Page 78 of Hello Darling
21
Evan
Two weeks. Two weeks since I’ve touched Stella Starkey’s skin and hair and heard her voice in my ear without a filter between us. I have shown up on time for everything here in England—filming, interviews, dinner with my parents, Christmas with my family at my grandparents’ house in Cornwall—I’ve been present in body and mind for every moment of it, but in my heart each beat, each second that ticks away, is a countdown to the day that I will see her in person again.
Also, my throbbing cock is just aching to be reintroduced to its favorite mouth and fanny.
I’ve had my driver drop me off at Heathrow airport and have my bag with me, wearing my cap and sunglasses. My assistant Wendy and I decided it would be best for me to meet Stella in the arrivals terminal, then the VIP team will escort us to the exclusive lounge and private suite for check-in and to wait for our flight to Nice. I got Stella a First Class seat from SeaTac. It’s a nine and a half hour flight—not deadly, but made infinitely better by comfortable seating and ice cream sundaes.
It being December thirtieth, the airport is quite busy, and I’m glad of this because it means it’s less likely that I’ll be recognized as I stand here waiting for my lady love to walk through the sliding doors.
Would you like me to recite my sappy voiceover from the airport scenes in Love Actually while you wait, dear?
No need, Hugh. I’m all stocked up in the cheese department.
Before leaving Port Gladstone, when I entered my London mobile number on her cell phone, I recorded and set up a special ringtone of myself saying “hello darling.” She said it makes her wet even before she’s read a text, answered my call or FaceTime, and that was the idea. I also set her up with cat cameras and an app so she can monitor Muffin Top while she’s away and her landlords look after her in the guesthouse. She decided that would be less stressful to the cat than moving her to her dad’s house.
As if I needed more proof that we’re perfect for each other, Stella and I both gave each other copies ofTender is the Night.I had a first edition shipped from New York. It cost fifteen hundred dollars, and one day I’d like to get her an inscribed first edition, but a sixty-five thousand dollar gift would probably make her balk at this point. She found me an early printing and in the accompanying card she wrote out a quote:
He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue world of his eyes, eagerly and confidently.
I have tried not to read into it too much. It’s sweet and lovely, but the words “for a moment” make me nervous. But moments are all that anyone has, aren’t they, and each moment I’ve spent with her so far has been a precious page that I’ve turned, delighting in the story and feeling relief when I find that there are more pages left to turn.
“Mr. Diver?” says a man’s quiet deep voice behind me. I turn to find a suited gentleman with a photo ID tag. I’d forgotten that Wendy had arranged for someone from Heathrow VIP to meet me here. We’ll be chauffeured to another terminal, which is great, but all I can think about now is how good it will feel to have Stella in my arms again.
“Hello,” I say, shaking his hand.
“I am John, from Heathrow VIP. I’ll be escorting you and your friend to the lounge. As you should know, her flight has landed and she should be clearing customs now. May I take your bag for you?”
“Sure, thanks.” It’s when I’m handing him my bag that I notice it. The darkly-clad men across the terminal clocking me and heading my way. Shit. Despite the ingenuity of these special paid services, some people have figured out that they just have to keep tabs on the uniformed staff to catch sight of any celebrities as they’re ushered in and out.
As Stella emerges from the international arrivals exit, I get to enjoy three beautiful seconds of her gorgeous unadulterated smile as our eyes meet. Even before I’ve reached her, the flashes begin their assault. When I hug her, I feel how tense her body is, and say in her ear: “Just smile and don’t look at them. This gentleman will lead us to a car right outside. They can’t follow us to the lounge.”
There are only three paparazzi, but with all the dizzying flashing of their massive cameras, it feels like there’s an army of them surrounding us. Once they close in, people start rubbernecking and following them. There are some shrieks of my name. John takes Stella’s suitcase and leads us towards the exit to the curb, as I hold Stella’s hand and wrap my arm around her. John is polite but firm in asking the photographers to stay back.
“Evan, is this your new girlfriend?”
“What’s your name, luv?”
“Evan, is this your New Year’s date?”
“Evan, are you still in touch with Georgia?”
“Evan, is this your rebound? Have you seen Georgia and Braden together in London?”
Does anyone still actually give a fuck about me and Georgia? Surely not. I maintain a polite smile, head up and looking past these pricks.
It’s quite a skill these men have developed—walking backwards while taking pictures and either trying to get a smile or a rise out of their subjects.
“OH MY GOD IT’S EVAN HUNTER!!!!!!”
God. Where are the Beckhams when you need them? If I’d been by myself I would have stopped to sign autographs for the fans, but I want to get Stella out of here as quickly as possible, and also it would be really great if I could kick this one guy in the bollocks. Just once.
Aww. Love actually is all around.
Shut up, Hugh.
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