Page 8 of Star Struck

‘Outside,’ I muttered. I didn’t mention the man with the scars. There had been something in our brief communion under the bronze sky that had gone beyond mere comparison of physical hurts. Something raw. I couldn’t talk about it to Felix. ‘It’s already warm out there.’

‘Hey.’ He sat on the bed and wiped his face with a towel. ‘Sounds like this trip was just what you needed to make you realise there’s more to life than supermarkets and bookshops.’ I watched him dab under his arms and then pull a pure white T-shirt over his head. Felix had an almost perfect body, about which he was horribly vain, and he was already working hard at beating a middle age which wouldn’t come knocking for at least twenty years. ‘So, shall we go look for breakfast, or are you just going to stand there staring at the back of your eyeballs?’

‘I was looking at you. Actually.’

‘Hey!’ He struck a pose. ‘Still got it. Damn, I’m hot.’ A momentary pause. ‘Hotter with sausages, though. You reckon the Americans know about sausages? And bacon?’

‘I think they might have a few ideas. Where do we go for food?’

There was a diner built onto the back of the motel. One wall was made of a series of huge glass doors which looked out over the unimpressive view whilst the rest of it looked as though it had been formed by tunnelling away part of the original building. Doors from the main motel led into it at either end, making it more of a giant corridor than an aesthetic addition; it looked as though someone had seen a picture of a conservatory and tried to recreate one on an industrial scale. ‘Architectural design really passed Nevada by, didn’t it?’ Felix, arbiter of all things tasteful, remarked as we stood in the doorway, watching the movement of people within. Smells wafted from the kitchen, which looked like an afterthought, tucked away behind double doors.

‘It’s busy. Let’s come back later.’ I pressed myself against the wall.

‘Aw, come on Skye, don’t bottle on me now. I want to know whether they serve grits. Always wondered what the hell they are, I mean, come on, who names food after stuff you shovel?’ Felix grabbed my elbow but I pulled back.

‘You go. I’m not really hungry; I’ll just go back to the room and . . .’

But my words were cut off by a commotion at the far end of the diner, where a door gave entry to the other end of the motel. What could only be described as an entourage came sweeping through, two girls with such smooth hair that I could only imagine that they never slept on it, followed by a burly man carrying a clipboard, followed by—

I gave a small moan.

‘That’s Gethryn Tudor-Morgan over there,’ Felix hissed unnecessarily in my ear. ‘Just coming in! He’s up early, maybe they have to hose him down before they put him in front of us.’

‘He doesn’t need anything doing to him from where I’m standing.’ I moaned. ‘Oh God.’

In the middle of his thrusting crowd, Gethryn looked smaller than he did in my head. I knew his height, of course I did, five foot nine, half an inch shorter than Felix, but there was something about real life which seemed to diminish him a touch and add a layer or two of flesh to his jaw and cheekbones. He’d grown his hair out of the ragged, streaked untidiness that he’d had in last year’s publicity photos into a tidy version of a surfer-cut, gained a Californian tan and stubble and glowed with stardom. And, oh, what a star! Even with all the pictures and the posters and the frame-grabs, I’d never managed to conjure the reality of the man, the full-on, slender-hipped, broad-chested reality. The reality which was standing by a table on the far side of the diner, looking slightly hung over.

I found myself trying to tidy my hair with my fingers. ‘Great.’ I groaned in the back of my throat. ‘I could have put a skirt on.’ I pulled the tucked-in shirt from the waistband of my jeans so that I didn’t look so much like Disco Dad. ‘And maybe had some kind of hot-wax treatment.’ My frizz of hair sprang back from between my hands into its customary pubic bush impersonation.

‘Well, it’s hardly my fault you can’t dress yourself! Come on, I want to see what they do when I order gravel.’

‘Grits.’

Felix gave me a Look, but the proximity of Gethryn had wiped any trace of my sense of humour away. All I could see, all I could think, all I could feel, was sitting himself down only a score of tables away from me, propping his chin on his hands and gazing, dark-eyed, at the breeze-block walls. There was a brief scuffle as Felix and I fought to take the seat facing towards him and his party, but I won and Felix had to collapse gasping into the opposite chair.

‘That, my darling, was below the belt.’ He rubbed himself under the table. ‘You didn’t need to pinch my nadgers quite so hard; a simple “please” would have done the job.’

A waitress approached to take our order, spotted Felix’s furtive sub-counter massaging and wheeled away smartly. I hid behind the menu and stared out from behind some mouth-watering waffle pictures. ‘Oh. My. God.’

‘Well, he’s all right I suppose, if you like that taut and rippling thing. Which, I have to admit, is growing on me. I wouldn’t mind some action backstage with him, if you get my drift.’

‘I think the natives of Alaska got your drift. Whisper, Fe, please.’

‘My parents didn’t send me to drama school to learn to whisper, lover. Projection, it’s what gets you noticed.’ Several of Gethryn’s collection of people were glancing our way, a forest of frowns springing up amid the ruthless busyness and chatter. ‘See?’ Felix projected at me. ‘They’re noticing us already.’

‘Through laser-sights, I should think.’

A different waitress, rather older, approached our table. Just as I was about to order toast and coffee, she spoke. ‘I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.’

‘But . . . breakfast . . .’ Felix began.

‘Yeah, well, y’see, we don’t allow lewd behaviour in this diner, and that’s how it is. If you can learn to keep your hands to yourself, then we might reconsider, but for today—’ She jerked her head at the door behind us.

‘But I . . .’

‘I don’t wanna have to call the boys.’

Dejectedly Felix stood up. ‘I was only rubbing my crotch,’ he said, compounding matters still further. ‘It’s Skye’s fault. She grabbed me.’

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