by Lucy Knott
Before I can make a decision, the man moves. My tongue immediately turns to sandpaper as I see his side profile. He has a strong jawline with rounded cheekbones and long eyelashes and there’s no denying it. He still looks like my Devon but more manly and distinguished and big. I feel like Peggy Carter in that scene where Steve Rogers first comes out of the chamber. Wait, what am I even thinking? I gulp.
As he moves towards the door with a much more confident stride than sixteen-year-old nerdy Devon, I move like a crab along the rows of packed bakes, ducking between the cinnamon rolls, stretching over the breadsticks and squatting down by the reindeer-shaped cookies, all so he doesn’t see my face but so I can keep my eyes on him. What on earth is Devon Wood doing back in Springhollow?
When finally he disappears out the door, I exhale a shuddery breath, slowly stand and smack my hand against my chest. ‘What was that all about?’ I whisper angrily to my heart. I have spent the best part of ten years getting over my friendship with Devon Wood. As far as I’m concerned, we have nothing to say to each other. The village is big enough, sort of, kind of, that I can avoid him for however long he is here.
Oh gosh, how long is he going to be here? Has he moved back? He can’t possibly be moving back, not if what Hope said the other night is true. Why would an actor move back to their tiny hometown after getting their big break? I’m no expert on Hollywood etiquette but that doesn’t add up.
The smell of the cinnamon rolls snaps me out of my trance as someone rustles them to purchase a packet. I make eye contact with Trisha, one of my mum’s friends, who eyes me suspiciously. I give her a closed-mouth grin. Right, new plan, I will just have to get my coffee from another coffee shop, from the village two miles out every morning, until I know our village is safe again, or I can just have coffee at work, the instant one that tastes, well, that tastes like instant coffee. I shudder and look around triple-checking the space before I move.
Mrs Rolph is staring at me with an amused expression on her face when I register I am still hovering by the breads. I nod, shake my head and quick-march to the door. No coffee, not even her peppermint coffee, is worth the questions I know she was about to ask.
I make it into work a good fifteen minutes late after using my best ninja-like manoeuvres to navigate the street corners, cross the green and walk past the shop windows, just in case Devon was inside one. My beanie has ensured that my hair is gorgeously matted with sweat and I know my cheeks are bright red from the cold wind and endurance needed to duck, dive and squat my way here, and because when I walk in to our office Hope looks at me with a worried expression, her eyebrows lowered, her eyes narrow.
‘What happened to you?’ she says pointing at the hair that has frizzed and waved around my beanie. I won’t be taking it off today then.
‘Oh nothing. My alarm didn’t go off and I had to run back as I forgot to feed Ed and then I had to jog to get here,’ I ramble, spewing whatever my brain thinks of on the spot. I muse for a moment that it isn’t half bad.
‘No coffee this morning?’ she questions, looking a tad deflated, which makes me feel bad. We never miss a peppermint coffee from Mrs Rolph in December. If Hope knew that I had just had a near miss with an evil villain she would certainly be on my side, but I daren’t bring up Devon; after all, in her eyes he is this badass superhero who she and Jess no doubt want to meet at the next Comic Con.
‘I’m so sorry – the line was so long, and I was already running late. We can stop by after work, OK?’ I say and Hope seems to buy my excuses as she waves off my verbal diarrhoea and starts jumping up and down. She gets in five jumps by the time I sit down at my desk. I’m relieved to not be further interrogated but I’m extremely confused by her lack of sophistication in the office. Her giddiness and happy dances are usually saved for out of work hours and when Marvel announce their next action flick.
‘We have an interview this afternoon. I know it’s last minute but I got the call this morning. I already know what I’m going to ask, but don’t panic, I have the next few hours to research too and cross-check all my facts. Can you run through all the articles for the Christmas issue and double-check my ads and we can get it sent over before we leave?’ Hope asks, while she moves side to side, from foot to foot. She’s created enough air with her flapping hands that my cheeks are beginning to cool.
‘Yes sure, no problem. Who’s the all-important big celebrity that schedules interviews so last minute on Fridays?’ I say sarcastically with a chuckle, knowing celebrities never pass through Springhollow and the last person Hope and I went to interview was Louis at the grocery stall for growing the largest courgette the village had ever seen – and even he had the courtesy to be interviewed on a Wednesday. But by the time Hope lands her sixth jump and the last word leaves my lips, my stomach hits the floor as I think back to the bakery. I want to take my joke back, either that or pray to the gods that the world has been flipped on its head and that growing the world’s largest courgette now trumps being an actor or a musician. I will gladly interview Louis again, on a Friday morning, afternoon or evening. I’ll even come in on a weekend, if Hope doesn’t say the name I think she’s going to say.
‘Devon Wood. His publicist rang at seven this morning. I’m glad I got in early today,’ she says before doing one more jump with an open-mouthed smile and going to sit at her desk. I momentarily forget my struggle to breathe as I take in the bags under Hope’s eyes. She might be wearing a ridiculously wide grin and a dot of concealer, but I can see that my best friend is tired; her skin is grey with worry. She shouldn’t have been in so early. She’s going to run herself into the ground.
‘Hope, what were you doing in so early? You need to rest. I told you not to worry about the magazine and I’m here to help with whatever you need, please don’t wear yourself out. We don’t want a repeat of last Christmas, do we?’ I say sternly tilting my forehead to her.
‘I’m not going to get sick. That was just the once. I promise, I plan on enjoying all the Christmas festivities with you and drinking all the hot chocolate and peppermint coffees this year,’ Hope replies, grinning and then turning back to her screen. ‘Now, get to work. I have important research to do.’
I sink back in my chair. ‘About that, Hope, I’m really sorry but Eddie was looking a little green this morning. I might need to go home early and check on him,’ I say, opening my eyes wide and mustering the saddest face I can.
‘You just said you’re here to help me. Think about it, Scarlett, this interview will be amazing for the magazine. It will be sure to give us a huge boost in sales. It’s Devon Wood, back in his hometown, newest addition to the superhero franchise. It’s going to fly off the shelves. It’s just what we need for the first January issue of the New Year. We need this,’ she says, looking over at me, her sorrowful face besting mine. Then she turns back to her work as I try and rack by brain for another casual excuse. ‘And besides, that goldfish has had more check-ups than you. I think he’s healthier than the two of us combined,’ she adds, not taking her eyes off her screen.
Touché, I think to myself while trying not to sulk and draw attention to the situation. It’s no big deal. It’s just two professionals going to interview another professional. That’s all, there’s nothing to it.
‘Wait, Devon wasn’t a part of the group of popular kids who bullied you in high school was he, Scarlett?’ Hope suddenly pipes up. It’s nearing ten o’clock now and the fact that Hope is still talking makes this morning all around unsettling in every way.
‘Oh God no,’ is all I can manage. No, Devon wasn’t anything like the kids who bullied me. He was the exact opposite and would never hurt me. Well up until the point where he did hurt me, big time, I think to myself.
‘OK good,’ Hope replies. ‘Because gorgeous celebrity superhero or not, if he ever hurt you, I’d kick his ass.’
4
I’m hoping there were no grammar mistakes or missing articles when I sent the magazine to print only ten minutes ago. I’ve spent th
e morning and the whole walk over to the village pub contemplating which headline would be more exciting and sell the most copies. The one that reads: ‘Superhero Devon Wood is no match for tiny villager who attacked him standing up for her best friend’ or whatever happy headline about Devon’s homecoming Hope is thinking about for the first January issue.
I choose the latter and think better of divulging my entire childhood to Hope right at this moment. It’s for the best. All we have to do is go in, ask a few questions and come out, and then my world can return to normal. I shuffle behind Hope into the pub. It looks stunning this time of year with its beautiful stone fireplace, pine-cone-decorated large plump Christmas tree off in the corner, and tinsel dangling from every beam, except the man in a black suit bearing sunglasses and an earpiece throws off the feng shui a tad. He’s standing guard to the party room at the back of the pub.
*
‘Oh, now this is sad. I thought you had some friends, but it turns out it really was just Devon who put up with your weirdo vibes,’ Ruby says with a cackle as she waves a delicate hand up and down my frame, to the delight of her posse. Devon has been gone for two days and I can’t say Ruby’s wrong; I don’t know how to speak to people without him taking the lead in his nerdy chatterbox way.
‘Whatever, Ruby,’ I mumble, pushing past her with my head down.
‘What is that smell?’ she exclaims, holding her nose, which her gang copy through their sniggers. She spins on her heel to face me as I try and walk down the corridor to get away from her. ‘You might need to get that cast cleaned; you smell like a sweaty farm animal,’ she calls after me. Their howling reverberates off the cold school walls.
She’s not wrong there either. It’s hard to maintain cleanliness when your armpit down to your fingertips is covered in plaster and the anxiety over coming to school each day for the next six months without your body armour is making you sweat.
*
I nervously pat down my beanie and stray hairs and casually try to check if I smell funky or if I’m sweating through my too-tight dress when a smart lady in a black pant suit ushers us over to the door of the party room. I nod at the suit-wearing man, but he keeps his position looking straight ahead. The usual long oak table that takes centre stage in the middle of the room is pushed up to one side and has been replaced by spotlights and cameras dotted around, in addition to a wall of green screens.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. On my third blink I register the posters dangling from the ceiling. There’s the same one Mrs Rolph had up at the bakery, but twice the size, as well as different prints that are pinned to the walls – walls that once held pictures of Devon and I for our tenth birthday party – but on these posters I am nowhere to be seen. It’s just Devon’s face staring back at me. Something flutters in my belly.
Hope nudges me forwards but I struggle to take my eyes off the colourful prints and with one step trip over a cable taped to the floor and promptly fly into a life-size cut-out of my former best friend. Is it just me or is the air getting thin in here? I can feel my forehead sweating under my beanie but I’m too frozen stiff to remove it.
I feel like the sweat is leaking out of me in buckets. Before I can plan my escape route another lady in a straight black dress, like mine, though I’m positive she chose to wear it, unlike me, and a man in cargo shorts holding a clipboard come over.
‘Can we have you both sign these forms please? We’re doing a documentary on Devon Wood, so we’re going to be filming segments of the interviews today. We will credit your magazine for any footage of you we use,’ the lady informs us authoritatively, while the man passes us the clipboards.
My ears are ringing, and I fear that everyone is going to hear the mad flapping of wings with the number of butterflies I have in my stomach. Hope is grinning broadly. I can see the cogs ticking in her brain over how much of a big deal this is for our small-time magazine. I bite my tongue and steady my breathing. I can do this, for Hope.
Once the forms are signed. I place my bag down and tell myself that it’s like any other day at the office, just another man and his enormous courgette, as we are signalled towards the spotlight, where there are four cameras all facing the back wall. I walk behind Hope who turns around just before we reach the neon platform, gives me an evil glare and swipes my beanie off my head, throwing it off to the side. Distracted by the sweep of hair that falls in my face in a mess of static, mixed with the blinding, uncomfortable light, I trip up for the second time over more of the cables that litter the floor and perform a spectacular dive that results in me headbutting my ex BFF in the chest, when he leaps out of the chair to catch me.
Hope lets out a gasp. I take a sharp intake of breath. When did Devon’s chest get so hard? I’m bent over now gazing at his lower half and immediately regret telling myself to think of courgettes. I blink and toy with the idea of looking up. Do I have to? But my forehead is throbbing.
When I go to rub my bruised noggin, I realise Devon’s hands are gripping my shoulders. My arms freeze in a way that makes it look like I’m about to perform the robot. I sense he’s trying to keep me from further damaging him, myself or any one of the very expensive-looking cameras that surround me. It takes me a minute before I finally surrender to the fact that I must look up. It takes me a further minute to meet Devon’s gaze – I don’t remember Devon being this tall – but when I do I feel as though I have been transported back ten years, looking into the eyes of my sidekick, my partner in crime, my best friend who was supposed to be with me through it all, but wasn’t.
Emotion bubbles up inside of me. I feel like a kid again. I feel joy mixed with anger and pain and it’s a dangerous combination.
Suddenly Hope springs from her chair. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks. The question isn’t aimed at me but at Devon. It breaks the spell and I stand up straight, brush my hair from my face, smooth down my dress, hold my head high and elegantly take a seat in the chair next to Hope’s. Devon’s eyes shoot to Hope as he clears his throat and gives her a disarming smile with a small nod. He waves our little incident off and encourages her to sit back down, but I notice his cheeks are flushed and then he gives me a strange look.
‘Is everyone OK?’ the lady from earlier asks, the cameramen are all staring, opened-mouthed in shock.
‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine,’ Devon announces with a chuckle, keeping his eyes trained on mine. Hope is breathing rather heavily beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look at her, fearing the whole “if looks could kill” scenario. That and it’s hard to take my eyes off Devon. He has the same deep brown eyes as my former best friend, the same lips and goofy smile, but he seems different and his gaze is intense.
*
‘Is this clean?’ I ask D as I pick up a T-shirt that’s crumpled up on his bed.
‘It sure is,’ he replies, not looking up from his Ant-Man comic to even consider what shirt I am enquiring about.
‘Do we really have to go to this thing?’ I ask, my voice coming out in a whine as I disappear into Devon’s cupboard to replace my tighter girls’ Thor tee with his baggier Superman one.
‘My mum says we need to make an effort and that it will be fun,’ D informs me, putting down his comic.
‘What will be fun about hanging out at Ruby’s house and celebrating all things Ruby turning sixteen?’ I groan, tucking my hair behind my ear, then untucking it again when I see Devon staring at me as I emerge from the cupboard. ‘What?’ I say suddenly feeling awkward under his gaze. I sit down on the edge of his bed to flick through a comic book that lies open on top of the covers.
‘Nothing, you just look cute,’ Devon says and promptly turns the shade of Superman’s cape. Then he clears his throat. ‘I mean, are you not going to wear a dress or something?’
I fear my glare might burn a hole in the comic strip. My cheeks are on fire. I concentrate on the tiny words on the page for a moment before clearing my own throat and jumping off the bed. ‘We best go.’
We c
harge past each other to see who can get through the door first – some childhood competitions will never die. ‘Oh, and I’ll wear a dress the day you wear a suit,’ I add, shoving Devon as we exit his bedroom, me winning as I get my foot on the landing first.
*
I hear my name in a hushed, annoyed whisper and turn to Hope. Out of the corner of my eye I see Devon retract his hand, bringing it to his chin. He props an elbow up on the edge of his chair, a finger resting over his lips. He looks over my dress for a moment before turning his attention to Hope. Did I just miss handshakes? Concentrate, Scarlett, I scold myself, you’re doing this for Hope.
Hope shuffles her papers and goes through her usual spiel of “Thank you for sitting down today with The Village Gazette; we’re thrilled to have you,” before asking a bunch of questions about Devon’s work. Devon responds politely, his answers charming, humble and rather sophisticated. There are no hand gestures or fast-talking, occasional high-pitched tone or nervous deep laugh. He’s not the Devon I knew. Hope is beaming as bright as the spotlights that are starting to give me a headache, but I sit up straight, doing a pretty spot-on impression of one of those nodding dogs you see in the back of cars.
I ignore the urge to reach out and ruffle Devon’s short hair, which looks like it’s sporting gel or hairspray as it’s not moving, just to see if the man before me is real, as I listen to Devon’s next answer. His excitement over realising his dream of being a superhero comes through in his megawatt smile and my heart begins to hammer at a very painful speed. It’s hard not to be drawn in by his joy and the positivity that radiates off him, but my gosh if it doesn’t hurt.
