the house if you could do me just one small favor.”
I smile knowingly. “You’d like a picture?”
The owner nods, slightly embarrassed. “If that’s okay with you? Just having someone like yourself in my restaurant will do wonders for this place. Truth be told, we’ve been a little quiet of late.”
“The food was delicious,” I say. “We’d be happy to recommend you.”
Damon takes the owner’s phone and snaps a picture of me with my arm around him.
“Can I get one of the two of you together?” the owner asks.
“Of course,” I say. I grab hold of Damon’s T-shirt and try to pull him towards me. I’d have more luck pulling the t-shirt off than moving him an inch. “Come on, don’t be boring all your life.”
He doesn’t move, but when I go and stand next to him he puts his heavy arm around me and smiles for the picture.
“This is going to make my plan a lot harder, you know that?” Damon says as we walk out of the restaurant.
“Figured you’d appreciate a challenge. Time to go back to the hotel. I can’t wait to see how you’re going to swing this one.”
* * *
When we get to the hotel, we hang out in the lobby and wait for a photographer to arrive. It doesn’t take long, but the guy who’d been outside the restaurant has been replaced by a woman. Katrina must have tipped off more than one outlet.
This time we actually go to the effort of playing the guitar and singing for real. Damon knows the chords to one of my hit songs which means he has listened to my music. I’m tempted to bring it up, but I let it slide for now.
After an hour of us talking and playing music, I head upstairs to my room and wait for Damon. His plan involves him leaving the hotel but then sneaking around to the back entrance where the hotel manager will let him in unnoticed by the photographer. That’s the theory anyway.
I’ve only been in my room a few minutes when there’s a knock at the door. I let Damon in and notice that he’s grinning.
“Have you looked online?” Damon asks.
“No,” I lie. I’ve been here for a matter of minutes, of course I’ve been online to look at my notifications.
“Our little ‘date,’ is nowhere to be seen. I found a few references to us writing a song together though.”
“So everything went according to your little plan?”
<
br /> “Told you the media could be manipulated. I must admit, it does take a lot of effort. Still, I’m sure you’ll make it worth my while.”
By the time I realize what Damon means, his face is moving towards mine and my lips are parting of their own volition. When we kiss, I feel butterflies in my stomach that I’ve previously only heard people describe. They are real.
He’s pushing me backwards until the back of my legs hit the bed. I fall back onto the mattress and hit it with a thud which is a lot less graceful than I had imagined.
Damon follows me onto the bed and lays by my side. We kiss again as his tongue parts my lips and slides into my mouth, while his large hands wrap around my thigh. I roll onto my side and press my body against his. I feel like I can get myself off just by rubbing up against him.
We both part suddenly when we hear a loud noise by the door.
“Who is it?” I yell out nervously. Is it Lance? He’s kept his distance all night, but if he’s knocking on the door now it must be urgent. The guy is usually tactful.
There’s no response. I call out again, but there’s only silence.
“It’s the guitar,” Damon says with a smile. He points towards the door where I see the guitar, in its case, lying flat on the floor whereas previously it had been propped up against the wall. “Must’ve fallen over. Now, where were we?”
Damon leans back in to start kissing me again, but this time I flinch away. I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s reckless. After Dad… after Dad died I promised myself I wouldn’t be reckless again. I promised Mom. I’m not scared of Damon—I know he won’t hurt me—but this is still a risk I shouldn’t be taking. There’s a reason I sleep with celebrities; they’re safe. I know what to expect. Damon is a mystery. He’s a mystery I want to unravel, but not yet.
“You’re going to make me leave, aren’t you?” Damon asks.
“You can sleep on the sofa.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll go back to the hotel with the other crew members. I don’t trust myself in the same room as you.”
“You’re not angry?”
“I think frustrated is a better word.” He smiles again. “I’m not usually a patient man, but I reckon you’re worth the wait.”
He obviously hasn’t read the story about me. “I like to think so, too.”
Damon grabs the guitar and leaves with just a kiss on the cheek for me to remember him by. After a few minutes, I leave my room and find Lance at the end of the corridor.
“Everything okay, ma’am?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Damon just left. Can you get one of the drivers to take him back to his hotel?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
As I’m walking back to my room, I promise myself I won’t look at my notifications before bed. I only last ten minutes before accidentally reading my feed while cleaning my teeth. It’s a habit. Picking up my phone always is. It’s a habit I really need to break.
Katrina sends a message asking if everything went okay. That’s her way of asking whether she should be preparing press releases about a new relationship. I let her know that everything is fine, and leave it at that. Damon is somewhat sensitive to the media side of things, so I don’t think he’ll take too kindly to being confirmed as my boyfriend before we’ve even spent the night together.
There’s a message from my mother as well. This one is much shorter and to the point.
He’s nice!
He’s not bad, I reply.
Not your usual type.
Definitely not! Not sure Dad would approve of this one.
I’ll let you into little secret. Sometimes it’s okay to date guys your father wouldn’t approve of. Gotta have fun sometimes :-)
I’m not taking that conversation any further.
Night Mom!
I take another look at myself in the mirror as I clean off my makeup. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I’m sure I see a little more light behind my eyes this time. I go to bed with a smile on my face. I’m rich and famous—I should go to bed with a smile on my face every night. I don’t, but tonight’s different. Tonight I have something to look forward to.
Chapter Eleven
Damon
A search of Naomi’s name online doesn’t throw up any news about a new boyfriend. Searches of my name don’t show up anything at all. That means I’m still some anonymous guy who helps write her songs.
I’m a little bit disappointed.
Rumors of me dating Naomi would be bad for a number of reasons, least of all Emma getting her hopes up for a famous stepmother. I know this, but still… there’s that nagging voice at the back of my head hoping to see some gossip about us. After being turned down the other night, I could do with a little confirmation that I’m not imagining things, even if it does come from random members of the public.
I’m getting all the right signals from Naomi, but I don’t know if I can trust them. With any other woman I’d be confident; Naomi’s different. Which is the real Naomi? Is it the Naomi who posts every part of her life online? Or is it the one who craves intimacy?
She seems to slip between the two personas with ease. One minute, we’re having a private dinner, and the next she’s smiling for photos with the owner of a restaurant. It all comes so naturally to her.
The only people who made any romantic connection between Naomi and I are Leona and Mum. I ignore Mum’s message. She’s used to me ignoring her messages about my love life, although there’s a risk she’ll take my silence as confirmation. I tell Leona that Naomi and I are just friends, but she doesn’t believe me.
Two days later, and I’m back to some degree of normality. Leona and I have done another performance together, and she’s desperate to grab a drink after. I know she wants me to spill the beans, but I jump at the opportunity for a drink anyway. I need help playing it cool around Naomi, and catching up with a friend is the perfect way to take my mind off her. Or at least, it would be if Leona didn’t keep asking questions.
“So you’re writing a song with Naomi?” Leona asks.
“No, we just pretended to write a song to go out for dinner together.”
“So you’re dating?”
“No. It’s not like that. Not yet.”
“I don’t know what sounds more exciting; dating her, or writing a song for her. Either way, I’m happy for you. You deserve something like this.”
“The way I’ve treated women over the years, I think this is the last thing I deserve.”
“Okay, I admit, you haven’t been great. You’ve left a few broken hearts in your wake.”
“Better than broken condoms.”
Leona smiles and shakes her head. “I’ll never quite understand what women see in you. Especially someone like Naomi. She can have any guy in the world; why would she choose you?”
“Have you seen these?” I ask pointing to my biceps and pecs. “I think they have their own gravitational force that draws women in. Not to mention my huge—”
“—ego, yes I know. So what happens now?”
“I don’t know. Things seem to be going well so far, but we’re both very different people.”
“Make the most of it while you can.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Think of all the opportunities you can get from this. Just being her boyfriend gets your name out there. If you write a song with her as well, that would be brilliant.”
“That’s the last thing I want. It’s bad enough having to be in photos when I’m around her. I don’t want people following me around, too. I’d rather just stay anonymous.”
“Listen, Damon, I’m about to say nice things about you, and I want you to take them in and understand them, but preferably don’t let them go to your head. Do you think you can manage that?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s all going to go to my head, and I will be even harder to work with than ever.”
Leona sighs. “Screw it, I’ll tell you anyway. Damon, you are an incredible songwriter. Seriously, the stuff
you write for me is insane. I can’t do it justice.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your voice is phenomenal.”
“And so are your songs. I know you want to sit in the background, write music, and bring in decent money, but life doesn’t work like that. Not anymore. Sure, some people get lucky, but most people make their own luck. This thing you have with Naomi—whatever it is—is your lucky break. You have to grab it by the balls—or in this case, her tiny titties—and make the most of it.”
“You really do have a way with words,” I say sarcastically. “Sometimes I wonder why you don’t write songs yourself.”
“You know what I mean?”
“Not really. I’m not going to use my… friendship with Naomi to make a name for myself. If anything I want the opposite. If I can stay completely anonymous then I’ll be happy.”
Leona groans deeply as she looks up to the ceiling in frustration. “You really can be a pain in the arse. You need to stop punishing yourself, and take the opportunities that come your way.”
“Punishing myself?”
“You never used to hide away from success. Eight years ago, you wanted to be rich and famous.”
“A lot changed in those eight years.” I lost a girlfriend and gained a child. That tends to change your perspective on life.
“I know, but Yolanda’s death wasn’t your fault. And it doesn’t mean you should shy away from the limelight.”
“I don’t want that kind of life, and I don’t want it for Emma either.”
“She’s not going to grow up to be like Yolanda. She’s being brought up by you and your parents—she’s going to be incredible.”
I take a long, slow sip of my beer so I don’t have to say anything. Leona’s right—ever since Yolanda died, I’ve stopped trying to sell my music and I’ve done the bare minimum to get by.
“You’re forgetting something,” I say. “I don’t want to write pop songs for people like Naomi. I’d rather write music for you to sing. Let’s be honest, my stuff isn’t really suited to Naomi.”
“You should give her more credit. Her voice has incredible range. You only hear the pop stuff, but on her albums there are slower songs where she shows off her voice. She blows me out of the water.”