Page 21 of Star Struck

‘Skye needed some fresh air.’

‘Mmm.’ Not altogether accepting. ‘Starts at eleven. Entrants need to be seated by half-ten, so they can be checked over for any cheat sheets.’ A cool hand on my forehead. ‘Why? Are you entering?’

‘Skye is.’

I’m what? I thought, but nothing inside me would respond. Not curiosity, not nerves, nothing. It was worse than Valium, at least that just deadened the world. Whatever Felix had given me had killed it.

‘Better get her to bed then.’

‘Off now.’ Then, cheekily, ‘Don’t suppose you want to join us?’

A half-laugh, fading into the night. ‘Wrong guy.’

I think I might have passed out, because the next thing I knew was Felix rolling me up in the duvet and switching out the light. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Bu’ . . .’ I managed to get one eye open. ‘Where . . . ?’

Silhouetted in the doorway, Felix grinned. ‘You’ll sleep ’til morning, don’t worry. And while you are sleeping, Mr White is, shall we say, going to be gaining a certain grubbiness.’

Chapter Ten

He couldn’t sleep. There were still people wandering around the motel, singles looking for a chat, a drinking partner, a bedmate, and a few couples and groups talking in the earnest way that told him they were discussing the show rather than current affairs or last night’s TV.

Jack didn’t particularly want to be alone, but keeping company with a bottle of Jack Daniels was out of the question and any kind of human company would come with questions he wasn’t willing to answer; to distract himself he fetched his keys and let himself into the prop store which was a posh name for a tin shed at the side of the motel. From the looks of it the kitchen staff used it to store jars and bottled goods, which had been shoved into a chaotic, rolling mass at the back of the shed to make way for the Shadow Fighter and some random articles from the set — a rack of costumes, some blaster rifles and a trunk which had the words Marketing Dept stencilled on the side.

He leaned back against the sun-warmed wall of the shed and breathed in the smell of acrylic paint and hot plastic from the props, overlaid with a vinegar smell from a spilled jar of pickles. The smell of Fallen Skies. Artificial substance and sour preservation, in a room that a four-year-old could break the lock off. And this is what I’ve done with my life.

His mind drifted, aided by the medicinal tang of so much vinegar in a confined space, until it landed on the thought of Skye and he felt his skin prickle into goosebumps. Cute girl. Weird friendship she seems to have . . . with a guy that’s way too controlling for it to be good. Two steps into the shed and he could run his hand over the reassuring solidity of the Shadow Fighter, another step and he had his hand on the sleeve of the costume of a refugee from one of the frozen planets. And why am I even thinking about her? I’ve got enough problems, don’t need a girl with self-esteem issues to add to the collection of Great Fuck-Ups of Our Time, and if she needs help . . . I am so far from the person she should have anywhere near her.

A sudden burst of laughter from somewhere outside. Jack straightened up, took his hand away from the costume, and gritted his teeth. It’s all pretend. This, Fallen Skies, who I am, who I’ve become, it’s all pretend. So, this whole Iceman thing I’ve got going on, the person people believe me to be, the stone-cold writer-man — the thing that stops me from wanting . . . needing someone . . . how real is that?

Chapter Eleven

I was woken by the sounds of a Spanish argument and the banging of pans. Felix must have left the window open. I huddled down and turned over but the noise continued and then the dog joined in, shrill yelps that rattled and echoed around the yard until I had to get up.

My mouth was dry and I was thirsty. Couldn’t work out why. Little, half-remembered snippets from last night kept drifting through my head; the firmness of Felix’s hold on me as he carried me to bed, Jack pushing my hair away from my face. And Gethryn, always back to Gethryn, talking to me outside the diner, taking my hand, looking in my eyes.

I swallowed water and rinsed my face. How much of last night had been real, and how much had been some complicated form of hallucination? The whole of the last twelve hours flowed together in one confused image: drinks, Jack’s smile, Felix’s touch. And still, Gethryn. My one, huge, dream-come-true moment and I was kicking myself for my gaucheness, my cautious reactions, when what I should have done was entrance him with my wit and sophistication. Shouldn’t I?

I dressed. Still no Felix; he was probably sleeping in. A quick shard of jealousy cut a curl from my heart and I imagined myself lying sprawled in someone’s arms, or involved in a bed-bouncingly enthusiastic leave-taking, but when I tried to imagine the man concerned all I could conjure were memories of Michael dragged from photographs. It made me shudder, and I didn’t know why.

The corridors were quiet at this time in the morning as I wandered down the stairs, in case Fe had found his way to the diner without me. But the place was still locked up, although I could see girls inside, tying on aprons and turning on coffee machines, so I went back to reception, where I found Antonio earnestly pushing letter pegs into today’s Board of Events.

I read it as he prodded the letters into place. When he finally stepped back to admire the overall effect, I was so close behind him that he nearly broke my nose.

‘Miss! Why you read so close?’ He eyed me cautiously. ‘You all right?’

‘This . . . this is today?’

‘Yes. Much excitement. Much competition, I think.’

Even knowing Felix, even knowing that he was so self-centred he had his own gravitational field, I still had trouble believing it. ‘The bastard.’ But even given all that . . . why? What was in it for him?

Leaving Antonio standing baffled, I chased back up the stairs to find Felix still conspicuously not in our room. I wondered now if it was deliberate, if he was going to avoid me until the last possible minute, and if he did — how the hell did he think he was going to get me to go along with it? I slammed around the room, hoping that he’d come in just so I could throw things at him, but he continued not to arrive. Bastard! He’d spent the night jumping on some gorgeous guy, leaving me sleeping off the effects of — what, something to keep me out of trouble? To keep me from asking questions? Well, think again, Felix, my old mate, because I’m good at questions. But then, who could I ask, who did I know out here who’d even answer? Jack.

I hammered on his door until he opened up, looking rumpled but unsleepy. He was wearing the pyjama bottoms again, and this time they were topped with a Metallica T-shirt that looked as if it had belonged to several other men previously, all of them bigger.

‘What? Oh, it’s you.’

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