Star Struck (18 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The velvet clung to me like a removable pelt. Its dark crimson shone against my skin, making my features glow and my hair look a deep, untouchable colour. As I clasped the wristbands around my arms and the collar around my neck, I felt very alien.

‘Wow. No, really. Wow.' Felix stood back to let me out of the bathroom. ‘That is incredible.'

The Dowager Queen of Skeldar, in all her glory. Or, at least, me in her clothes. Of all the outfits that Jack had sent up, this one revealed the least skin and also gave me a borrowed dignity. The headpiece pulled my hair back from my face, which had given me a few moments of uncertainty until Fe assured me that the scar was mostly covered by the dangling fake-jewels. I had to lace the bodice quite tightly to make the floor-length dress fit my body perfectly, although the shoes supplied with it were too high and slightly too big; the actress who wore it was a shoe size and a dress size larger than I was, but, on the plus side, the heels made me walk more regally.

‘Does make you look a bit like a Christmas tree, but apart from that …'

I aimed my Shadow rifle at him. ‘Shut up. Better a Christmas tree than a pimp.' Felix had begged a costume, and was, in consequence, wearing the get-up of a Shadow Planet refugee, mock-fur coat with big Ugg-type boots and Ray-Bans against the solar glare. ‘You look like you're trying to break into rap music.'

‘I am going to
boil
.' Fe waved his arms up and down to create a draught. ‘How does anyone manage to wear this on a film set?'

‘The wardrobe girl told me, when she brought the costumes up, that these are for publicity shots. On set they have to wear stuff they can actually walk in without sweating like carthorses.'

‘Figures.' He reached inside his furs and flapped his T-shirt. ‘So, I guess dirty dancing is out?'

‘Dirty anything. We have to hand these back after the ball, undamaged and unstained. I promised. And, since it looks like anything involving you also involves stains …'

Felix looked at me, eyes shining. ‘I can't believe I'm going to be doing this for real come next January,' he whispered. ‘
Fallen Skies
. You are
such
a clever girl, Skye.'

‘Yeah.' I didn't feel clever. But then, neither did I feel the sense of dread at attending a gathering of fans which had so paralysed me only a couple of days ago. I wasn't going to be the life and soul of the party, but I could face walking into a room full of people, and the thought of going home to my little terrace in York now filled me with warmth, not the urge to board the next plane back. ‘You were pretty clever too, Fe, getting me out here. Forcing me to face up to things.'

Felix had his back to me. ‘You think you've faced up to things?' His voice sounded odd. A bit choked.

‘Not so much faced-up to, but more … I dunno, worked through, perhaps. I was thinking, all those panic attacks that they kept telling me were “stress related”, maybe they weren't. Perhaps the doctors got it wrong. I'm starting to think that they were all symptoms of depression.'
Yeah, Skye, you miserable cow.

‘You think you were depressed.' Not a question, I noticed, and an odd stress on the words.

‘Maybe not, not proper clinical depression but … I wasn't very well. So maybe you forcing me to come here kind of kicked me out of a destructive sort of slump. Made me realise that there is more to life.'

‘And, play your cards right, you could get to take home the biggest trophy of all. Mr Whitaker clearly can't wait to have you back on home soil, and I use the term
having you
in all its possible contexts.'

‘Jack … I
like
Jack.' I adjusted the lie of the skirt. It raked across my hips to fall behind me in a heavy train, body-tight in the front and yet fluidly generous behind. ‘I just don't think he's interested in me like that. And, anyway, I don't want to jump in and replace Michael.'

‘Don't you?' Felix's voice was oddly high-pitched.

‘Michael was my fiancé. We were going to get married. I can't just up and start … well, anything with someone else after only eighteen months, it's not right.'

Felix turned and the expression on his face looked misplaced, as though he'd stuck it on the front of his head to cover his real feelings. ‘There's always Gethryn.' He gave a grin which also looked out of place.

‘That was more of a crush than anything real.'

I waited for Felix to disagree but, disappointingly, he didn't. Instead he sighed and began to strip, until he'd pulled off the coat and boots and was left in his T-shirt and jeans. He poked his feet back into his shoes but kept on the glasses. ‘Right. Now I'm going downstairs, get stuck into the Jack Daniels. I'll see you there.'

‘Glasses?'

He paused a moment. ‘Reckon they make me look mysterious, don't you think, darling? I'll keep them on.'

I sat on the edge of the bed, appreciating the costume. The weight of it hung from my shoulders and stiffened my spine; it swept along the floor with a delicious sound and, as a bonus feature, it made my boobs look pertly luscious. For the first time I knew why so many women have a Cinderella complex. ‘See you later, Fe.'

The door closed on his smug expression. Tonight I was going to relax. Gear myself up for tomorrow. Decide whether to take Jack up on his offer of an escort to the ball.

And what was stopping me? Was it
really
loyalty to Michael? According to Fe my relationship with Michael had been high-octane and frantic. He could never have been accused of intensity or moodiness, only of a desire to live life as fast and as frenetically as possible, dragging me along with him in his rocket-fuelled search for the bigger, the better, the most superlative.

Or was it Jack himself? He was so self-contained, there was something very shut-in about him. He laughed and smiled but all the time I felt there was something else going on behind it all, something he kept tightly confined. Some emotion that he didn't want spotted. And, to be honest with myself, I was afraid. That year of memory loss and the fuzzing-out of preceding years had affected me more deeply than I'd ever thought it could. If I couldn't remember even my own
fiancé
, could I even remember who
I
was? And if I couldn't remember that, then how did I know how to be with someone else? How did I know
who
to be?
And what was it that Felix knew?

Even so. It was a ball, a fancy dress ball, not an arranged marriage. And I'd look such a dork walking in on my own in this frock-of-frocks. And Jack was undeniably attractive …

The phone rang and made me jump. Horribly cautiously – who knew where I was? – I picked it up. ‘Skye Threppel, right?' said the voice on the other end. ‘Do you have a costume picked out for tomorrow?'

I didn't recognise the voice. Pure American, pure business. ‘I'm just trying it on.'

‘Great. My name's Erlon, I run The Shadow Planet.'

‘Oh,' I said, disconcerted. ‘That had better be the online fanzine, because otherwise you ought to get help.' In the series the Shadow Planet was run by the Skeel, and Erlon was most definitely not a Skeel name.

A laugh. ‘Yeah. I wonder if I could get a couple shots of you and Gethryn in your outfits? No use trying to do it tomorrow, when everyone will be getting in on the act, so I figured, tonight's my chance. I spoke with Geth earlier, he says to meet him in his trailer at twenty after seven, then I'll get some pictures of the two of you. Post 'em on the 'zine.'

‘I suppose so.' I fingered the skirt, feeling the softness. ‘Yes. Okay.' Erlon would be there, I wouldn't be left alone with Gethryn and it would be nice to be able to talk to him, to indulge my crush without alcohol intruding and blurring his actions into borderline harassment. To establish that he was a decent human being, and that what had happened out in that car park had been the result of overexcitement and unwise come-ons on my part. Besides, he was hardly going to tear all my clothes off in front of other people, was he?

It was already ten past seven, so I decided to leave immediately. For one thing, in these heels it would probably take me ages to get down to Gethryn's Winnebago, and for another, I didn't dare do anything whilst wearing the dress in case I ended up in another embarrassing situation from which Mr Whitaker had to rescue me. In fact I'd ruled out doing anything at all, apart from standing very still and
never
going to the toilet.

I adjusted my cleavage, hitched up the train and set off down the back stairs. Part way down I had to stop and haul the skirts up over my arm until it looked as though I was carrying a very heavy set of curtains. This outfit was definitely made to be seen, which was ego-boostingly reassuring, and was surprisingly comfortable to walk in, but it did spend a lot of time trying to escape off me. The weight of the velvet train almost pulled it from my shoulders, and it was only the laced-up bodice which kept my boobs from being further uncovered with every step. The whole dress swayed sensuously and rhythmically whilst trying to reveal my body a little bit at a time, as though it was a kind of mobile strip-club. I tottered down the last few stairs and arrived at the side door leading directly out onto the yard, fabric cascading around me but at least managing to prevent public indecency. A couple headed past me into the motel and did a double-take but I kept on walking, head straight, eyes forward. No-one else was about. Everyone was still too busy getting things signed, putting the final touches to their costumes, or mixing it in the bar, at least, that was what I was banking on.

I wafted around the outside of the motel until I reached the Winnebago, whirling through the dust in my draperies like a soft furnishings removal business. About a hundred yards away from the van two men in Security vests were sitting in collapsible chairs under a sunshade, watching a small TV screen. They both looked pretty fed up, arms folded, wearing Day-Glo jackets and sullen expressions, despite the hearty laughter track from the TV. I wondered about saying something to them, giving some kind of excuse for being there, but since neither of them acknowledged my passing, and neither looked as if they were up for taking a bullet for Gethryn, I didn't bother. However, outside the van a harassed-looking girl wearing a headpiece on top of punishingly short hair and carrying a clipboard stopped me.

‘Is Mr Tudor-Morgan expecting you?'

But then she had a call on the mobile clipped to her belt and headed off away from me to answer it. I was really
not
about to stand around sweating in velvet, so I tiptoed up the steps and tapped on the metal door. ‘Gethryn? It's Skye.'

There was no answer. I knocked again, harder. Then I tried the handle and the door swung outwards, nearly knocking me down. There was no outraged shout so I walked in.

The door led into an enormous living area with sofas and a central table, which gave onto a kitchen bigger than the one in my house. It contained a vast refrigerator, a microwave you could have stabled a horse in and enough leather seating for about fifty people, but no visible sink or way of preparing anything more than TV dinners. There was no-one else about.

‘Hello,' I called as I stared. ‘I've come for the photoshoot.'

Still no answer. Maybe I hadn't called loudly enough. Maybe Gethryn was giving Erlon a tour of the mobile home. Maybe they'd snuck off to get away from Her Outside with the prison haircut.

I walked further in. The floor was carpeted a deep grey which made the place look very dark, and there were signs of recent habitation in a shirt dropped over the back of a couch, a half-eaten apple turning slowly brown on the table. I picked up the shirt and self-consciously sniffed it. It smelled of some unknown cologne, something musky and citrusy, like the smell of sex itself, with an undertone of something alcoholic.

As I stood, breathing in the smell of Gethryn, I heard a sound. A low groan, as if coming from the back of a throat. I put down the shirt and moved towards the noise, picking my way down a mirror-lined corridor until it opened out into a vast bedroom. In the middle stood a bed too large to be called king-sized, it had to be emperor-sized, or possibly dictator. Spread-eagled face up across the bed with his hair dangling from one side, lay Gethryn, surrounded by a much stronger smell of alcohol. In fact, if I'd struck a match, the air would have flamed like a Christmas pudding.

‘Gethryn?' I approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the distance between me and the door.

Another groan.

‘Are you all right?'

A hand waved. It had a bottle in it. So, now I came to look at it, did the other hand. Liquid had poured over the bed sheets, over Gethryn's clothes, and his hair was damply roped with it. I took a step back and put one hand on the wall to steady myself.

‘I think I'd better fetch Jack.'

At the sound of the name, Gethryn sat up, still clutching both bottles. ‘No! Don' wan' that bastard in he'. Am havin' day off. Entitled to day off, aren't I? For rest and …' he sloshed the bottle in his right hand, ‘relaxation.' Now he got to his knees, carefully. ‘Why you come here, anyway, Skye? You here to keep me company? Man needs company on his day off. Have a drink.' He held out a bottle my way, his whole body bouncing slightly as the bed moved underneath him.