Page 2 of The Moon Also Rises
Not wanting to risk seeing Steveo in the nightclub toilets, I dig in my wallet for my staff pass and head to the personnel-only doors near the stage that leads to the backstage rooms and the facilities. I keep my head down as I walk past people rushing around some of them drunk, others anything but – all clipboards and headsets and stressed shouting – and I go to the gents’ toilets.
Inside, I quickly relieve myself at a urinal and then wash my hands and splash my face with cold water before taking a good look at my reflection.
I don’t hate what I see – I have a nicely put-together face and a jawline many should be jealous of – but I don’t love what I see either. My chestnut eyes reveal the sadness and dejection I feel, my dark blond hair is no longer holding the same shape I spent far too long putting it in earlier, and my cheeks look a little hollow, no doubt because I didn’t eat a decent meal all day in order to fit in the Armani jeans I stupidly bought on sale and a size too small.
“Jesus, Forester. You're too good for this,” I say to myself.
“Yeah, you are,” a voice says and then I hear a toilet flush. I hear the click of a lock opening on the nearest cubicle and a striking man walks out. He’s tall – roughly the same height as my five feet eleven – and he's wearing black trousers and a black woollen turtleneck, which I find mind-boggling considering it’s been 30 degrees for the last few days. He must be crew and here with one of the DJs on some whistle-stop tour.
“Sorry,” I say to him via the mirror as he comes to wash his hands. “I talk to myself too much.”
He gives me a side smile before bending down to wash his hands, like really washing his hands with soap and water and lots of scrubbing. Maybe he's actually hotel staff. I should keep my eye out for him, I think as I take in his light brown skin, dark hair, and sexy stubble.
“Most people don't talk to themselves enough,” he says with a smile that has my eyes glued on him. That’s when I see the colour of his eyes, a grey so light and ethereal it’s practically silver. I have to blink to remember to speak but still I can’t find words worthy of a witty reply, which is not like me at all.
“Ha,” I say eventually and quite pathetically. “Maybe.”
He starts to rinse off the soap's bubbles. “Well, whatever it is, or whoever they are, I hope they don't ruin your night,” he says and that's when I realise he's from England, like me. There's even the soft lull of a West Midlands accent.
“Oh, it's too late for that,” I say.
“The night is yet young.” He steps around me to reach for paper towels. “And so are you, bab.”
He looks up and down my body then, a very open assessment. His lack of subtlety prompts me to be just as direct.
“Are you accosting me?” I ask, putting a hand on my hip.
“God, no,” he says with a grin that would suggest otherwise, or maybe that's the godawful shot I just did blurring my vision and interpretation of curious looks.
“Don't sound so horrified!” I put my other hand on my other hip. He scrunches the paper towel into a ball and we both watch as he throws it towards the bin and it lands.
“I'm not horrified, but let's just say I’m probably not the answer to your problems.” He folds his arms across his chest. A nicely solid chest, I believe.
“You're from the UK.” I deliberately change the subject away from my problems. I'm quite good at that.
“Birmingham. You?”
“Surrey, originally. Now a citizen of the world.”
“Yeah, me too, I guess,” he says, and I have to look away from those eyes again.
I hear a buzzing, and I move to put my hand on my phone but there’s no vibration. Of course, Steveo isn't even trying to contact me.
The man in front of me is looking at the screen of an expensive-looking smartphone by the time I look back at him.
“That's my cue to leave,” he says. “Got a plane to catch, unfortunately.” As he looks at the phone's screen I see him cringe, very noticeably.
“Whatever it is, or whoever they are, I hope they don't ruin your night,” I repeat his words to him, nodding at his phone.
He looks up. “The night is yet young for that,” he says with that mirthful smile again. “Goodbye, handsome stranger.”
“Ha!” I can't help my laugh. “Goodbye, man who is very inappropriately dressed for an Australian summer.”
“You're not wrong.” He pulls at the neck of his jumper. "And hey?”
“Yeah?”
“Nice shoes,” he says with a lingering look at my feet, and then he's gone.
