by Jessica Ashe
“Well then, you’ve met Damon.”
“He’s very... big.”
Damon comes back fully dressed and squeezes down on the seat next to me.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. Price,” Damon says. “It always takes me a few minutes to properly wake up.”
“That’s okay dear. And call me Gladys. Do you always introduce yourself to your girlfriend’s mothers half-naked?”
“I never usually get that far,” Damon admits.
“No, I bet.”
“Naomi’s different, obviously.”
“Yeah, my daughter is quite the catch.”
“I can see where she gets her looks from, Gladys.”
“Oh, you charmer,” Mom says with a wave of the hand. She’s loving every minute of this.
“I hate to interrupt this session of my boyfriend flirting with my mother, but perhaps we should talk later. I’m actually feeling a little tired.”
“You should get some sleep,” Damon says.
“But that’s no reason for Damon and me to stop talking,” Mom says.
“Quite right, Gladys. Go on, darling, off you go. I’ll keep talking to your mother while you get some sleep. There’s so much I want to ask her.”
I’m now so tired I can’t fight it, even though I have an awful feeling I’m going to wake up in the morning with Damon flicking through childhood photos of me and laughing at the story of how I wet my pants in school when I was seven.
Mom’s never met any of my boyfriends before, and Damon has never met a girlfriend’s parents. The two of them are going to have a field day and it won’t end well for me.
And yet I go to sleep with a huge smile on my face. This is pretty cool.
Chapter Eighteen
Damon
Now I’m legitimately famous.
I’m not just on the fringes of the internet’s worst gossip websites. I’m not just the type of guy you look at twice on the street thinking you recognize him in the back of your mind. I’m not just the name on the tip of your tongue that you struggle to remember.
I’m the guy you see on the street and squeal. I’m the guy you crowd around to take pictures of. I’m definitely the guy you try and hit on after a gig.
You’d think being famous for being someone’s boyfriend would mean the women would back off a bit. No chance.
The pub landlord had to call security out for tonight’s performance to keep people out of the building. He likes a busy pub, but at some point it becomes a fire hazard.
Leona and I have never performed in front of so many people. I’m not daunted by the crowd, but I do wish they’d all put their fucking phones away once in a while and actually watch the performance. It’s especially annoying because they seem to be focused on me while Leona is singing her arse off on stage.
I grin and bear it throughout the performance because with any luck this will be what gets her noticed. Leona shouldn’t be performing in pubs; she should be on the biggest stages in the world. She would be as well if she were judged by her voice, but it’s still nigh-on impossible to get noticed when you’re a little overweight and perhaps not the prettiest woman ever. Especially when compared to people like Naomi.
There are some advantages to our relationship being public—it should stop random actors groping Naomi’s arse all the time. The photo of her with that Toby guy doesn’t show his hand on her arse, but that’s just a lucky escape. She doesn’t know I saw it happen, so I decided to keep quiet. That said, if I ever bump into Toby, the two of us will have words.
When we landed back in England, the media wasted no time in celebrating our relationship by giving us maximum exposure. Naomi wanted to discuss a ‘joint approach to the media.’ I told her she can do what the hell she likes, but I want nothing to do with it. My approach to the media is the same as it always has been: stay the fuck out of my private business and I won’t punch you in the face.
Naomi chose to go with a different approach. She’s been posting pictures of the happy couple all week and is relishing the publicity it brings. Plenty of websites have romanticized the story.
Celebrity Naomi Price, after dating a string of Hollywood A-listers and award-winning musicians, finds love with ordinary, working-class English guy.
Then there’s the other side of the internet. The side that says Naomi is just slumming it because she’s having a mental breakdown, or she’s dating me because she knows it will bring good publicity. You can even place bets on when we’ll break up. The shortest odds are on the relationship lasting ten months, which is just before Naomi’s next album is expected to release. Theory goes, she will dump me for a big celebrity when she needs the additional promotional push.
I suppose I should look on the bright side. It is kind of cool. No one’s ever been able to bet on me before. Not unless you count the time my friends bet that I couldn’t have a threesome with two blonde twins we met in a club. I don’t bet a lot, but I’ll take money from my friends if they’re going to be stupid about it.
After tonight’s gig, Leona and I disappear to a hastily set up ‘backstage area,’ which in reality is just the landlord’s tiny office that he’s lent us for the night. We can’t sit at the bar and enjoy a drink anymore. Not unless we want to get mobbed.
“You’re a kind and considerate lover?” Leona asks out of the blue. She’s looking at her phone with a puzzled look on her face.
“I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘kind,’” I reply. “I like to think I’m considerate though.”
“Ugh, I really hate having to read all this stuff about you online. Please God, whatever you do, don’t let a sex tape get out there. If you do, let me know, so I can burn my eyes in advance.”
“What’s being written about me now?”
“Naomi has released a statement saying lots of nice things about you, among which that you’re a kind and considerate lover.”
“What? No way has she done that.”
Leona passes me her phone and I scan through the article. Naomi hasn’t technically released a statement. The article quotes a source close to Naomi, which I now know means Katrina, or someone Katrina has put up to it. I’m getting much better at understanding the game they play with the media. Looking at these recent leaks, Katrina has decided she wants me to appear soft and gentle, and not like some rough-and-ready bad boy.
Good luck with that.
“Don’t believe everything you read,” I say as I pass the phone back to Leona. “It’s all part of some big game.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It’s not, trust me.”
“Why don’t you ask her to chill out a bit? Clearly you’re not comfortable with all this information getting out.”
“That would be like telling her to stop singing. It’s just part of who she is now. I doubt she realizes she’s doing it half the time.”
“I don’t know. This all seems quite calculated. Clearly she’s maximizing the publicity your relationship is attracting.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing. Honestly, nothing, I’m just fascinated by it all.”
I admit, I find it fascinating as well. I also find it disgusting. Naomi is convinced she needs to do the publicity thing, but why? Because the public wants to know everything there is to know about the people they worship? Apparently buying an album once a year gives you a right to someone’s private life.
Leona and I are about to leave the office when there’s a knock at the door. The landlord walks in and introduces us to a man in a suit called Lawrence. I recognize him from the gig. He was sat in the back corner, and men in suits tend to stand out a bit in places like this.
“What can we do for you?” I ask Lawrence.
“I’m hoping I can do something for you.”
Lawrence goes on to outline a contract offer for me. His record company needs songwriters and he likes what he heard tonight. Not enough to extend the offer to Leona though. Apparently his company isn’t on the lookout for singers right
now.
We never get around to talking numbers. I know that if I hear numbers I will be tempted. I don’t need the money for myself, but my mind immediately starts racing when I think about all the ways I could use that money for Emma to set her up for the future.
I reject the offer out of hand, although Lawrence insists he will keep it open and implores me to think about it. Even if I want to accept, I can’t just abandon Leona. We’ve worked together for so long now; I always imagined that if we made it, we would make it together. I’m not going to sign a contract and disappear.
“What the hell was that?” Leona asks the second the manager has left.
“You heard him. Can you really see me writing songs for pop stars? Not my thing.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t just be writing pop music. Anyway, what’s wrong with pop music? It sure as hell pays well.”
“I don’t need the money.”
“Since when?”
“I have enough to get by.”
“Damon Curtis, if you turned down that contract just because of me then I am going to kick your arse.” I raise my eyebrows doubtfully as she looks serious. “Just because you’re big and muscly doesn’t mean I can’t do you some damage. You have a vulnerable area and I know just where it is.”
I might be imagining it, but I think my balls retreat back into my body at the thought of being on the receiving end of a blow from Leona.
“I didn’t reject it because of you.” That’s only a partial lie, or as I like to think of it, a partial truth. That sounds much better. “We both know why I got an offer today.”
“Because you’re a great songwriter.”
“No, because I’m a songwriter who happens to be dating Naomi Price. You’re not really going to tell me it’s a coincidence that he happens to be here today to watch the performance?”
“Of course it’s not a coincidence, but he also wouldn’t offer you the contract if you weren’t truly talented. Singers might get hired because of their looks, but no one hires a songwriter because of how they look or who they’re dating.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going to profit off my relationship with Naomi.”
“She’s profiting off of you. That’s how the game works, Damon. The two of you are seeing each other; that’s great. Carry on as you are. However, you might as well make the most of the situation. That’s what she’s doing. Yes, you got lucky, but name me one person in this industry who hasn’t.”
“It’s not going to happen, Leona. Just drop it.”
“You really are a stubborn bastard. I don’t know what women see in you.”
“Want me to show you?” I ask cheekily.
“Don’t you dare.”
I grab the copy of the contract the manager left behind and head for home. By the time I go to bed two hours later, I’ve signed the contract.
Leona’s right. It’s silly not to take an opportunity that comes my way, and it is part of the game. The game that Naomi is definitely playing. In the space of the two hours between leaving the pub and going to bed, Katrina sets up a Twitter and Instagram account for me, and sends me detailed instructions on how to use it, and what I can and can’t say.
Then Naomi sent me a message with a list of dates on which we can get together. I don’t mind that she’s busy; it makes the sex all that much better when we are together. Unfortunately, she then explained that we wouldn’t be spending all day and all night screwing in a hotel. A list of ‘media engagements’ followed, along with instructions on what to wear and what to say when microphones were inevitably shoved in my face.
Even after that, I still would have torn up the contract, if it weren’t for one final reason to sign. Naomi’s going back to America one day soon, and if I’m still working doing manual labor then there’s no way I can follow her. I know it’s early for that sort of thinking, but I can’t help it. If I’m a songwriter, then I can work remotely. I still have Emma to think about, but if I know my daughter, she won’t complain about spending all of the school holidays in America.
So I sign. It’s the only way Naomi and I have a chance in the long run. Writing soulless pop music will be tough, but it’s what I have to do for Naomi.
The woman I love.
Chapter Nineteen
Damon
“What are you doing, sweetie?” I ask Emma. She’s strangely quiet at the moment and is sat at her desk writing. I enjoy the peace and quiet, but it also makes me suspicious.
“I’m doing my homework,” she replies sweetly.
“You have homework? At your age?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she says, in that way young children always sound when their parents are being out of touch.
“I didn’t start getting homework until I was in secondary school.”
“That’s because you’re old, Daddy.”
“Okay, well I’ll leave you to it then.”
I’m heading downstairs when there’s a knock at the door, quickly followed by another knock, and then another.
“Coming, coming,” I mutter, as I bound down the stairs. I open the door to see a woman wearing a baseball cap, large shades, and a jacket, with the collar up to cover her face. It’s a few seconds before I recognize Naomi.
“Can I come in?” she asks hurriedly. She’s practically pushing her way into the house already, so I step aside and let her through. This is the first time she’s visited my house, and I hadn’t been expecting her. That means the place is far less tidy than it should be. At least Mom and Dad are coming over later; that means I’ve made a minor effort to be presentable.
I don’t remember giving Naomi my address, but she’s had private detectives investigating me so I can’t pretend to be too surprised.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“You don’t sound too pleased to see me.”
“Of course I am. Just surprised, that’s all.”
Naomi wraps her arms around my neck and we kiss, softly at first, and then suddenly I have her pressed up against the wall with my tongue sliding into her mouth. Naomi starts tugging at my shirt but I grab her by the wrists and pull her hands away.
“Emma’s upstairs,” I say.
“Damn, that’s unfortunate.”
“Tell me about it.” It’s only been three days, but three days is a long time when the sex is this good. “So is this just a booty call? I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one of those.”
“Not just a booty call. I tried to go to the gym this morning, but there’s so many people following me everywhere that I gave up in the end. It’s getting too much, so I figured I’d come here and spend some time out of the limelight.”
“Wait, you want to be out of the limelight? That’s a first.”
“Very funny. You know I enjoy a bit of privacy when I can get it.”
Naomi has said that many times, but I don’t know if she really means it. If she wants privacy, why does she post so many pictures and so many comments on social media? It’s impossible to avoid all the paparazzi, but when she’s by herself you’d think the last thing she’d want to do is take more pictures. I don’t understand it, and I probably never will.
“Where is Emma?” Naomi asks.
“She’s upstairs doing homework. We should leave her to it for the time being. Once she knows you’re here, she won’t want to do any work.”
“So what would you usually be doing right now on a Sunday afternoon when your daughter is upstairs working? Writing songs? Sending naughty messages to women?”
“Actually, I’ll have you know that on Sunday afternoon I usually just sit down and watch the football. Sounds kind of boring now.”
“Boring is good. I could use some boring right now, and I can’t think of anything more boring than sitting down and watching soccer. Let’s do it.”
Naomi and I snuggle up on the sofa and watch the football. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never really wanted to. It seems strangely intimate, like I’m sharing a part of m
y life I usually keep women out of.
Naomi doesn’t have a clue what’s going on in the game, but I’ve been teaching Emma about football and the rules are all on the tip of my tongue. If I can teach a six-year-old how the game’s played, I’m sure I can teach an American.
Time passes so quickly that I’m taken by surprise when the doorbell rings. I shouldn’t be; Mum and Dad are always punctual. Shit, Mum and Dad. And Naomi. This could be interesting. At least with Naomi here, Mum will be too distracted to worry about how messy the kitchen is. Or if she does notice, she won’t give me a bollocking for it. You’re never too old to be told off by your mother, but she’ll keep quiet in front of a new girlfriend.
Watching football with Naomi is strange, but that’s nothing compared to introducing her to my parents. The doorbell also disturbs Emma from her study and she quickly comes bounding down the stairs to say hello to Nan and Granddad before quickly ignoring them when she spots Naomi in the living room.
“Looks like you just can’t get away from your fans,” I whisper to Naomi.
“It’s okay, I think in this case I can make an exception.”
Mum has come equipped with two large bags of food because she knows I won’t have fresh vegetables in the fridge. I can’t deny there are certain culinary advantages to having Mum and Dad visit every Sunday.
The introductions are kept mercifully short, although I know the real questioning will begin over dinner.
“Okay, Naomi,” Mum says, as she starts picking vegetables out of the bags. “Let’s start cooking while the men watch football.”
“Mum, this isn’t the 1960s. The women don’t cook while the men watch football.”
Dad looks at me wide-eyed and horrified at the thought of having to enter the kitchen.
“Damon,” Mum says slowly, “it’s a bit late to be acting like a 21st-century gentleman now. You’ve never complained before, so don’t start now just because your girlfriend’s here and you’re trying to show off. Anyway, I’m sure Naomi would love to cook for you. Wouldn’t you, Naomi?”
