by Jessica Ashe
“Of course,” she replies. “But, um, well, I’m not much of a cook.”
“Then what do you do for meals?”
“She has people to cook for her, Mum.”
“Well, not today. Let’s get started. Naomi, please dice these peppers and then julienne the carrots.”
I watch Naomi as she grabs a knife from the rack and places the pepper on the chopping board Mum hands her. She then stares at the pepper nervously, moving the knife around as if she’s a surgeon who doesn’t know where to make the incision.
“Dicing is where you chop it into tiny pieces,” I tell Naomi. ‘Thank you,’ she mouths back at me.
“I want to help with the cooking, too,” Emma says.
“I wonder why,” I mutter.
“You can wash the potatoes,” Mum says to Emma. “And keep an eye on Naomi so she doesn’t hurt her herself.”
“You sure you’re okay in there?” I ask Naomi.
“I’m just fine, thank you. Go watch ‘the football’ and leave us ladies to it.”
“You heard her, son. Stop getting in the way.”
I watch the game, but keep my eyes peeled for problems in the kitchen. Naomi doesn’t seem to mind her new responsibilities, and she quickly forms a team with Emma who peels the carrots before Naomi makes a mess of cutting them julienne-style.
Dinner is a little later than usual, but it looks as delicious as always. Naomi is hot and flustered, with bits of hair stuck to her face, and a few stains on her clothes. I wonder how many people have ever seen her like this? Naomi posts a lots of photos online, but she looks immaculate in all of them. I think I prefer this version. She may not look as glamorous, but she looks happier.
For the first time ever, I want to post a picture to my new Instagram account. I already have thousands of followers and I haven’t done anything yet. If I post a picture of Naomi like this, it will spread like wildfire.
No, sod it, this is just for me.
“What’s up?” she asks when she catches me smiling at her.
“Nothing,” I reply. “The food is great.”
“Don’t get used to this,” she warns. “I’m not slaving away in the kitchen to cook your dinner every day.”
“Of course not. Just at weekends.” She glares at me with the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Sundays?”
Naomi is the last to finish her meal, because she has to contend with being peppered with questions by Mum and Emma. Even Dad has a few, and he rarely speaks up. Mum wants to know about Naomi’s life back in America. Where she grew up, what her parents were like, all the ‘normal’ stuff. Dad asks questions about how she’s getting on in England. I think he’s worried I’m going to uproot and take his granddaughter to America.
Emma, predictably, wants to know everything there is to know about being famous.
Do you have a big house? Do you have lots of money? Like thousands and thousands? Do you have your own chef? Do you have a big dollhouse back home? I’ve always wanted a big dollhouse. I think if I had lots of money the first thing I would buy is a big dollhouse.
“Do you want to see my room?” Emma asks after dinner. “I have a poster of you on the wall, although it’s not as big as the poster of One Direction. I think I like One Direction the most, but I like you the second most. Have you met them?”
“No, unfortunately not,” Naomi says, in a tone of voice that suggests she perhaps meant to say ‘fortunately.’
“What about Taylor Swift?” Emma asks. “I like her second most, too.”
“She’s lovely,” Naomi replies enthusiastically. “I went to her house once for an after-party.”
Emma gasps loudly and quickly unleashes a barrage of questions. “Does she have a bigger house than you? Is she as pretty in real life as she is on television? Will the two of you ever sing a song together? I think the two of you should sing a song together. I would definitely buy that if I have enough money left over after buying sweeties.”
“Yes to all,” Naomi replies.
“Emma, would you like to come back home with us tonight?” Mum asks.
“Why? Is Naomi coming too?”
“No, but you left some homework at our house and it looks like it’s due on Monday. Why don’t you come around for a few hours and do your homework? I’m sure Naomi will still be here when you get back.”
“Maybe Naomi will cook you breakfast as well, son,” Dad says with a wink.
“More like the other way around,” Naomi says immediately.
“I like her,” Dad says to me as he walks out the door with Mum and Emma in tow. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“I’ll do my best, Dad.”
The door shuts and I turn around to face Naomi, trying to judge just how much apologizing I need to do right now.
“Did you enjoy cooking dinner?” I ask.
“I enjoyed spending time with your mother and your daughter.”
“So you didn’t enjoy the cooking part of it?”
“Let’s just say I’m glad I have my own chefs.”
“I guess it’s asking a little too much for you to be an incredible singer, stunningly good-looking, a great shag, and an excellent chef.”
“Afraid so.” Naomi wraps her arms around my neck and we kiss again. This time I’m not going to let it end with just a kiss.
She walks backwards towards the stairs, but I don’t have the patience to make it up to the bedroom. We crash against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, and Naomi immediately starts pulling open my jeans. I reach under her short skirt and yank her panties down, before slipping my fingers inside her.
I fuck her with my fingers, her muscles squeezing and contracting around my fingers, while she aggressively tugs on my cock, trying to milk me dry. We both stare into each other’s eyes as if it’s a race; who can get the other off first. She comes quickly, her legs going weak as she leans against the wall for support.
Naomi lets go of my cock and finds the energy to hop up and throw her legs around my waist. She slowly slides down my body until her dripping wet folds meet my rock hard cock. She stops moving when my tip is inside her. The heat from her sex and the drops of her excitement sliding down my shaft are too much to bear.
“You’re a tease,” I growl in her ear.
“Take me,” she whimpers.
I hesitate. Naomi’s tiny, and I’m… well, huge isn’t an understatement. I’m used to guiding myself in slowly, but Naomi’s not going to let that happen. I go in hard, or I don’t go in at all.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Fuck. Me.”
I impale her on my cock, sending it deep inside her wet pussy as she groans loudly. I’ll never forget that noise as long as I live. It’s like she’s in pain and pleasure at the same time; mostly pleasure judging by the way her sex is already squeezing my cock almost as tight as her hand had done earlier.
We fuck so hard that a picture falls off the wall when Naomi comes. The timing is so perfect we both laugh while my balls are still slapping against her arse. Neither of us has any control now. She seems to be in a constant state of orgasm, and it’s a miracle I’ve held on this long.
She’s slapping me on the back and pulling my hair, shaking and screaming, the words escaping her lips in no coherent order.
“So wet. Fuck me. Come inside. So big.”
I pin her against the wall with a final deep thrust, and let myself go, as we both shake and pant in unison. I empty myself inside her until my balls are completely drained. We stay up against the wall until our breathing has slowed down enough to share a sweaty kiss.
Naomi’s legs are too weak to support her, so I carry her up the stairs to bed where we resume our kiss. It’s almost as good as the sex itself. Almost.
* * *
“Your parents were nothing like I imagined them,” Naomi says. Her fingers are making patterns on my chest, although I have no idea if it’s random or if she’s trying to send me a message.
“How did you picture them? I never really t
alked about them.”
“Yeah I know, but I knew a bit about them from… you know.”
“The private detectives you hired to investigate me and my family?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds awfully sordid.”
“Well I’m glad you like them. They like you as well, although I suppose that’s obvious. Everyone loves you.”
“Not everyone.”
I sit up and stare at Naomi. She’s half naked, with the sheet only covering her bottom half. The sun is shining on her breasts and lighting up her face. I can’t think of anyone not liking her.
“Who doesn’t love you?”
“My dancers.”
“Why?”
“They’re all really talented, but they have to hold back a lot so as not to show me up. Between them they come up with these phenomenal routines, and then the head choreographer tells them to make changes so I can join in and not look like an idiot.”
“You’re the one paying them. They should just get on with it.”
Naomi sighs. “I know, but it’s not nice seeing the evil looks they give me all the time.”
“Dancers are a nightmare.”
“Why do you say that? Did you audition once and get rejected because you’re completely uncoordinated?”
“Uh, no. My ex-girlfriend; she was a dancer.”
“Emma’s Mum?” I nod. “I’m sorry. I’m sure she was nothing like my dancers though. Mine are egotistical, and usually off their tits on drugs. I hate it. As soon as this tour is over I’m getting a new group.”
“Yolanda was fairly egotistical as well.” I consider stopping there, but instead I blurt out the secret I’ve been keeping from Naomi for too long. “She also died of a drug overdose.”
“Shit.” Naomi sits upright and quickly wraps her arm around me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“I’m kind of surprised your investigation didn’t find that out.”
“Katrina mentioned that your ex died in suspicious circumstances.”
“And you didn’t find out more?”
“I think Katrina did, but I specifically said I didn’t want to know. It’s none of my business until you tell me. And now you have.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
“It’s not a problem, honestly. Does Emma know?”
“No, we told her Mummy got sick and died. It’s kind of true. Addiction is an illness, and she was definitely addicted.”
“Did you ever—”
“No, I never touched the stuff. She kept it from me for a while and when I found out I tried to get her to stop. Fortunately, this was after she had Emma.”
Naomi hugs me tightly, and I wrap my arms around her. I want to tell her I love her. Is it wrong to tell her now? We just discussed my ex-girlfriend’s death; maybe this isn’t the right time? Will she say it back? At times, I’m convinced she feels the same way, but then when we’re apart she’s like a completely different person. She goes back to ‘Naomi Price’ the girl who is obsessed with her image and celebrity. I don’t think she’s using me for the publicity, but she’s sure as hell taking advantage of it. What should I read into that? How much of this is her doing and how much of it is Katrina’s?
It’s too late. I’m still debating whether to tell her when she gets up and heads to the shower. Soon. I’m going to tell her soon. It’s just a case of finding the right time. Naomi, I love you. Out of everything that’s happened these past few weeks, saying those words will be the strangest of all. Even stranger, I’m going to mean them.
Chapter Twenty
Naomi
Back to the grind.
I wonder what thirteen-year-old me would have thought if I traveled back in time and told her that one day the idea of going to a film premiere for a huge blockbuster movie would seem boring. Thirteen-year-old me would be amazed and probably slightly disgusted at what she had become.
Still, here we are. I’m in a limo on my way to Leicester Square, where I will step out onto a red carpet, and yet all I want is to be in Damon’s tiny—and slightly messy—house watching television with him and his daughter.
Mom and Dad always tried to keep me grounded, but I don’t spend much time at Mom’s house anymore. Last weekend with Damon was incredible. I cooked. Well, I chopped up vegetables and followed the instructions from Damon’s mom. More of a sous chef really, but it all counts.
It’s been so long since I’ve done normal things. Cooking, eating a meal with family, and chilling out in front of the television. I stayed over with Damon for two nights. It’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but I already feel like part of the family. I even took Emma to school on Tuesday morning.
I smile to myself as I remember saying goodbye to Emma outside the school gates. My modest disguise kept me hidden for the entire trip, and then Emma turned around to wave goodbye and shouted ‘goodbye, Naomi Price.’ It took me twenty minutes to get back to the car.
Tonight, I’m back to work. That’s playing a little loose with the definition of ‘work,’ but I’m doing something I don’t enjoy, so it feels like work. I used to love this. At one point, I preferred going to movie premieres than singing. Singing is my job; movie premieres are the reward. Or at least they used to be.
“Tom just arrived,” Katrina says. “He’s going to hang out talking to reporters on the red carpet until you arrive. That way you can walk in together.”
“How generous of him,” I reply. Tom is another ex. We stopped dating over a year ago, but I promised to accompany him to the premiere of the movie he was filming at the time. The movie should’ve been out a year ago, but there were reshoots, and all sorts of problems in post-production. Now he’s two boyfriends in the past, but I’m still here as his ‘date.’
I’ve explained the situation to Damon. I had to, really; it’s not like I can keep this a secret. He’s fine with it. Tom is incredibly successful and stinking rich, but physically he’s not exactly threatening to Damon. Damon doesn’t care if my ex-boyfriends make more money than he does; he just wants to know he’s the best in bed and he has that trophy wrapped up by a long shot.
The limo slows to a halt, and my driver steps out and opens the door for me. I manage to retain most of my dignity as I step out in one of the short dresses I’m famous for wearing to red carpet events. I can almost detect the groans of disappointments from photographers as I don’t flash them on the way out. That’s not a mistake I’m going to make twice.
Next time I come to one of these things—if there is a next time—I’m inviting Damon. I feel bad enough he’s not here for this one. The movie’s one of those action-packed, superhero CGI-fests, and that’s exactly what he loves.
Tom and I quickly link arms and make our way down the red carpet. My one condition on coming to this event with him was that we wouldn’t do the red carpet interviews as a couple. When we speak to the press, we do it separately, otherwise everyone will start talking. We’re here as friends and that’s it.
Katrina keeps both of us moving towards the entrance, but I end up standing by myself when Tom decides to stop and be interviewed by a presenter he quite clearly fancies. Katrina’s just as bad. She’s keeping on top of things until she ‘accidentally’ bumps into a newly-single actor she has a huge crush on. I’m by myself, and when I’m by myself I tend to make stupid decisions. Decisions such as going and talking to a reporter I recognize.
It’s not until I’m a foot from her that I remember where I know her from. She’s the photographer from DMZ, and it looks like she’s now on interview duty, too. This is so weird. I’m face-to-face with a woman whose livelihood depends on following me around and taking unauthorized photos of me.
What can I do? I’m on the red carpet—I can’t make a scene.
“Why aren’t you here with Damon tonight?” the woman asks.
Straight to the point.
“Because I’m here to support my friend.”
“Is it true you and Damon are having problems?
”
I roll my eyes, and then immediately regret it. The woman isn’t filming me, but there are at least five cameras on me, and they’ve just caught me roll my eyes. I’m going to be gif’d or meme’d within the hour.
“Damon and I are just fine.”
Compared to this scintillating line of questioning, I think I’d rather she ask questions about ‘who I’m wearing tonight.’
“I heard there’s tension between the two of you because you think he’s using you to get noticed.”
“I very much doubt it,” I reply dryly. “The man is practically allergic to cameras, so if he wants to get noticed he’s going the wrong way about it. If that’s all—”
“Are you happy with the contract he signed?”
What contract?
Thank God I don’t say those words aloud. Instead I just smile and say “yes,” before walking away. Katrina shuffles Tom and I into the theater and we sit back and try to enjoy the show.
Damon signed a contract? What kind of contract? Clearly one he doesn’t feel comfortable talking to me about. Thirty minutes into the movie, I make an excuse and head to the bathroom. Once in the relative privacy of a stall, I send a message to Damon.
Yes, even multi-millionaire celebrities text while they’re sitting on the toilet. It’s where I send my best tweets.
Random question, but have you signed a contract recently? Just got hit with a question from that DMZ reporter and didn’t know what to say.
Damon’s text messages tend to be of the short and sweet variety. Given his hatred for photographers, I’m expecting his reply to be something along the lines of ‘tell the reporter to go fuck herself.’
Instead, a few minutes later, a long message comes through and then another shortly after.
Record company executive watched Leona and me playing a gig last week. He offered me a deal to write songs for them, but I turned it down. Felt wrong to abandon Leona like that and felt like I was taking advantage of our situation.
Okay, so he was offered a contract that he didn’t sign. That’s cool. Then I read the second message.
