by John, Ashley
“Do you think they do pool side service?”
“I don't know!” Delilah snapped, “Go and find out.”
“I'll go and take a look around.”
“Good luck,” Delilah mumbled before closing her eyes behind her shades.
She settled into her sunbed, knees bent and arms delicately balancing on the plastic arm rests. A figure suddenly appeared over her, blocking the little sun she'd managed to find.
“That was quick. Did you find a bar?” she asked, eyes still closed.
“What on earth do you want a bar for?” it wasn't Marcus, “From the sounds of it, you did enough drinking last night.”
Delilah's eyes sprung open to see the smirk of the man from room 16, standing over her with his arms stuffed in a pair of denim shorts. His muscles popped through the tight white vest he'd chosen, and he'd ditched his normal glasses for a pair of stylish shades. He looked attractive again, but Delilah pretended not to notice.
“Come to get more material for your slanderous article?” she snarled, pulling her pink towel over her body
“I'm undecided about that. Not sure if pop stars are suited to the magazine's audience,” he smiled.
“You'd be lucky to have me on your cover! Your crappy little magazine might even sell some copies for once.”
“Are you offering?”
“Call my agent,” she said dismissively.
“I don't think we can afford you anyway.”
“I thought you didn't know who I was.”
He paused before answering.
“I took your advice and Google'd you,” he laughed, “cute music video.”
“Cute?” Delilah laughed, “You mean hot. I won a VMA for that.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” she sighed, “can you move? You're blocking my light.”
He side stepped a few inches, but it didn't make a difference. His broad shadow still cast over her. She tried to close her eyes to ignore him, but she could feel her body starting to overheat from the heavy beach towel that was covering.
“What's that accent?” he asked.
She opened one of her eyes to look up at him before closing it slowly again.
“English,” she mumbled, wanting to get back to her sunbathing.
“No? Really?” he laughed sarcastically, taking a seat on the sun lounger next to her.
“My assistant is there,” she cried, clutching the towel over her bikini top and swinging her legs around the side of her own lounger, “move!”
She waved her free hand at him to shoo him away, but that only seemed to make him chuckle.
“He is?” he stood up and looked under where he'd been sat, “How small is he? I think I've squashed him.”
“What?” she snapped.
“That was a joke,” he said in his usual smug tone, “that's the part where you laugh.”
“You're not funny,” she sighed, looking over him willing Marcus to return.
“Stop changing the subject! Your accent?” he asked again.
Delilah shook her hair out and ripped off her glasses. She didn't care that her eyes were red and puffy, or that her eyeliner had been wonkily applied.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I write for a travel magazine and I'd like to think I could place an accent. I can't place yours.”
Delilah knew why. She was originally from East London, but years of record execs telling her she sounded too 'ghetto' or too 'rough' to be a star, had made her change her dialect. Whenever she spoke to her mother on the phone, she'd complain and moan that she'd lost her roots. Most people didn't realize that before a hit single, most singers spent years working in the studio, being molded and shaped into something that would sell.
“London,” she said vaguely, “I'm from London.”
“Which part?”
“What's with all these questions?”
“I'm interested.”
“Are you trying to interview me?” her eyes opened wide as she tried to look for a hidden recording device again.
It wouldn't be the first time somebody had tricked her into answering questions and twisting her answers.
“I'm not that interested,” he relaxed his face and rested his arms on his knees.
Delilah couldn't help but notice that every time he blinked, his thick lashes would flutter across his dark pupils, making them dance in the bright Spanish sun.
“East London,” she muttered, “I lived there my whole life.”
“You don't sound like an East-End gal,” he tried to imitate a cockney accent, but he just sounded like every American Delilah had met who'd tried to imitate a British accent.
“That was crap,” she laughed.
“Was that a laugh?” he reached over and nudged her knee through the towel, “I made you laugh!”
“No you didn't,” she curled her lips, pulling her knees in.
She didn't know what his game was, or even what his name was, but she did know that he irritated her. It had been so long since anybody had spoken to her like he did. For years, she'd been wrapped in cotton wool and only told positive things as she was groomed to become a starlet.
“Have you got plans today?” he asked, leaning his arms back onto the plastic lounger.
His chest muscles popped out, and Delilah couldn't help but notice a tuft of dark hair poking out from under his arm.
“I plan to get out of here as fast as I can,” she said, as the towel slipped from her chest and to the ground.
She noticed the man's eyes drop to her full breasts, behind the pink bikini, but they didn't linger and they were quickly staring intensely back in her eyes.
“Paradise isn't so bad,” he shrugged.
“Paradise?” she scrambled for the towel, “You're kidding, right? This is my idea of hell.”
“That's what it's called. Paraíso is Spanish for Paradise,” his tongue wrapped expertly around the Spanish word.
“You speak Spanish?” she arched her eyebrows.
“Fluently,” he grinned proudly, “I'm here all the time. It's a gorgeous country.”
The traces of smugness weren't as strong as they had been. Talking about his passions had softened his face, bringing out a boyish quality that Delilah hadn't seen. If she had to guess, she'd say he was only in his mid-20s.
“I think the meaning got lost in translation here,” she glanced up to her room with the balcony.
The top floor was the only one with tiny balconies, so she felt like she'd been given a slightly better deal than the rest of the guests in the grim hotel.
“It's not so bad,” he said, joining her eyes and turning to look at the gray stone building.
“Oh, it really is.”
“You want to see the real Madrid? This is it. You could stay in one of those fancy western resorts, but this is the underbelly of the city. Don't you feel the history and the real people here? You never get that in the resorts.”
“I'd take a resort any day, over this.”
The man searched her face, but she tried her best to look stern. She didn't share his passion for the locals, but she could feel herself enjoying listening to him enthuse about it.
“I guess that's what you're used to,” he shrugged.
“Is there anything wrong with that?” she mumbled.
He laughed, flashing his sparkling straight teeth. The dimples either side of his mouth popped out as he did.
“Why are you so defensive?” he laughed.
“I'm just a big deal where I come from,” she shrugged, “they don't usually put 'big deals' in places like this.”
“This wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't seen how the other side live.”
She glanced back up at the hotel. It reminded her of the tiny apartment she'd shared with her mother and brother for most of her life. She thought back to the hotels she usually stayed in, and it's what she'd grown used to, but it hadn't always been that way. It was her family that made her want a life of fame because she wanted to give
them a better life than they'd had. It was all those nights playing a second-hand guitar in their shared bedroom that made her want a better life for them. They'd left the apartment, and she'd been able to give them enough money so they could rent a house, but she wasn't there with them to share it.
“So, what are you really doing today?” he asked.
“Sunbathing,” she snapped, “and you're interrupting it.”
She slid her sunglasses back and slammed herself back on to the lounger, closing her eyes as the sun licked her skin.
“You could always come with me,” he said, “I have something planned.”
“Where?” she asked before she had time to think about her answer.
“I'm going to a vineyard to write a piece about the wine industry here. There will be lots of free wine to taste,” she could hear him smirking, even though her eyes were closed.
She found herself considering his offer. Not because of the free wine, but because of the offer to do something that didn't involve expensive shopping and A-list parties. She imagined spending the day with the journalist whose name she didn't know, and it didn't totally repulse her.
But André wandered into her mind. Her toned and tanned model boyfriend who had done campaigns for every major fashion house in the world, and the thought of spending the day with a bespectacled journalist seemed amusing to her.
“I'm okay, thanks,” she pouted her lips, “I'll just stay here.”
There was a moment's silence before she opened her eyes. She thought he'd still be sitting on the lounger next to her, but she saw the back of his body vanish back into the hotel. Part of her was glad that he'd left her alone without more questions, but another small part of her was disappointed that he didn't put up a fight to spend time with her. After all, so many people would kill to even talk to Delilah White, let alone spend an afternoon with her.
Marcus walked slowly through the door that the journalist had exited through, carrying a tray with a glass of wine and a tall glass of iced water.
“I had to practically fight for this!” he said, “Julia made me carry it out myself. Can you imagine?”
“Hmm,” she said, snatching the iced water.
Looking back to the door where the journalist had vanished, she found herself feeling intrigued by him. He might not have been her French model boyfriend, but there was a feeling that he gave her in her stomach that she couldn't quite pin down.
Staring longingly at the door, she had an urge to know his name.
Chapter 4
When her skin couldn't take it anymore, she headed back into the bleak hotel. She didn't want to appear on Spanish television for the first time looking like a ghost, but she didn't want to look like a tomato either. Her label would kill her if she messed it up.
Marcus had gone to look around the fake designer shops that lined the streets surrounding the hotel. He was convinced he was going to find some amazing pieces, but Delilah wasn't. She didn't understand why she needed a fake Chanel bag when it would only take a few calls to the right people to get a real one.
With her towel wrapped around her chest and sunglasses over her eyes, she wandered into the hotel and through the dining area. It was small, with a few tables, and it appeared to have a self-service buffet in the corner which made her skin crawl. The thought of the food sitting there and having to share it with everyone else was a big turn off for her.
Just as her foot hit the first step, she glanced over her shoulder to see the journalist struggling into the hotel with a large crate of wine under one arm and a laptop under the other. He nearly dropped the wine, but the man who sat in the corner jumped up and caught it. Delilah wanted to laugh at the journalist as he thanked the man and placed his laptop on top of the crate before heading towards her. She hadn't realized that she was staring right at him.
Without sticking around, she bolted up the stairs, clutching the towel tightly towards her body.
“Miss White,” he called after her as she scurried towards her door.
“What?” she snapped, turning around and glaring at him through her sunglasses.
“Fun afternoon?” he asked, panting from chasing her up the stairs.
He had his usual cheeky smile attached to his face, but he'd swapped his shades for his normal glasses. His thick dark hair was casually brushed off his face with the shades. She wanted to tell him that he looked stupid with two pairs of glasses on his head.
He smiled like an excited puppy as he waited for her to speak.
“Yep,” she said, turning to her door.
Her key fumbled in the lock, but it didn't open.
“I got you something,” he said.
She glanced over her shoulder as she struggled with the lock. He set the crate on the floor and lifted his laptop up to pull out a large pink bottle.
“What's this for?” she asked, turning around and leaning against her door.
“To drink?” he raised an eyebrow, “Unless you know another use for wine?”
“Pouring it over your huge head perhaps?” she mumbled to herself, yanking the towel up.
“Take it,” he motioned the bottle towards her.
“I'm alright, thank you,” she turned back to her door to try the lock again.
“I got it especially for you,” he took a step forward.
She fiddled the key in the lock but she couldn't get it to click.
“They said I could take some bottles with me. I think it was a bribe so I give them a good review, but I got to pick which bottles,” he said.
“And?” she sighed exhausted as she rattled the key in the lock.
“I got you rosé,” he smiled, “your favorite, right?”
She stopped trying to unlock the door for a second and peered at him and the bottle, over her shoulder.
“How did you know?”
“I'm a journalist, Delilah,” he winked, “It's my job to know.”
“Have you bugged my room?” she snapped, leaving the key in the lock to turn to him and cross her arms angrily.
It wouldn't be the first time she'd been bugged. Someone had bugged a car she'd been taken to an awards show in, and they got a very nice sound bite of her dissing some of her fellow nominees which quickly circulated the blogs.
“How did you know!” he held his hands up comically, still clutching the bottle, “Busted!”
The muscles in his arms popped as he held them up. She rolled her eyes and went straight back to the key.
“If you don't mind,” she twisted the key, “I'm going into my room now.”
“I saw it on your dresser last night,” he admitted, “rosé. I assumed it was your favorite, and I was right?”
“Ten points for being observant,” she whispered under her breath as the lock finally clicked and the heavy door swung open, “you shouldn't have bothered.”
“Just take the bottle. I can't stand rosé, and it's too expensive to pour down the toilet.”
He was right about the expense. Just from the label, it was far superior to the wine Marcus had bought her last night.
“If I take the damn wine, will you leave me alone?”
“I'm making no promises,” he scratched his stubble with his free hand.
She gripped the bottle, but he didn't let go. She tugged and tugged, but his hands stayed firmly gripped.
“Let go then!” she demanded.
“Aren't you going to say thank you?"
With one final tug, she freed the bottle and stumbled backwards into her room, clutching onto the door handle for support. She didn't bother to stick around to act as entertainment for the journalist. Instead, she slammed the door in his face and marched across her room to set the bottle on the dresser. She let her towel fall to the ground and pulled the extensions from her hair before collapsing onto her bed.
The anger and frustration bubbled away for a few minutes but she decided she wasn't going to let him get the better of her. Instead, she sat up on her bed and fixed her eyes on the pink bottle.
<
br /> It was a nice gesture, and she knew she should have said thank you, but there was something about the journalist that annoyed her.
He seemed to be able to look past her pop star status, to see the girl underneath, and it made her feel vulnerable.
***
“Look at it!” Marcus exclaimed, holding out one of the many Fendi bags he'd bought for her.
As she turned it over in her hands, Delilah had to admit they were good fakes, but she could never be seen wearing one. The magazines could spot a fake a mile off.
“The stitching is terrible,” she sighed, casting the bag onto the floor, edging her way up to the headboard of her bed.
“You can barely tell,” he said, opening one and showing her the lining, “It's almost perfect.”
“It's not Fendi,” she waved her hand dismissively.
He threw the bag onto the floor and perched on the edge of her bed, instantly noticing the bottle of wine.
“Where did that wine come from?” he asked suspiciously.
“I bought it,” she lied.
“I have your cards,” he said.
“What's with the questions?” she snapped, “You're not having it.”
Marcus raised both of his eyebrows and stared down to the pile of fake handbags. He knew better than to argue with Delilah, and that's how she liked it. The truth was, she still hadn't decided what to do with the bottle. Part of her wanted to pour it down the toilet like the journalist had suggested, but she couldn't imagine wasting what was likely to be gorgeous wine.
Before she could think about it any further, something started to vibrate on the dresser.
“It's your cell phone!” Marcus exclaimed as he picked it up, “How did you get service out here?”
Delilah didn't know. She was sure that she'd had no signal last time she checked. Marcus was about to answer the phone for her, but she snatched it out of his hands, eager to know who it was.
Her stomach turned when she saw André's picture flashing on the screen.
“Who is it?” Marcus asked.
She shushed him before flicking her hair over her shoulder and plastering on her best smile.
“André!” she exclaimed excitedly as she pushed the phone to her ear.
