Read Online Death Of A Diva by Derek Farrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Derek Farrell
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whole life looking for something; get it, then realise that it’s the one thing you should – all this time – have been running a million miles from?”
“Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”
“So what did you do?” He was looking directly at me now and the low sunlight, coming from the side, made his eyes glow golden brown like a cat.
“Nothing. I told myself that I’d ask him outright what he wanted, what we were doing, where we were going. Whether we had a future. But I never did, cos I was afraid of the answer I’d get. So we drifted.”
“And what happened?”
“I came home one day and – well, I couldn’t pretend anymore. So I left.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes flicking down, then up again and fixing me with a stare that seemed to linger just a beat too long.
Stop that!
“Oh don’t be,” I said. “I’m not. Well, I was; then I realised: it would have ended eventually. One day – later on – it would have ended. I would always have walked in on what I walked in on, so better it should happen now when,” I remembered Caz’s words of comfort to me, “I’m still young enough to put it behind me and find someone who really does care. I’ve only got one regret,” I admitted, wondering why I was saying this to a virtual stranger.
“Which is?”
“That I was a coward.”
“You mean you should have fought for him?”
“God, no!” I laughed and swigged the voddie (which, once you’d had a few mouthfuls and overcome the odd numbness it engendered in the tongue, was perfectly palatable). “He was never mine in the first place. I regret not confronting him earlier; I’m sorry I left it so many years without sitting him down, telling him exactly how I felt and demanding to know how he felt. But I was afraid; of showing my hand. Of hearing him say that he didn’t want what I wanted. So...”
“You let it slide.”
I nodded and, at that point, Dash popped his blond head round the door to the bar. “Message from Ali,” he said, nodding once at Dom and addressing me, “says you might wanna get your arse upstairs. Said something about The Fan Club overstaying his welcome . She said you’d understand.”
I drained the glass, rinsed it, put it back on the shelf and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Sorry,” I said to a bemused Dominic and headed out of the bar, wondering whether Lyra’s number one fan and chief stalker had come tooled up; whether I’d be able to eject him by myself alone, or whether I’d face the embarrassment of having to ask the beautiful and heartbreakingly sad boy with the golden eyes to give me a hand dumping his literary rival on the pavement.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time I got up the stairs, Leon was already out on the landing being held back – as he yelled at a closed door – by a rather flushed Morgan Foster.
From the other side of the door I could hear Lyra’s voice screeching something about people taking liberties, a diabolical invasion of her privacy and the fact that there was no Perrier left.
Leon glanced at me and, sensing I guess, that his time was nearing an end, redoubled his shouting at the door.
“Right from the beginning, Lyra,” he called, “I know all there is to know. I could do a better job. You know there’s only me, Lyra. Only me.”
The door opened and a hand appeared, holding Leon’s bouquet. The flowers hovered, for a moment, then, with a flick of the wrist, arced across the landing and landed between Morgan and Leon. Morgan released Leon momentarily to swoop down and grab them.
Leon raised his head, his gaze shifting from the discarded tribute to the door. A sheen of spittle glinted on his lips and a shine of hatred flared in his eyes.
And then the fight went out of him and, sensing his moment, Foster hustled the
“Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”
“So what did you do?” He was looking directly at me now and the low sunlight, coming from the side, made his eyes glow golden brown like a cat.
“Nothing. I told myself that I’d ask him outright what he wanted, what we were doing, where we were going. Whether we had a future. But I never did, cos I was afraid of the answer I’d get. So we drifted.”
“And what happened?”
“I came home one day and – well, I couldn’t pretend anymore. So I left.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes flicking down, then up again and fixing me with a stare that seemed to linger just a beat too long.
Stop that!
“Oh don’t be,” I said. “I’m not. Well, I was; then I realised: it would have ended eventually. One day – later on – it would have ended. I would always have walked in on what I walked in on, so better it should happen now when,” I remembered Caz’s words of comfort to me, “I’m still young enough to put it behind me and find someone who really does care. I’ve only got one regret,” I admitted, wondering why I was saying this to a virtual stranger.
“Which is?”
“That I was a coward.”
“You mean you should have fought for him?”
“God, no!” I laughed and swigged the voddie (which, once you’d had a few mouthfuls and overcome the odd numbness it engendered in the tongue, was perfectly palatable). “He was never mine in the first place. I regret not confronting him earlier; I’m sorry I left it so many years without sitting him down, telling him exactly how I felt and demanding to know how he felt. But I was afraid; of showing my hand. Of hearing him say that he didn’t want what I wanted. So...”
“You let it slide.”
I nodded and, at that point, Dash popped his blond head round the door to the bar. “Message from Ali,” he said, nodding once at Dom and addressing me, “says you might wanna get your arse upstairs. Said something about The Fan Club overstaying his welcome . She said you’d understand.”
I drained the glass, rinsed it, put it back on the shelf and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Sorry,” I said to a bemused Dominic and headed out of the bar, wondering whether Lyra’s number one fan and chief stalker had come tooled up; whether I’d be able to eject him by myself alone, or whether I’d face the embarrassment of having to ask the beautiful and heartbreakingly sad boy with the golden eyes to give me a hand dumping his literary rival on the pavement.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time I got up the stairs, Leon was already out on the landing being held back – as he yelled at a closed door – by a rather flushed Morgan Foster.
From the other side of the door I could hear Lyra’s voice screeching something about people taking liberties, a diabolical invasion of her privacy and the fact that there was no Perrier left.
Leon glanced at me and, sensing I guess, that his time was nearing an end, redoubled his shouting at the door.
“Right from the beginning, Lyra,” he called, “I know all there is to know. I could do a better job. You know there’s only me, Lyra. Only me.”
The door opened and a hand appeared, holding Leon’s bouquet. The flowers hovered, for a moment, then, with a flick of the wrist, arced across the landing and landed between Morgan and Leon. Morgan released Leon momentarily to swoop down and grab them.
Leon raised his head, his gaze shifting from the discarded tribute to the door. A sheen of spittle glinted on his lips and a shine of hatred flared in his eyes.
And then the fight went out of him and, sensing his moment, Foster hustled the
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