Clusterf*ck

by Ash Harlow

  I blew that all apart through being careless.

  I stay with Granddad through dinner and make sure he’s comfortable. He’s still very sleepy, and I’m pleased he doesn’t want the television in the corner of his room switched on.

  When I get home, I collapse into bed, too tired to even search for Reuben’s songs and have him sing me to sleep. I don’t need his lullaby tonight; I just need to be held.

  The first call comes at five a.m. The second one a few minutes later, and I shut off my phone. My eyes feel gritty. My sleep felt as though it had been dreamless and too short, even though I’ve had seven hours. My mind works hard, trying to come up to speed and make sense of how the overseas news outlets have got hold of my details and guessed correctly that I was Reuben Creed’s sexual escape, as they like to put it.

  They didn’t have to try hard to make me feel like a whore. Within minutes, I’ve done a pretty good job myself. I couldn’t say I was his girlfriend because although Reuben and I shared meals, jokes, copious body fluids, and universe-shifting orgasms, we haven’t quite gone there in the discussions about a future together.

  Reuben will probably return to LA, carrying a bunch of new songs in his guitar case. Maybe he’ll remember me with a smile when he plays one of them. Maybe he’ll tell the new girl in his life he wrote it for her.

  I need coffee, decent coffee, so I shower quickly and pull on some clothes. My favourite coffee shop is a fifteen-minute walk, and I’m going to use the time to get my head together.

  Three strangers, two men and one woman, are waiting for me when I open my door.

  “Stella Newbold…Stella. Hi. Is Reuben in there with you…”

  “Stella…wait, don’t close the door, honey. We just want to ask…”

  One of the guys takes my photo, the typical shot of a gaping person caught by surprise.

  I slam the door and put my foot against it as I turn the lock, even though no one’s trying to force their way in. The roaring sound in my ears almost drowns out the knocks and calls for me to come out and talk to them.

  This is not me. I have no knowledge about how to deal with this sort of situation. Am I supposed to stay shut in here until starvation, or the need to pee, removes the vultures at my door? Do I find a big hat, a coat and glasses and push my way through them?

  I turn my phone on to try and make contact with Reuben. Messages and missed-call alerts turn the thing into a vibrating short-circuiting instrument. Reuben’s phone still isn’t working. Mine drops to the table.

  Fuck this.

  Hiding is as good as confirming to the people at my door that I’m the active party in Reuben’s retreat.

  If I try to explain, I’ll trip myself up. They’ll have clever questions designed to catch me out, and anyway, they’ll screw whatever I say until it fits the story they want to tell.

  This time, before I leave, I apply some lipstick and make a better job of tying up my hair. If they’re going to photograph me, I might as well look as though I take care of myself.

  I take a deep breath and push out the door. The group’s larger. There’s someone with a TV camera and a reporter I think I’ve seen on morning television.

  Don’t look.

  Ignore their questions

  Head held high, mouth tight shut

  Walk, don’t run

  I repeat my silent mantra as they follow me some way along the street, but honestly, the situation is so absurd I want to stick my fingers in my ears and la-la-la-la-la at them.

  When I visit Granddad I discover I left my phone at the apartment. During a break, I buy a cheap burner phone at a kiosk and give Granddad and the hospital my new number in case they have to get in touch with me.

  When Granddad needs to sleep, I walk to the museum, then walk around its floors, seeing nothing. By the time I return to the hospital I’ve created so many horror scenarios for my relationship with Reuben, I’m convinced it’s done.

  My heart feels peppered with all the gunshot I’ve fired at it.

  I’m too scared to return to my apartment. You’d think I had friends here in the city. I don’t. I have acquaintances who by now will be curious as hell about what I’ve been up to. And like Reuben’s groupies, I know they’ll welcome me into their homes because their plain lives will be brightened by the dirty light spilling from my temporary notoriety.

  I want to go back to Ahunui, and I can’t. Granddad needs me. Reuben doesn’t.

  When I return to my apartment, I have to enter with my bag in front of my face to hide from two photographers as I fumble my key in the door.

  16 ~ REUBEN

  It only takes two days for me to realize how fucked up my life’s become since Stella left. The first day was fine. I missed her. I missed her a lot.

  Missed the big things like fucking her, eating her out, making her come, having my dick in her mouth. More than sex was the connection we’d established through being intimate. And, more big things like her stories and the way she cared about the island, and me. Cooking with her. I even stayed away from meat in her honour.

  I tried to catch a fish, which was fucking disaster, and I hope she’ll forgive the giant bird’s nest of line that’s replaced her neatly wound fishing reel. Oh, and the tackle’s gone, hook, sinker, all either on the bottom of the ocean or in the gob of the monster I thought I’d caught.

  Truth probably is, I caught a rock and snapped the tackle off trying to free my gear with brute strength instead of patience and technique.

  I need my girl back.

  I need to hear the bell-like quality of her laugh. I need her curled in my lap as we watch the moon and sip wine. I need her lying on the window seat while I write songs.

  I need her.

  On the third day I hear a boat. I watch from alongside Stella’s garden as Ox pulls up to the jetty, drops a package on it and motors off. My heart picks up pace because I hope it’s something from Stella. There’s fresh milk and bread. Stella must have arranged for it to be sent, and her thoughtfulness makes me yearn for her even more.

  Back at the house I unpack the box and discover milk, eggs, and bread. I laugh when I pull out a packet of chocolate fish. At the bottom of the box is a newspaper. Sure don’t need that shit. I toss it onto the table and go to the window.

  There’s no sign of Ox, but two other boats approach. The channel between the island and the mainland seems to be a popular fishing spot, so I pay them no mind.

  I’m edgy this morning, and I don’t know what’s causing this unease. I can’t settle with my music, which is something I can forgive myself for after three good writing days. I need to refresh my mind, so I decide on a hike.

  As I pass the table, something catches my eye. I flip the newspaper flat.

  Oh, fuck.

  Bottom-right corner, front page, Stella and me kissing on the jetty. My body goes cold as I read the article. They’ve got nothing. Fucking nothing. It’s the usual supposition and bullshit in a slightly friendlier manner.

  The local Waitapu News has a less gossipy, more woo, celebrity in town angle going on, but it’s enough. If they’ve got it, everyone’s got it.

  Cover blown.

  I’ve changed my mind about the two boats that were crossing the bay. I doubt they hold recreational fisherman, and that’s pretty much confirmed when I glance through the window and see one of them tying up to the jetty.

  I go for the drapes, intending to pull them to make it look as though the place is closed up, when I think of Stella.

  How is she coping? Did they get to her? She doesn’t know how to deal with this shit. Hell, I hardly know how to deal with it and it’s a regular part of my life.

  I feel completely cut off. The burner phone I bought has a flat battery, and the hell I can find a charger for it. I search for my regular phone. It’s in my suitcase, I guess. I haven’t used it since I left the States. By the time I find it I can see a couple of guys and a cameraman coming along the jetty.

  Fuck.

  I find the c
harger and then have to sort through the box of adaptors in the pantry to find the right one.

  They haven’t seen me, and it’s still not too late to hide, but Stella’s at the forefront of my mind.

  Shoving the charger into the wall socket, I immediately dismiss the ounce of hope that some miracle had kept the battery live. The phone displays a thin red line of neglect, or reproach, for cutting it off from the world. The only way to get an answer for how Stella is getting on is from the guy knocking on the door.

  I place prayer hands against my lips to compose myself the same way I do before I take that step onto a stage. It feels as though this will be a tough audience, and I hope I’m not too far off my game that I handle this wrong.

  I fling the door open and stare at three men on the veranda. It’s the full complement—camera, sound, and asshole.

  “Reuben Creed?”

  “What do you think?”

  “A lot of people have been looking for you.”

  “Funny, I didn’t know I was lost.” I glance at the camera. “Is that rolling?”

  Asshole nods.

  “Kind of rude, don’t you think? You’re on private property.”

  “Can we come in and talk to you.”

  “You can, but camera and sound stay outside until they’re invited.”

  I lead him past the window seat and into the sitting room Stella and I never bothered using. I don’t offer him a seat, but he takes one while I pace. I rub my mouth with my hand. The ball’s in my court right now, but I’m not sure where to serve.

  “Did you get to Stella?”

  I see it in his eyes. A quick flash. He knows I saw it, and he can’t lie now.

  “We’ve seen her. She won’t talk.”

  I’m proud of her for holding up. “Where?” I ask. I have to know everything about her.

  “Outside the hospital.”

  Hospital?

  “You fuckers. What the hell have you done to her?” I don’t know what’s going on, but I want to rip his head off. Jesus, I should never have let her go to Auckland alone.

  “Ease up, man.” He can see my intent, because he’s got his hands in the air. “She visits someone there every day.”

  “How long have you been following her?” I grind out. It must be Stella’s granddad. The only thing I can think is that if something’s happened to him, at least he’s alive. She’s not visiting the morgue.

  “Since it all blew up a few days ago. There was this photo on the internet. Then we started getting calls from colleagues. Soon after overseas gossip blogs started reporting it, some tourist came up with the photo of the two of you kissing. After that, it was pretty easy.”

  “How did you find Stella?”

  “Your girlfriend?” The slimy prick grins.

  My hands are clenched and aching. I’m about to say she’s not my girlfriend, because she’s more than that. She’s my world. But that bit of news is not for public consumption.

  Asshole continues. “She was the architect of her own discovery. She started sending take down notices to some of the entertainment sites that had published her photo, for breach of copyright. Ever filled one of those things in?”

  I shake my head. Some anonymous person somewhere deals with that sort of shit for me.

  “You have to put your full name and address on the form.”

  I’m such a mix of emotions. Stella’s been dealing with this shit for days, and I’ve been sitting here, oblivious, writing fucking songs. All I was concerned about was that photograph going to the gallery when I should have been taking care of Stella. If she’s harmed at all, I’ll go after every last one of the assholes who camped out on her doorstep.

  It’s clear now that the only way I can take the heat off Stella is to give them what they want.

  “You can have your interview,” I tell him.

  By his face, I can see he wasn’t expecting that at all. He stands as though he’s about to call his crew in.

  “Not here,” I tell him. “I presume you have a studio in Auckland, I’ll do it there.”

  “Sure, great, no problem.”

  “Send a helicopter for me this afternoon,” I tell him. Fuck them, they’ll make good ratings out of this, so I’m entitled to something out of their budget.

  I’m desperate to call Stella, and I check my phone. It’s finally carrying some charge. Swinging back, I bark at the journalist who’s now having a good look around the room. “Organise the chopper and give me a time, then get off the island.”

  “Can you give us a number to call—”

  Like I’m stupid enough to give him my number. “No, I can’t. My phone’s fucked. If you want to get in touch with me, you’ll have to leave me one of yours.”

  He pulls his out and frowns.

  “Signal’s at the vegetable garden.” I point through the window, shutting the door behind him when he leaves.

  I stare at my phone. The fucking thing won’t hook up to a network. There must be a setting or something I’m missing. Asshole, whose name turns out to be Guy, is back at the door. He gives me times for the chopper and says they’ll take me straight to the studio.

  I watch them leave, counting the heads on the boat to make sure all of them get off the island. So, I’m paranoid.

  I’m going to have to get up to Auckland and do some fast talking to Stella, because this little taste of my life she’s just experienced is not going to endear me to her.

  Four days apart and my feelings for her have entwined my heart. I check my wallet to make sure the slip of paper that has Stella’s phone number is still there. I can’t wait to hear her voice.

  17 ~ STELLA

  If nothing else, the media is persistent. My life has become a bull run that goes something like apartment-taxi-hospital-taxi-apartment. Whenever I exit the taxi, I cover my face with my bag, like a criminal outside the courthouse.

  I’m so edgy now, I jump if somebody coughs. I scan strangers to see whether they’re carrying a camera, I want to thump anyone filming innocently with their phone, and there’s one thing I know, I cannot live like this.

  Granddad, however, is improving with phenomenal speed. He’s cheeky to the nurses, who all seem to adore him. Who wouldn’t? He’s a model patient, intent on getting well and getting out of hospital as quickly as possible. He doesn’t try any heroics, but he’s not languishing, either.

  I haven’t heard from Reuben, and I wonder if I will again. For all I know, he’s skipped the country. I’m guessing he has my phone number, seeing as he put his in my phone, but there hasn’t been a call from him.

  I’ve pushed my feelings for Reuben beneath the pain because Granddad is my priority, but one day they’re going to pop up and I’m going to have to deal with that persistent ache in my heart.

  Dinner turns up for Granddad, and I get him organised in his bed, propped up on pillows, then get his tray in front of him. I lift the lid, and the aroma of mass-produced food fills the room. He doesn’t complain, even though it’s really not the sort of stuff he likes to eat.

  “It’s free,” he says with a grin that makes me laugh.

  “Put the television on for us, Stell, and we’ll watch the news.”

  Together we get through the bombings and the politics, the sports and the weather forecast. To be honest, I don’t take any of it in.

  The air conditioning and heat in the hospital makes me perpetually thirsty, and I tell Granddad I’m going out for more water and a packet of the butterscotch toffees he loves so much.

  I’m waiting in line at the kiosk when I hear the voice. I freeze, close my eyes and let the sound wash over me. In an instant, it’s gone, and all I can hear is the impatient sales girl asking me what I want.

  I pay her and hurry from the lobby.

  That had been a promo for the magazine show that comes on after the news. I think they call it current affairs, but the affair they’re about to expose isn’t so current anymore.

  Of course, the elevators are on some sort of ha
lf-speed and take forever to arrive. When I finally get to Granddad’s floor, I sprint back to his room like I’m staff and my patient is coding.

  He’s dropped off to sleep. I’m so relieved. I want to turn the television off, but I also have this deeper drive to see Reuben. I fuss with Granddad’s tray throughout the ad break, chugging my water like it’s Rescue Remedy and I have to get enough into me in order to survive the next six minutes.

  As the intro music kicks in, I perch on the railing at the end of Granddad’s bed, partly to block his view in case he wakes up.

  There’s Reuben.

  He’s shaved, and I’m so pleased I’d looked him up online because I might not have recognised him. He looks younger, vulnerable, but he eases into the interview and is soon charming the pants off the presenter, Gail Monroe.

  I want to dive through the screen and take her around the throat so that she understands she should quit flirting with my man.

  Except, he’s not my man.

  More so, I imagine virtually every woman he comes across flirts with him.

  Tears prick my eyes and I swipe at my face.

  This Reuben seems so distanced from me. He’s professional, at ease in front of the camera, brushing off their questions with clever answers that say so little. It’s as if the removal of his beard signifies his shift away from the island and back to his old life.

  Fear starts as a trickle in my veins, building momentum until it’s flooding my body. I get this idea that he’ll go from the studio to the airport and I’ll never hear from him again.

  I straighten my spine. This will not ruin my life. It was a fling with a rock star. Our time together was short. Whatever made me think there was the promise of a life with him was probably nothing more than a good dose of cabin fever from being shut up together in the storm. I’m determined one day our fling will be a memory I can look back upon with some sort of satisfaction.

  The picture of us kissing flashes up on the screen, and I glance at Granddad to make sure he’s still asleep.