DAYLIGHT FADING

twenty four | if love is the drug then where is the cure

          | twenty four: if love is the drug then where is the cure |

                                                       or

            | aka... what a life: noel gallagher's high flying birds |

I barely watch the film, even though I know that I really should, my brain twitching with the first few notes of guitar lines that fizz out. I thank god that there will be plenty of alcohol because I'm going to miserable and sullen the second this film ends.

Marijuana is not an option. You can't go into a room filled with celebrities and reporters smelling like weed and have no one expect to notice. I do have regular old cigarettes on me though and I never hid that I smoked those, even when I was sixteen.

People clap as the credits roll and I join in, just so I don't stick out as obviously having not watched the film. That will probably disadvantage me later if anyone tries to talk to me about it but I plan to stay the bare minimum amount of time that is polite at the after-party I have been pretty much ordered to attend.

There will be another dress waiting for me in Justin's car with another pair of shoes. You can't turn up to an after-party in the same thing you went to a premiere in, or so they say.

Personally, I'd rather like to tell them to shove their so-called etiquette up their own arses. I'll wear whatever I like wherever the hell I want to wear it.

The freedom of that idea is dizzyingly heady. My mother's country club demanded that people had to be dressed a certain way at certain times and Maria D'Angelo was not one to be embarrassed among the high society, especially when my great-grandfather's business that my mother pioneered to a new level of success was still seen as nouveau riche.

On the plus side, the conscientiousness expected of me when I was still in primary school and too young to consider rebellion meant I became fluent in French. I can't say it's a skill I've used too often, but it's nice to have.

Justin taps my arm and we slip out of the room just as the others inside begin to have the same idea. Some people will stay and talk for a while but most are anxious to get to the after-parties, the places to be seen.

There are still swarms of reporters outside, even though we're leaving via the back door. I turn my eyes towards the floor to prevent the blinding flash of the cameras from hitting my pupils. I don't reach towards Justin and he doesn't turn towards me. We just walk, almost side by side, through the thin strip of space between the crush of reporters.

When we finally stagger out of the mass of people, it seems someone has alerted a valet to our exit route because one of them is stood there with Justin's dark Porsche behind him and a pair of keys in hand.

Justin shakes his hand as he takes his keys back and we both bolt the few steps to the car. As much as I love playing music, the paparazzi are a downside that far too many people can't deal with. I just try and avoid them as much as possible.

I sink into the soft leather of the seat as Justin slams the boot shut. He practically throws the dress and shoes onto my lap before turning the engine on, flipping up his handbrake and shoving into gear at what seems to be the same second he slams his foot down on the gas.

"Jesus Christ," I almost let loose a blue streak at the car darts forwards. Justin's knuckles are practically white as he grips the steering wheel so I do what any decent person would do. I scroll through his iPod and begin blasting the heavy guitars of Deftones.

A low noise of pain comes out of Justin's throat, so I scroll as fast as I can until I fill the car with the smoothness of Stereophonics' Dakota.