Fanfare (24 page)

I nodded silently.

“You’re not going to say ‘I told you so’?” he teased.

“There’s no reason for me to be smug. Any progress you made is entirely your own. I’m not going to be a ‘buttinski’ anymore . . . but I’m really happy you spent time with him and that it went well,” I replied in an even tone.

He responded by squeezing my hand affectionately. I noticed he navigated down many small side streets towards a destination I would never be able to find again, even on pain of death. The trail grew more and more narrow, and the asphalt became mottled with patches of cobblestone that grew in quantity with each passing step we made. Soon we came to a small alleyway that a car would never be able to traverse. The path before us consisted entirely of square grey stones that had eroded to smoothness by the passage of time and the soles of many feet treading upon their surface. The mortar between them was cracked and discolored. I had to slow down because my effing espadrilles kept turning precariously on the uneven surface. Several times Tom had to catch my arm before I pitched forward into a graceless pile that would undoubtedly leave the imprint of a two hundred year old brick on my forehead. Tom’s step never faltered as he smilingly saved me from that fate time and time again. Damn him . . . and the cobblestone.

When I nearly face-planted for the hundredth time, Tom decided he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “I fancy those shoes were an ill-advised decision.”

“The time to tell me these shoes were a bad choice was prior to leaving the house, smartass. I do recall specifically asking you about my outfit.”

“Pardon me for not remembering that the last time I wore high heels in London, walking was a real bitch,” he joked.

“You think you’re so funny.”

He laughed and came to an abrupt halt when he noticed a group of girls our age walking directly towards us while cackling and carrying on in a manner that suggested mild intoxication.

Trapped in the narrow alleyway, we stood still with baited breath and hoped they would pass by us without noticing anything.

And then . . .

A girlish screech pierced the night air.

“Holy shit! It’s-it’s . . . THOMAS ABRAMSON!” one girl cried. The others merely stood there and gaped at us for a lingering moment. Once the shock wore off, they rushed him without a second thought. One of the young women actually threw her arms around Tom’s neck for a hug! A flurry of comments flew around us, and it became difficult for me to process anything as their praise melded together to form a banshee wail of worship.

“Tom! Your last film was absolutely brilliant! Oscar-worthy!”

“God, my sister will never believe this!”

“What are you doing in London? Can I take a picture with you?”

“Where’s my bloody camera when I need it?”

“Can I get your autograph?”

“This is unbelievable! I swear I’m not crazy, but I’m totally in love with you!”

“Does anyone have a fucking pen?”

Wordlessly, I reached into my purse and produced a black pen that was immediately snatched from my hand. Tom smiled and tried to field their questions with as much poise as he could manage while scribbling quickly on scraps of paper. Creases of strain marred his forehead when they pushed him for a picture.

“I’d really rather not,” he said kindly as one girl flourished her camera.

“Oh, please! I promise not to sell it to a newspaper or anything!”

The look of sardonic dubiousness that graced his expression was completely lost on her as she tried to rally her friends for the photo. The hilarity continued when none of them would step forward to snap the shot, lest they risk being left out of the moment forever. Sense befell one of the girls as she spun around to look for help and unwittingly noticed me for the first time. Her face flushed crimson in realization.

“Blimey, is this your girlfriend?” she stated awkwardly.

“Yes,” Tom responded. “Her name is Cristina.”

“Oh! I saw a picture of her last week from a party in Hollywood. You looked so . . . different!” remarked another girl.

Finally nearing the end of my patience, I forced myself to smile broadly at the brood before I stuck my hand out for the camera. “I can take the picture, if you like.” Then please leave us alone.

I was treated to a chorus of “thank you” in exchange for my efforts.

After we managed to escape, Tom reverted back to his familiar stance of constant vigilance and slouched self-awareness.

“God, that was so awkward!” I remarked quietly as we continued to our destination. “Is that what usually happens?”

“More or less.”

“Man, if people I didn’t know ran at me for a hug, I would probably punch them before they could get close enough,” I continued.

The lines on his face faded as he peered down at me and laughed. “Then it’s a good thing they didn’t try to hug you. Truly, I’m starting to get used to it.”

“I don’t think I could ever get used to complete strangers invading my personal space like that.”

His expression was pensive as he paused for further consideration. “I wish I hadn’t frozen in place like a moron when I saw them. I should have, I don’t know . . . pushed us against the wall and starting snogging until they passed or something, but I couldn’t think of anything to do at the moment . . . I just froze. Idiot.”

“You’ve watched too many James Bond movies. Making out in a dark alleyway isn’t the key to remaining nondescript. If I saw two people going at it, I would definitely stop to watch,” I teased.

My cheesy attempt worked. He exhaled through his amusement and walked forward with a more lighthearted step. A few moments later, he stopped before an old wooden door with weather-beaten varnish and held it open for me. As I stepped into the dimly lit room, the scent of cigarettes and alcohol inundated me. Raucous laughter filled the air and a cloudy haze of smoke settled around us. The sparse lighting illustrated the unfurling wisps that twisted in response to the movements below in a macabre dance. The establishment was half-filled with patrons in varying degrees of inebriation.

Without pausing, Tom took my hand and led me to the back of the pub with purposeful strides. My eyes adjusted to the lighting as a booth directly ahead of us came into view where two men were seated.

“It’s about bloody time! Did you leave your watch at home, mate?” one of them crowed in a mocking tone as we slid seamlessly into the booth.

“I actually left it at your mum’s,” Tom jeered back with a wide grin.

“Piss off!” He punched Tom roughly and clapped him on the back in a gesture of affectionate welcome.

“Thomas is buying the next round since he’s a filthy millionaire . . . and the one after that, as well,” the other guy said sarcastically.

Tom chuckled in acquiescence and turned to me. “Cris, this is Ben.” He motioned to his friend who had mocked him about the watch. He had a curly mop of blond hair and an extremely friendly expression on his stout face. “And this ugly tosser is Philip.” Tom smiled at the man directly across from us. Philip was a far cry from ugly with his thick, black hair and tanned skin. I was certain the brooding badass had broken the hearts of many women. He stared at me with striking green eyes filled with curiosity.

Ben leaned over Tom with his hand outstretched for mine. “Christ, Abramson! You did a shoddy job describing her to me. Cris, this pitiful sod here talks about you like you’re his new religion, so it’s really a pleasure to meet you.”

I blushed furiously at his open gaze of admiration.

Philip smiled at me with a nod and said, “Really glad to meet you, as well.”

“He talks about you guys and all the trouble you got him into all the time, so it’s great to finally put names with faces,” I said warmly.

“Us? He thinks we got him into trouble? Bollocks! This moron could act his way out of anything. Those big eyes worked miracles whenever we were caught doing something naughty. I always had to serve out harsher sentences than either of these two. Being cute has its perks,” Ben commented.

“You idiot. You deserved to get caught. Every ill-advised thing I ever did was because I was daft enough to listen to you,” Philip retorted at Ben.

“It’s not my fault you’re both so damn gullible!” Ben shot back.

“Gullible? More like conned! You’d sell crayons to the blind if you thought you could get away with it!” Tom jeered.

“Shut your face, you tosser!” He turned his twinkling eyes in my direction. “So tell me, what’s it like dating a movie star?” Ben asked me in a teasing voice. His gaze shot over to Tom as though he knew he would emerge the victor in the Battle of Heckling.

Taken off guard, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Dude, I have no idea how to answer that kind of question.”

He laughed in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want a beauty pageant answer about how meaningful and eye-opening an experience it’s been? Do you want me to tell you about being chased down the street by crazy fans? Do you want to know what it’s like to have half the world’s population hate me? What exactly do you want to know?”

Philip groaned. “Never ask Ben that kind of question.”

Ben leaned forward in anticipation but was promptly cut off by Tom.

“No you don’t! Don’t even think about it!”

Ben ignored Tom with a wicked wagging of his eyebrows. “I think I’ll settle for something . . . highly embarrassing and potentially lucrative.” He paused for effect. “Kiss and tell. What’s it like to snog a movie star?”

“You bastard!” Tom moaned.

I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled from my lips at the sight of Tom flushing a deep red under Philip’s watchful eyes and Ben’s elated mockery.

“Nope.” I shook my head through the mirth. “I’m not answering that one.”

“I could make it worth your while. If we sell the tale to a trashy tabloid, I’m sure you could run away with me to a deserted island. It would make a brilliant story: ‘Beautiful Idiot Dumps Handsome Movie Star for Chubby Best Friend,’ ” he pressed on, heartless in his attempt to make Tom squirm and get a good laugh in the process.

“See, I never know why these girls who hook up with a movie star go online or to these gossip magazines to blab about their story. They go on and on about ‘what a great kisser he is’ and whatnot. It just makes no sense to me,” I stated carefully.

“Why not?” Philip asked, unable to conceal his interest.

“Personally, I wouldn’t do it, and my reasons are far from being honorable,” I hedged.

“Blast it, woman, just tell us!” Ben crowed with delight.

“Well, it stands to reason that if they ‘kiss and tell,’ they aren’t likely to have any further encounters with their heartthrob. So, I won’t kiss and tell because I definitely want more . . . much, much more.” I winked at Ben suggestively, and Tom’s countenance turned several different shades of mortified as they all digested the clear meaning behind my insinuation. Even Philip couldn’t hold back his loud guffaw.

After Ben finished cackling at the look on Tom’s face, he managed to bark out, “I’m marrying this woman. Seriously: smart, funny as hell, and completely gorgeous.”

“You wish,” Tom replied morosely.

“No, mate—you wish.” Ben grinned at Tom.

The evening progressed as the level of comfort continued to increase between us all—aided by never-ending mugs of Guinness. Stories of the trio and their dastardly deeds throughout the years flew across the table, and the tales only made me even more enamored by Tom and his friends. Ben and Philip were witty and unfailingly loyal. They both tried to hide their pride in Tom’s achievements, but it was so nakedly apparent in their affection that it was impossible to conceal it for long. Soon, Ben turned his torrent of mockery onto me with an ease that heartened my soul.

After three solid hours of conversation and more pitchers of beer than I cared to count, Ben made a suggestion that I initially thought was merely in jest.

“Gentlemen . . . and lady, of course! I suggest we return to my flat for a drunken round of Guitar Hero!” he proclaimed.

“What the fuck? Guitar Hero?” Tom replied dubiously.

I laughed; no one else did. “Are you serious?”

“I’m extremely serious about Guitar Hero,” Ben asserted.

“He’s not kidding. Every time he gets even slightly smashed, he wants to play that bloody game. I won’t lie, it’s great fun,” Philip admitted.

“I don’t know how to play!” I moaned.

“Neither do we. That’s what makes it ridiculously fun. Of course, Tom is not allowed to play the guitar. That would be the grossest kind of cheating. I nominate Abramson to be our drummer,” Ben announced.

“I thought the game was only for the guitar, hence the name Guitar Hero,” Tom argued.

“No, no, no . . . that was then. This is now—the era of Guitar Hero World Tour. Watch and learn, you peon. Watch and learn.”

“This should be interesting,” Philip chuckled to himself.

“Final mike check . . . Testing, testing,” Philip slurred as he clung to the microphone two hours later.

We all dripped sweat. Ben’s flat was stifling with the combination of our body heat and the exertions of the last ninety minutes. The beer had followed us to our makeshift stage, and we stood in a semi-circle in front of the television. Tom had removed his soaked shirt and was seated behind a small ring of black “drums.” Philip clutched the microphone as the bare-chested lead singer of our band. Ben played bass guitar.

“You can’t fuck this up, Cris. We’re all counting on you,” Ben cheered with a huge grin of camaraderie on his face.

Yep, you guessed it. I, Cristina Pereira, had been conned into playing lead guitar by three drunken Englishmen. I will admit: it was a great deal harder than I ever would have thought. I will also admit I had a blast.

“Make sure you don’t start the last riff until I finish singing the line, ‘He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus,’ ” Philip pressed.

“Piss off!” I replied drunkenly. “Ben, you worry about staying on beat because you weren’t fooling me the second time we came to the chorus, and you’d better not forget the words again, Mr. I’m-So-Perfect Philip. This time, the one who ruins it has to put two shots of whiskey in their Guinness,” I announced. My shirt was soaked through in an incredibly unbecoming fashion, and my hair was matted to my forehead as though I had spent the last hour swimming in a pool rather than playing a video game. I didn’t care one bit.