He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner!

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I drop my tote bag and watch in horror as it skids across the tarmac, the cheese, the knives and forks, the ham and bread rolling out onto the dirty ground. Instinct makes me clutch my Winklepuff carrier to my chest to protect him, meaning that I don’t break the fall with my arms.

  OUCH. My butt.

  The big man strides quickly towards me and looks down at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Where is your ID?’ he asks in a super deep and very strong Australian accent.

  I scramble onto my feet, quickly scooping the Harcourt Royals book I brought with me in case I had to wait around for Gary, the cheese, ham and cutlery, minus one knife which I can’t seem to find, back into the tote bag. I poke my head into Winklepuff’s carrier to check if he’s okay. He looks as startled as me but, thankfully, uninjured. I dust off Kennedy’s dress and rub at my elbows and my legs and my bum.

  The man is staring at me, his nostrils flaring, awaiting my answer.

  I panic. ‘My-my ID, you say?’ I squeak. ‘Where is your ID, sir? Maybe that is the true q-question here.’

  He frowns and points to the very clear lanyard hanging around his neck. ‘Where. Is. Your. ID?’ he asks again, his big stubbly jaw making him look even more intimidating. ‘You need to show it to me right now. We’ve had an alert questioning the legitimacy of your employment here.’

  Oh Nicolas Cage, you dirty narc.

  ‘I… forgot it?’ I say weakly, my bashed bottom starting to throb with pain and Winklepuff growling and grumbling in his carrier. ‘It’s okay, pup,’ I whisper to him, lifting the mesh flap so his head pokes out and I can give it a reassuring ruffle.

  ‘You forgot your ID on the first day, did you?’ Gigantic man says drily.

  ‘Um, yes. I left it, uh, in my bathroom.’ I smack my hand to my head. ‘Silly me… I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, Mr Cage wanted to confirm that a young woman named CJ West was in fact working in the catering department.’ He taps a meaty finger to his head. ‘In preparation of this shoot, I memorised a list containing the names of every verified employee on this movie and CJ West is not on that list. That, coupled with the fact that you “forgot” your ID, leads me to believe that you are an intruder. Come with me, young lady.’

  Yep. I am well and truly busted. Fuck. I was so close to Gary! If Nicolas Cage hadn’t asked me what was in my bag, I might already have been in Gary’s trailer right now, making cute jokes with him before we snog frantically and maybe bone.

  The security man marches me back down the lot, away from Gary. We pass Nicolas Cage, who is standing at the door of his trailer with his arms crossed, slowly shaking his head at me. He had to go and ruin everything. I am so resentful of him that I flip the bird. He flips it back with a little chuckle. Ugh. I will never watch Face Off again, which will be hard because it is an excellent movie.

  I spot the security man’s name badge. John Alan. Ugh. He looks just like the kind of man who has two first names.

  ‘John Alan. Please don’t call the police,’ I try asking in my most polite voice, as he drags me past what looks to be a group of extras, all staring at me, gleeful at the spectacle. ‘I’m not dangerous. I just wanted to see Gary Montgomery because…’ I trail off and clamp my mouth shut because how am I supposed to finish that sentence? I just wanted to see Gary Montgomery because I think he might possibly be my one true love? Somehow I don’t think that explanation will help my cause.

  ‘Nick has requested that we remove you from the lot and that we don’t press charges since you’re clearly a very troubled young woman. And would you stop winking at me, I’ve just told you we’re not going to press charges.’

  ‘I’m not winking!’ I protest. ‘It’s the dust from these devil winds, getting into my eye.’

  John Alan ignores my explanation. ‘I will not be seduced. Not again... Don’t make me change my mind about letting you go without consequences.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Thank you for not pressing charges,’ I mumble as I am marched right to the front of the lot, receiving a mixture of curious and disgusted looks on the way.

  I hear one of the bystanders ask, ‘Where did she come from? How did no one spot her?’

  Another says, ‘Thank you, John Alan.’

  ‘Back to work, everyone!’ a woman with a headset eventually calls out as John Alan pushes me out onto the street and closes the big cast-iron gates behind me, securing them with a gigantic lock that he quite frankly should have used this morning. It’s lucky that I, a sane person, was the only one who got in.

  ‘Nicky Cage might be a soft touch these days,’ John Alan says, snapping his walkie-talkie into a holster strapped around his waist and folding his arms over his massive chest, ‘but I, John Alan, am not. If I see you around here again, I will not hesitate to call my old colleagues at the LAPD.’

  Oh god.

  I nod quickly, hoick Winklepuff’s carrier and my tote bag onto my shoulder, and run the hell away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gary

  Hey.

  Okay, so I said in my last journal entry that being famous is weird. Well, I’m doubling down on that statement. Because it appears that I have an honest to goodness stalker. One of the other actors I’m working with on Nightcar said it’s a rite of passage, but, I gotta say, it’s given me the heebie-jeebies. Because this woman actually turned up at the lot where I’m filming! God knows how she got past security in the first place, but she did, and by all accounts she was pretty smart, if a little unhinged.

  According to Nick, she said she was going to sacrifice a chicken for me?? Apparently, she had odd shiny stripes painted on her cheekbones and the end of her nose and she was winking a whole lot. Nick’s actually the one who suspected that she was a fraud and called Security. He said he saved my life, so now I have to forgive him for making us switch trailers because mine had better water pressure than his.

  I vaguely saw the back of this strange prowling woman as Security escorted her out and something about the shape of her, I don’t know… I had this weird urge to run after her, to pull her away from the huge guy manhandling her and then I realised that this woman was obviously pretty crazy and that interacting with her would surely make things worse. I did feel like I’d seen her before though… I wonder if she’s been following me for a while and this is just the first time that someone caught her? Aileen did warn me. Fuck.

  As I was going back into my trailer, I spotted something glinting on the floor outside my door. It was a knife. While it was only a blunt butter knife that clearly couldn’t do any real harm, Security have classified it as a weapon. And because of that, the studio have assigned the security guy to be my bodyguard for the duration of the shoot. So now I have this beefy, grumpy-looking, Australian ex-cop tailing me wherever I go, which is necessary, I guess, but not ideal. His name is John Alan and something about that name just makes me irrationally annoyed.

  Tori seems to be enjoying the drama of it all. Seth and Olive find it hilarious that someone maybe planned to attack me with a blunt knife. They keep saying that I’d butter be careful.

  Feeling tired and on edge after such a weird-ass day, but I suppose the point of Ira assigning the journaling and doing the three amazing things was that you have to find things to be thankful for even if you are more than a little freaked out.

  So here goes:

  I’m aliiiiive. I was not killed via butter knife and I did not have to watch a chicken get sacrificed before me.

  My co-stars are great. Despite my lack of concentration this afternoon, they were truly supportive and gave me complete understanding when I needed extra takes.

  I have a surfing lesson at dusk and afterwards Seth and Olive are joining me on the beach for a cookout. If anything will make me feel better, that will. Even if Olive did suggest we use plastic cutlery so as not to trigger me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nora

  By the time I’ve made it a few blocks away from the movie studio, the tears are at full pelt. I feel hum
iliated and stupid and sad. This is why I never go anywhere or do anything, because if I just stay inside and watch lovely movies and read lovely books, then I won’t have to feel this horrible feeling, like I can’t breathe, like bad things will always happen when I’m involved. This is what happens when I step out of my safe, warm cocoon. Disaster!

  I mean, I now legitimately have beef with Nicolas Cage and no doubt the security team will tell Gary all about me. I was so close to him and now he will know I was there and he will think I’m some crazy chicken-killing oddball. The very thought of it makes my whole body itch with humiliation.

  While Winklepuff finishes his wee, my Lyft driver pulls up and pips his horn. Scooping Winklepuff back into his carrier, I get into the car.

  ‘It is you!’ the driver says. ‘My future number one fan! I notice you signed up for my mailing list. I am very grateful to you.’

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and see that it’s Billy Fever. The Adam Levine tribute singer.

  ‘Oh hey!’ I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. Trying not to sound like someone who just got chucked off a Hollywood film set for trying to make covert contact with a celebrity. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Why are you crying? Did this dog bite you? Is Aunt Flo in town? Did you watch a tear-jerking movie and it jerked your tears? You are so sad.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve just got some dust in my eye from the wind.’

  He looks at me in the rear-view and pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Your eye does look unwell.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, rubbing at it again. ‘This wind is mental, though.’

  ‘Do you have any further appointments this afternoon?’

  Apart from having to explain to Kennedy how today went and have her stupid brother laugh at me some more? ‘Um, no.’

  ‘Then I will drop you at the local CVS, so you can get eye drops. I will not allow my number one fan to go blind.’

  ‘Okay… that’s really nice of you. Thanks.’ I nod, trying hard not to burst into tears again, my insides still in knots of shame.

  ‘And then perhaps I will drop you off at a nice beach that is accepting of dogs?’ Billy suggests. ‘They sell very nice ice creams there and I feel this will cheer you up.’

  I glance down at Winklepuff, who has been so well-behaved during this morning’s escapade. He deserves a run on the beach. And ice cream is always useful in times of upset.

  ‘Thank you, that sounds great,’ I say, smiling weakly at Billy Fever in the mirror.

  ‘You are welcome,’ he replies. ‘I am the best Lyft driver in the whole city. And until we get to the CVS, I will sing to you, for free.’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to do—’

  ‘I got the mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o moves like Jagger!…’

  My eyes filled with soothing eyedrops and having been regaled with the tale of Adam Levine’s upbringing in Los Angeles and his break into the music industry, I arrive at the dog-friendly section of the beach. Billy Fever was right – it’s really lovely, vast and clean, and not at all crowded like the tiny dog run outside of Kennedy and Brandon’s house. The air smells like salt and sun cream. The waves on the turquoise ocean are huge and frothy. There are people surfing and dogs running around happily. No one knows who I am. No one knows what just happened.

  I try to settle my breathing, which is shaky from all the crying, and I walk down onto the beach. I slip my shoes off and sink my feet into the soft gold sand, wiggling my toes deep into its warmth. Taking Winklepuff out of his carry bag, I plop him down beside me, only for him to zoom off at excitable speed across the golden powder, his fur blowing about in the gusty wind. I watch him running about and wonder whether I should just get a flight back home. This morning couldn’t have gone much worse and, while I still feel I’m supposed to meet Gary Montgomery, it also appears more likely that Imogene was right. And maybe that what happened at the movie lot was the dose of reality I needed in order to rethink my whole life. The thought of that makes me want to burst into tears all over again.

  Keeping an eye on Winklepuff, I head towards the ice cream stand Billy Fever recommended: Bud’s Ice Cream.

  The guy manning the stand looks like a blonde, surfer version of Jason Momoa. He’s in his early twenties, with his shoulder-length hair wrapped in a red bandana. He is shirtless and his bronzed, muscled body almost makes me exclaim aloud. I have never seen a body like that up close and in real life. I start to sweat again. I am so out of practice interacting with people that when I encounter someone this muscly with their top off I actually cannot function properly.

  ‘Uh, hello, may I want an ice creams for me?’ I blurt, trying unsuccessfully to repress the hot blush I can feel flooding my cheeks. I don’t even fancy him. He is just glistening in a way that is almost pornographic. His shiny, aggressively sexy abs, plus the events of the past few days are, frankly, too much for me to process. I sigh heavily. ‘Aaaaaargh,’ I mumble to myself, burying my face in my hands for a moment.

  When I emerge from my hand-face cocoon, the young guy has looked up from the magazine he’s reading – something with lots of pictures of surfboards.

  ‘Woah!’ he exclaims, his pale blue eyes meeting mine. ‘You look seriously uncentred, bro.’

  His Californian surfer accent is so exaggerated it’s almost as if he’s doing it as a joke. He pronounces Bro like Brah. I squint slightly to see if he’s going to laugh and admit that that is not his real accent, but his face is blank. He really does talk like Bill and Ted!

  I brush my hair out of my face and clear my throat and try to look at his eyes rather than his nipples or his belly button or his very very low-slung shorts. ‘I’ve had a weird morning,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, Santa Anas’ll do that to you.’

  ‘Devil winds,’ I reply with a small, awkward smile.

  ‘They are way gnarly, but the swells are rad when they’re in town.’

  The swelzarad? What’s a swelzarad? I nod politely in response.

  ‘What’ll it be then?’ the guy asks when it’s clear that I’ve not much more to say for myself.

  ‘My friend sent me here,’ I tell him. ‘He said your ice creams would cheer me up.’

  The guy nods knowingly as if lots of people are sent here on friends’ recommendations, which wouldn’t be a surprise considering that he looks like he was carved out of bronze.

  ‘So, can I please have…’ I squint my eyes at the menu board behind his head… ‘A rocky road ice cream cone with chopped walnuts on top,’ I say, checking behind me to make sure that Winklepuff is all right. He’s fine, running in very fast circles, then racing towards the ocean but scooching back just before his little paws get wet.

  ‘Just rocky road or special rocky road?’ the guy asks. ‘You look kinda stressed, bro. Your eye is fuuuuuucked.’

  I rub at my eyes. The drops seem to be helping a little bit, but my left eye still feels really dry. ‘What’s the difference between the rocky road and the special rocky road?’

  His blue eyes sparkle. ‘Well, the special one is, you know… totally special.’ He stares at me, smiling and nodding very slowly.

  ‘Okaaay?’ I say. ‘Um, are they the same price?’

  ‘For you they can be. You look like you could catch a break.’

  Behind me, Winklepuff starts barking at the ocean. It appears his scooching didn’t work and he’s now furious because he’s got a little sea water on his paws.

  ‘Um, thank you. Great, okay,’ I say distractedly. ‘I’ll have the special rocky road please.’

  I call Winklepuff over to me. He ignores me. I call out Ham instead and within seconds he is at my side. While my ice cream is being prepared, I reach into my bag and pull out a little piece of ham, which Winklepuff takes happily and swallows without even chewing.

  ‘That’s high-quality ham and you’re not even tasting it!’ I grumble to him.

  ‘Here it is, dude.’ The ice cream guy hands over what looks like a pretty nor
mal, non-special ice cream with some chopped nuts sprinkled on top. ‘Enjoy…’ he says pointedly as I pay. ‘And I hope your day improves, man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, finding myself impressed with how much pride he takes in his product and also his perfect abs. ‘I will try my best.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nora

  Text from Imogene: What are you doing today? Ring me when you get a chance. I’m starting to feel really guilty about sending you to do this. You’re not in the right place mentally and I should have known that. I was just trying to help. Dan says I shouldn’t interfere and maybe he’s right. Is he right? Have to go. Got a Pilates class and work is going to be very busy, plus I still need to get Ariana ready for preschool. I am like a hamster on a wheel! Im x.

  Well, golly flipping gosh if I’m not feeling much, much better. I’m still trying to figure out what made the special ice cream any more special than just a regular cone, but also it doesn’t really matter because after today’s humiliation I finally feel very chilled out. Very, very chilled out. I barely feel anything about the fact that I left my home and my life to fly solo to Los Angeles, America, and am now on some random beach with a secret meat-eating dog, scraped elbows and knees having been thrown off a movie set where I was trying to meet the famous man I think I’m in love with.

  Instead, I’m casually sitting here, smothered in high factor sun cream and reading the brand-new Harcourt Royals book while Winklepuff darts around with no signs of slowing down. I’m hoping that if I just let him go for it, he’ll tire himself out and will behave for the rest of the day.

  I settle back into my book and read about Esme and Bastian’s latest sexy and drama-filled conflict. Oooh, a sexy journalist posing as a sexy new bartender at Dreamy Dix, the strip club Bastian works in, is flirting with him. What a surprise, she knows all about the rare white-clawed crayfish, which Bastian is extremely interested in, what with his marine biology obsession. This sexy woman is clearly conning him just to get a news story about Princess Esme.