‘I mean it, my friend. That girl might have left your ass, but she didn’t ask for any of this.’
Joe may not know the full story; he knows enough about our beginning and middle, but nothing about what went down between us at the end, but he’s right about this. ‘I’m doing everything I can.’
‘Including telling Ivy?’
‘Scotland’s not in the next suburb,’ I scoff. ‘I have back-to-back commitments. Press junket tomorrow.’ I pull the phone from my ear and look at the clock. 3 a.m. ‘Fuck, actually today. I have a chat show to record in the afternoon then one live tonight. More press Saturday morning then the premiere and after party later. And after that few hours of sleep, if I’m lucky, an early Sunday morning flight back.’
‘See that thing you’re holding to your ear? It’s called acell phone,’ he replies not unkindly. ‘I can’t believe the mighty Dylan Duffy, the man whose ego is as big as his billboards, can’t make it a few miles up the road. What’s the use of being a big shot movie star if you can’t do what you want from time to time?’
If only he knew how owned my ass is. This business is a whirlwind, and I’m inside it, not steering. Besides, the case is heading to court next week, and that’s why I’d called him. I should be sleeping, but I can’t. A few words with my friend is a better decision than the bottle of whisky sitting by my elbow.
‘No time to call her. No time to visit? Maybe you should come back and work for me.’
‘I do miss working outdoors,’ I reply, playing along, even if it isn’t strictly true. I do miss working outdoors in the cooler months and the freedom I had, but I sure as shit don’t miss the pay cheque or summer swamp ass.Please, God, let me never have to tell her how close she came to winning a porn Oscar.‘Think you can match my pay or get me laid as much?’
‘You’ve never had problems with that. Women dropped their underwear in the street every time you stripped to your shorts. Hell—I could make a sideline in hiring out panty bunting from the stuff left in your wake.’
‘It is what it is, my friend.’
‘Bullshit is what it is. Go see my girl. Bring her the bad news in person then tell her how you’re gonna fix that shit.’
‘Not gonna lie. I’m probably the last man on earth she’d like to see.’
‘Then the bad news you’ll be bringing won’t make much difference.’
God, if you’re listening, let my guys win.
Chapter Thirty
Ivy
‘Letme introduce our next guest, the star of the upcoming film,Metropolis, Dylan Duffy!’
Whoops and applause precede Dylan’s entrance as he steps through a garish beaded curtain, twinkling under the studio lights. Andrew Broughton, the slightly built and overly camp chat show host, springs from a bright red retro swivel chair to be enveloped into a tight, manly embrace.I expect he’s died and gone to little gay heaven at the mere whiff of Dylan’s aftershave.
The audience’s appreciation continues as Dylan pulls back with a million-dollar smile spread wide across his handsome face.
‘That’s quite a welcome.’ Another round of applause greets Dylan’s rumbling response as he lowers himself onto a gaudy purple sofa.
‘I see you brought one or two people along with. Do you always travel with the fam?’ The presenter titters, covering his mouth with the tips of his fingers as though he’s said something scandalous.
‘Yeah, something like that.’ Dylan smiles shyly then waves in the audience direction. ‘Auntie Ann, keep the appreciation down, would ya? It’s kind of embarrassing.’
I’m pretty sure Dylan doesn’t have an Auntie Ann.
‘Y’reckon they know each other?’ Natasha asks without turning her head.
I don’t answer much beyond a shrug. Much like hers, my eyes are glued to Dylan. Dressed in a deep blue suit, he crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, a picture of manly ease and confidence. Most men look fine in a suit, but Dylan wears the shit out of his.
‘Are all famous people like that? All lovey-darling and insta-mates?’ In the periphery of my vision, I can see she’s turned her head along with her question. But from my position on the other end of the sofa, I don’t answer. I just shovel another forkful of Thai noodles into my mouth.
‘Like what?’ I mumble in answer, when it’s clear she’s waiting. The chants and whistles from the audience begin to settle, the pair on screen settling down for their interview.His hair is longer, and he hasn’t shaved. Across from me yet four hundred miles away, Dylan spreads his arms across the back of the sofa like he owns the place. Like he’s a goddamn movie star.
My heart. It’s pained.
‘Y’ken that Andrew Broughton’s gay?’
‘I do.’ Beyond his trademark pink suit, he’s often pap’d with his boyfriend and shitzu. Those two are a bit of a giveaway.
