When he arrived, the queue was round the block. Not even the lead’s boyfriend received special treatment during the sold-out first night of a production, so he had no choice but to join the end.
His phone rang and he dug it out whilst shuffling forward along the pavement with the other eager theatre goers. He closed his eyes on seeing the display, but knew he couldn’t put it off. “Rose, howaya?”
“Never mind that Irish charm. What the bollocking fuck have you just sent me?”
“I don’t—”
“‘Jackson Young hasn’t been seen or heard from since his release, not even co-star Kris Sharpe could shed any light, except to say that wherever he was, he hoped he was getting the help he needed.’”
Fletcher closed his eyes at hearing his own sloppy work being read back to him. “Rose, I—”
“I could have got a fresher from the university to write that shit,” Rose slammed. “I could have ripped anyone from the street to write that shit!”
“No one’s heard from him, Rose. I can’t pluck a story out of thin air.”
“That’s exactly what you do do! That’s what I pay you to do. This piece of F-grade bullshit that was no doubt written in, what, five minutes, is boring, plain facts. What do we deal in, Fletcher Doherty?”
“Facts?” He winced.
“No. We don’t. We deal in opinion. In hearsay. In what the nation wants to read. So I ask you again, what do I want from you, Fletcher?”
“A story.”
“Bingo! I want a story. I want to know what you think. I want to know how you feel about him. I want feelings, Fletcher. Whatever those feelings are—anger, hatred, fear—fucking lust—I don’t care. I just want it. I want the nation to know what Fletcher Doherty, what London Lights magazine, owned by Charles Payne, is feeling about Jackson Young being free to roam the fucking world right now.”
Fletcher swallowed down the sudden nausea sloshing in his stomach and held the phone tighter to his ear, catching the wandering gaze from the couple in front of him. Could they hear Rose’s ranting? He offered an apologetic smile nonetheless.
“How do you feel about him?” Rose asked, her voice more intrigue than annoyance.
“I-I—” He couldn’t answer that. His throat closed, forcing him to acknowledge that he might have had Jackson all wrong at the beginning.
“You hate him.” That wasn’t a question from Rose and the word slapped him around the face as if it had been one of her silk gloves. “That’s what everyone knows. That’s what you wrote before. So I want that. I want his guilt all over your words. If you, like every other person on the planet, wanted to fuck him six months ago, bury that. Now you want him hung up and castrated. Or you’re off features and the only words you’ll be writing is the tea order.”
Fletcher went to open his mouth but thought better of saying anything more as he’d arrived at the front of the queue. Holding his phone, he gave a polite nod to the kid behind the ticket booth.
“Listen to the ka-ching, Fletcher. We get paid by people reading. Not by people sympathising.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And by eight p.m.!”
Fletcher pulled the mobile from his ear. Shite. One hour. One hour to re-write the article. And Heston’s play started in exactly thirty minutes with a policy of no admission once the curtain had gone up. Ending the call, Fletcher glanced up to the kid behind the booth, his wide eyes signifying he’d already asked a question and was politely awaiting Fletcher’s response, regardless of the huge queue having formed behind. Shit, shit, shit. He had a decision to make. One he wasn’t sure he could make by himself.
He left it to God—or more Heston—by asking, “Is there a ticket put aside for Fletcher Doherty?” Because if there wasn’t, then that was a decision taken out of his hands.
The boy flicked through the envelopes on his desk, smiled, then removed one and handed it over with a practised, “Enjoy the show.”
Feck.
Fletcher scurried to the side and allowed those behind to get through. The foyer was rammed, people milling around and buying merchandise. The posters lining the walls all held Heston’s face beaming out as Jay Gatsby and served as that ever present reminder of how Heston had made it, how his career was bright shining lights, and Fletcher was in danger of losing the only opportunity to write a real article. Heston could be proud of him for once. He could show him off to his friends not just as his arm candy. He could see him as an equal.
Should he really throw that all away for a man he barely knew? For a man who twenty-four hours ago was someone he’d despised.
Taking a deep breath, Fletcher closed his eyes and made a decision. He left the theatre, apprehension bubbling in his gut. He was missing Heston’s show. His first lead in a long while. He was a shit, fecking boyfriend and his body weighed him down with overriding guilt as he weaved in and out of the late-night crowds. He was meant to be dutiful. He was meant to give Heston everything he wanted—except that one damn thing that he refused time and time again. He’d been doing everything right. This was relationship suicide.
Still conflicted, he found the nearest coffee shop and sat, laptop open, fingers once again hovering over the keys. If he stayed here any longer, he’d miss the show and Heston would be justifiably mad. If he wrote this blasted article for Rose, he could lose Jackson’s trust. He could lose the book deal. Which would mean a shite load of money going to someone else. The potential to not only earn an income on a par with Heston, but also the chance at getting his name out there for something that wasn’t writing hateful, and hurtful, celebrity gossip would be gone. He’d be stuck where he was. He’d be known as the man with the poison pen forever.
Then it hit him. Jackson had come to him because of his writing. Because he’d written what he had about him. Because people expected him to write the scandalous stuff that London Lights paid him for and the nation clicked on, time and time again. It was why Jackson had sought him out after all. If Fletcher could change his mind about Jackson, then so could the nation.
So this… writing this was just doing what Jackson needed him to do. Keeping up the pretence until the time came to blow everyone out of the water with a different viewpoint.
Double whammy.
Wasn’t it?
Heston would understand.
Wouldn’t he?
Chapter Fifteen
Old Habits
It was funny how even after the shortest amount of time spent outside celebrity circles, how much wider the diameter felt.
Jackson wasn’t just on the periphery of one of the most prestigious and celebrity-filled nightclub haunts in central London, but also on the outskirts of his old life. He’d managed to get through the door at The Roxy without too much notice. Before sundown it was free entry, so he’d chosen the corner table at the far back to sit and wait until his old crew would make their usual appearance. If he’d been recognised, no one had said anything.
It was why he’d always preferred it here.
Everything was done with the utmost discretion.
Nursing his water as though it was whisky from times past, he hunched in the shadows and waited as day turned to night. Sundown meant that the clientele would soon change from the tourists to those dressed up ready to attract the ones who didn’t need to wait in line.