Page 129 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘If you want my honest opinion’ – the man eyeballed him – ‘I don’t think it’s fair that the press are always bitching about your relationships.’

‘Actually, I’m rather flattered,’ Damien countered. ‘Writers generally don’t hold much attention. Unless there’s some scandal that the press can find to make the headlines.’

‘Well, they certainly have rich pickings with you.’ The man picked up the second shot and downed it in one.

Damien licked his lips. His head throbbed… It would be so easy, just a tot, a wee dram…

‘You know something, Damien,’ the man moved closer, ‘I have a story to tell that will blow your mind. And I think that us meeting like this was meant to be. What were the chances of me having your book in my bag and you actually sitting next to me. So…’

He’s got the fix on you, the Voice said.One, two, three…wait for it…

The man stretched out his hand. ‘My name’s Steve Diamond.’

Now close down the conversation. The man’s a moron, said the Voice.

‘Hello, Steve.’ Damien shook his hand. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got to send a few emails, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I get on with my work?’

‘That’s fine.’ Steve nodded his head vigorously, his face crimson and sweaty from the liquor. ‘Maybe after you’ve finished sending your messages, we could continue our chat? And, perhaps,’ he added, ‘if I’m not being too pushy, we could sit next to each other on the plane if there’s a spare seat. I know the singles are usually taken, but maybe there’s a double that’s free.’

‘No thanks. I like my own company. That’s one of the pleasures of flying.’

That’s it. Nip it in the bud, the Voice said.

‘Okay, fine.’ The man got up from his chair. ‘Not a problem. Sorry to bother you, Mr Spur. But if I can say one more thing… You write a good thriller, but you’re an unpleasant, arrogant son of a bitch… So that’s it.’ He threw the book on the table. ‘I won’t be reading this anymore.’

Damien could smell the alcohol on his breath. Yep, airportlounges were very dangerous places.

***

Cocooned in the first-class cabin, Damien was happy to be alone with his thoughts, mind-travelling.

Each time the bottle of Glenfiddich, his favourite tipple, glided by on the drinks trolley, the Voice whispered,Don’t even think about it. Keep your head.Tough it out.

Damien breathed deeply, let his mind float into nothingness and fell asleep. He didn’t wake till the early hours of the morning.

***

Chateau Marmont, with its Gothic charms, was for Damien the only place to stay in LA. The hotel’s old-style glamour, famed for its notorious scandals, suited him.

Damien – white suit, shades and panama hat – sauntered through the lobby to the front desk. Even amongst the blasé guests, his languid confidence and style caused a ripple of whispers.

The Voice was amused.Who would have thought it? There you were a year ago throwing yourself in the River Thames, and look at you now, Mr Slick. You give all the miserable bastards who are ready to jump into the fires of hell hope.

Damien wasn’t in a hurry. He had a cold shower in the art-deco-tiled bathroom of the penthouse suite and, padding across the parquet floor of the living room with a towel round his waist, went to play a few chords on the baby grand.

Maybe he’d invite Ariana to dinner. Sing her some Cole Porter songs, play her some Chopin Nocturnes. Her raw beauty and untamed passion had captivated him. Her voice rich and smooth like honey had evoked a deep-seated rush of sadnessthat had brought tears to his eyes. This was the soulmate he had yearned for.

Stop, the Voice said.Grow up.You’re too old to play Romeo. And more than likely she’s only interested in a creative collaboration.

Or maybe not. She seemed to be drawn to him. The way she wooed him, held him.

Damien was confused. Dizzy with anticipation. Worried that he would make the wrong impression. If people only knew that the sexy king of the intelligentsia,Vanity Fair’s leading man, was really a puppy dog who didn’t know his ass from his elbow where women were concerned, and had lost his way years ago, barking up the wrong pair of panties.

***

Next morning the producers, Debra Peters and Seth Landry, greeted him with casual LA smiles.

At the back sat a striking young woman with short blonde hair, dressed all in black. She gave him a lazy look. He mouthed “hello”.

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