Chapter 23: Conversation with a Star

I guess it was inevitable that on the one weekend I really needed my friends around, I wound up alone. It’s my own fault, I should have said something, should have told them what was significant about the day, but I couldn’t. Even with the newly found openness and burgeoning trust I was building with Vanessa, I still couldn’t tell her.

I’ve no idea why.

If I had told her, I’m sure that she and Imogen would have delayed the trip back to see Imogen’s parents until the following weekend. Mark was still around, but it wasn’t the same. He was so busy pretending that he wasn’t missing Imogen that he was useless to me. Football had never really been my thing, so a marathon weekend in front of the box and afternoon at Westmouth United’s ground really didn’t appeal in the slightest.

Instead, I did what I always do.

No, I didn’t go and find fresh pussy and shag myself senseless, although that’s what the voice in my head suggested. No, I threw myself into work instead. I had two essays due at the end of the following week and this time alone—well, as alone as I could be with that damn voice—was an ideal time to do the research and write the first drafts.

So, I found myself a desk on the second floor of the university library close to the law section, laid out as many of the research materials as I could get hold of, and set to work.

That was Saturday morning, about an hour after I’d dropped the girls off at the train station. I’d expected to have the place to myself for most of the day. I was wrong.

“Oh, damn it.”

It was a small voice, sweet-sounding and very, very familiar. I looked up and stared, open-mouthed. She was relatively short—or should that be petite—and her attire was hardly that of an award-winning global movie star. She wore faded (and quite tatty) blue jeans with classic black Doc Marten’s and a beige zip-up hoodie. But there was no mistaking that mass of dark brown hair. Or those eyes. Or those cheek bones.

The jeans clung to the curve of her hips and I was shamelessly looking forward to her turning to walk away so I could see how she looked from behind. And as for the way she filled out that hoodie—

“Ehm,” she covered her mouth as she made that small coughing noise to snap me from my trance and stood, messenger bag flung over one shoulder, a bundle of papers held across her chest with one hand. The other was on her hip, which jutted out slightly to the side, and she was watching me—or my reaction—with an undisguised smirk of amusement.

“You’re ... you’re...”

“Yes, I am. And you’re sitting at my desk.”

“Your desk? But you graduated, like, two years ago, didn’t you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Two years this summer. And your point is?”

“So, like, how can this be your desk?” Oh, my god. Faced with my biggest teenage crush, I’d suddenly started talking like one again. Get over it, Paul.

<<Get over it? Get over it? That’s Chloe Goodman! Chloe. Fucking. Goodman! That’s a Prime piece of Pussy, right there. Work your magic, boy. Charm her. Woo her. And we’ll get to tell everyone we fucked a fucking movie star! We didn’t even pull that off in America!>>

SHUT UP!

Shit, I hope I didn’t just say that out loud.

“It just is, all right? So...” She gestured behind her with her thumb. “Come on, move.” The words were harsh, but her tone and the grin on her face was anything but.

A few years ago, shortly after she won her Oscar, there were a lot of reports in the gossip magazines that the award had gone to Chloe’s head, that she’d started to use that dreaded celebrity phrase, “Do you know who I am?” But apparently something had happened to prevent England’s Rose from becoming too thorny. It was weird, I’d had a poster of the girl standing in front of me now on my bedroom wall pretty much from I was about thirteen onwards. Hell, Mark still had a poster of her on his wall—I’d bet that a lot of the guys in Wintersmith, and all the other halls, did.

“Look,” she said, “If you must know, it’s special to me because it’s where I met my fiancé. And for the best part of three years, this is where my friends and I came when we had work to do. And now, it’s where I come when I need to concentrate on something.” She held out the bundle of papers and clutched them back to her chest again. “And I’ve got to read all these before a meeting this evening. So, come on, scoot!”

I stared open-mouthed again. Did she really want me to move? Just because she was famous?

She grinned and waved her free hand at me. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. But, seriously, do you mind if I sit here? This place really does help me concentrate and I really need to read these before a meeting. I won’t disturb you. I promise. I remember what it was like—the essays they set can be a bitch.”

And then came the smile. The movie star smile. She wasn’t made up by some awarding-winning makeup artist, and she wasn’t in expensive designer clothes, but that smile...

I’d only ever known one other like it. And she was—

I cut off that train of thought before it started.

But that smile was impossible to say no to.

I waved at the chairs on the other side of the desk. “Be my guest.”

The smile got wider still as she took the bag from her shoulder, dumped it on one empty chair and flopped herself down in another. “Thanks.”

She put most of the papers she’d been clutching on the desk but held on to one small bundle, which was loosely held together with treasury tags. It was evident that there were two other bundles, also held together with treasury tags, in the remaining pile.

“Scripts,” she said when she saw me looking. “I’ve been offered roles in all three projects, and I can only really do one so I need to decide which. I’m not enough of a box-office draw that they’ll delay a project just to get me on board. Yet.” She grinned. “I’m meeting with my agent and my advisor this afternoon. Well, I say meeting my advisor, but Sam is in L.A. so we’re having a conference call. That’s why it’s this evening. The time difference. You know?”

I nodded. What was I supposed to say? Like I knew anything about arranging long-distance telephone conferences.

“So, anyway. I won’t disturb you. You...” She waved her hand at me dismissively again. “You know, carry on or whatever.”

I must have continued to stare at her for the next five minutes as she read through the script. I’m sure she noticed. I’m sure she minded. But she didn’t say anything. She ignored me.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “What are you doing in Westmouth?”

“I live here.”

“But, I thought...?” I shook my head, not sure what I was doing. Was I trying to make small talk with Chloe Goodman?

“Thought what?” She looked at me expectantly.

“I don’t know. That ... I suppose ... You’d live in London or Hollywood or something.”

She huffed. “Hollywood is over-rated. Too hot most of the time. But when I have to be there, I stay with a friend. I do have a flat in London, but I only use it if I’m working there and finish too late to get back here. But this is my home. Always will be. I hope. My big-brained fiancé is doing his Ph.D. here and he hopes to get a teaching position here, so this is where we live. Besides, I love this town. It’s home.”

I nodded. Westmouth wasn’t home to me. Not yet. But I could see how it could be.

Eventually, I got used to the fact that an honest-to-god movie star was sitting at the same desk as me and put my head down to get on with some work. But I’d been reading a pretty heavy-duty case study when she arrived and now it was proving a little hard to get back into it.

It wasn’t so much the material—although it was pretty dry—or even the fact that Chloe Fucking Goodman was sitting opposite me reading like it was the most normal thing in the world. It was because now that she had been awakened, she wouldn’t bloody shut up.

<<Prime Pussy! Prime Pussy! Get yourself some Prime Pussy!>>

And if she wasn’t going on about Chloe like she was a piece of cattle, she was bugging me about the next day.

<<Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday dear me. Happy birthday to me>> or <<It’s my birthday and I’ll die if I want to ... Die if I want to ... Die if I want to>>

Those weren’t even the right fucking lyrics!

It was about then that Chloe started humming. Yes, humming. It wasn’t particularly loud. And it wouldn’t even have been particularly annoying—if I didn’t recognise the tune. Recognise it? Yes. Work out what it was? Not a chance.

And that was annoying.

“What is that?”

She looked up at me. “What?”

“You were humming?”

“Was I? Oh, sorry. I do that sometimes. I’ll try not to.”

“Yes, but ... What was it? I recognise it, but...”