Reluctantly Charmed (20 page)

“Thanks,” I said, unable to tear my gaze from him.

“Are we good to go?” He looked at Buck Teeth, who was as starstruck by Jim as I felt, her mouth hanging open and her eyes moments away from rolling out of her head. He was so beautiful, so mesmerizing.

He turned to me and I tried to breathe, I really did, but my breath was catching.

“I’m sorry. I tried to call you earlier.” He threw his arms up in the air. “This was Sony’s idea. They’re pushing the boat out. You don’t mind, do you? I mean, it’s only for tonight, and, hey, there’s free drinks in it.”

“Not at all, it’ll be fun.” I tried to throw him a dazzling smile.

“Half an hour and it’ll be all over.” He held out his hand and I slid mine into it.

Buck Teeth pulled back the curtain, and the flashing lights catapulted off one another and into my eyes. I felt my heart jumping, I was so scared. There was no end to the lights: I was blinded by their flashing and bouncing. The only thing guiding me through was Jim’s hand in mine. As in a near-death experience, I knew to just keep walking toward the light. I cowered behind Jim’s arm, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

“Kate, Kate!” Voices shouting my name came from every direction. “Over here, Kate! Give us a smile!”

“I hate this,” I whispered at Jim’s arm.

He bent down to my face, exposing all his teeth in a huge grin, waving furiously at the crowd with his right arm. “Isn’t this brilliant?” He took a deep breath and looked euphoric. His beautiful face was alive with the reflecting flashbulbs.

“Brilliant,” I said, every inch a startled rabbit. My hand gripped his tighter and I tried to smile, but it felt more of a grimace.

Jim contorted his body into shapes and poses, turning toward the lights, basking in them. I felt my shoulders cave in on me and my neck retracting. I was so uncomfortable. How did celebrities do this? I saw pictures of gorgeous people on red carpets all the time, looking like rays of sunshine. I’d flick through magazines thinking,
Ooh, I’d love to have a go at that, to prance in front of the cameras, beaming with a well-practiced hair flip
. I’ve imagined what I might say: “This old thing? Just threw it on,” or how my hair might be coiffed and how my mouth would pout. How calm and still and ethereal I would be. And now here I was, stomach sucked in so hard I was dizzy, regretting not having worn full-body Spanx, trying to smile without making my eyes look too squinty, and focusing hard on dehunching my shoulders and stretching my neck so I didn’t have a double chin. And then there were my shoes. They were so high. One wobble and I was wiped. I was hating every second of my red carpet debut.

“Kate, Kate! Come on, Kate! Look at Jim. Yeah, that’s it. Look like you’re really in love. That’s it.”

Jim let go of my hand and wrapped his arm tightly around my shoulders, squeezing me into his chest. “Hey, lads, we’re just good friends.” He smiled broadly.

“Yeah, yeah, Jim. We’ve heard that one before. Give her a kiss.” I felt myself stiffen under his arm. I wanted to kiss Jim, but not like this, like a show pony, with cameras flashing and men shouting.

“We’re just good friends,” he gushed again, winking at the cameras.

“Kate, Kate!”

It was Lily. What was Lily doing there? I could make out a shadow waving ten feet behind the photographers. The shadow pointed toward the end of the red carpet and a break in the barriers. I gently pushed free from Jim’s embrace and, wearing a frozen smile, took the two steps toward the barrier. Lily, in a bright green T-shirt, looked as distressed as I felt. She held out her hand and quickly grabbed me, pulling me away from the flashing bulbs and plush red carpet. She threw her arm around my shoulders and guided me to the back of the room and through a door, which she slammed behind me. Now we were in a small empty room. Lily sat me down on a large couch.

“Are you okay?” Her eyes were full of concern. “You looked like you were dying.”

“I think I was. Did you see that?”

“It was awful.”

“Hell. That’s hell.”

“Take a deep breath.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Goatee. He’s into Red Horizon. Here, I’ll get you a glass of water.” She turned around and pushed through the door toward the bar.

I was trembling. I wrapped my arms around my middle. I was having flashbacks of necks straining and eyes on stalks looking at me. Hopefully, Lily would hurry back.

With the buoyancy of a puppy, Jim bounded into the room. Shiny-faced, he jumped from foot to foot in front of me, every inch of him bubbling over with excitement. “Wasn’t that such a rush?” He bent down and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Hmmm,” I lied.

“Man!” He punched the air and let out a woohoo, like a frat boy with a free keg.

Lily reappeared clutching a glass of still water. She gently slid it into my hand. “Jim.” She looked stern.

“Great to see you, Lily, brilliant. I’ve got to run. We’re playing the song in five.” He bent down again and this time he kissed me full on the mouth, making a large
mmmmwa
sound. He stepped back, touching his chest, smiling. “See you later.” He winked and bolted through the door.

I took a deep breath and ran my fingers over my lips in shock before settling back into the couch. Lily collapsed beside me, and we exhaled in unison.

It was starting to sink in. I had celebrity status—there was no denying it anymore. I was out there. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this life,” I moaned.

Lily smiled at me mischievously. “You were a natural.” Her eyes filled with water and her cheeks exploded into apple shapes as she started to laugh.

“Ah, come on.” I playfully slapped her leg. “Not funny.”

“Your face!” She was laughing really hard now. “Talk about a deer in the headlights!”

“Shut up.” I started to laugh, too, happy that everything was normal again.

“I’ll never forget your expression.”

“Yes, yes.” I laughed even more, trying unsuccessfully to take a sip of my water.

“Your face.”

“I get it. Where’s Mr. Goatee?”

“At the bar, he banged into his sister, I’ll let him at it.” She nodded.

Red Horizon started to play. Lily and I crept back into the front room and found a dark corner where no one could see us. I looked toward the stage. Jim had wrapped himself around the
microphone stand and was lazily running his hand up it. He closed his eyes, stretched his neck to the side, pouted his lips, and paused for appreciation. There must have been eight hundred people in the room, male and female, who wanted to sleep with him at that very moment.

And then it came to me in a flash—one of my inexplicable eureka moments. “Princess Lo Lo Ki Ki. That’s the name, Lily. That’s what I wanted everyone to call me. I remember now.”

“Now? You remember now? Is that your fairy name?” She looked at me, confused.

“Must be the music,” I said, unsure. Again, I wondered how and why these things kept popping into my head. What was going on? “It’s not a great name, is it? Lo Lo Ki Ki.”

Lily shook her head, smiling.

That was my name. I had wanted everyone to call me by it. That’s what Mam was talking about. I remembered I was wearing my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt and roller skates and I was demanding that Mam and Dad call me Princess Lo Lo Ki Ki, announcing with all the might of a seven-year-old that I had arrived. I guess I wanted a nickname at the time. I must have made it up, I thought. I definitely didn’t remember anyone giving it to me, certainly not an imaginary friend and especially not a fairy. I was pretty sure I’d remember that—wouldn’t I?

15

“S
how her.” It was Saturday morning, the morning after the Red Horizon song launch, and I hadn’t even shut the door to my flat—the latch hadn’t even clicked. Simon Battersby was now accompanied by a band of merry men, which numbered four equally anoraked individuals, and they were sitting on the brick fence of my garden. One was lazily kicking the dirt at the foot of the old oak tree. Its leaves had changed to full spring bloom, unlike the anoraks, which were worn day in, day out. With military precision they jumped up when I appeared. One, the one I would fondly nickname “Dweeb Number Three,” shouted: “Show her!”

Who’s her?
I wanted to ask.
The cat’s mother?
But I thought better of it. They’d probably get excited at the mention of a cat, it being a witch’s best friend and all that. And Lord knows, this troop didn’t need any encouragement. They seemed to have set up camp at the front gate, without having actually set up camp, unless they’d managed to unfold a tent and slide it into a pocket moments before I came down the stairs. They were loitering like a bunch of wide-eyed priests lost in the lingerie section of a giant department store.

Simon was fiddling with a flask of tea, and I suspected he had something important to tell me about stars aligning or the
ancient Irish translation of a specific word used in one of the Steps. But instead he wanted me to meet his band of Anoraks. He spoke softly as he gestured around the group, introducing his men by rank and fairy name. There was Treasurer Oisin Snowdrop, Chief Investigator Fionn Toadstool, and a Fairy Doctor, Oak Dust.

I raised my eyebrows, thinking they’d all be a lot happier playing at
Lord of the Rings
. Collectively, Simon told me, they’d named themselves “the Followers of the Seven Steps,” but I knew I wouldn’t be able to think of them as anything other than “the Anoraks.”

“Show her.” Dweeb Number Three elbowed Simon quite forcibly in the gut, propelling him to the front of the group. I wondered if Simon was being made to talk to me not because he was the chief, or whatever his title was, but because I suspected none of them had actually ever spoken to a girl, and their blushing and stammering might overwhelm them and hinder their investigation.

“There’s this.” Simon turned his head away dramatically and held out his arm, rigid as a pole. A newspaper was swinging on the end.

I walked the few steps toward him and took it from his hand, shaking my head from side to side, surprised at how weary I felt about the media.

“We did not endorse this,” he said into his shoulder.

I read the headline out loud: “Are the Seven Steps a Secret Cult?” Then I laughed—I couldn’t stop myself. The paper had photographed the Anoraks, listed off their titles, and attempted to decipher so-called codes they were apparently signing to one another. One was Simon blowing his nose. Unfortunately, there was also a giant photo of me, looking more curly-headed and
freckle-faced than usual. I looked at the Anoraks and shrugged. “I know, it’s not great having your photo taken when you don’t know about it.”

“This is not a cult,” Simon said.

“Well, honestly, Simon, I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“We’re here for you.”

“Yeah. You see, Simon, that’s just a bit weird.” I kept shaking my head as I handed him back the paper before turning sharply to the guy on Simon’s left. “Will you stop writing? Please.” That was another thing they were doing: scribbling down every word I said. It was ridiculous. “Seriously, guys!” I slapped my hands on the side of my legs in despair. “I’m going to the shop.”

“Well, there are some of them around as well.”

“Who?”

“The photographers. They were here earlier.”

I released a slow groan. The paparazzi again. They seemed to be turning up everywhere I went, clicking, whirring, snapping. They’d photograph me twirling my hair, walking, sitting; I didn’t have to be
doing
anything. They’d started selling the photos to some newspapers, magazines, websites. And then some journalist or other would study it and decide that my expression was “happy,” “sad,” “wistful,” “witchy.” My clothes were analyzed: I was a fashion leader, and a fashion disaster. The day before, I hadn’t noticed that I had a hole in my dress—it had been snagged on the corner of a table. One website said it signaled “the depths of my depression,” and another declared it to be “a new fashion trend inspired by fairy weaving.”

The thing was, I had as much of a celebrity obsession as anyone. I bought celebrity magazines, subscribed to celebrity diets, and laughed at their religions. I loved it when they got skinny,
and I loved it even more when they got fat. Their lives are a soap opera, a dramatically beautiful one with an implausible script, but I never expected to have a supporting role in it. I wasn’t qualified to be a celebrity. I didn’t sing, dance, or act. I didn’t do anything, and yet I was occupying valuable movie-star space, places where bona fide members of celeb-ville should be denying plastic surgery, considering foreign adoptions, and praising their speedy metabolisms. I was baffled. Maybe there weren’t enough celebrities to go around? Maybe that’s why they had to turn me into one?

“I’ll be quick. I just want some orange juice,” I muttered to myself and started off down the path.

Four steps later, the Anoraks were still there, shuffling behind me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“We’ll come, too,” Simon said to the ground.

It’s a free country
, I thought.
Unfortunately
. I couldn’t tell them they couldn’t go to the shops. Kumar would probably be glad for the extra business. I felt my shoulders tense up but continued to march on, now shadowed by the Anoraks. Not for the first time I cursed whoever had nicked my bike. If I’d had my bike, I’d have been down and back to the shops and the Anoraks wouldn’t have been able to follow me. Instead, there I was plodding slowly through a suburban neighborhood—me, the Anoraks, and the paparazzi.

Two weather-worn, fat-bellied, heavy-footed photographers circled me. They chirped like hungry birds, calling my name and asking what I was doing.

“Going to the shop to get some orange juice,” I responded flatly.

“Is that a clue, Kate?” Simon piped up.

“Clue to what? WHAT?” I quickened my pace, wondering
if I should turn back. But I could see the fluorescent lights of Kumar’s shop, and, anyway, I shouldn’t have been intimidated. I wanted orange juice.

Kumar greeted me like I was a delivery man giving him a discount. He was delighted I’d brought along six other people, four of whom were expressing an interest in his dairy fridge.