Dangerous Territory

Sleep didn’t happen again, probably all the tea I drank. I spent the night reading the PA book, and was making good progress when my phone beeped. A message from my parents checking I was still alive. I’m guessing they forgot about time differences. I sent a standard reply, telling them about my job, but not mentioning who I worked with. At some point I must have drifted off as my phone woke me.

It was a text from Van; ‘No work today, have a day off. See you tomorrow’ Along with an address and time. I should have been happy, but I just felt deflated. I reeled off a reply, telling him to eat something green and make sure he kept up with the water. He sent me a photo of some Midori.

          ‘You can’t eat that!’ I replied. ‘Plus that won’t help with the dehydration we spoke about.’

          ‘I could eat it if I froze it. Go have fun, don’t worry about if I’m eating or not. ;p’

          ‘Midori is Japanese for green. They say you should learn something new every day. I’ll leave you be, just please eat something that is actually in a food group! And get some sleep!’ I replied, wanting to go to wherever he was.

Days off were pointless to me, I had no friends to visit, nothing to do, no money to do it with… Today was going to suck balls. I headed back to see Sage and do more research. I needed to know who represented him, introduce myself to the people he had given me the contact details of, and if I had time, drool over photos of him. There was always time for that though.

          I also wanted to check my Facebook page, email etc. and put links up to Van’s art site to see if I could help him raise a bit more money. I then did something very stupid. I looked him up on Twitter and FB. Bad times. If I thought other movie stars had rabid fans foaming at the mouth, it was nothing in comparison to Van. Holy crap were they mental! He had no end of messages offering to be the mother of his next child, wedding proposals (and my personal favourite) a link to a website where a grown woman had cut and pasted photos of brides and grooms, and added hers and Van’s faces. It was too much! I sent a link to Van, snorting back laughter at the pictures this 40 something had made. Photoshop was being abused in the worst possible sense! But her page linked to others even more frightening. There were the Garbage Pail Girls who went through the bins of anywhere they knew he had stayed looking for items of clothing he might have thrown away, used toothbrushes…it turned my stomach. They even had photos of their ‘hauls’ (though they didn’t really know if they had been Van’s or another customer of the hotel’s!)  There were used boxer shorts which included a description of their smell (I threw up in my mouth at the description of how amasing Van’s arse apparently smelt), used tissues… I had to click off that page, I was going to be seeing the Vegan Cupcake again. Sage was an amasing baker, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate seeing her work coming out of me in a violent torrent of vomit.

          From there it just got weirder. There were cults set up in his honour, a page for the ‘Hates’ I.E the women he had dated that these women loathed and detested. I’m sure some of his fans were wonderful and respectful, but these ones scared the crap out of me, I’d no doubt be joining that list soon enough if I were ever photographed with him. I was thankful that so far I hadn’t encountered any screaming, crying girls (and women) as I had no idea of how I would deal with it. Pepper spray? A TASER? All the fun things that weren’t legal in England…

Should I had self-defense training to my list? Or a course in being a body guard? That would be frigging AWESOME! Maybe I should look into that…

It was a quiet, boring day of too much caffeine, random tweets on Facebook to pretend I had people to talk to, and posting links to Sage’s café to encourage some custom. The place was dead which I couldn’t understand as she was really reasonable price wise, but the V word did tend to scare off ‘normal’ people (Vegan). Everyone here seemed to either have it all, or be scratching in the dust, it was the weirdest place I’d ever been. It would take some getting used to. I had no more change, so had to head home. What an exciting day. I couldn’t wait to actually have work again tomorrow, even if it did involve a huge amount of sitting around, I could get some reading done. I had nearly finished the PA book and wanted to move on to the legal one. I hated heading back to my depressing, empty, lonely flat, knowing I’d have a puddle of pee to greet me (it was now a daily occurrence.) Maybe I could rig some kind of electric fence so that whoever was doing it (I had my suspicions) would get a huge jolt of electrical current through them. If only I’d been an electrician or engineer!

 

I had my iPod as loud as it would go, and was hacking the unholy hell out of carrots when my phone rang. I saw it rather than heard it, vibrating a little trail across the side board. I caught it just as it was about to hit the floor. It was Van. Crap. I hoped he didn’t need anything as I doubted I’d find a cab at this time and I really didn’t want to step outside my front door. Was this part of my job?

          “Mr. Murphy?” I said as I answered it, chucking the carrot sticks into a plastic box and lobbing them unceremoniously into the fridge.

          “Van. Seriously, no more Mr. Murphy. Could you open your door? I feel like I’m going to be murdered if I stand out here any longer.”

Crap! He was outside! What the hell! Oh god this was bad, this was so bad! I didn’t have seats for him to sit on, a radio to cover a lack of conversation, or even anything for him to drink. Shit! And how in the hell was a Hollywood movie star lowering himself to come to this hellhole? If any of my ‘delightful neighbours’ realised who he was, they’d hold him ransom! I looked around the apartment quickly to check there was no underwear scattered across the floor, and checked my reflection very quickly in the mirror. I looked like hell. Nothing new there so he should get used to it.

          I opened the door slowly, not completely believing that he was going to be stood there. He was, and he was carrying a bottle and a basket.

          “Nice area you live in George.”

I nodded once with a sigh and stepped aside for him.

He entered my disgusting, dank, depressing little flat and looked around, being polite enough not to say what a dump it was.

          “House warming gift.” He handed me the basket and bottle. “Vegans are a nightmare to buy for. I found an awesome cupcake shop but you won’t eat them.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled brightly, not looking remotely fussed about being here, right in the middle of hell. He was an actor after all, and this was an Oscar worthy performance. If I were him, I’d have turned around and left by now.

He was dressed casually in low slung jeans with the knee torn, a black tight fitting t shirt that had a zombie on it, and a leather jacket. He lost points for the leather.

          The basket was full of the most perfect looking fresh fruit I had ever seen, each looking as though they might be fake as they were so flawless. The bottle was champagne and probably cost more than this apartment did to build, not that I had a clue about that kind of thing.

I would have told him to make himself at home, to sit and get comfortable, but it was literally the bed or the toilet in the way of seats.

          “Thank you, this is incredibly sweet. Would you like a glass?” I held up the bottle.

He nodded, still looking around him. He couldn’t have failed to notice the peeling wallpaper, the cracking paint on the window frames, the screaming traffic outside, the hellish base line of my neighbour’s shitty music or the lack of, well, anything resembling furniture. My suitcase was my chest of drawers, my shower curtain rail was for hanging clothes… the bed was my chair/dining room table/desk and that was the extent of the possibilities in this hole.

          I opened the bottle, wanting to apologize for how vile the place was, to tell him to leave before he caught something, or run away screaming and pretend this had never happened. I poured two tumblers of champagne and handed him one. At least I had glasses, even if they weren’t the right ones.

          “Want to sit?” I indicated the tiny side room and pointed to the bed, cringing internally at how bad this was.

He took the glass and lead the way into the bedroom. There was a Hollywood movie star in my bedroom. There was a Hollywood movie star on my bed! Poor, poor man having to endure this.

          “I’m so sorry about the state of this place…you must be used to five star hotels and red carpets, not crack whores and meth dens.” I began to babble, but he genuinely didn’t seem bothered.

          “I hate that side of Hollywood. Not that long ago I had a job in as an apprentice mechanic and wasn’t even on minimum wage. This is a palace compared to my first place.” His smile reached his eyes in such a sweet, happy way I felt myself returning it.

          “You’re lucky you made it up here alive.” I said, taking a tiny sip.

I’m such a light weight that if I were to drink any faster, I’d be falling down in ten minutes, or declaring undying love to my fridge. Or worse, him.

          “How does such a little thing live here? It’s scary. I really don’t like the idea of you being alone.” His voice was low, his arm accidentally brushing mine and sending shocks through me.

It had been so long since I’d been this close to another human being (by choice. Being crammed into a train/bus/plane didn’t count) that I wanted to edge closer and just be touching him in any way I could. His blue eyes were full of concern for me. It was very kind of him to worry, but then he seemed to be such a genuinely nice person. He was humble, gracious and always good to his fans. He spent hours chatting before premieres and going on social networking sites to interact with them. Having spent a day with him doing interviews, I was in awe of how he could answer the same question twenty times and still be as enthused and interested as the first time he was asked. Interviewers loved him because he was so easy to talk to and did his best to give them what they wanted. Plus the charisma that seemed to be exuding from his pores every minute of every day…and he was incredibly easy on the eyes.

          “I’m still alive, I must be doing something right.” I said with a laugh, but even I wasn’t convinced by it.

He finished his champagne and turned his body to face me.

          “Seriously, this is a hellish place to live. There must be somewhere else.” His hand was at his mouth, biting the skin around his nails as he did when he was either thinking, or nervous. I was picking up his body language incredibly quickly, but it wasn’t hard when I spent so long with him in such a short space of time. Besides, he was embarrassingly beautiful, sat on my tiny broken bed in my shitty dump of a flat.

          “Not that I can afford.” I said sipping my drink so I didn’t have to say anymore.

He sighed in irritation. Why did he care? If anything happened to me, he had women who would kill to be his PA, besides, I wasn’t even good at the job. He kept me on out of pity and amusement at the myriad of ridiculous ways I messed up and the ensuing chaos. He was clearly finding working with me both a nightmare and a form of entertainment. I spent most of my days apologising, blushing and falling over my own feet.

          We both looked around for something to say. I’d never been good at small talk, and he made me both incredibly uncomfortable and exhilarated at the same time. My heart was going so crazy I thought I was about to seizure and I could feel a blush rising on my cheeks for the fortieth time that day.

          “Tell me about yourself.” He said, walking back through to the kitchen part and snagging the champagne. He filled his glass again and topped up mine even though I tried to stop him.

          “What would you like to know?” I asked, knowing that my sad little life wouldn’t be of any interest to someone who was used to women falling at his feet. He’d dated a supermodel for Christ’s sake. There was something slightly freeing about that though. It was physically impossible for me to compete, so I needn’t bother. I currently looked like fifty shades of hell and she probably looked like a Goddess from the second she rolled out of bed (but not for less than £100,000!)

          “Everything.” He said simply, looking at me intently.

I looked away, his gaze feeling as though it were stripping me to the bone. Those eyes were dangerous, he should be forced to wear sunglasses at all times to protect the women of the world. It wasn’t even just his eyes, everything about him was incredibly appealing; his height, his toned, tanned body, the tattoos (which were random and he’d admitted several happened whilst he was drunk), even the bloody smoking. I loathed smoking, and somehow he made it look sexy. He also never smelled like an ashtray even though he constantly had a fag in his mouth. Stupid things were beautiful about him, like the way he chewed gum, or how shy he would get when a particular costar would tease him. I knew he wore sunglasses because he was self-conscious and liked to hide behind them.

Just being in the same room as him depressed me because I knew I adored him, loved him, worshipped him, but I was this plain little ragged thing in a garden on picture perfect roses and lilies.

          “Well…I lived in England my whole life. Went a bit crazy and thought Hollywood would be a good place to run away to, ended up living in a crack den working in a job that I quite clearly have no idea of how to do, and for a movie star who the world worships but I’d never even heard of because I don’t get out much.” I smiled.

He rolled his eyes and nudged me with his elbow. I wanted to beg him to do it again, or something equally pathetic or desperate.

          “Family?”

          “Control freak father, dippy mother. My mum’s side is Irish so it’s a pretty huge extended family.”

          “Hobbies?”

          “Reading, bad horror movies, Japanese music, playing computer games where I beat the crap out of things, cute fluffy animals, vegan ice cream, bubble baths…nothing particularly interesting.” I trailed off at the end, unsure of anything I could say that would impress him. I had a donor card…but that was about it for honorable mentions.

          “You are probably the most unique person in this god forsaken hole.” He said, draining the glass and filling it again. He topped mine up even though I’d only taken a couple of sips.

          “Unique?” Was that a polite way of saying freak?

          “You’re untainted. You don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, sleep around, have tucks, silicone or fillers, haven’t had so much surgery that you can’t move your face…you’re not remotely plastic. It’s unbelievably refreshing.” He said.

I blushed and fussed over the corner of my T-shirt, wishing I had something nicer to wear and that he’d warned me he was coming so I could either be out, or steal some furniture and nice clothes from somewhere. As much as I loved and adored my 30 Seconds to Mars Tee, it was not winning me any prizes, not least because it was an XL and I was an XS. I should have stuck a belt around it and pretended it was a dress.

          “I hate this place, that’s why I live in New York. It’s so fake. You can’t trust anyone here, they all have hidden agendas. I’ve seen best friends tear chunks out of each other, girls rip each other’s hair out for a bit part in a low budget movie…everyone is ‘on’ something be it coke, alcohol or worse.” He sighed and began chewing on his finger again.

          “Yeah, it’s pretty scary. I don’t know who I can talk to about anything as I get the feeling everyone would sell me down the river if they thought it would benefit them, even over something as stupid as getting a coffee order wrong.”

          “They would.” He said, gazing up at me through his long lashes. He looked so young and vulnerable in that moment that I wanted to reach out to him, but thought better of it. I took another sip of the champagne and embraced the slightly light headed feeling I was getting.

          “Please don’t change.” He said to me, head tilted, brows knitted in concern. “I love that you are so…”

          “Boring.”

          “Normal. Grounded. Sane. Real. Honest. Genuine. That’s why I hired you. I don’t care that you have no idea of what you’re doing. I wanted someone around that I can trust, and you’re such an awful liar I think I’ll be safe with you.” He laughed softly.

The woman above banged on the ceiling. I groaned. Evil cow. I heard her stomping down the stairs before she was hammering on the door, screaming bloody murder at me through the hinge.

          “Lovely neighbours you have.”

          “I once came home to find her banging on the door, screaming at me to keep the noise down. There was no one in there. She didn’t even care when I tapped her on the shoulder and explained I’d been out all day. She is seriously unhinged.”

          “All the more reason to get you the hell out of here before you end up on the news.” His voice was light, but his eyes were serious.

          “Most girls would kill to be on TV.” I said, trying to crack a joke, but failing miserably.

He didn’t laugh, but got to his feet and stalked over the front door, yanking it open roughly and staring down at the woman.

          “Oh…uh…” She mumbled before turning and hurrying off. She didn’t even stamp up the stairs! Result!

He was my hero. Hopefully she’d leave me alone from now on, but that was probably more wishful thinking than something that would actually happen.

He came back and sank down on the bed next to me.

          “I really hate you being here.” He said, his accent heavier when he spoke quietly as he was now. It was compelling and addictive. I could feel myself leaning a little closer, but put it down to the booze making me brave or stupid.

          “We’ve got an early start tomorrow…I should be heading off. Come back to mine with me, I can’t leave you here. We’ll find you another place…”

Van Murphy just asked me back to his place! I could just imagine the hate mail I’d be getting if the fan girls knew about this! They were scarier than the crack whores and scary lady upstairs combined. Thank god we’d made it VERY clear I was just his PA.

God, I wanted to say yes. I wanted to yell; ‘Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! Oh God yes!’ But I didn’t. Instead I stupidly said;

          “That is incredibly kind, but I couldn’t. Thank you, but I’m really ok.” I tried to smile in a reassuring way, but it felt weird on my face,

He sighed deeply again, chewing on his fingers as he clearly wanted a cigarette.

          “Are you completely sure? It’s really not a problem.” His eyebrows peaked as he looked at me.

I nodded.

          “You have my number. Call me if ANYTHING happens, even if it’s to kick that bitch’s ass upstairs.” He gave me a sidelong grin and got to his feet. He carried his empty glass and put it by the sink. He was such a badass when he wanted to be.

          “Please look after yourself and stay safe.” He placed his hands on the sides of my arms, and I nearly started squealing like one of his fan girls, tempted to go post it on Twitter with an ‘In your faces bitches!’ but thought better. Besides, I had no internet access here. That was probably for the best considering how tipsy I was starting to feel.

          “I’ll send a car over to pick you up tomorrow morning to make sure you’re safe.”

I was going to argue, but the determined look in his eye made me think better of it. I nodded once again, not trusting myself to speak.

          “Night.” He said, opening the door and stepping out.

          “Night Mr.…Van.” I said, closing it softly behind him.

Once I could hear his footsteps on the stairs, I began to jump up and down happily, clapping my hands like a demented sea lion and squealing in complete and utter deliriousness. He cared! He touched me! Oh god I need to have myself put down if I’m getting this excited by something that probably meant absolutely nothing to him. I was such a mess! I needed a boyfriend so I didn’t flip out like this every time someone *coughVancough* touched me or showed me anything resembling affection. Kill me, kill me now. I’m 29 not 12. But it was nice to feel happy again, even if it was for a reason that would end in me being disappointed and heartbroken. Best not to fall for him, it won’t end well, not least because if I told him, he would probably laugh hysterically, fire me, ship me back to England or hold up a photo of his Super Model ex next to me to show how woefully inadequate I was.

           I snagged an apple from the basket he had brought me and bit into it. What a surprise! It tasted as perfect as it looked. Part of me felt a little sad about that. I was used to mediocre and I’d never had a problem with it. Would being here make me as vain and shallow as the rest of the plastics? Would I be waxing, plucking, Botoxing, injecting, dying and filling with the rest? Would I wake three hours earlier each day to make myself look like the rest of the oompaloompas I saw each day, so heavily painted that I was amazed they could blink? I hoped not. I couldn’t afford it and I wasn’t sleeping as it was. It would be a good use of my insomnia though…