Page 18 of Star Struck

‘Actually, I’m a fan,’ I managed to stammer out. ‘I’m here for the convention.’

Gorgeous tawny eyes met mine and a firm hand under my elbow guided me further from the pretending-not-to-be-listening crowd. ‘Ah, but you’re not barking though, are you? Haven’t noticed you lifting your top to get your boobs signed, or sitting outside my trailer all night in a tiny little dress and no knickers.’

I couldn’t force my eyes away from his face. Gethryn must have thought I had some kind of staring disorder. ‘I . . . like . . . the programme.’

Yeah, that’s kind of the definition of ‘fan’, I berated myself from inside my head, but Gethryn was gracious. ‘Thanks, bach. If only I could have stayed on . . . I had plans for Lucas James — oh, never mind.’

Now I could only nod. I felt much as I should think a toddler feels on being quizzed by a department-store Santa, as though I was in the presence of a representative of God. Every millimetre of his face was familiar to me, yet I still couldn’t stop my eyes from blazing all over it, seeing the raised lines of stubble around his mouth and the way his lips pouted around his Welsh accent. In the show he spoke with a generic English inflection; there was something erotic beyond words at the dips and swoops of the Brecon intonation. There was something about the way he said bach that made it sound far more intimate and sexy than the English equivalent ‘dear’. And he was still holding my hand. I was afraid to move and draw attention to the fact, so I just stood. My mouth was open slightly, I didn’t dare lick my lips, he might think I was drooling, so I just gaped at half-mast and hoped that I didn’t look like the village idiot.

‘You looked a bit panicked in there.’ Gethryn spoke again; his voice was quieter now, for me only. ‘Not like crowds then, cariad?’

Cariad? Had he just called me darling?

‘I’m not good with lots of people, no.’ He didn’t need to know about the stress thing that caused the anxiety attacks; it might make him revise his opinion of me up to Grade Two Bonkers.

Gethryn moved closer, half a step, a full step. Now he was right beside me and I could feel him breathing, the weight of his pale linen suit brushing against my wrist. ‘Something we have in common, lovely, I don’t like the crowds so much either. It’s a stupid profession that I’m in for someone who hates gatherings like this, but, hey, you do what you’re good at, don’t you?’

I gave a hard, slow blink to stop myself wondering exactly what else he was good at. ‘Where’s your . . . every time I’ve seen you there’s been . . . security men?’

‘Ah, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men. Given them the slip for a moment.’ He gestured towards a bottle of Scotch and a single, full glass balanced on the wall near the steps. ‘Just wanted some fresh air and a drink of something that doesn’t taste like mule’s piss.’ The voice dropped to that whisper again and I had to lean in close to catch his words. ‘You won’t give me away, will you, bach?’ He shook his head, comically scuffing a toe in the sand like a child.

Suddenly there was a presence at my other shoulder.

‘Geth? You’re wanted inside. They’re going to announce the arrangements for tomorrow’s Big Competition, you have to be there.’

‘Oh, what? Why? Can’t they get on without me?’

‘You’re the star.’ Jack’s voice was bitter. ‘Of course they can’t do it without you.’

‘But . . .’

‘Geth.’ Warning, now.

‘Oh, fuck. All right, boy, I’ll be there. Keep your shirt on.’ Gethryn turned to me. ‘Rain check on this then, bach, yes?’ And before I could answer he’d headed back up the steps into the diner.

I stayed where he’d left me, stunned. Half-consciously rubbing my scar with the back of my hand and making a mental note to always always use this brand of cover-up. Mouth still open.

‘And you, pull yourself together.’ Jack spoke from between clenched teeth. ‘Mr Fantastic has gone now.’

‘I can’t believe . . .’ I was staring into space. ‘He spoke to me. He actually spoke to me!’

‘Whoopee doo.’ Jack sounded sardonic now. ‘Is that his drink?’ He gestured towards the bottle and glass on the wall.

‘No.’ I wanted Jack to give me the bottle. It was something Gethryn had touched. I would keep it forever. And I was never going to wash this hand again.

‘Okay. If you say so.’ Jack gave me an odd look. A sudden renegade breeze startled his hair over his face and, as he brushed it back, I noticed his eyes looked worried. Unsettled. ‘Just . . . Skye. Gethryn isn’t . . . He’s sometimes a bit . . . difficult, you know?’

‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ I said tightly. ‘I’m capable of looking out for myself.’

All I got for that was an ironically raised eyebrow which, bearing in mind this morning’s little fiasco, had a point. ‘I realise that I’m shouting prayers in the Church of Satan here but just . . . be careful. That’s all.’

He was more smartly dressed than I’d seen him before, I noticed now. A proper shirt, and jeans that were if not exactly dressy, then at least clean. He wore a narrow-framed pair of glasses and for one tiny second I felt a tickle of familiarity. I’ve seen you somewhere before. A long time ago . . . Before the accident? Possibly, but this had the feeling of not being part of the memory loss, simply something I couldn’t immediately recall. Perfectly normal not-remembering of something . . . Something that came associated with . . . trouble?

‘Oh, there you are.’ Felix came fussing across the yard like a hen whose chicks have become dispersed. ‘Fancy a stroll?’

Jack stared at him. ‘Are you not going to listen to the announcement about tomorrow’s qu–’

Felix cut him off. ‘Are you feeling all right, Skye? You’re a bit pink . . . Did it all get a bit much?’

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