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The five of us wander through the hall together while setup continues around us, the entire space buzzing with excitement. As we pass familiar stalls, I introduce the gang to regular traders I’ve known for years, and every single person welcomes the new faces warmly, as I knew they would. Bri and Ember slowly relax into the environment and I beam warmly at them.
Halfway down an aisle there’s a fudge stall giving out free samples. Lennie instantly becomes emotionally attached to it. “This,” he says seriously, “is life changing.”
“You say that every year.”
“Because every year the fudge evolves,” he insists, grinning at me.
There are mumbles of agreement from the group about how good the fudge is—particularly the strawberries and cream flavour—whilst the father and son duo behind the counter laugh heartily, handing Lennie another sample. Seeing him laugh eases the tightness in my chest. Maybe I really am imagining things. Maybe he’s just distracted. Maybe I still have time to tell him myself before this gets any worse.
“There you are.” Ella appears from nowhere, making me jump. She’s one half of the event owners, and despite the chaos, she is always perfectly put together. Dressed entirely in black, with a radio clipped to her waistband and her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, she radiates energy.
“You look great, I’m glad you’re back,” she says warmly, pulling me into a hug, before turning to the others. “I haven’t actually introduced myself properly yet, have I?”
Ember shakes her head.
“I’m Ella,” she says, offering her hand first to Ember, then Bri and Saint. “Shout if any of you need absolutely anything this weekend, okay? Seriously. Don’t just struggle in silence.”
“That’s dangerous,” Saint teases. “I need lots of things, including wine.”
Ella laughs. “Yeah, you look high maintenance.”
“Oh, darling I most certainly am.”
She asks them all how setup’s been going, whether they’ve found everything okay, and if they need extra help or signage moved. She genuinely listens to their answers instead of rushing through polite small talk. It’s one of the things I love most about her and the event in general; she and her husband Ben actually care.
When she’s satisfied everyone’s settled, she claps her hands together excitedly. “Right then. Who wants the grand tour?”
Chapter 18
Saint
The second we enter Hall 2 I actually stop moving. “For the love of Dolly Parton, the gays were not prepared!” I squeal, clutching my chest dramatically.
This is not a convention hall. This is a love letter to every fandom that’s ever become someone’s entire personality, and I mean that as the highest compliment. Everywhere I look is gloriously excessive, cinematic, and utterly fabulous.
Honestly, it’s obscene… Much like myself.
A blue police box materialises from a haze of theatrical smoke looking suspiciously like the gateway to another hyper-fixation. Whilst a few metres away, the end of the world has arrived. Rust, ruin and certain death. Rick Grimes would call it Tuesday. I’d call it a fashion disaster. Unless of course I found a nice leather jacket first. Which now I think about it… Feels alarmingly Negan-coded. The thought almost makes me laugh, before catching in my chest. Because suddenly I see it. The comparison. Rick and Negan. Me and Jax.
How do you separate the crime from the person?
I suppose that’s the thing about villains. They’re easier to hate when they’re fictional. When they’re real, it’s… Complicated.
Bri snaps me back to reality, steering me towards a platform of ornate fantasy thrones. “Come on Saint, this has you written all over it!”
Naturally, I accept the challenge.
“I have ascended. Take my picture, oh chosen one,” I announce, immediately appointing Bri as my personal photographer.
“You look like a divorced queen.” She giggles, snapping a photo.
“Excellent.” I laugh, jumping up and grabbing her phone. “Your turn, give me your best, Queen!”
She copies my pose and, honestly, somehow improves it. The audacity. This girl has excellent bones and absolutely no idea what to do with them. A few strategic wardrobe decisions and she’d be unstoppable. I’m about to offer my services when I see it. The Strigoi set. An entire replica of the vampire family’s drawing room, right down to the grand stone fireplace and those ridiculously overdramatic high-backed chairs they insist on brooding in every other episode. I gasp so loudly several people turn to look at me.
Oh… I shouldn’t.
For the past year I’ve avoided anything connected to this show. It was easier that way. Simpler. Somewhere along the line I’d convinced myself that if something reminded me too much of the life I’d lost, it was safer to pretend I didn’t love it anymore. But standing here now... I still do.
