“You realise Howard’s going to insist on you sharing the details.Dropping off grid for a while is probably wise, but we can’t look out for you if we don’t know where you are.
“You’re right.I think I need to talk to Howard.Johns…”
“I gotcha.”He bows his head to me so that it’s visible in the rear view mirror.At the next junction he turns the car around, and steers us in the direction of All Stars HQ.
Me, I sit back and keep my gaze averted away from Kira.She’s not going to like this, but it’s the most sensible move to make at this juncture in time.I need to take myself away from people, and out of the public eye to buy the police some time to do their job and find out who this nutcase is.Some time out might lend itself to some clarity in other areas too.I’m at a crossroads with Kira.If we continue spending time in close proximity, then it won’t matter if this is a fad, the public will get wind of it, and the fallout will be catastrophic.If I’m going to turn my life upside down for a person, I need to know I’m doing it for a damn good reason.Right now, I don’t honestly know if I have the stomach for the uproar dating her will cause.The faces of that family in the lift continue to haunt me.Expecting the rest of the world to consider me anything other than a traitor as well is likely too big an ask.
I can’t deal with being hated.
I hate not being certain who I am.
There’s no room for doubts in my head.
When the doubts seep in is when the darkness descends, and there are too many demons lurking in the shadows I’d rather not engage with.
-13-
-Dylan Drake-
Three weeks later…
I’m back at the Shadow Garden, this time for Dare and Flicka’s engagement party.The stupidly smiley couple are positioned by the entrance, welcoming their guests.As Lorne promised, everyone who is anyone in the world of entertainment is here.It’s like the Harris Peppard Trust’s Gala Dinner on speed.
Dare at least seems pleased to see me.His soon to be bride doesn’t seem so sure.She’s no wild child, no matter what certain, more recent newspaper reports would have us believe.If Felicity “Flicka” Caine was a stick of candy rock, she’d have wholesome written right through her.
“You made it.”Dare beams as he claps me on the back.
I nod.“Congratulations.It happens to the best of us.”I offer them both handshakes and pecks on the cheek.It’s good to be back to civilization after my elective holiday in the wilds.Lorne’s country hideaway worked a treat.I didn’t see a soul for the first eight days.I’m not sure there was an actual postal service to the place, and the phone coverage was decidedly sketchy.Still, with bugger all else to do, I’ve enjoyed some lengthy walks in the woods, some gloriously indulgent soaks in an oversized tub, and rediscovered my affinity for tap-dancing, so when the casting call comes for a remake ofSingin’ in the Rain, I’ll be set.
I’ve heard on the grapevine that’s an actual thing a certain director is considering.
“We’ll have to catch up later.You can tell me what’s happened about your car, and the shooting incident.”Dare clings onto my hand as I’m jostled away from him by the next guest in the line.
“Definitely.”
We part ways, and I have to admit, I don’t really want to discuss either of those things.One thing the countryside undoubtedly had going for it was that it was utterly drama free.Other than Howard Falchard’s daily reports—the police are apparently making some headway over the bombing—I haven’t had to think about nutters attempting to rearrange my features.I don’t want to think about that now.The plan is to slip back into society smoothly, without making any noticeable ripples.
“Dylan, you’re still in the land of the living.”
“Dylan—good to see you again, man.”
“Ready for the new shoot?Three days to go.”
Maybe I need to amend that to waves.Ripples looks as if it might be too big an ask.
I nod and smile in reply to the various greetings as I weave my way through the sea of dazzling lovelies packing out the dance floor.Already the air is a pungent mix of perfume, sweat, and alcohol.If you could bottle it out of the air, you’d probably make a killing.A-list Aroma, that’s what it ought to be called.
Once I force my way through to the bar, I have a glass of sherry shoved into my hand, before I’ve had a chance to order anything more to my taste.The easiest way to be rid of it is to down it in one, and hand back the empty.It’s only two swallows.
“You’ve gone all hipster-ish,” I complain to the barman, while glancing over the lines of real ales and fruity ciders.
“We have gin.”
Yeah, a whole row of them.“All the fancy labels in the world can’t hide the fact it started out as a cure for stomach complaints, or that it was the 18thcentury drug of choice for the poor to get hammered on.”
“Times change.It’s all the rage with the cool kids.”
“Yeah, well this cool kid will be having a vodka Martini, please.”
