Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
The line is dead.
It doesn’t even dial. Just beeps at me like I’m rude for having the audacity to try. And I have to agree. What was I even thinking?
Why does it feel like I’m on the verge of tears?! I drop my arms to my side and say, “Well. Guess that’s over.”
When I turn to my sisters, I find all three of them on their phones.
“He’s in London,” Millie says without looking up.
“Yep,” Gemma agrees. “Book event. Signing until four p.m. It’s a biography of their tour.”
“Tickets only though,” Abby says, pursing her lips.
Millie nods. “Get dressed. We’re going book shopping, bitches.”
Gemma wrinkles her nose. Abby woops.
“In London?” I ask.
“Yes,” Millie replies, giving me a look like I’m being dumb.
“Right now?”
“Yes! Get dressed!” she says, shimmying me into my room.
I slide into a flattering dress and pair it with some ankle heeled sandals.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re marching up the hill towards Brighton station.
Thirty minutes later, we’re on the fast train to London.
And an hour later, we’re filing into the busy, sweaty underground enroute to Piccadilly Circus.
I haven’t said much this whole journey, partly because Millie hasn’t shut up, but also because I’ve been trying to work out what I’d say to Gus even if I did see him. We probably won’t. I haven’t got tickets, and I’ve seen first-hand how his security is with him.
“What do I even say?” I ask them when we’re all crammed into the tube, Millie’s face so close I can count her freckles.
“Don’t ask me,” she says. “I’m useless with men.”
“You could say you want to see him again. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear from you,” Abby adds.
I huff. “I should’ve called Hattie.”
“Ugh her boyfriend is so hot,” Millie says.
“Freddie? He is hot,” Abby agrees.
I click my fingers. “Can we focus please? I’ve never actually asked someone out before and I’m nervous.”
“Never? What a humble brag…” Gemma croons.
I ignore her. “What if it’s awkward? What if he’s moved on?”
They all collectively agree that I shouldn’t worry. I should ignore my head and listen to my heart. So, fine. I just wish the thought of seeing him again didn’t make my stomach feel like it’s trying to backflip.
We arrive in busy Piccadilly Circus and run round the corner to find the massive Waterstones, only to be greeted by a queue that winds all the way out of the shop and up the side of the street for as far as we can see.
All these people came to see Gus.
The man I spent two weeks with.
The man I was very intimate with.
All these women (and some men) want this man.
Love this man.
“This is waste of time,” I say. God. My heart is beating so hard. “There’s no way we’re going to get to see him. Not with that queue.”
“Pfft. This is nothing,” Millie says. “You should see the queues I’ve skipped in Ibiza.”
Gemma snorts. “Yeah. If needed, Millie can shag a security guard.”
“That was Magaluf.”
I give them a look. “You actually…?” I shake my head. “You know what? We share genes. It tracks.”
“HEY!” Abby shouts beside me. I grab onto Gemma in surprise. Who is this person and what has she done with my darling little sister? “WHO WANTS TO GIVE UP THEIR TICKET FOR TWO HUNDRED QUID? CASH.”
“What the actual fuck, Abby,” I hiss.
“If I’m going to pimp myself out, I’d rather spend the cash on something I care about. Plus, I didn’t want to put it in the bank in case HMRC try to tax me and ask where I got it from…”
“I don’t think they’re too worried about…”
“I’ll take it,” someone in the crowd says, stepping towards us.
A big bloke with tattoos all up his arms holds out a book with a ticket poking out the top like a bookmark.
“I didn’t want it anyway. My girlfriend made me come.
If you want to queue with her – she’s over there.
” He points to a dark-haired woman who looks conflicted about being left to queue alone.
“How much was the ticket originally?” I ask the man.
He scratches his forehead. “Twenty quid.”
“Right. Good. Great.”
Abby fishes the cash out of her bag. It’s even been folded neatly into a brown envelope. I need to pay more attention to her. This is probably drug money. “I don’t know if I want to spend your hussy money,” I tell her as she hands it to the man.
He gives us a strange look.
“Think of it as charity,” she says with a smile.
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
But after a few rough nudges from them, I find myself in the ridiculous queue to meet Gus.
I remember him saying he hadn’t even read this damn book.
I doubt, from the excitable conversations I’m overhearing, that many of the people queuing plan on reading it either. It’s more of a memento for meeting him.
The queue moves slowly. My sisters message to tell me they’ve gone in search of a pub and to keep them updated.
Once we’re in the building and up the first staircase, I finally regard the book with the band’s faces on.
They look younger here, up on stage at a concert.
Gus always had the signature hair, but he’s gotten better at styling it as he grew up.
It looks sexier now than it did back then.
I open the book and peruse through the images. There are photos of them at Madame Tussauds next to their wax figures. On the London Eye. Performing at Glastonbury. There are photos of Gus and Jax together, hugging. I wonder if they skirt over their fall out in the book or pay reference to it.
There’s a whole section about ex-girlfriends which I choose to skip.
Then there’s that performance at the Kid’s Choice Awards – the one that made them famous in the US.
The cover of “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” lit up the room.
I’m ashamed to say I’ve watched it almost every day since I arrived home.
Gus stands at the edge of the stage in only denim dungarees, leaning into the crowd and getting them to sing along.
His aura is unmatched. He wonders how fame happened to him. He says he never understood it. But just one look at him and it’s obvious.
He’s a superstar.
It must be an hour before I spot him and I’m still twenty or thirty people back. There’s at least a few hundred after me. I have no idea how long he’s agreed to sit there and sign books.
He doesn’t see me. Or at least, I don’t think he does.
He’s dressed casually, in an unbuttoned shirt with a plain white t-shirt underneath.
His hair has been left to its own devices but it’s hard not to see the exhaustion in his face.
Of course, he works hard not to let any of this onto the fans.
But I can see it. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes like it did on the cruise.
It suddenly occurs to me, with only one more girl ahead, that this is unfair on him. What the fuck am I doing? I try to turn around but the event staff usher me forward.
“If you want your book signed you have to go now. We have lots of people to get through,” the woman tells me, exasperated.
She’s fed up. I don’t want to be her problem. I’ve worked retail and it sucks. Especially when customers are arseholes.
I turn back towards the table.
He’s staring at me, lips parted. It takes everything in me to step up and hand him my book.
The notch between his brows tells me this was unexpected.
I get it.
“Hi,” I say, breathless.
“Hi.” He blinks then glances at the book. “Shall I make it out to you? What’s your name?”
I swear I feel my heart dislodge in my chest. He’s playing it like he doesn’t know me. This is so much worse than I thought it would be.
Everything suddenly hurts. I want the floor to open and swallow me whole.
I decide not to let him know how affected I am. He glances behind me at the people waiting. He doesn’t want to see me or be seen with me. I knew I shouldn’t have come.
“Make it out to Millie,” I say.
His eyes catch on mine, confusion bubbling across his features. “Sure.”
He writes quickly, closing the book and handing it back to me before I can so much as smile. “Did you want a photo?” he asks.
But I’m already stepping away, whiplashed and fucking embarrassed. I shake my head before I hear him ask the same question to the woman after me.
I swear I don’t take a single breath until I’m back outside the building. And then I’m marching away, gasping for air, trying to force the impending tears away with painful gulps. I don’t know where to go. All I know is I can’t get away quick enough.
What a fucking idiot.
Why did I let my sisters persuade me this was a good idea?
The first tear escapes me, rolling slowly down my cheek, as I hear, “Sara!” being called from behind.