I wrap the duvet tighter around my body, the aching in my skull drifting back and forth from the front to the back of my head like an electric current. My eyes open briefly to the room, bright with morning light since I've obviously forgotten to close the drapes in my drunken stupor last night. I squint, mouth dry with an unpleasant tequila aftertaste, and promptly retreat under the duvet with a moan.
Hangover: no matter how many times it hits me like an avalanche, or whether I tell myself 'never again' afterwards or not, I always seem to get myself in the very same situation.
I guess I'm a sucker for pain and punishment. Or, maybe, I'm just the typical golden child of Hollywood.
Once the lurching in my stomach becomes impossible to bear, I get up on unsteady feet and wait for the room to cease its swaying before moving in the direction of the bathroom. Admittedly, I am a very experienced drinker despite my young age of twenty one, and the morning after rarely hits me that hard unless I mix different types of alcohol with weed or strong drugs. Which I'd definitely done last night, judging by my current state.
The only bright point of the morning is the fact that I seem to have a clear recollection of my drunken antics: complete with my brief hook-up, having my purse stolen and promptly returned by my 'Fence' friend, and sadly, the aggravating encounter with Emil. The thought of him forcefully grabbing my hand as I tried to leave him comes to mind, and I drop to my knees, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
As I make my way back into the bedroom and pick up my phone, I am way too aware of my cracking headache to go through the various text messages littering my inbox, let alone answer any of them. Asa, Sally, Emil and one unknown number will have to wait for my attention until later.
__________
Sunday is my day; that one day in the week that I allow myself to be away from everyone, even Georgette who's pretty much become my roommate despite us not sharing the same house. Sure, I still have my mandatory work out session or at least a run, but other than that, I pretty much laze around all day.
However, all my non-plans are already being sent down the proverbial shitter, and that's not only due to the still present dull ache in my head. No, that's mostly because of my phone, once again lightning up on my nightstand, which I can't ignore any longer no matter how hard I try.
Aggressively declining an incoming call from Emil, as well as ignoring the unhealthy amount of his texts, I then scroll through the remaining messages. There is a significant amount of angry questions from Sal, whom I'd left all alone last night; yet another step to fucking up our relationship for good. I cringe. There's also a very vague text from Asa, asking me whether I'm home, which I answer with a 'yes' and a question mark. However, the one message that truly captures my attention is the one from nine in the morning.
Unknown Number: Looks like we had fun last night… H
I find myself smiling, arm draping around my eyes as I contemplate my answer. Heather is an attractive girl, one that's definitely not fooled by the illusion of Hollywood's glitz and glamour, which is something I find essential whenever choosing people to hang out with. I have no idea when or where she found a moment to snatch my phone and get my number, but she somehow had to since there's just no alternative. Sally would have never given out my personal information behind my back.
Me: Why, are you up for a repeat performance, Heather?
Feeling a smug sense of accomplishment, I move to set the phone aside with a full intention of napping some more, when it pings again in my hand.
Heather (Kendall Jenner's Hot Friend): Now I wish I were Heather. H
My jaw literally drops in surprise then, because there's only one other person I can think of who not only calls himself H, but also has an odd obsession with signing every little note with his name.
Me: How did you get my number?!
The Psychopath Stalker: That's what I'd like to know too. Kudos to me though. H
The Psychopath Stalker: Your number is the most recent one on my list. It appears that I called you at 4:36 this morning. Does this ring any bells to you? H
Me: You called yourself from my phone! I can't believe you. Did you go through my private data while you were at it too?
The Psychopath Stalker: Can't say that I did. Kind of drawing a blank right now. H
The Psychopath Stalker: Side note: you need to set a screen lock, Cherry. This isn't safe. You never know who might get their hands on your phone. H
Me: The number you have reached is no longer in service. We apologise for the inconvenience.
Me: And stop signing every text with your name. It's so damn weird. Goodbye
The Psychopath Stalker: I would love to hear what Cherry and Heather were up to last night. Explicit content included. H x
The Psychopath Stalker: And I will stop once you start calling me H
The Psychopath Stalker: H xx (You thought I forgot, didn't you?)
"Ugh!" I yell in frustration, throwing my phone face down onto the bed.
The next two hours pass in a disjointed blur. I flit back and forth between feeling horrified that I'd allowed this little slip to happen—that this relationship has now progressed from being purely two strangers talking through a fence to being able to communicate at any given time of the day—and weirdly excited for where this new development will take us.
Obviously, the enigmatic H doesn't know me. He may have a vague idea about some of my preferences, or that I live close enough to reach his house on foot in a relatively short time, but he doesn't know my name. My address. My friends. My real life.
I have absolutely nothing to fear.
My phone buzzes again, and I think I might just need to be physically restrained to stop myself from answering. It's so hard to resist him when he's the single thing that stands out in the monotony of my life. Unwittingly, I find myself wondering if he feels the same; whether his constant badgering to get to know me is fueled by something more than simple curiosity or amusement that this odd situation provides.
The Psychopath Stalker: Did you save my contact as H? H
Me: What gave you the idea that I saved it?
The Psychopath Stalker: You didn't block me. H
Me: Yet
Me: [picture attached]
I can't help but crack a smile as I send him a screenshot of our conversation, his contact name visible on top.
The Psychopath Stalker: 💔 H xx
I'm about to type out my response when I hear the buzzing of the intercom. Rolling out of my bed at last, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt before making my way to the front door. One look at the camera feed has my hands trembling and sweat forming on my brow.
"Come in," I speak curtly into the intercom, buzzing him in.
I'm aware that I probably look like death on a pair of wobbly legs right now, but it's way too late to be fixing my appearance. The luxury rental SUV pulls up in front of my house, a familiar face looking back at me through the front window. Instinctively, I run out to meet him before he can even exit the car.
"Asa," I say as a way of greeting, my posture alone conveying my awkwardness.
However, he seems to be completely unbothered by my reaction, wrapping his arms around me in a near-suffocating hug. "Hey! You smell like tequila, salt, and… Dirty knickers?" he guesses with a chuckle. "Wait! You hooked up with a girl, didn't you? The salt means it was on a beach, right after drinking a bottle of booze!" he grins triumphantly. "Did I get it right?"
"Uh, close enough, Sherlock. I went out with Sally last night," I inform him, though I'm pretty sure he's already aware of that fact. He's got my address, which pretty much confirms he had talked to her beforehand.
"She told me!" Asa responds merrily as we trudge up the front steps to my house.
"Uh, so, you're here?" I ask, hoping the question comes off curious instead of rude.
"Yes, I texted you, remember?" he says, shutting the front door behind us. Ever the polite one, he toes off his Converse and waits to be invited further in. "Hold up, did you text back just 'cause you were still pissed in the morning? Cause I can leave—"
"No, no, come on in," I laugh as he beams at me, his smile infectious as it usually is, and we both walk to my living room. "I meant, what are you doing here in Malibu? Aren't you supposed to be filming right now?"
Hopefully, me bringing up the show that's essentially put us at odds isn't that awkward.
"Still got a few days on set left before we wrap up, but you know Tracy, she found an audition for me, dragged me all the way to LA." That would be Asa's US-stationed manager. "My flight back is in three days; thought we could use the free time to catch up. I missed you."
"I missed you too," I tell him with a small smile, "but shouldn't you be prepping?"
"I don't really care that much 'bout it," he admits. "Just humouring Tracy if I'm being honest. You know how I feel about blockbusters."
I've been around to witness it, so yes, I saw firsthand just how hard Ender's Game commercial and critical flop had hit Asa. Never having experienced such a massive failure in his life, the sixteen year-old Asa was truly on top of the world at the time. Safe to stay that starring in one of the biggest box office bombs of 2013 has made him a lot more cautious when choosing his projects.
"Yea," I nod my head in understanding, "Everything's going smoothly on the Sex Ed set then?"
"Sure is. The cast and crew are amazing! Been having the time of my life." When I make no motion to say anything, he clears his throat. "Wish you were there, though."
"Asa, I…"
"It's fine, you don't have to say sorry anymore. I've heard enough of your apologies, and it took me some time to understand your side of the story, but I get it now. I get why you couldn't take the role. I just wish you would have gone about it differently."
"I'm such a fool," I admit, feeling nervous, ashamed, but above all immensely grateful that he is here after all this time.
Carrying on without him felt like life after losing a limb. Asa has always been my rock, ever since we've met on set all these years ago—both of us ten at the time—and there's only as many friends you can have when you're a home-schooled child actor in London. The two of us have not only confided in each other throughout the years, but also shared all of our firsts: ranging from silly ones like the first hangover or first massive Hollywood party, to the more serious first kiss and first award nomination.
"You've always been a bloody fool, and yet you know I still love you despite it all," at my pointed look, he rolls his eyes, "As a friend. Do not make it harder than it has to be."
I bite the inside of my cheek in an attempt to appear impassive. "So… we're all good then?"
"I like you," he blurts out in response, no sign of hesitation. "I think I always have, ever since we were practising that kissing scene as children and I noticed how adorable your freckles are. To some extent, it may never change, except now I'm aware that you and I are not meant to happen. You're intoxicating, bold, confident. Way too much for me to handle."
At this point my breath is coming out in shallow pants. It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that this is the same shy boy I've grown up with. The Asa I'd left behind a year ago would have never been brave enough to be so open. But, I'm guessing that being publicly rejected and ridiculed can change a person.
"I'm not saying I'm okay with the way you treated me, because I'm not," he continues, "but I want you back in my life. Do you want that too?"
This time the answer is easy. "I do."
"Then let's start with that." My phone lights up on the table. "No talking about the—" A short buzz again. "The stuff that came between us." Now the buzzing turns constant, indicating an incoming call, and Asa reaches for the phone laid on the coffee table. "I think some lad named Emil really wants to reach you."
"Ugh, just let me turn it off," I mumble as he hands it to me, not before taking a quick glance at the screen.
"Care to tell me why some…" he scoffs, "Psychopath Stalker is texting you?"
"It's nothing, just a joke, and—" I groan when the sound of the intercom echoes around the hallway again, rubbing my hands over my face in frustration. I should have figured Emil wouldn't be deterred by my lack of response. He never is.
"Is that Emil or the psycho? Or are they one and the same?" Asa jokes lightly.
I give him a reproachful look, but he just shrugs with a lopsided grin.
"Sorry, they can't seem to leave me alone today. I'll get rid of whoever that is fast. Wait right here…" I mumble.
"Don't worry about me," he assures. "I'm not going anywhere."
I shoot him a grateful smile before going to the front door. One glance at the intercom confirms that there's a very nervous looking Emil on the other side. Thank god for the camera system installed around the house, courtesy of my paranoid father. Quietly, I curse myself for making the mistake of giving Emil the gate passcode. At least there's still one more barrier left between us.
"Have I not made it clear enough that I don't want to see you for now? Do you need a handwritten notice?" I yell to him through the door, hoping that will be enough to make him leave.
"I'm sorry!" he begs, undeterred by my sarcasm. "I know I was way over the line last night. I don't know what came over me."
"Oh but I do," I correct, "and jealousy doesn't suit you."
"It's not that, just… Open the door and let me explain, I don't want to do this over the door."
"Why? So you can grab me like you did last night? Order me around again? I'm not your pet," I pause, knowing I let a little bit of my inner feelings slip. "I think you know me well enough to see that I don't appreciate it when someone tries to control me."
"Listen I know this isn't any excuse, but my fucking dad…" I can see—even through the camera—that he's visibly upset, and I hate the fact that it makes me hesitate. "I took it out on you, I know. I don't want you to hate me."
Why, oh why, do I have to be so weak?
"What did he do this time?" I ask warily despite my sullen mood. I can't just ignore it when he might be going through something. My conscience won't allow it.
I may be a self-centered bitch at times, but I can't turn a blind eye when I see a friend suffering. Or at least, I'm trying to change for the better.
"We argued and I, uh…" he looks up at the camera, raising his arm in a half-hearted wave. "You're right, we should talk sometime later."
"Emil," I sigh, pressing my forehead against the door in exasperation. "Wait."
Yes, he messed up, but our judgement tends to be blinded whenever we're in pain. I'm the perfect example of that.
My fingers hover over the doorknob, eventually twisting it to open the door. I try to stand my ground; show him that the small act of letting him in doesn't mean he's got my complete forgiveness. But, I know my efforts are in vain when he meets me with a sheepish smile.
"What happened?" In a last-ditch effort to keep the upper hand, I press my hand against his chest to stop him from entering further into the house.
"He brought her to our house," he mutters. "Mum was there the whole time, in their bedroom, and he pretended like this was normal. Didn't even spare me a glance."
"I'm so sorry," I tell him earnestly. There isn't really anything else I could say, since we both know his situation at home is broken beyond repair. No amount of advice coming from me, or anyone else, could fix it.
"It was somewhat bearable, as long as I didn't have to see them…" I can see Emil's fists tighten at his sides. "The tabloids were full of his bullshit, but at least physically he kept them away from us. From mum."
I nod sympathetically. Emil and I have always bonded best over our mutual hatred towards our families, and although I've never shared details of my own reasoning behind it, he knows enough to put two and two together.
"I think it might be serious this time," he continues. "He's never brought them home. And I heard mum crying… She hasn't done that in so long. I swear I just wanted to fucking strangle him—" his breath hitches in his throat, expression instantly switching to that of pure lividness. "Hello," he says frostily, and I twirl around to see the reason behind his sudden hostility standing right behind me.
"You were gone so long, I came to check on you," Asa's eyes remain locked on me, clearly searching for any signs of distress.
"I'm fine." It's clear that he isn't convinced, and I have no doubt in my mind that he wouldn't stray from having a physical altercation with Emil if necessary, despite the other man holding an obvious advantage in muscle mass. "We're just talking."
"Didn't know you have company," Emil mutters, and it's shocking how quickly he's moved on from the emotional topic we were just discussing. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"
"This is Asa, my friend from London," I say levelly.
"Another so-called friend?" he asks, low enough just for me to hear. "Like the girl you hung out with at the party last night? Like I am just your friend?"
Shaking my head at myself and my own stupidity, I try to bring myself together. Clearly, it was a mistake to have let him in. "You're crossing the line, again. Just go, please. Before we end up arguing once more."
This time he obliges, sending one last scathing look Asa's way before he leaves. Pushing him to the back of my mind, I reign in my anger, and put myself back in my role.
"Sorry, he's been going through some… stuff."
"I don't like him," Asa says in his usual blunt manner. "He gives off bad vibes."
"You don't know him, sweetie," I smile, pinching his cheeks playfully. "Look at you, grown up and acting all Alpha male."
"Oh, bugger off," he mutters, grinning nonetheless. "You didn't see the look he gave me. Chilled me to the bone."
"I promise you that Emil isn't a problem," I say, more to convince myself than him. "What do you say about some nutella muffins?"
"You know me, can't turn down nutella. Is this the good kind of baking or the one we do when someone has just pissed us off?" he checks as we make our way to the kitchen.
It's been a long-lasting habit of ours: baking whenever we have something on our minds, be it good or bad. Asa divided it into two categories: stress baking and celebratory baking. For me it was either doing it for enjoyment, or distraction.
"Call it what you want," I say diplomatically, glancing at my phone for the first time in an hour.
The Psychopath Stalker: Fence Date tonight? Si, non? H
Me: Peut-etre [Maybe]
Me: I thought you hate French
The Psychopath Stalker: Did I say so last night?
This is the first time he's forgotten to sign a text with his name, I notice. For whatever reason, this seems to be a sore subject to him.
Me: May have mentioned it briefly
Me: Right after you completely butchered a Modern Talking song
The Psychopath Stalker: My drunk falsetto sucks. Give me a chance to redeem myself. H
Me: I don't think I can sit through another performance from you
The Psychopath Stalker: Fair point. I've been told it's a dreadful experience. H
The Psychopath Stalker: Let me win you over in a different way. Stomach is a way to one's heart, or so they say. H
Me: Now you want to poison me?
"So…" Asa starts, going through the kitchen cabinets to find the ingredients we need. "Who's that guy?"
"Emil? His father owns a couple of art galleries, we met at this charity event back in March…"
"I'm more interested to hear about the lad that's blowing up your phone with texts…" he sends a knowing smile my way. "Just how many admirers do you have? I'm so out of the loop."
"Oh, it's no one," I hope my flippant tone is convincing enough. Apparently, it isn't.
"Usually whenever a woman says it's nothing, then something's definitely going on," he accurately observes. He hands me an empty bowl, and we both set out to do our separate tasks—him mixing the dry ingredients, and me working on the remaining ones.
"It's just this guy I met recently," I rake my brain for a way to explain it to him without giving away too much, because frankly speaking, the situation is bizarre. "We are sort of like… Pen pals, I guess. Or online friends. As in… We've never met in person."
"Oh, so he doesn't know who you are?" he looks at me knowingly.
Granted, Asa's position has never been as complicated as mine—mostly because unlike me, he's not burdened by the heavy family baggage I carry everywhere I go. He does understand the struggles of having been a child actor though, perhaps even more than I do. He understands what it means to be judged by whatever it is you had done years ago in your childhood. He understands why it's so hard when people see only one thing whenever they lay their eyes on you.
"No," I finally admit.
Asa remains silent as we both pour our respective concoctions into the mixer, blending the mess into a more appealing pile. Brown in tone with little chocolate flecks in it, I can already tell that our afternoon snack will turn out delicious. I use the moment he's distracted to send a quick text back.
The Psychopath Stalker: Is that a yes?
Me: Can't tonight
Once again, I allow my mind to drift to him and the possible outcomes of this strange relationship. The way it's nearing dangerous territories at an unstoppable speed. The new risks created by him having acquired my number. But above all, the power this man has over me despite knowing me for less than a couple of weeks.
I simply find myself unable to stay away from him.
Me: But I never pass up free food…
"It's not a bad thing to want that," Asa speaks after a while as I put my phone aside, "but you do know it won't last forever. One or both of you will eventually want to meet, and then you'll have to think back to everything you've ever said to him, make sure you haven't revealed anything too controversial…"
I shake my head. "No, I think he's just as dead set on staying anonymous as I am. Something tells me we are more alike than any of us realises."
It's no more than a hunch, a hopeful assumption on my part, but the longer I think about it, the more it makes sense. He's had many opportunities to simply come meet me outside his property, and yet he continues to stay away. That speaks volumes.
"And how would you know that if he's just a 'pen pal'?" Asa asks, and I can tell right then and there that he's seen through my bullshit.
"You know what?" I flick a pinch of leftover dough at his nose, making him sneeze. We both chuckle as he reciprocates with the same. "Let's finish up these muffins and pack them up. I want to show you the beach… along with a certain place that I really like. We'll have a picnic and I'll tell you more about that psycho guy. I think I really need some advice…"
__________
Surprise! A really quick update this time. I am really inspired to write this book right now, so you might see another chapter before New Year's!
How do you think Harry and Cherry's relationship will develop now that he's got her phone number? And will their so-called friendly 'Fence date' end up being successful?
And what's your opinion on Emil and Asa? Also: yes, it's the 'real' Asa Butterfield from Netflix show Sex Education - I decided that since Cherry has been hanging around celebrities, it would make sense to include more of them in the story.
Any Fine Line references you picked up this time?
Xx Cathy
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