by MV Ellis
He pauses briefly, and I hold my breath, wanting him to go on, but at the same time terrified he will.
He does.
“I’d also tell them that these past few weeks that we’ve hardly seen each other have been some of the toughest of my life. That more than once I’ve driven to see you and then turned the car around, because I told you I’d give you space, and I’ve been determined to do that, even if it felt like shit. That I’ve never opened up to anyone about my feelings the way I have to you. Hell, I’ve never had these feelings before, but you make me want to spill my guts, even if you don’t reciprocate. That no matter what ends up happening between us, I’ll always be glad we met, and I know we’ll always be in each other’s lives, in some way. That I’ll always be there for you, no matter what.” He sighs.
“Oh.” Needless to say I’m stunned.
“Yeah. Oh. Anyway, you’ve got a hectic day ahead tomorrow,” he presses on, “and I’m wiped out from recording, so I’ll let you get your rest.”
He’s suddenly all business, as though speaking to an acquaintance rather than someone he’s just delivered that speech to.
“Yeah, okay, sounds good. Arlo?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks… for everything.”
“Sure. No problem. Good night.”
“Night.”
Just as I’m about to hang up, I hear Arlo’s voice again.
“Tog?”
“Yeah?”
He pauses, and I get the sense he’s weighing up whether to say something or not.
“Good luck for tomorrow. I know you won’t need it, because you’re going to smash it, but I’ll say it anyway. I can’t wait to see the photos… and you.”
“Thanks, Arlo. For the opportunity, for believing in me, and for being such an easy subject to shoot. This has literally been the gig of a lifetime.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And Arlo…?”
“Yeah? Thanks for… putting up with me. I know it hasn’t been an easy ride.”
“It hasn’t, but it’s been 100 percent worth it. Night, sweets. See you tomorrow.”
Strangely, as we finally hang up the phone, I feel bereft—empty, even. I don’t know if it’s just that I really miss Arlo or all the things he just said weighing heavily on my mind. Either way, it leaves me feeling uneasy as I prepare for bed in an attempt to get an early night. I don’t envisage getting much sleep, but I know I should at least try.
***
The following day with the stylist, I decide to pull out all the stops and dress to impress. I choose a white shirt with a navel-revealing, plunging neckline, coupled with a pair of shiny gold stretch leather skinny pants. I finish off the ensemble with some super-high Louboutin sling backs and a coordinating Chanel clutch. I love it.
When I return to the studio, it seems the local delivery guys have been busy—I’ve received a heap of flowers and cards to wish me well on my BIG. DAY. Of course, the most gorgeous and lavish bunch is from Arlo. I don’t recognize most of the flowers, but they’re all in tones of white, off-white, and cream. I guess he’s picked up on the fact that I’m not one for riots of vibrant color—I’m almost always dressed in black. The bouquet is wrapped in layers of brown paper, hessian, and vintage lace. Stunning.
The card simply reads: I’ll catch you. xAJ.
Shit. I struggle to hold back the tears. I take a few deep breaths and try to push down the emotions that bubble to the surface as I read those words. I don’t want to ruin the makeup that was so painstakingly applied earlier—without it, I look like someone who hasn’t slept in months, hasn’t been eating right, and has barely seen daylight.
In addition to the flowers and cards, I also receive a flurry of texts, comments and messages on social media, and e-mails. Gloria even calls me to lend her moral support, although she’ll be at the opening later, too. No smoke signals, carrier pigeons, Morse code, semaphores, or faxes, but other than that, I think my friends and relatives have all methods of communication covered.
The press interviews go smoothly, which shouldn’t be a surprise to me, as I was briefed by the PR team that this would most likely be the case, with the only potentially thorny issue being the whole me and Arlo thing. In the end, even that isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I find it harder to answer one particular question about the work—which photo is my favorite—than anything else.
The simple answer is that I don’t have one, but that’s only half of the truth. In reality, I have many favorites. It depends on my mood. Some I love for purely aesthetic reasons—the composition, framing, light, or some other artistic feature might really appeal to me. Others may not be as strong from a technical perspective, but I see things in them that nobody else, except possibly Arlo, would. Context makes a difference.
Mostly, though, I love that the story of the tour is also the story of Arlo and me, and where we’ve been both geographically and emotionally. Though I don’t feature in any of the photos, they all feel so personal, as though I’m laying myself bare for all to see in each one. I’m suddenly thrust into the limelight, both as a photographer and as the rumored paramour of one of the most fuckable men on earth. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for the shit storm to follow, but I also know it’s too late to back out now.
I’m stalling a little, skulking in my office up on the mezzanine, but I know I can’t hide forever. Just as the thought occurs to me, one of the PRs knocks gently on the door, hardly waiting for my reply before pushing it open. She reminds me of the time, and though it’s good to be fashionably late, even to one’s own event, any later and I’ll be verging on rude. She’s right, I can’t put it off any longer. I take a few calming breaths and start toward the stairs. It’s now or never.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As I descend the stairs into the studio-turned-gallery, I’m overwhelmed. Stunned, in fact. I expected a decent gathering of people, but the room is positively heaving, and unexpectedly, there are more unfamiliar faces than familiar. The space that always felt so dauntingly huge, with its white walls bare and expectant, waiting for the huge prints to fill them, suddenly seems small, now jam-packed with bodies.
Everyone appears to be having a good time—chatting, laughing, and more importantly, looking at the pictures. My pictures. Despite the tight space, people are taking the time to appreciate each one, with looks of rapt enthusiasm on their faces. They love them! Like, really love them. Despite my fretting to the contrary, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless is going to be a success. There’s a buzz of excitement around the room. Of course, some of that may be due to the free-flowing champagne, but I’d like to think it’s mostly down to the work.
I scan the room, taking in friends, family, and strangers. My parents, Aunty Gloria, Nic and Marko, all the boys in the band, every PR and journalist in the land, Arlo’s manager, Paul. Even Murray, my old boss from the restaurant, is here. It must be a special occasion for him to miss a dinner service—it’s virtually unheard of.
All of Arlo’s family is here too—his older brother, Brad, and younger brother, Justin, as well as Luke, of course, plus his mom, stepfather and grandfather, whom I’ve not yet met. No pressure, or anything.
Weirdly, Marnie is also here, which pisses me off. It’s the last place I’d expect to see her, and as far as I’m aware, she’s not on the guest list, unless Arlo invited her. I’d like to think he wouldn’t have, given that the first and only time I saw her was when he was screwing her over the kitchen counter at Rosemond House. While Arlo frustrates the hell out of me most of the time, I feel like even he would know that was a dick move, and I seriously doubt he would be so insensitive. Why is she here? It seems like a strange choice on her part. I throw her some shade, and then resolve to push it to the back of my mind and not let it affect my mood on my special night.
As I move through the space, I meet the gaze of an all-too-familiar pair of green eyes, and lock there. The hairs on the back of my neck immediately stand at attention, and
goose bumps break out all over my body. My breath catches in my throat. I can’t look away, and seemingly, neither can he.
Arlo’s eyes lift almost imperceptibly at the corners, and he licks his lips very, very slowly. Holy hell. Although I have technically seen him during our enforced separation, this is the first time I’ve been sober and not hungover, and the sight takes my breath away. He’s beyond… well… just beyond. I feel like I need to invent a new adjective to adequately convey how glorious he is.
I start walking toward him, moth to flame, when someone else finally notices my presence. Nic bounds up to me like an overexcited puppy, grinning from ear to ear. She gives me the biggest, all-enveloping hug.
“Oh my God, you’re amazing! I knew you were good, of course, and I expected the photos to be great. But this”—she waves expansively around the space—”is something else. You’re so unbelievably fucking good.”
“Thanks, Nic, you’re the best best friend ever.”
“I’m not saying this as a best friend. I’m saying this as a person with eyes, who knows great photos when they see them. And these are the shiz. Of course, your subject is off-the-charts gorgeous, so that’s a great start, but it’s not just that. These are more than just good shots of an infeasibly attractive man. Nup. There’s a whole other ‘thing’ going on here.”
“Thing? What thing?”
“The thing. The love.” She waves her hand again, impatiently this time.
“Nic, what the bejesus are you talking about?”
“Everyone thinks they know what they’re going to get from behind-the-scenes photos of rock stars on tour, and believe me, this ain’t it. There’s rock and roll here—sex and drugs too, but mostly it’s something… more. These shots are so intimate. I almost feel like I’m some dirty Peeping Tom, perving in on your relationship. Every photo is capturing a moment between the two of you, telling the story of this great love affair. It’s fragile, it’s haunting, and it’s un-fucking-believably beautiful.”
I’m pretty sure she has a tear in her eye.
“Shit.” I’m stunned but also worried.
“Yeah. Shit. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, too. A best-friend bone.”
“Really? Now?”
“Yes, now.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s wrong? Make it quick though, I’m under strict instructions to work the room.” I’m trying not to sound too impatient.
“Looking at these photos, even a fool can see that you’re two sheets to the wind in love with this guy, and judging by the fact that he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked into the room, I’d say the feeling is very much mutual.”
I raise my head and quickly cast my eyes around the room. Sure enough, they lock with Arlo’s again almost immediately. The lust in them is unmistakable, as is the meaning of the smirk playing at the edge of his lips. I look away quickly, but not fast enough to stop the heat from rising in my cheeks. Damn. Even from across the room, he slays me.
“No—”
She continues before I can finish. “Let’s not mention that in most of these shots he looks like a smitten kitten. I seriously can’t believe you’d be in any doubt about the two of you. I’ve known you long enough to know this is the real deal for you, and even though I don’t know him, it’s written all over his face too. This man who could have any woman in the cosmos only has eyes for you. You. Lucky. Bitch. Actually, while we’re on the subject of you being a bitch—you look ah-fucking-mazing, by the way. Like a bazillion dollars.”
She pauses briefly to breathe. Has she always talked this much? “Anyway, thank you for making one of my dreams come true, by proxy.” She smirks.
“Huh?”
“Well, Arlo Jones has been on my bucket list for eleventy forevers.” I laugh at the stupid phrase—she’s such a clown— it’s one of the reasons I love her so much.
“Now I can tick him off—one degree of separation is good enough for me” She winks in the most over-the-top, faux-discreet way, and gives me the dirtiest of dirty grins.
“Ugh, Nic, that’s gross. Are you telling me you had fucking my boyfriend on your bucket list? I think I just puked in my mouth a little! There are some things you can’t un-hear, but do me a favor, and swear that you’ll never bring that up again. Never. Ever. Deal?”
“Sure, whatevs.” She’s all-out laughing now. “In the meantime, you do realize what you just said, don’t you?” She leans forward almost conspiratorially.
“No, what?”
My mind is so full right now that I literally cannot recall the words that left my mouth mere moments ago.
“You just called Arlo your boyfriend.”
“I did not, and keep your voice down, someone might hear you and get the wrong idea.” I shush her insistently.
“You did too. And I wouldn’t worry too much about people getting the wrong impression from me. These photos have let the cat out of the bag, big time. In fact, that cat is so ‘out’ that it’s currently shimmying down the street, covered in pink glitter and doing the Macarena.”
I am so screwed. I feel a blush rising.
“Well, it’s been so lovely chatting to you.” She knows me well enough to know I’m being sarcastic. “And although I’d love to stay and further dissect my ‘love’ life, my public awaits.” I wink back at her to show no hard feelings.
Unperturbed by the abrupt end to the conversation, she picks up the joke where I left off, and runs with it.
“Dah-ling!” she drawls, throwing some air kisses my way. “Heaven forbid I should keep you from your people!”
God, I love this girl. We exchange quick hugs and she mouths “call me,” making the international symbol for telephone with her hand, as I make my way further into the room. I nod and smile. I already can’t wait for the debrief with her tomorrow.
Everywhere I turn, people are eager to congratulate me on the photos, and otherwise make small talk about life on the road with the band. Of course everybody wants to talk about Arlo; he’s the man of the moment, after all. Though most are too polite to ask, it’s obvious everyone is curious to know what’s going on between the two of us, but like the true PR pro that I’m fast becoming (ha!), I skirt the issue deftly. Apart from the fact that it’s nobody’s business but ours, I still truly don’t really know where things stand myself right now, so there’s little hope of explaining it to anyone else.
One or other of the PRs hovers at my side at all times, keeping me moving, making sure that I speak to the “important” people. In other words, the people who can make or break this book. I get it, I do, but the small talk gets old pretty damn fast, and I really just want to catch up with my friends and family, whom I have neglected for this project. I desperately want to reconnect with people, especially my poor parents, who’ve been out of sight, out of mind to me for months.
Not for the first time, I wonder how Arlo has negotiated his way through the minefield of celebrity all these years. He’s a seasoned pro, clearly, and seeing him in action fills me with renewed respect. Every time I glance over, he’s holding court with someone different (almost always a woman), and engaging with them as though he really gives a shit about what they’re saying, which knowing Arlo, is highly unlikely.
Having said that, he seems to have some kind of superpower, as whenever I settle my gaze on him for more than a nanosecond, he subtly looks my way and catches me in the act, but without alerting his conversation partner to the fact his attention is elsewhere. I feel like a thirteen-year-old girl stalking her unrequited love, yet I can’t seem to stop seeking out those green eyes.
Mom and Dad are just the cutest. They’ve flown all the way over from Australia for this, but due to Dad’s work schedule, only arrived last night. Despite their eagerness to see me (and the photos). They’re so cute. They followed my strict instructions to go to Gloria’s, rather than coming straight to the studio as soon as they landed. I was dying to see them, but just knew I’d be a stressed out mess the night before the show, and didn’t
want to drag them down my rabbit hole of worry with me. As I have been out of circulation all day today, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to catch up with them.
Every time I see them, I’m struck by what a gorgeous couple they still are. Even more so all dressed up. They look fantastic. Despite not having seen me for more than a year, with barely any cyber contact over the past six months, they wait patiently for their “turn” to talk to me, milling amongst the throng, admiring the photos like everyone else. Now we’re finally together, they’re beaming from ear to ear like the proverbial cats who got the cream. I politely dismiss the PR who is still glued to my side. I don’t need a chaperone to speak to my own parents.
Dad rushes forward and folds me into a huge bear hug, swinging me around full circle. It’s his signature move, but I really didn’t expect him to pull it here, in this crowded room where I’m meant to be a professional. Needless to say, his stunt attracts the attention of those nearby. I slap him lightly in an attempt to make him put me down, and hiss, “Dad, cut it out!” under my breath. Maybe we do need that chaperone, after all. Mom hangs back until Dad sets me down on the ground and then comes in for the group hug. It’s been too long.
He speaks first.
“Oh London, we’re so proud of you. This is outstanding. I mean, it’s just… wonderful…. All these years of watching you dance, and appreciating how good you were at it is one thing, but this is completely different. So much more of you, more personal than any of the dance stuff ever was. I feel like I’m seeing you in a whole new light.”
Mom keeps quiet, as is often the dynamic in their relationship, but sniffs. It’s only then that I realize she’s crying, though she quickly wipes the tears away, trying to keep her composure.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetheart, it’s just me being a silly old woman. I’m just so happy and proud. I’m looking at you, and you look so beautiful, and radiant, and then I look at the photos, and I’m blown away that you did this. They’re stunning, just like you,” she enthuses.
