Chapter 19 MARCEL
Chapter 19
M ARCEL
“What’s up? You’ve gone all pale. Have you lost a follower?” joked Marcel, his sarcasm tempered with a wink.
“I think ... you have to see this,” said Siobhan, passing him her cell phone with a trembling hand.
Grl18 @grl18 1m
My friend and I just met @siobhan_harris at Coney Island and ... WOW It was incredible! She’s lovely and so pretty in person. FEASTYOUREYES. #PASSIOBHAN
Marcel raised his eyebrows.
“Wow, proper fangirls. It didn’t even take them ten minutes to post the photo. I bet this ... @grl18,” he read from the screen, “was writing that tweet while she was posing with you, instead of enjoying meeting her favorite author. When I say social media is a form of modern slavery—”
“Read the whole thread,” Siobhan said.
Grl18 @grl18 30s
By the way, Siobhan was with a FINE PIECE OF ASS FEAST YOUR EYES ON HIM TOO.
Marcel’s eyes practically popped out of their sockets.
“But, what the hell ...? Those girls took our photo without us realizing?”
Siobhan swallowed.
“There’s more. And you’re not going to like it.”
Grl18 @grl18 20s
His name is Marcel. LIKE MARCEL BLACK. Coincidence?
Lady Herondale @LadyHerondale_85 10s
Maybe @siobhan_harris and @InvisibleBlack are an item. See how they’re looking at each other.
Grl18 @grl18 7s
Well, that’s possible because he did call her DARLING.
Lady Herondale @LadyHerondale_85 3s
OH. MY. GOD. I LOVE IT! #SHIPPING
“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hell!” he shouted. He just managed to restrain himself from smashing Siobhan’s phone on the ground, placing it instead on the table, next to his cap. That goddamn cap! Why the hell had he taken it off? He put his hands on his head and started pacing back and forth. “They took my photo! Without my consent! And they published it on that fucking hellsite Twitter!” He glared furiously at Siobhan, who was watching him from behind the safety of her sunglasses. “You know what this means? Now half of America knows who I am. It’s unbelievable. Unbelievable. I manage to keep my identity hidden for more than ten years, and now these pseudo-paparazzi come along and screw it all up.” He clenched his fist, raised it to his mouth, and groaned.
He wanted to shout.
He wanted to break something.
Break it all. This was definitely not part of the script.
“If it’s any consolation, the image is very poor quality,” she argued. “You could be anyone. You could be ... I don’t know ... Denzel Washington but twenty pounds lighter?”
Unfortunately, her effort to assuage him just lit the fuse of his anger.
“You think this is funny? I know, you want your moment of glory, right, princess? Well, congratulations.” He applauded. “It looks like you got it.”
Siobhan’s cheeks reddened. She took off her sunglasses and gave him a reproachful look. For god’s sake. She was even more beautiful with the sunset reflected in her eyes.
“What the hell are you saying? Calm down. You’re stressing me out.”
“ I’m stressing you out?” he said, tapping his chest incredulously. “Ha, that’s rich.”
“Might I remind you that you’re not the only one in the lousy photo.”
“But your image is public and mine isn’t.”
“That doesn’t mean I like people speculating about my private life. And much less insinuating things that aren’t true, like the nonsense that we’re”—she gestured contemptuously—“an item.”
Of course. In case your dumbass ex sees it and gets confused, thought Marcel. And the very thought made him grind his teeth.
“You and I, an item,” he jabbered. “That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Siobhan looked at him.
“Well, if you hadn’t called me darling, perhaps they wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion.”
“And if you hadn’t called me Marcel!”
“How is it my fault if that’s your name?”
He opened his mouth to reply and held it like that for a few seconds, like the imbecile he was, before closing it. He exhaled.
“You know what? Forget about it,” he murmured, putting his cap back on his head. “I’m tired of these stupid games.”
“What games?”
They stared at each other for a few seconds. The electricity was palpable, except that this time it was generated by fury.
“I knew it was a mistake to come here. I knew it would be a mistake to write this goddamn novel. And what’s more, I knew it would be a mistake to get involved with someone like you.”
Something acidic burned his throat. He could see the disappointment in her half-closed eyes, in the grim set of her lips. He had never seen Siobhan look so crushed as she did at that moment, and a wave of guilt broke over him.
But the damage was done.
“Well, why the hell did you accept? For the money?”
“Money?” he repeated contemptuously. “You think I need to waste my time with you to earn money? I only accepted because Gunton threatened to leak my identity if I didn’t!”
Siobhan massaged her temples as though making a superhuman effort to understand the situation. She adopted a serious expression and asked:
“What are you hiding from, Marcel? Have you killed someone? Are you a fugitive from the law or something?”
He snorted.
“Of course not.”
“So? Why do you get like this because of a stupid photo that doesn’t even show your face clearly?”
“Do me a favor. From now on, mind your own business.” Then he took his phone from his pocket. “End of discussion. I’ll order an Uber, and we’ll get out of here.”
“I’ll go back on the subway. I wouldn’t want to ... What was it?” She tapped her finger on her chin. “Ah, yes: be involved with someone like you for a minute longer.”
Those words hit him like a punch in the gut. Even so, he tried to conceal his frustration as best he could.
“Do what you like,” he muttered, without lifting his eyes from his phone.
“Fine.”
“Fantastic.”
“Great.”
Siobhan turned on her heel and disappeared from sight. Marcel suddenly felt profoundly alone, in a way that he hadn’t for a long time.
And the feeling overwhelmed him.
“Calm down, man,” said Alex, pouring him a double whiskey. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. The image isn’t even hi-res. That’s what happens when you take a photo on a phone and zoom in too far.”
Marcel frowned.
“You too, Alex? I’m grouchy as fuck, so I would advise you not to contradict me for the rest of the year.”
He hadn’t gone to his friend’s penthouse to listen to sermons. He had asked the Uber driver to take him to Tribeca because he needed to vent. The journey from Coney Island had been hellish. Against his principles, he had downloaded Twitter to his cell to monitor the real-time development of @grl18’s tweet, which was going viral at breakneck speed.
Refresh.
Refresh.
Refresh.
How was it possible that there were already memes circulating? Although some users had the courtesy to ask for confirmation that the man in the photo was indeed him, the majority took it as fact. Some praised his appearance and were happy to finally see the face of the mysterious Marcel Black, even just from a side angle. Others accused him of racism, as if being Black limited an author to telling only Black stories. And then there were the romantics who were going wild over the possibility that he and Siobhan had gone from enemies to lovers in real life. This group tweeted their feelings on the subject using the hashtag #Sioblack.
Alex placed the whiskey on the coffee table in the living room and sat down facing Marcel.
“You must admit the hashtag is ingenious. Right now, you and Siobhan are like the lead characters in a Shonda Rhimes series, and all your fans have set that photo as the background on their cell phones. Isn’t that frickin’ amazing?”
“That’s right, you laugh. Mock me all you like,” Marcel said reproachfully. “Can’t we take legal action against the account that posted it?”
“But she’s a child, Marcel! You really want to sue a teenager? Besides, that would only confirm that it’s you in the photo. The best thing to do is nothing at all. Believe me, in a few days everyone will have forgotten about it. TMZ will give them a juicier story.”
“People might. But Google? Google doesn’t forget.”
“Hey, you focus on finishing the novel and—”
“No,” he said abruptly. “I’ve decided I don’t want to continue. It’s over. Call Gunton right now and tell him I’m out.”
Alex’s strawberry-blond eyebrows knitted together.
“What? Give me that whiskey,” he said. He grabbed Marcel’s glass, drank almost half in one gulp, and handed it back, ignoring his friend’s disconcerted expression. “I don’t think you quite know what you’re saying. Did you get sunstroke at Coney Island or something? Take a deep breath.” He waved his hand gently. “Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exha—”
“What the fuck are you doing? This isn’t a yoga class.”
“I’m just trying to get you to calm down before you make”—and here the pitch of his voice went up an octave—“a very bad decision in the heat of the moment. To begin with, you’ve got a contract with Baxter Books. And for the love of god, Marcel, think about Siobhan. You can’t do this shit to her.”
Siobhan, Siobhan, Siobhan. He didn’t want to think about Siobhan. His life had been fine until that little princess appeared, with those gentle blue eyes and that goddamn voluptuous mouth, stirring him up and derailing everything. He wished he had never met her.
“Fuck that. It’s thanks to her that I’m in this mess. If that ...” He clenched his teeth to stop himself from uttering any insult he might regret later. “If she hadn’t called me by my name in front of those girls ...”
Alex shook his head, visibly concerned.
“Don’t tell me you argued over it.”
Before replying, Marcel bit the inside of his cheek.
“I wouldn’t call it arguing. All right, maybe ... I went slightly overboard and shouted ... a few things that were ... not very nice.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
Guilt twisted at his guts like a corkscrew.
“You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
Marcel rubbed his hand over his face as he exhaled. He heard Alex make a kind of murmur of acknowledgment before replying to himself: “Okay, I get it now. This whole business has made you realize how much you like this girl, and now you’re pissed because you don’t know what to do.”
A grunt of indignation emerged from the depths of Marcel’s throat.
“What? Bullshit,” he replied. He rubbed his chest where he could feel a kind of dull pain.
“No bullshit, amigo. I’ve seen the way you look at her. Why do you think I left you two alone last night?”
“I knew it! You’re a fucking traitor.”
“Yeah, and you’re a fucking idiot for not making a move. Admit it, man: you’re smitten with Siobhan. And that scares you because it clashes head-on with your policy of one screw and bye-bye. Am I wrong?”
Silence.
Marcel squirmed on Alex’s designer sofa, wondering whether it had always been this uncomfortable. Suddenly, his phone started to vibrate inside his pocket, and he tensed.
“Is it her?” asked Alex anxiously.
“My sister,” he said as he checked the incoming number. “I’ll call her later.” He put his phone away. “And you’re wrong, all right? Completely wrong. Siobhan and I have nothing in common. She’s ...” He shook his hand contemptuously. “A chatterbox and absurdly cheerful. She isn’t my type. She loves Christmas, and her favorite movie is When Harry Met Sally .” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and pretended to vomit. “What’s more, she looks like the type to get infatuated and follow you around always wanting more; emotionally dependent in every way.”
Not to mention that she was still hung up on her ex.
Alex gave a sarcastic little laugh.
“You don’t like her, but you go spend a day at the beach with her? Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Come on, call her.” He pointed a finger at him. “Now.”
“Call her for what?”
“To be honest with her. I can tell by the way you’re looking at her in the photo, eyes shining like two candles on a birthday cake.”
“Fuck you, Shapiro. Didn’t you say you can’t even see my face?”
“Call her,” insisted Alex. “If you don’t have the balls to tell her how you feel, at least apologize for pulling this little stunt. She deserves it. That girl has more passion in her little finger than most established writers have in their entire body. And a lot of guts. For agreeing to write a novel with you, for not throwing in the towel, not to mention putting up with you day after day.” Marcel placed his hand on his chest with an affronted expression. “Come on, stop playing the victim and call her.”
Should he call her or not? Part of him wanted to wipe the slate clean and let everything go back to normal. To his version of normal. And another part of him wanted to be really honest with Siobhan, more than he cared to admit. He sighed and rubbed his face.
Then his phone rang.
It was Charmaine again.