by Jessica Ashe
I’m never going to see Emma again.
Four.
I’m never going to see Damon again.
Three.
Damon hates me.
Two.
I love Damon.
One.
Showtime.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damon - Three Months Later
Fifteen minutes of fame might be a bit of an understatement, but fifteen days of fame probably about sums it up.
Naomi and I didn’t stay together long enough for me to become ingrained in the public consciousness, so after two weeks I suddenly found myself dropping Emma off at school, and going grocery shopping without getting harassed or photographed.
That’s what I want—just to get on with my life and not be talked about online. I also want Naomi, but it would appear that the two are mutually exclusive.
Emma misses her. She blames me for Naomi leaving. I told Emma that Naomi had to go back to America, but Emma made it clear she’d quite like to go live there “because I can go to Disneyland and see Elsa every day.”
Emma is safe at least. There haven’t been any repeats of the incident at the school, even after Naomi’s security guards stopped following her around. Naomi’s guards are great guys, but they really need to learn a thing or two about subtlety.
On paper, my life is a lot better now. I get a steady salary from the record company, and royalties flow in on top of that. One of the songs I wrote made it onto an album of the latest-and-greatest boy band, and rumor has it they might release it as the next single. If they do, I’ll have more money than I’ve ever known. Granted, that’s not saying a lot, but it’ll still be nice.
The money has to be good, because I’m certainly not doing this for the pride I take in my work. The record company wants me to make pop songs, so pop songs is what I make. I don’t have to be happy about it though. The first one I wrote as a joke. The lyrics were deliberately cheesy, and it was almost laughably bad. At least, that’s what I thought. The record company loved it. Now I’m stuck making music I hate for a living.
The one thing I should have learned from my time with Naomi is that money truly doesn’t buy you happiness. I’m nowhere near Naomi’s level, but I can already sense that the money soon becomes irrelevant. If you haven’t got who you want in your life, then every smile, every laugh, and every grin will be fake. I spend my time hiding despair that refuses to go away.
I haven’t phoned her. I’ve wanted to ever since the day she walked out of my house. I was such a dick to her that day. The whole thing with Emma nearly being kidnapped… it just sent me over the edge. I dealt with Yolanda dying of a drug overdose, but the thought of losing Emma was on another level entirely. I can’t describe the fear that engulfed me that day. Just thinking about it for three seconds is enough to make me want to throw up.
That’s no excuse for how I acted. Naomi isn’t to blame for what happened. I don’t even blame her for sharing that photo anymore. It’s a photo so cute you absolutely had to share with as many people as possible. Even I would’ve posted it online. You’ve never seen a child look so happy as Emma did that morning.
I keep the photo on my phone. It’s not just a great photo of Emma; it’s the only one I have of Naomi where she has a real smile on her face. Her smile is not as wide as the fake one she usually wears—that’s how I can tell. It’s a natural smile. One that takes no effort and happens subconsciously.
And then there’s her eyes—I don’t know how people can’t see the difference between her eyes in this photo and in the ‘normal’ ones. They sparkle in this photo; I can see the happiness in them.
Leona and I still perform on weekends. The crowds have gone back down to normal, but the owner pays enough for Leona to get by. Especially when I give her my share which she reluctantly accepts after at least thirty minutes of arguing.
I sit at the bar after a gig and make corrections to my latest work. I’ve already written the music—which consists mainly of a guitar of course—so now I’m just trying to find the right words. The words have never been my strong suit, and that’s especially the case with this one. This song means something, or at least it will when I’ve finished.
“When do I get to look at the new song?” Leona asks. She’s been functioning as my first set of eyes and ears on what I write. If she loves the song, I give it to her and let her sing it. If she absolutely hates it, I throw it away and start again. If she hates it, but only because it’s irresistibly catchy and cheesy, then I give it to the record company.
“This one is private,” I say, covering up the words with my forearm.
“Come on, how bad can it be? No offense, but some of the stuff you show me is bloody terrible.”
“This is probably terrible too, but like I said, it’s private.”
“In other words, you’re writing it for someone else?”
“Maybe.”
“And would this person be a young, attractive, American singer you used to date?”
“It’s not for her,” I insist.
“It’s about her.”
“No. I mean, yes, I guess. I don’t know. I’m just writing it; I’ll probably never give it to anyone.”
“I’m no relationship expert, but from what I’ve seen on television, when people want to communicate with a person it’s quite common to give them a call. Using these things called… oh what’s the name again… mobile phones. That’s it. Mobile phones, I knew it would come to me.”
“If you ever get tired of singing, you really should give stand-up comedy a go.”
“In other words, you haven’t phoned her yet.”
“She’s a busy lady.”
“She always found time for you.”
“She has a new boyfriend,” I say. I try to keep the words flat and emotionless, but a lump appears in my throat as I say them. Saying it out loud makes it real.
“She’s dating some actor who just so happens to have a new movie coming out soon. I bet it’s not serious.”
“She looks happy.”
“Bullshit. You want her to be happy, because then that relieves you of any responsibility. Look at these photos.”
The last thing I want to do is look at the photos. I’ve been avoiding them for a month. I went twenty-six years without paying attention to celebrity gossip, but now it seems to follow me around like a woman I slept with and didn’t call back. Pictures of Naomi and her new man are at the top of news websites, and pop up on television all the time.
Leona passes me her phone with a picture of Naomi locking arms with a clean-cut young actor. They’re on a red carpet and posing for photographs. Judging by the small logos in the background, it looks like this was just before the music awards at which Naomi picked up another three trophies. God only knows what she does with them—I never did get to see her house back in America.
“See,” I say, pointing at Naomi in the picture. “She looks happy.”
“No, she doesn’t.” Leona takes back her phone and pulls up another picture. “This is her looking happy.”
It’s the picture of Naomi dropping Emma off at school. I flick between the two photos. “She looks the same in them,” I lie.
“No she doesn’t,” Leona insists. “Over the last couple of months I’ve become quite good at noticing when someone is faking a smile.”
“That’s quite a talent. If the singing career and the comedy career don’t work out, you could become an expert fake smile detector. I hear it’s a growing profession.”
Leona ignores me. “Admittedly, it’s much easier to spot these things with you because you’re a bad actor. Naomi is more convincing, but I can still tell, and so can you.”
I look at the photos again. Most people wouldn’t notice any difference. It’s the same woman smiling in both. Naomi’s hair looks a little fancier in the red carpet photo and she’s wearing more makeup, but otherwise it’s the same person standing there facing a camera and smiling broadly.
But Leona’s
right. The smile isn’t the same, and neither are the eyes. In the red carpet photo Naomi has that emptiness behind her eyes that I always see in her professional photos. Her mind is elsewhere. She’s standing on a red carpet with a man she’s ‘dating,’ but in her head she’s elsewhere.
Maybe she’s here with me.
It doesn’t matter. I still can’t call her. It’s too late for that now.
“I need to get back to my song.”
Leona sighs and leaves me to it. This won’t be the last time we have this conversation, but over time it should get easier. Time heals all wounds. That’s what they say. I hope to God it’s true.
* * *
I’m woken up the next morning by the doorbell.
On the way down the stairs, I curse whoever’s at the door for calling at such an early hour, until I notice that Emma is up watching television, and light is streaming into the house. It’s gone ten o’clock in the morning, but it’s still a Saturday. Once in a while, a guy needs a lay in.
I open the door in just my dressing gown and intend to get rid of the visitor as soon as possible. In the end, I have to invite her inside. After all, she did come all the way from America to see me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Damon
“Sorry about that,” I say, as I come back down the stairs fully dressed. “Late night last night.”
“I would’ve come later,” Gladys says, “but I’m jet-lagged and I have a funny feeling I’m going to crash in the middle of the afternoon. I wanted to see you before that happened.”
I make a cup of tea for Naomi’s Mum without even stopping to think if that’s what she wants. She’s American, maybe she wants coffee. Naomi always liked tea though, unless she was just pretending to for my benefit.
“Thanks,” Gladys says, as I place the cup down in front of her. She looks at it a little quizzically, and I’m fairly certain this is the first time she’s been served tea with milk in it. I could go all out and start dunking biscuits in my cup, but I don’t have the patience for pleasantries. I need to find out why she’s here.
“Is Naomi in town?” I ask.
“No, she’s back in California recording her new album.”
What’s a polite way to ask ‘why are you here?’
“Are you here on holiday?”
“No, this will just be a short visit.”
Come on, help me out here.
“You going to do all the touristy stuff?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Screw it.
“Why are you here?”
“To see you,” Gladys replies matter-of-factly.
“Okay,” I reply uncertainly. I remember Gladys taking quite a liking to me over the Skype call, but I hadn’t imagined getting a visit from her anytime soon. “How’s Naomi?” It seems like a polite question to ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“She’s back to her normal self.”
“That’s… good?”
“No, Damon, it’s not good.”
“She’s dating.”
Gladys shakes her head. “That’s not serious. Do you know how I know that?” I shake my head. “Because she talks to me about him. Apparently he’s a nice enough guy, but they’re just hanging out for convenience. I even know that they’re not sleeping together.”
I’m well aware she could just be telling me what I want to hear, but screw it, that’s exactly what I want to hear. I want to sigh with relief, but I try and play it cool.
“Does this mean she’s told you what happened?” I ask. I can’t imagine I came out looking too good if Naomi told her mum what happened.
“No, she’s barely said anything. That’s how I know it’s serious. Or that it was serious. You broke up with her because you don’t like the part of her that craves publicity. Is that about the gist of it?”
“Something like that. I guess it’s fair to say I value my privacy.”
“So does she. I know that sounds ridiculous, but she used to be a very private person.”
“She’s not anymore.”
“She does that for the fans,” Gladys insists. “Naomi thinks she needs to constantly repay her fans for their support, and she never wants to take her success for granted.”
“I understand that, but I still find it difficult to live with.”
“Especially when it affects your child?”
I nod. “It all got a bit much. She says she doesn’t want the publicity, but she posts photos online all the time, and we never go anywhere without a full security detail. I can’t live like that.”
“She has her reasons.”
“She does it for the fans.”
Gladys nods. “That’s part of it. However, mainly she does it for her father.”
“Her father?”
“Naomi told you he died five years ago? A robbery gone wrong?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, it must have been horrible.”
“It was, but her father didn’t die in a robbery. She lied to you about that. She lies to everyone. We both do. Five years ago, I lied to the police and I convinced my daughter to do the same.”
“I don’t understand. Why did you lie?”
“For Naomi’s safety. Roger didn’t die in a robbery.” Gladys has more to say, but she stops to take a sip of the tea. I guess she doesn’t hate it, because she drinks half the cup before she continues talking. “One night, the three of us were walking back from dinner when a man grabbed Naomi. She’d been thirty yards behind us because she was texting friends at the time. When we heard her scream, we turned around and saw her being dragged away towards a car.”
I need something a lot stronger than a cup of tea right now, but tea is all I have. I try to picture her being attacked, and think back to that night when four men accosted her outside Wembley Stadium. I remember the rage and anger that flooded through me that night, and I’d barely known her at the time. I know what Naomi’s father would have felt seeing his daughter being dragged away like that. After what nearly happened to Emma, I know all too well.
“I froze,” Gladys continues. “I’ll never forgive myself for that. My daughter was being kidnapped, and I just stood there. Fortunately, Roger was brave. He ran and reached them before they got to the car. He even managed to get Naomi free of the kidnapper’s grasp. He should’ve stopped there. If he had, he might be alive now. He wanted to catch the man and tried to pin him down while we waited for the police. But the man had a gun. You can probably imagine what happened next.”
There’s not a single part of me that blames Naomi for lying to me about her father’s death, but I wish she’d told me the truth. I would’ve understood. She tears herself apart every single day, letting the guilt consume her. That’s what I’ve seen behind her eyes. The darkness in the photos—guilt.
“Why lie to the police?” I ask.
“Naomi was already moderately famous. I didn’t want word getting out because she’d be asked about it in every interview for the rest of her life. As you can probably imagine, Naomi didn’t want to lie about it. She thinks it’s dishonoring her father, but I convinced her it’s what her father would want. That’s true—he wouldn’t want her to blame herself. We also didn’t want people to realize she’d been lax with security.”
“That’s when she hired Lance?”
“Yes. He’d already been in touch offering his services. He got laid off a few months before and was looking for work. We hired him, and over the years he hired a few people to work beneath him as a team. Naomi’s safe now. That’s all her father would’ve wanted.”
No wonder Naomi doesn’t go anywhere without her security team. She’s probably terrified someone else will die in her name.
“Who else knows this?” I ask.
“No one. You’re the third person after Naomi and me.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because I want you to understand Naomi. Really understand her. I know that to the outside world she looks like some vain prima donna who is
obsessed with her own image, but that’s not my daughter. She lives every minute of her life trying to be as successful as possible because she thinks she owes it to her father’s memory. He wanted her to become a singer, but only because that’s what she wanted. I haven’t meddled in my daughter’s life so far, but now I have to. If there’s one thing I know about her, it’s when she’s in love, and she is most definitely in love with you.”
The feeling is more than mutual.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Naomi
“So this is the end?”
“This is it,” I reply.
“Thanks for your help.”
“Think nothing of it, William. You should be really proud of the documentary you made. I just hope the little bit of extra publicity helps it get the attention it deserves.”
“It certainly didn’t do any harm. Has anyone ever told you look phenomenal on a red carpet? Almost makes me wish you weren’t still in love with your ex-boyfriend.”
“Really subtle, William. Really subtle.”
“Can’t blame me for trying. You’re like a closed book when it comes to him.”
“You know more about him than most.”
William and I had to spend time together as part of the whole ‘dating’ thing we had going on. We weren’t doing anything intimate during that time, so we talked and got to know each other fairly well. He’s actually a pretty nice guy, although I must admit I thought he was an egotistical asshole when I first met him. Like me, he just puts on a show.
“So how do we handle the breakup?” William asks. “Just the usual ‘mutual decision’ stuff?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“You can go on record as breaking up with me if you like? The public thinks you’ve been dumped by your last two boyfriends. I don’t mind if you want to even things up a bit.”
“No, that’s not necessary. Don’t tell my manager, but I just don’t care about that kind of stuff anymore.”
