Unlikely Love: A Romance Single (6 page)

“I don't need a man to save me, just so you know,” she pointed at him, “I've managed to tackle my way through this industry on my own, and it's not been easy. This girl can still handle herself.”

“That's the East-End in you,” he winked as he leaned further into his hand.

It sounded like something her mother would say. It only made her realize she hadn't spoken to her for over a month, and made the homesickness she'd felt for a long time, rumble away.

“I don't feel like that East-End girl anymore,” she laughed, “that's been truly stamped out of me.”

“You shouldn't need to change for anybody,” Nolan whispered.

A strand of hair freed itself as she turned to face him. Without hesitation, he reached out and tucked it behind her ear again.

“Try and tell that to my manager Tony.”

“Okay, where is he?” Nolan glanced around the bar.

Delilah had almost forgotten that it was filled with men mumbling in Spanish to each other.

“In LA, in hospital recovering from a hip replacement.”

“Not so easy then,” he winked, “I'll be sure to write a strongly worded letter.”

She couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, but it warmed her. She couldn't imagine André telling her not to change. The truth was, André barely knew her, and their relationship only came about after both of their managers introduced them for a photo opportunity when she was in Paris. They got talking and there was some chemistry, but she was sure it was purely sexual. There wasn't much else going on.

“Tony's not a bad guy, it's just the way the game works.”

“Should it be?”

Delilah shrugged. She'd thought about it before, but she never argued. She cared about the money she sent back to her family far too much to jeopardize her situation.

“I'm not in a position to change it.”

“Of course you are!” he whispered, “You should be able to create whatever art you want.”

“That doesn't make money.”

She could feel herself getting angry at the questioning. Mainly because, something inside her agreed with everything he was saying. It was as if he was awakening Delilah Smith with every word.

“Money isn't important. I mean, it helps, but it's not important.”

“It is if you want to live!” she snapped, “You think I'm all about partying and being a diva, but that's not why I got into it. I got into it to make money for my family. The rest of it is just white noise and I go along with it to do what I need to do.”

“And that's what makes you interesting,” he leaned in.

She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. It was as if he knew everything she'd just told him, and he couldn't get that from a simple internet search. She kept her opinions on her work to herself.

Nolan could see the real Delilah, and that made him even more attractive, and that was dangerous.

“It does, doesn't it?” she snapped back, “I told you. I'm not interesting.”

“If you weren't interesting, I wouldn't be sitting her talking to you and wasting my time. I have work to be getting on with in my room, but I'm enjoying getting to know you.”

“Well I'm sorry for wasting your time Nolan. You should get back to work,” her defense was back in place.

“Okay then,” he said, jumping up from his bar stool.

Without another word, he bid goodbye to the man he'd been talking to and headed towards the door before Delilah knew what was going on. Staring at the empty chair in front of her, she suddenly felt alone in a strange place. The clock on the wall told her that they'd been talking for nearly an hour, and yet it felt like they'd only been sat there for a few minutes.

“Wait,” she called after him.

He stopped just as he was about to open the door. He didn't turn around, leaving her to stare at the back of his head. Grabbing her clutch, she pulled out a random note and tucked it under her glass and slid off the stool, hitching her dress down before walking after him. She made sure to walk slowly across the filled room, as not to attract attention to herself. The last thing she wanted was to appear desperate. Delilah White didn't need to spend time with a journalist.

“I still have that rosé in my room,” she said casually, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“Are you asking me up to your room, Miss White?” he didn't turn around, but Delilah could feel his dimples coming out to play.

“Shut up and open the door before I change my mind.”

He did as he was told and headed towards the staircase, without looking over his shoulder at her. Frozen to the spot, she watched as his slender waist sauntered off into the dark hall, with his broad and muscular shoulders swaying from side to side under the denim shirt.

She pulled a roll-on perfume stick from her bag and ran the sweet and luxurious scent behind her ears, down her neck and between the cleavage of her plunging black dress.

She had no idea what she was doing, but as she followed him up the stairs, she told herself she was insane.

Delilah White didn't have to lower herself to '
normal
' guys.

Silently, she struggled with the door as Nolan headed back into his own room to get some glasses that he'd 'borrowed' from the bar so he didn't have to drink from the bottle like Delilah and Marcus had done. When she finally heard the lock click, she ran into her room and her heart sank.

In her hurry to get out of the hotel and to the club, she'd left the room in a worse state than she remembered. Designer dresses scattered the bed, completely covering it. She'd tried almost all of them on before settling on the simple black number she was wearing. Heels covered the floor, makeup covered the dresser and handfuls of screwed up money and coins were dotted around the tiny room. The light was still on over her bed and the scent of her sweet perfume lingered in the air, mixed with Marcus's fruity aftershave.

She scooped up the dresses and kicked the shoes under the bed. Turning around in the room she tried to find somewhere to dump them, but when she heard Nolan's door softly close, she opened the bathroom door, launched them into the shower and slammed it.

“I think they need washing,” he said, holding the glasses up to the light, “they're a little dirty.”

He walked towards her, but she clutched the door knob behind her back.

“No, its fine,” she smiled, flicking her hair out of her face, “they look fine to me.”

Nolan squinted at her before smiling. She was sure he could sense her nerves. She didn't even know why she was nervous. It could be because she had a strange man in her bedroom who she hated and felt attracted to, in equal parts.

“Do you want to drink this on the balcony?” he picked up the bottle of wine and stepped over a bright pink bra and a single red stiletto, “it's a beautiful starry night tonight.”

She breathed a sigh of relief as he unlocked the window and slid open the door. She was surprised that it looked a lot bigger than it did from the ground. Two plastic chairs sat in the corner with a dirty plastic table. It wasn't much, but it was somewhere to the drink wine.

They sat on the chairs, and as Nolan poured the wine, Delilah stared out at the city. Past the hotel, it was quite breathtaking to look at. The lights of the buildings twinkled delicately in the dark night sky, reflecting the twinkling of the stars that were scattered above them. A light breeze licked her face, relieving her from the exhausting heat.

“So,” Nolan said as he sipped his wine.

She copied him, and took another sip because he was right about it being good wine. She clung onto the cloudy glass as if it was a direct link to the life she'd grown used to.

“So,” she repeated back to him.

It was much more awkward alone on the balcony than it had been in the bar. Even if she didn't realize the people were sat behind them, they were there to act as background noise when there were silences. As they sat in the dark, sipping wine, the only noises came from their breathing, slurring and the distant sound of police sirens and the faint pounding of music.

“Do you like Spain?” he asked.

“I haven't seen much,” she said sipping the delicious wine.

“What?” he cried, “You're missing out.”

“I don't have time,” she sipped again.

It was going straight to her head.

“It's such a beautiful country. You really need to get some sightseeing done before you leave.”

“I'll think about it.”

Sightseeing was something Delilah didn't do.

“As a travel journalist, I insist you do! I've been to every corner of this planet, and there are some amazing places here.”

“I've done my share of traveling. I just don't tend to see much outside of the hotels and tour bus.”

Nolan paused to sip the wine. He pulled his jaw slightly, letting Delilah know he wasn't enjoying it as much as she was.

“Looking, but never seeing,” he said.

“I didn't realize you were a philosopher as well as a journalist.”

“You don't need to be one to know you only get one shot at this life. This isn't a rehearsal.”

Delilah had heard those words a hundred times by different people, but it was only with Nolan that they really seemed to sink in. Was she really just coasting along, ignoring everything around her? She was 23, and yet she knew very little of the world outside of the bubble she lived in.

“I'll get Marcus to fit in some sightseeing somewhere,” she whispered, sipping the wine.

A gust of cool air swept across her face, brushing strands of her fake hair. Just like in the bar, Nolan reached out and tucked them behind her ear. She sat, frozen as his fingers brushed gently across her skin. They felt rough and used, unlike her own soft hands.

“Tell me something about yourself that I don't know,” he whispered softly, filling up both of their glasses.

As she stared at the already half-empty bottle of wine she tried to rack her brain. Firstly, to ask herself why he was asking and why she should tell him anything and secondly, to ask herself what she could possibly tell him that he hadn't already found out for himself from his research.

“I'm not a natural blonde,” she smiled, automatically flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“You're not?” he faked a gasp, “Shock horror.”

Even to the untrained eye, it was clear that her long and blonde hair wasn't real. It wasn't platinum blonde, but it was as light as the stylist could get it without destroying it.

“I mean, it's really dark. Really, really dark. Almost black,” she continued.

“So why change it?” he looked puzzled.

“They said I looked too '
ethnic
'. The label –

“The label told you to change it?” he interrupted.

She scowled at him and slammed her glass on the plastic table and folded her arms. She didn’t know how he knew exactly what she was thinking. Was she really that transparent?

“Blonde sells,” she said bitterly.

“That seems to be a recurring theme,” he raised his brows and sipped the wine.

He didn't seem to be judging, he just seemed concerned. They were practically strangers to each other, but she felt as if he understood her.

“So, Mister Journalist. Why don't you tell me something I don't know about you? I only found out your name tonight. Spill.”

He smiled, amused with her question, and set his wine on the table next to hers. He leaned back in his chair and started to drum his fingers against his chest. The white plastic let out an eerie creak under his weight. Her eyes instantly darted to them as they landed over and over against his tanned and slightly hairy chest. She thought about André and his perfectly smooth chest. She'd forgot there were men still out there who didn't pluck and wax every inch of their body into perfection. Nolan's untamed brows and messy stubble told her that.

“I knew who you were,” he smiled, looking down at his drumming fingers, “when you came to my door, I instantly knew who you were.”

“And you made me look like a fool?”

“I thought it was funny.”

“How was that funny?”

“You were acting like such a diva,” he laughed, “I didn't want to give you the satisfaction you wanted.”

It sounded very similar to something Delilah had thought herself, but about Nolan. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he got to her. Had they really been playing this game of back and forth since their first meeting?

“I'm not a diva,” she mumbled.

Her own tone surprised her. She'd been called it many times, but it was the first time it actually hurt her. Thinking back to her display, she cringed, because she came off like a diva. Was that really the person she'd become?

“You act like one,” he flicked his dark eyes up to her, “a lot of the time.”

The words hurt her again. She shook her head, letting her hair tickle the top of her exposed back. Was she really that bad?

“I just get worked up,” she shrugged, “people do too much for you, and you get used to it. I say jump, and everyone asks me
'how high Miss White?
'. When I don't get that, it takes me by surprise.”

“And you lash out."

“I don't,” she was on the defense, “I don't mean to, anyway.

She thought back to the dark haired girl, walking around her estate in London, keeping her head down and dreaming of making it big.

“Don't worry, I found it funny,” his smile was soft

Even through the dark she could see his dimples.

“How old are you?"

“27,” he responded quickly.

Delilah hadn't been far off.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me? Seeing as we're already at that place.”

She surprised herself because she wanted to open up to him. She wanted him to ask her questions and she wanted to tell him things she hadn't told anybody before. When she realized how ridiculous it was, she gripped her wine glass and downed the contents.

Nolan responded by refilling it, and topping up his own.

“Tell me about your family."

That was the only thing Delilah wasn't sure of talking about, but she didn't stop herself.

“I have my mum and my brother, Jamie. He's only 13. I haven't seen him in months, and it's hard. I miss them all the time.”

“Is it worth it?”

“Is what worth it?”

“Working away and not seeing them.”

Delilah thought about that all the time, but she couldn't see any other way.             

“I do it for them. I do it because they have nothing and I can make something of myself to help us all. In the beginning, you don't make that much. So much of it goes on styling and promotion, but the money I do make, I try to give as much of it to them as I can.”

“But you don't get to see them enjoy it?”

“Not as much as I'd like.”

She didn't want to tell him that she'd only been home a handful of times for fleeting visits.

“That's a shame,” he nodded his head to the side, “you work hard for them, and you don't get to see them.”

“Nobody said this life was easy,” she sighed, “but there's enough stuff going on to take my mind off them.”

“Like hotel drama, designer clothes and parties?”

“Something like that.”

Nolan's eyes locked on hers through the dark as he drank his wine. It made her stomach knot and tighten. Was it a hunger pain, or was more than that?

“Isn't that a pointless existence?” he asked.

Delilah White didn't take kindly to people calling what she did '
pointless
'. She had fans all around the world, shelves full of awards, millions of video hits and record sales. Was all that really pointless?

“No,” she snapped, “what I do isn't pointless.”

“Do you enjoy it though?” he was serious and somber.

“Of course I do! People would kill to be in my position,” she snapped.

Every time he spoke, she found herself getting angrier and angrier with him. How dare he question every aspect of her life so bluntly.

“As long as you're happy,” his eyebrows rose above his glasses.

Happiness didn't always come in to it. Did the luxury make her happy, or did it distract her from the unhappiness deep within?

“I am,” she didn't sound too sure.

Nolan was making her question everything, and she hated him for that. She tried to focus on the performance, but her mind was cloudy. Was it from the wine, or the questioning?

“Delilah, you don't have to bullshit me,” he stopped drumming on his chest and jumped up, almost scaring Delilah as he leaned in closer to her, “I'm not working for your label or interviewing you. You don't have to give me the
Miss America
answers.”

“You want fucking honesty?” she cried, “It breaks my heart that I only get to see my family through a video phone. It breaks my heart that I don't get to play the guitar I've been playing since I was a little girl. Is that honest enough for you?”

Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking out of control as she clutched onto the armrests of the plastic chair.

“I understand,” he said deeply as he leaned in closer, “you don't have to keep it bottled up with me, because I can see past the designer clothes and the blonde hair.”

“How do you understand anything?” she laughed.

She was surprised when her eyes started to well up with tears.

“I've been in situations where I felt like I was just going along with life. It's like the lights are on, but nobody is home, right?”

“Something like that?”

“Except with you, Delilah Smith is asleep and Delilah White takes over. A '
label
' creation. Not a real person.”

“How do you know my name is Smith?”

“Oh come on,” he laughed, “nobody has secrets on the internet.”

“I am a real person,” she shrugged, as she tried to force the tears back.

“You are right now,” he urged her, “now that we're talking frankly.”