Page 12 of Star Struck

‘Oh, yes. That’s as close as it’s wise to get to a man who thinks monogamy is something you make tables out of.’

For that I got a proper grin. ‘Great line. Might nick that one. Anyway, you coming, ’cos I’m about to gnaw off the last of my fingernails.’

I pulled the door closed behind me and followed his barefoot and pyjama’d shape up past two doors, to the room I’d seen his girlfriend erupt from.

He swiped his key card. ‘You’ve not got your key?’

‘Think Felix took it. He wouldn’t want to disturb me by knocking to come in and, anyway, where on earth would I ever want to go?’

‘He’s in for a shock then.’ He held the door wide. ‘It’s a bit messy, but you don’t look like you’d mind that,’ he said, standing aside to let me pass. ‘Liss has done her usual trick of making the place look like she’s exploded in it. Came in to talk work, next thing I know she’s using my shower ’cos hers isn’t working properly or something. It’s eighty degrees out there in the daytime and she wants a hot shower? I told her to go down and ask housekeeping to fix the one in her room, but apparently it’s just easier for her to come prancing over here to use mine. And why couldn’t she take the clothes away afterwards, or at least carry them downstairs with her — some kind of hold-all might be in order, but that’s a bit too much like forward planning for Lissa — what is it with you women and clothes that you have to change every five minutes? Always with the showering and the changing . . . I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’

‘A bit.’

‘Sorry.’ An unabashed grin. ‘Spent too long at the keyboard again, always makes me a bit . . . I forget real people need gaps to reply.’

‘Real people?’

A one-shoulder shrug. ‘I’m a writer. Which, weirdly, doesn’t make for great communication skills. Obviously. Words on paper, yep, that’s my forte, I can do that, no problems, oh God, shut up Jack.’

Gosh. I’m here with one of the writers. Even the Valium couldn’t quite stop my eyes widening with a flash of hero-worship, quickly stilled in the face of those tatty pyjamas and unbrushed hair.

The room smelled of her perfume. Sweet and pink, like overblown roses. The bed was rumpled and I had to work hard not to imagine this dark man and his preciously blonde Lissa busy rumpling it. ‘Won’t your girlfriend mind you having me in here?’

The click and flare of a lighter. ‘I’m not intending to have you.’

A horribly disfiguring blush rose up my cheeks and neck. I knew from experience that this would make my scar stand out even more, a jagged white against the dull red skin. Fortunately he wasn’t looking at me, but was desperately trying to get a bent remnant of cigarette into conjunction with the flame of the lighter, sucking at it until it squeaked.

‘Besides, Lissa isn’t my girlfriend. She was, once upon a time, and that’s not any kind of fairy-tale you’d want to hear. But, yeah, I guess you’re right, she probably wouldn’t like it all that much, so, would you mind standing out in the corridor?’

I balanced awkwardly on one leg, not sure whether he was being serious or not. ‘It’s just, you know, I don’t want to upset anyone.’

‘Lissa is a big girl. She can cope with a few upsets.’ He smiled, and it was a nice smile, a proper smile. His eyes creased under the weight of it and it took away some of that look he wore that said the world had disappointed him in some way. ‘Stop worrying. Hey, what about a drink?’ He crouched down to look under the bed and I tried really hard not to stare at his pyjama bottoms, which were baggy and striped and almost cartoonishly loose, held up with a piece of frayed cord. ‘I’m not supposed to smoke in here, but sometimes . . . ah. White do you?’

‘Do I what?’

He straightened up and I had to drag my eyes from their natural resting place which happened to be directly level with his flappy crotch. ‘Would you like a glass of white wine?’

‘It’s a bit early.’

‘Convention, remember? They’ll all be on the Southern Comfort downstairs and no-one will be sober until Monday. What are we now, Thursday? Can you really stand the idea of being the only person sober for five days? Might as well join them.’ A pause and his eyes looked inward for a moment, fingertips flicked in a kind of low-level mini shrug. ‘At least . . .’ He spun away, leaving a smoke trail like a low-flying aircraft and now I was free to stare at his back view, a crumpled picture of Mighty Boosh and a sagging pair of pyjama bottoms which managed not to make his backside look wrinkly and enormous by some fluke of tailoring. The T-shirt did nothing to cover his scarred arm but he didn’t seem to care. ‘Right. Not especially well-chilled, but still better than downstairs’ Tequila Slammers.’ He leaned forward, glass in hand. ‘Oh. My name’s Jack, by the way. And you’re . . . ?’

‘Skye. Skye Threppel.’

‘Well, Skye. Here’s to hiding from the world.’ Jack picked up another glass from next to the laptop and raised it, seeming to toast the screensaver picture of purple-heathered moorland, as though he was blocking out the Nevada desert with a picture of home. Then he plonked himself on the floor, knees drawn up. The only chair in the room was in front of the laptop and covered in papers, so for want of anywhere else available, I sat on the bed.

‘Are you? Hiding from the world?’ I asked, jiggling my wine between my fingers.

‘Ah, now there’s the question.’

‘I know. That’s why my voice did that going up at the end thing,’ I replied a little sharply. I was nervous and being nervous made me edgy these days, and defensive. ‘Maybe I should write the conversation down for you.’ Jack seemed nice, a little tense perhaps, but the raw feeling of connection that we’d shared earlier had ebbed and I was concerned that maybe I’d imagined it. I couldn’t always trust the way I felt, when those feelings were built on memories or associations I could no longer recall. It was as though my body reacted in certain situations without my mind having any kind of control and I was very conscious that this made me easy to take advantage of.

He made an appeasing gesture, holding his hands out and spilling some of his drink on the T-shirt. ‘Point to you. I’m struggling with the lack of dramatic convention.’ He sipped and looked at me over the rim of the glass.

I felt the blush start again and the edgy sensation that my nerves had all been driven to the surface.

‘Maybe I should go. Rather than sit here and force you to make conversation.’

‘Maybe.’ Jack rested his glass on his knees and looked up at me. It might have been my imagination but I was fairly certain that what was in his glass wasn’t wine. It was too clear, too transparent. ‘But I’d quite like it if you didn’t.’

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