by John, Ashley
“Hello my darling,” his thick French accent licked and curled around every word, making her skin tingle, “I've been trying to call you. ”
“I've had no signal!” she whispered into the handset, “The label have sent me to this god awful hotel and they won't move me!”
“Oh, that is horrible,” the way he pronounced 'horrible' made Delilah's stomach wobble, “When I come and stay with you, we'll have to move somewhere better. Only the best for you.”
“Really?” she smiled at Marcus, “When are you coming André?”
“I'm not too sure yet, my beautiful,” he sounded apologetic, “the shoot in Greece has ran over, but I should be coming to you before the end of your trip.”
She tried to tell him that he was meant to be spending a whole week with her, but her phone started to beep at her, telling her that the battery was about to die.
“André?” she shouted down the phone, “Can you hear me?”
“You're breaking up, my beauty. I shall call you when I know more. Kisses from André.”
He hung up, but Delilah didn't care. A smile spread across her face as she clutched the cell to her chest.
“What are you so happy about?” Marcus asked.
“André's going to move me to another hotel when he comes!” she laughed, casting her phone onto the bed.
Chapter 5
“You aren't going to have breakfast with me?” Delilah moaned.
Marcus shook his head again and scrolled through his phone.
“I can't babe,” he mumbled through his chewing gum, “I need to go and meet with the studio about your performance. They want your measurements for the costume they're making.”
“And you're sure I don't need to be there? I don't want a repeat of London.”
The last time she'd appeared on a similar reality singing show in the UK, the costume department mixed up her measurements with one of the contestants. Usually, Delilah would find some way to make it work because 'the show must go on', but there was no way she was going to squeeze into the clothes made for the 16 year old contestant from Birmingham. If it wasn't for Marcus running out to the Mall just before closing, she'd have been going out in the jeans and vest she turned up to the studio in.
“I'm sure,” Marcus said, looking up from his phone to smile at her, “it's boring stuff. Get some food and we'll go out when I get back. I think there's a beach a couple of miles that way.”
He pointed through the wall of the hotel lobby before turning on his heels to jump into the cab he'd ordered. Delilah was left standing under the buzzing, blue, fly squatter with Julia staring menacingly at her from behind the desk. Deciding she was better chancing her life in the dining room rather than trying to find her way around the streets alone, she headed into the tiny room.
Instantly, her eyes landed on the table nearest to the doors that led out to the pool. The journalist was sat there, typing on a small silver laptop as he sipped a small cup of coffee. An empty plate next to him told her that he'd finished his breakfast, so he wouldn't be sticking around.
Tactfully, she quickly ducked on to a small table behind a pillar so that she didn't have to make any eye contact with him. She couldn't explain why, but every time he stared at her with his dark brown eyes, she felt like he was constantly trying to figure her out.
“Hola señorita,” a man appeared next to the table holding a menu in his hands.
He was the youngest looking person she'd seen working in the hotel, but he seemed to share the enthusiasm of Julia. He didn't smile, instead he dropped the plastic menu in front of her and pulled a small pad from his pocket, licked his pencil, and waited for her to choose, on the spot.
It only took Delilah a few seconds to realize that everything on the menu happened to be in Spanish and she had no idea what anything was. Glancing over to the buffet, it was quite clear that they didn't lay it out for every meal.
“Do you have a menu in English?” she lowered her sunglasses to the end of her nose to stare at the 20 something man.
“Qué quieres decir?” the words left his mouth at lightning speed.
“Do you speak English?” she sighed, pushing her glasses back up and dropping the grease coated menu.
The man started to rattle off more Spanish that Delilah didn’t understand. The more she tried to talk to him, the louder she got, and the louder she got, the more the waiter's arms started to make gestures as he spoke to her.
“I just want fruit!” she cried, “grapefruit?”
“No hablo Inglés!” he repeated for the tenth time.
Just as Delilah was about to charge out of the dining area to go back to her room hungry, a man slid onto the chair next to her, picking up the menu from Delilah.
It was the journalist.
“Excuse me!” Delilah was startled.
“Don't tell me, I've sat on your assistant again?” he lifted up his backside and looked at the seat.
“Who said you could sit there?”
He smiled at the waiter and said something in Spanish that sent him away. Without answering Delilah, he looked back to the menu and started to scan its contents.
“Oh, they have a full English breakfast!” he raised his eyebrows as he ran his finger over the menu.
His strong and musky aftershave floated across the table, tickling her senses.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
She didn't like being ignored.
“Helping,” he casually sat back in the chair and carried on reading over the menu.
“I don't need the help,” she leaned across the plastic flower that sat between them, “so piss off!”
“Piss off!” he chuckled, “I love it when you British say that! 'Piss off!'”
He attempted her accent again, but it was even worse than the first time.
“If you don't leave, I will,” she was already pulling her chair out from underneath the table.
“Do you want the help or not,” he dropped the menu and looked over at her.
His dark eyes pinned her back into her chair and made her stomach rumble, and it wasn't from hunger. She cursed him under her breath before tucking herself back under the frilly and stained table cloth.
“I don't like fried food,” she mumbled, snatching the menu out of his hands.
“Who doesn't like fried food?” he snatched it back.
“It's not good for my skin!” she snapped, snatching it even more forcefully.
“Well we can't have that, can we?” he snatched it back.
The smirk on his face sat from ear to ear. Delilah noticed his dimples and registered how cute they made his smile look, before glancing down to the red flower that sat in the middle of the table. It looked like it was once a poppy or a rose, but half of the plastic petals had been destroyed or removed by tourists over the years.
“I'm a vegetarian as well,” she snapped, this time leaving the journalist to carry on reading the Spanish.
“And why's that?” he asked.
He didn't sound like he was judging, he actually sounded interested. She wasn't sure if she liked it when he dropped the smugness from his voice, because it was replaced with interest and she didn't want to tell him anymore than she already had. She still didn't trust that he wasn't the paparazzi.
“My label thought it would be good for my image. Plus, not eating meat means I cut a lot of stuff out of my diet, so it's better for keeping my figure.”
“And do you always do what your label says?”
He ran his hand casually through his gelled hair and rested back into the chair, looking up from the menu he was still clutching in his hands. As he relaxed into the chair, Delilah couldn't help but notice his half-open dark blue shirt revealing most of his tanned and solid chest. Just as her eyes started to study the light pattering of dark hair, she tore them away and looked into his eyes.
“Not always,” she knew she sounded defensive.
“But most of the time?” he picked a toothpick out on a small pot nex
t to the single pathetic flower and started rattling it along his teeth.
She watched, hypnotized as the small wooden pick bounced from side to side, with only his tongue keeping it in place. Each time his tongue licked against his teeth, she noticed his dimples appear as a reaction. She tried to remember if André had dimples, but she could barely see his face.
“Why should I tell you?” the defense was even stronger.
“You don't have to,” he shrugged, looking down to the menu.
“I'm not going to,” she said.
Secretly, she wanted to tell him everything about her life, and she didn't know why.
“So not the full English then,” he scanned the menu again, “what about the fruit bowl?”
The toothpick transfixed her again.
“What?” she mumbled, looking into his eyes.
“Fruit?” he smiled, pulling the pick out and slotting it behind his ear with poise, “See, here. Fruta.”
He pointed to the small bold letters on the menu.
“Yeah, that's what I want,” his eyes pinned her harder into her chair, “Fruit.”
The man called over to the waiter again who quickly scribbled down 'Fruta' and disappeared. They sat in complete silence as they waited. Delilah wanted to tell him to leave her alone and to get back to his writing, but she found herself mute. She didn't know the man in front of her and she didn't even know his name, but there was something about the way he spoke to her that intrigued and interested her. Almost as if she was an equal, not just a pop star.
In a matter of minutes, the waiter reappeared and dumped a bowl of fruit in front of Delilah without a smile. It looked fresh and clean, and that's all Delilah cared about. It was hardly the best presentation she'd seen, but it looked like there was a good selection.
“Well, I guess I'll leave you to it,” the journalist winked at her.
He rose from his chair, but part of Delilah wanted him to stay.
“Wait,” she called out.
He turned and smiled at her, waiting for her to speak. It was slightly smug and 'all knowing' again, which made Delilah change her mind. Reminding herself that she wasn't going to let him get one over on her, she asked him to fetch a spoon to eat the fruit. He nodded, and vanished through the same door the waiter had brought her the fruit from.
She stared at the door and waited for him to return, and when he did, she dropped her eyes to her nails, suddenly interested in a chip in the polish.
“A spoon for the lady,” he whispered, holding the spoon out to her.
Reaching out, she tried to snatch it from him, but just like the bottle of wine, he was reluctant to let it go.
“You could always join me at my table,” he asked casually, with a hint of a smile, “one can get quite lonely.”
“I'm fine thanks,” she responded automatically, “I'll cope.”
He closed his eyes, nodded his head to the side and shrugged slightly before letting go of the spoon. Without another word, he vanished around the pillar, and back to his table, out of sight. Even when he'd gone, and she could hear the rapid patter of his fingers on the laptop keys, she found herself wishing she'd said 'yes' to his offer.
As she ate her fruit, she didn't taste any of it. Instead, she found herself wondering what it was the journalist could want. If he wasn't interested in writing about her, what did he want? When she finished her fruit, she realized that she still didn't know his name.
Chapte
r 6
“Where are you taking me?” Delilah muttered to Marcus as she clutched his hand, “If you get me killed, Tony is going to murder you.”
“Relax De,” he laughed as he continued to drag her through a dark backstreet.
They seemed to be heading down the hill, back towards the small town that they'd driven through to get to the hotel, but in the dark, she couldn't tell. All she knew was that Marcus was sure he'd seen a bar on the way back from the studio and he was insistent on taking her there.
“You don't even know where you're going, do you?” she whispered angrily as they passed a group of suspicious looking men, who were hiding in the shadowy doorway of a closed shop.
“Listen,” Delilah bumped into him when he stopped walking.
Delilah listened but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart.
“What?” she urged.
She'd never thought she'd say it, but she was sure she'd rather be back in her hotel room than being dragged through a strange town in the middle of the night.
“Music!” he exclaimed quietly.
His tiny face lit up, as he dragged her in a completely different direction. The further they went down another dark alley, the more she was sure he was leading her to her death. Just as she was about to take her chances at finding the hotel alone, she started to hear what Marcus could. Faint pounding bass lines and Spanish singing.
Turning the corner, they found themselves out of the dark and in very bright light. If it wasn't for the booming music and the people standing outside smoking cigarettes, she would never have known it was a nightclub. A low-key door embedded in the old stone wall acted as the entrance, but there was no bouncer or security guard checking them out first. It had been a long time since Delilah had just walked into a nightclub. The clubs she usually went to had guest lists and VIP areas, and she was always on the top of the list.
A woman looked Delilah up and down and blew a cloud of smoke in her direction before mumbling something to her friend. Delilah would usually say something to the girl and have her removed, but being in a strange country without her entourage left her feeling exposed. Instead, she pulled her little black dress as far down her legs as she could and followed Marcus into the club.
She was expecting a tiny place with a couple of people, but she was met with a grand club, with levels, podiums, cages and more than one bar. It seemed that every person from the town had turned up, because they could barely push their way to the bar.
“Isn't this great?” Marcus was already moving to the pounding music as he dragged her through the crowd to the bar.
“Yeah,” she didn't find herself as enthusiastic.
Delilah White was the eternal party girl, but she didn't feel much like partying tonight.
“What do you want?”
She told him to get her whatever he was getting and she spotted an empty booth out of the corner of her eye. Putting her handbag on the other end of the booth, she spread herself out as much as she could to stop the locals joining her. Most of them were walking past her, giving her strange looks that let her know she wasn't welcome.
“Cómo estás?” her efforts to defend the booth didn't work because a man dowsed in strong aftershave slid along the seat towards her.
“My friend is coming in a minute,” she mumbled, looking in the other direction and flicking her hair over her shoulder.
“Ah, an English girl?” he slid further towards her, putting his drink on the table.
She smiled politely and shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she tried to find Marcus' head in the crowd.
“So,” he winked at her, “how do you like Spanish men?”
Delilah wanted the ground to swallow her up.
“I have a boyfriend,” was all she could say.
“Spanish?” he winked at her.
His dark hair was gelled back, just like the journalist's, but it didn't look as refined or masculine. He looked like a teenager trying to look older, and from the smell of his breath, he'd clearly had one too many drinks.
“French,” she looked for Marcus again.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “You should have a Spanish man. We're better lovers, you know?”
She screwed up her face, giving up trying to hide her annoyance. She scurried to the other side of the booth, but the man didn't take the hint and followed.
“Don't be shy,” he winked at her again.
“I'm not shy,” she said sternly, “I'd just prefer it if you left me alone.”
The man smil
ed at her again and moved closer towards her, so that his shoulder was touching hers.
“How do you know you don't like us, if you don't try?” he whispered.
His Spanish accent didn't sound sexy or exotic. It only made him sound sleazy and dirty. She searched his face, but he can't have been any older than 18, if that.
“Piss off,” she mumbled.
She spotted Marcus at the bar. He had the drinks in his hands. They looked like exotic and over the top cocktails which screamed typical Marcus. She waited for him to move, but noticed that he was leaning against the bar, and the young bartender was smiling playfully back at him.
“Wait,” the Spanish boy mumbled, “your face is familiar.”
Delilah almost rolled her eyes. That was the oldest line in the book.
“I don't think so,” she was almost on the edge of the booth.
She eyed Marcus, but he was too busy flirting, and Delilah didn't pay him to flirt with local Spanish boys. She paid him generously to assist her, and that involved shooing away desperate men who wanted to have their way with her.
“No, I do!” he exclaimed, knocking back his drink, “I saw you on television. I know it.”
“Don't think so,” Delilah turned away as much as she could.
Busted. She knew she'd recorded some press for Spanish stations back in America, but she didn't know how much exposure she'd had. For most people, performing on 'Música Increíble' would be the first time they'd seen her.
“You are a singer!” he slapped his hand on the table, “Love is not enough, oh baby, love is not enough!”
Her stomach sunk at hearing her own song being sung back to her by a stranger in a club.
“Different person,” she dropped her hair over her face, “my friend will be here any minute.”
“Picture!” he pulled his phone from his pocket.
Without another warning, he wrapped his arm around her neck and yanked her into his body, planting his lips on her cheek as the flash of his camera blinded her. Instantly, she pushed the teen away with all of her strength, pulled her dress down and jumped up, bag in hand.
