Chapter 54 Andrea
Andrea
Eliza was on the floor with her suitcase open. The Clash was playing on my new JBL speaker, loud enough to drown out the kettle.
“Shoes don’t go in the middle,” James said. “Did you learn nothing at law school?”
“I reject your reality,” she said.
My phone buzzed on the counter and I reached for it instantly, hoping it was Liam. But it wasn’t.
Mum: Help, Andy! The printer’s making everything pink!
Me: Just change the cartridge, Mum. You got this :)
I flipped the phone face down and wiped the suds off a plate. She’d work it out eventually if I left her to it.
Just like Eliza had, if I’m honest. Or she’d ask Murray. Please, Mum, just ask Murray.
The flat smelled faintly of coffee, turpentine, and peanut butter, and a canvas rested against the wall, still tacky. I wished painting would take my mind off him as much as I kept telling myself it should.
Liam brought me a coffee when he came over here that time …
Liam always said he wanted to see my paintings … and I never showed him them.
“I have to say,” James said, “you’ve really brought something out in Baz.”
The portrait was turning out better than I’d expected, at least. Not a bad attempt for such rusty fingers. Baz had a young John Cusack energy you didn’t expect from an Uber driver-slash-urban planner. It made him interesting to paint.
“Managed not to make him look fat, haven’t you?” Eliza muttered.
I threw the tea towel at her.
“Andy, I need to talk to you about something,” James said.
Eliza zipped one side of her case and looked up.
He hesitated.
“It’s okay,” I said. “She can hear.”
“Liam’s wrapping up in London,” he said. “Bonnie’s handling the UK side from now on. He’ll only be involved remotely going forward.”
An instant twist in my gut. It happened every time anyone mentioned his name.
What I’d thrown away.
“What?”
“He’s going back to New York, hon.”
Eliza froze, one hand on the zip.
“Is he … already gone?” I asked.
I still burned with shame when I thought of the HR letter and how badly I must have hurt him.
But I thought I’d have more time to reconnect with him.
“No. He’s got an industry event this evening. After that, he’s on a flight.”
I picked at the paint on my finger. It had dried into a thin, blue film.
“You were always scared that if you tried, you might fail.”
Was that really who I was? Too scared to go after what I wanted? I’d already quit my job and started painting again, and that had terrified me.
But the idea of facing how much I’d hurt Liam scared me even more. Would he think I was just like all the others who only saw his power and influence, instead of the man inside?
I didn’t care about any of that. I just cared … about him.
What if I did reach out, and he rejected me? If I saw disappointment in his eyes—
I didn’t know if I could handle that.
“If you were thinking of talking to him,” James said, “it would have to be tonight.”
*
James put his phone down.
“Not a chance, hon. It’s completely sold out. Media, investors, industry. Wristbands went weeks ago.”
“Okay,” I said. “So it’s not ideal.”
“It’s not possible.” He looked at me. “It’s at Battersea Power Station … they’ve hired the whole venue. The public can’t get near it. And don’t even think about pulling another art gallery stunt. Security will be feral.”
“But Liam hates that sort of thing,” I said. “What even is it?”
“According to the High Priestess of Corporate Fuckery—”
“Do you mean Bonnie?”
“Yeah, her, it’s some sort of high-end franchise thing. Invitation only. Star Wars is involved, plus other stuff. Comics, films, whatever,” he said. “Basically, a nerd’s wet dream.”
“Why does Liam have to be there?”
“He’s speaking, apparently. Some sort of keynote thing.”
“And then he goes to New York?”
“Straight after his speech. He’ll get a car to Heathrow and then an overnight flight.”
“So that’s it, then.” I looked down at the counter.
“There is, technically, one way in.” He glanced at Eliza, then back at me. “But you’re not going to like it.”
*
The shop smelled like nylon and body odor. It was the fifth place I’d tried. There’d been nothing in Soho, Kilburn, or Chiswick. I’d even been to Lewisham.
Lewisham.
I was running out of time.
Behind me, two men with beards grumbled in low tones.
“I’m telling you, if it’s not close to screen-accurate, they won’t even let you queue.”
“No way.”
“Way. They’re checking at pre-reg. You upload photos. If it’s not good enough, you’re already out.”
“So like … original trilogy only?”
“Yeah. No reinterpretations. Proper canon.”
The racks were crammed with plastic, wigs, and shiny fabric, and I rifled through, scanning for white. I could pull off Princess Leia, I was sure of it. Maybe even force my hair into the side buns if I had to, although a wig would be safer.
“They can’t expect everyone to have their own film-grade costumes,” one of the men said.
“They don’t, that’s the point. It’s a filter. Fan-first.”
Every nerd in London must have been out hunting for weeks, hoping to get in. That—or making one yourself—was the only way if you weren’t a VIP.
I wasn’t anything anymore—not to Liam.
Something pale and shiny gleamed from between the hangers. Ha, finally. A Princess Leia costume, complete with twisty space buns.
I could probably even make it look cool with the right makeup.
I grabbed it from the rail before I realized—it was designed to fit a twelve-year-old.
Sexy Rebel Princess.
Of course it was.
I moved down the rows. A sad-looking Padmé, a pile of stormtrooper helmets with missing visors, and a bin of plastic lightsabers labeled ￡5 OR TWO FOR ￡8.
Everything good was gone.
“Hey, what about this?” The larger of the two guys was holding up what had to be the most full-coverage costume in the shop. “It’s fucking perfect.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” He glanced away. “That’s for a chick. A tiny one at that.”
A chick?
“Excuse me.” I slid up to him. “Are you having that?”
I looked at the label.
Deluxe edition. Screen-accurate. Voice modulator included.
Two hundred quid.
I didn’t hesitate.
I went up to the counter and paid.