Page 41 of Star Struck

‘Oh,’ I said, disconcerted. ‘That had better be the online fanzine, because otherwise you ought to get help.’ In the series the Shadow Planet was run by the Skeel, and Erlon was most definitely not a Skeel name.

A laugh. ‘Yeah. I wonder if I could get a couple shots of you and Gethryn in your outfits? No use trying to do it tomorrow, when everyone will be getting in on the act, so I figured, tonight’s my chance. I spoke with Geth earlier, he says to meet him in his trailer at twenty after seven, then I’ll get some pictures of the two of you. Post ’em on the ’zine.’

‘I suppose so.’ I fingered the skirt, feeling the softness. ‘Yes. Okay.’ Erlon would be there, I wouldn’t be left alone with Gethryn and it would be nice to be able to talk to him, to indulge my crush without alcohol intruding and blurring his actions into borderline harassment. To establish that he was a decent human being, and that what had happened out in that car park had been the result of overexcitement and unwise come-ons on my part. Besides, he was hardly going to tear all my clothes off in front of other people, was he?

It was already ten past seven, so I decided to leave immediately. For one thing, in these heels it would probably take me ages to get down to Gethryn’s Winnebago, and for another, I didn’t dare do anything whilst wearing the dress in case I ended up in another embarrassing situation from which Mr Whitaker had to rescue me. In fact I’d ruled out doing anything at all, apart from standing very still and never going to the toilet.

I adjusted my cleavage, hitched up the train and set off down the back stairs. Part way down I had to stop and haul the skirts up over my arm until it looked as though I was carrying a very heavy set of curtains. This outfit was definitely made to be seen, which was ego-boostingly reassuring, and was surprisingly comfortable to walk in, but it did spend a lot of time trying to escape off me. The weight of the velvet train almost pulled it from my shoulders, and it was only the laced-up bodice which kept my boobs from being further uncovered with every step. The whole dress swayed sensuously and rhythmically whilst trying to reveal my body a little bit at a time, as though it was a kind of mobile strip-club. I tottered down the last few stairs and arrived at the side door leading directly out onto the yard, fabric cascading around me but at least managing to prevent public indecency. A couple headed past me into the motel and did a double-take but I kept on walking, head straight, eyes forward. No-one else was about. Everyone was still too busy getting things signed, putting the final touches to their costumes, or mixing it in the bar, at least, that was what I was banking on.

I wafted around the outside of the motel until I reached the Winnebago, whirling through the dust in my draperies like a soft furnishings removal business. About a hundred yards away from the van two men in Security vests were sitting in collapsible chairs under a sunshade, watching a small TV screen. They both looked pretty fed up, arms folded, wearing Day-Glo jackets and sullen expressions, despite the hearty laughter track from the TV. I wondered about saying something to them, giving some kind of excuse for being there, but since neither of them acknowledged my passing, and neither looked as if they were up for taking a bullet for Gethryn, I didn’t bother. However, outside the van a harassed-looking girl wearing a headpiece on top of punishingly short hair and carrying a clipboard stopped me.

‘Is Mr Tudor-Morgan expecting you?’

But then she had a call on the mobile clipped to her belt and headed off away from me to answer it. I was really not about to stand around sweating in velvet, so I tiptoed up the steps and tapped on the metal door. ‘Gethryn? It’s Skye.’

There was no answer. I knocked again, harder. Then I tried the handle and the door swung outwards, nearly knocking me down. There was no outraged shout so I walked in.

The door led into an enormous living area with sofas and a central table, which gave onto a kitchen bigger than the one in my house. It contained a vast refrigerator, a microwave you could have stabled a horse in and enough leather seating for about fifty people, but no visible sink or way of preparing anything more than TV dinners. There was no-one else about.

‘Hello,’ I called as I stared. ‘I’ve come for the photoshoot.’

Still no answer. Maybe I hadn’t called loudly enough. Maybe Gethryn was giving Erlon a tour of the mobile home. Maybe they’d snuck off to get away from Her Outside with the prison haircut.

I walked further in. The floor was carpeted a deep grey which made the place look very dark, and there were signs of recent habitation in a shirt dropped over the back of a couch, a half-eaten apple turning slowly brown on the table. I picked up the shirt and self-consciously sniffed it. It smelled of some unknown cologne, something musky and citrusy, like the smell of sex itself, with an undertone of something alcoholic.

As I stood, breathing in the smell of Gethryn, I heard a sound. A low groan, as if coming from the back of a throat. I put down the shirt and moved towards the noise, picking my way down a mirror-lined corridor until it opened out into a vast bedroom. In the middle stood a bed too large to be called king-sized, it had to be emperor-sized, or possibly dictator. Spread-eagled face up across the bed with his hair dangling from one side, lay Gethryn, surrounded by a much stronger smell of alcohol. In fact, if I’d struck a match, the air would have flamed like a Christmas pudding.

‘Gethryn?’ I approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the distance between me and the door.

Another groan.

‘Are you all right?’

A hand waved. It had a bottle in it. So, now I came to look at it, did the other hand. Liquid had poured over the bed sheets, over Gethryn’s clothes, and his hair was damply roped with it. I took a step back and put one hand on the wall to steady myself.

‘I think I’d better fetch Jack.’

At the sound of the name, Gethryn sat up, still clutching both bottles. ‘No! Don’ wan’ that bastard in he’. Am havin’ day off. Entitled to day off, aren’t I? For rest and . . .’ he sloshed the bottle in his right hand, ‘relaxation.’ Now he got to his knees, carefully. ‘Why you come here, anyway, Skye? You here to keep me company? Man needs company on his day off. Have a drink.’ He held out a bottle my way, his whole body bouncing slightly as the bed moved underneath him.

‘No, thanks.’ My heart was pushing blood into my throat, where I could feel it bashing the walls of my veins and, beneath my feet, the carpet felt dry and full of electricity. ‘I ought to . . .’ Not wanting to turn my back on him, I began shuffling in reverse towards the doorway with the skirt tangling around behind my legs like an over-affectionate cat. ‘The others will be here in a minute anyway,’ I said quickly, just in case he decided to make a lunge for me. ‘I came for the photoshoot. For the e-zine? Us in our ball costumes?’

‘Fuck photoshoot.’ Geth walked forward on his knees to come closer. ‘They can’t make me do it. Only had to appear at the convention to fulfil terms, after the ball I’m free as a bird! More free, in fac’.’ He clambered down off the bed to stand in front of me, swaying slightly. ‘Tired of filming in bloody cheap places, all sandy and Canadian. I’m goin’ to Holwoody.’

Even unfocused those yellow eyes were fascinating. ‘You mean Hollywood,’ I said, transfixed by his stare.

‘Yeah. That.’ He leaned in and sour breath bounced off my cheek.

‘But you told Erlon that you’d do the shoot for him. He said he’d spoken to you?’ I shuffled back a few more steps, the thick carpet snagging at my heels with a crisp sound. The adrenaline flooding me tasted sour and my heart was beating so fast I wondered that I wasn’t airborne. Deep in the skirts of the dress I bunched a fist in case of a sudden swoop.

A long pause. Then, ‘Fuck. Yes. Did. Bollocks. Mustn’t know I’ve been drinking.’

‘Erlon mustn’t know you’ve been drinking?’

A vigorous head shake that made his snakes of hair whip his cheeks. ‘No! Not Erlon, Erlon’s lovely guy. Lovely. Drinks tequila with the little worm in. An’ brandy. Jack. Don’ wan’ Jack to know I’ve had a drink. He’ll tell people I’m a drunk. I’m no’ drunk, he’s a bastard. Doesn’t like me drinking, but thass bollocks, isn’t it, lovely? Just ’cos he’s on some Ten-Step programme thing, reckons we should all give up the booze. Bastard,’ he repeated.

‘Jack doesn’t drink?’ I found I was fascinated, despite my fear.

Gethryn squinted. ‘He’s not told you then? Oh, thass good, that is, the Iceman not telling the pretty little girlie allllllll about his lousy habits.’ He hiccupped. ‘Our Iceman, he’s a bit handy with a bottle, bach. Didn’t wan’ to give up, oh no. Had to. That or lose the show.’ He took another shaky step towards me and suddenly wrapped both arms around me. I heard the bottles clang as they made contact behind my back. ‘Oh, our Jack’s got them secrets just pilin’ up. You look ve’ sexy in that dress. What do you look like out of it?’

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