Death Of A Diva
Page 24
“Maybe,” I said, reaching out to brush a stray curl out of his eyes. “God, you’re beautiful,” I heard myself say.
“Then why don’t you want to go out with me?” He asked, smiling softly.
“I don’t know,” I said, smiling softly back. “Like I said, I’m a mess.”
And at that, his phone buzzed and he, instinctively, pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the text. “Shit,” he muttered.
I opened the box. It wasn’t a ring. It was a two-inch round domed piece of crystal.
“A souvenir,” he said, as I frowned inquisitively at it.
I lifted the glass from the box and held it to the light. Engraved around the edge were the pods of the London Eye, hanging in the air, as Nick and I had been that first night, gazing down at a tiny crystalline version of London, a toy for us to play with.
And in the middle of the glass, suspended in the dead centre of the dome, was a single twinkling sequin, its silver-green sparkle turning orange as it caught the street lights.
“You’re better than you think you are, Danny Bird,” he said and kissed me on the lips. “And I need you.”
I looked at him through tears. “I’m scared,” I whispered.
He smiled softly. “Scared is good. I’m terrified. Call me. Soon.”
Then he turned and strolled down the street. I watched him go, till the orange haze turned to a green filthy fog, and he was swallowed up, and the noise of a Brighton-bound train mixed with the drum machine from the pub.
Then I went back inside to the light and the noise and the love.
Acknowledgements
I dedicated this book to my parents, but it could not have been written – or reached this stage – without the help, love and support of a number of other people, and so heartfelt thanks go out to:
My Husband David Gray, whose love and support are boundless, who had faith in me when even I had lost faith. Don’t worry, David: none of our families are in this one. I think.
Pamela Hardman, whose “Which job, exactly, is the day job?” was a lightbulb moment.
Whitney Chapman, who showed me that doing what you love is never a waste of time.
Julie Vince and Norma Curtis, who performed editorial duties, proofread, and brought me back into the fold. Without Julie, I would never have shown this book to anyone beyond a few friends. Without Norma, I would never have met Julie. The two give unconditional love, constructive feedback, and cackles that could raise a smile on a corpse.
To Justine Solomon of ByteTheBook for telling me to Dream Big and Network. “At least you’ll have fun,” she said. And how right she was.
My Midwestern Beta Readers Tina and Alan Chapman, for positivity, love and feedback on the early draughts. Don’t worry, Alan: we're working on a glossary for "The Colonies."
Warren Hoskins and Carl Corrigan, the two musketeers, for love, laughter, wine, food, the BTS and the BDC, and for reminding me – whenever I’m in danger of forgetting it – that I’m a fucking genius.
Torsten and Jens, whose birthday present gave me Danny Bird. There are no cats in this one, but there are Gays. Cats next time; I promise.
My family, for giving me, at various points, love, a roof over my head, a kick up the arse, classic nights out, epic hangovers, and more story ideas than I could use in a lifetime of writing.
And last, but never least, to the wonderful Chris McVeigh, the Uncle Malc to my Sidney Vicious. Thanks for taking the chance, for counting the profanities, and for being the Hottest Punk Publisher on the planet. “Where’s all the money gone? We’ve fucken spent it, aint we?”
COPYRIGHT
First published 2015 by Fahrenheit Press
www.Fahrenheit-Press.com
Copyright © Derek Farrell 2015
The right of Derek Farrell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.