Last night, I barely got an hour’s sleep again. I laid in bed, trying to convince myself that everything will be okay. I cried. I last cried four years ago when my grandad died. Since she sent me away, I’ve been a fucking baby.
At least I have some distraction for the next three days. I’m in London because I’ve got two TV and four radio appearances.
Indie should have been coming here on Saturday. She was going to meet me after the TV interviews, and I was going to take her for dinner up The Shard. After, we would have rode The London Eye. She would have loved it.
The reservation is cancelled, and I no longer need to pay five hundred pounds for a private pod and extra champagne. Nothing about that is a relief. I was looking forward to spoiling her a little. Seeing how excited she got overlooking London. Sipping champagne until she was tipsy, and smiling so much it made her cheeks ache.
The absence of her is a constant ache in my chest that I can’t take anything for.
Surely, she has to realise the mistake she made soon.
We can’t do this forever. I won’t do this forever.
Someone knocks on my door. I want it to be her, but she doesn’t know what suite I’m in, and the hotel wouldn’t tell her.
I run my hands through my hair. It’s time to leave. I need to pretend that I’m happy for the next few hours while I sell the movie’s DVD, and myself, to the world. The movie is no longer in cinemas, and I’m taking a year off, but I still need to remain relevant.
Denny’s words.
We spoke a couple days ago when he tried to get me to go back and audition for this other gig. I’m still taking the year. I plan to use it to get my girl back.
Denny’s words also included talking about some work here in London. An advert, a couple of modelling gigs, TV appearances… shit like that.
He’s right.
I open the door, and there he is.
“Denny?”
“The one and only, my man,” he says in his fast-American accent. Slapping my shoulder, he says, “You ready to split?”
“Why are you here?”
“Someone needs to stop the spiral. I’m here to make sure you’re doing okay after turning down the movie.”
“We had a long chat about that.”
He holds his palms up, while I grab my wallet and phone. “I’m not saying you’re wrong for putting her first, man, but we need to make sure everyone in the industry is still spunking in their pants over the thought of getting you on board.”
“Some producers are women.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know, I’ve slept with a lot of them.”
No one loves this industry more than he does.
We head down towards the lobby and Peter—a mountain of a man whose muscles have muscles—follows us. He’s my security for the weekend. A nice man, he consumes four times the number of calories needed a day, and has a husband called Malcolm.
He’s the reason I worked out until my arms and legs burned last night.
“Morning,” I say. He nods, his eyes everywhere. Peter takes his job very seriously.
“When do you have to be in LA?” I ask Denny.
“I’m heading back out tomorrow.”
We walk through the lobby, and the world turns to face me.
“Spencer Lowe! Oh my God, look, Mum!”
Chuckling, I give the girl a nod, and her eyes widen.
“He looked at me!” she squeals.
She must be about fifteen or sixteen. Denny and I walk through the door with Peter’s footsteps thudding behind us.
“This is us,” Denny says, opening the door to a fucking Hummer. I get in the passenger side, Peter the front. I can’t judge him, I have one in LA. But mine doesn’t stick out there.
“Really?” I ask Denny as the driver pulls into thick London traffic.
“I brought a little part of home with me.” I can just see him now, calling around every chauffer service until he found the car he wanted. “How are you doing?” he finally asks.
“Not great.”
“She’ll see sense.”
“I hope so.”
“Buy her a beach house in Malibu. Chicks love that.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn back to him. “If that would work on her, I’d already have the keys. Indie is different.”
“You’re pretty, rich, famous, and she loves you.”
“The famous thing is working against me.”
He waves his hand. “We’ll have that sorted. There’s plenty of security we can put in place. Let me get you someone who can deal with PR. Sandra Dickinson, a real fucking shark, works for Julia Jones.”
Julia Jones is the leading lady everyone wants. She’s in her thirties, and an actress I’ve looked up to for a long time. I’d love to work with her.
“You think that would work?”
“Have you ever heard about Julia’s battle with her crazy mother, or the time she crashed her car into a truck on the freeway.”
“I see your point.”
I haven’t heard of any of that. Of course, I know that you can keep certain things from getting out, but the more people know about those things, the harder they are to contain. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to protect my life with Indie. I’ll happily share myself with the world, but they don’t have a right to every part of me.
We arrive at the studio forty-five minutes later. We’ve probably only driven two miles. Peter escorts us in, and I’m ushered away for make-up.
It’s my least favourite part of the job. It feels horrible having powder on my skin.
An hour later, after I’ve met Pierre Gastly in the green room—a celebrity chef with an ego the size of the solar system—it’s my turn on the sofa.
Maven Wallis smiles with her pouty lips and rosy cheeks. She’s the nation’s sweetheart of daytime TV.
“I have to say, Spencer, it’s a real pleasure to have you here. The movie is a huge success.”
“Thank you. I’m still in awe of how the world has responded to me.”
“Well, we’re in awe of you. Small town
