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“Yeah, give me a minute.” I sound not myself. Oh yeah… First, I need to peel my dry tongue from the roof of my mouth!
Rubbing my face and willing saliva forth, I ask gently, “Are you okay?”
“No.”
I open one eye and see he doesn’t look remotely like Albie, except for the sunglasses. The perpetual sunglasses are back on. Perhaps to hide his emotions.
“Was he sick? You never mentioned anything.” I sound a bit confused and upset, when actually, I’m trying to understand and be understanding. It’s a lot. I’ve never dealt with anyone before whose parent passed away.
“We didn’t speak.”
I sit up and stare at him. His hands are clasped together between his open legs, shoulders sagging, head bowed. He’s sad and processing this news.
Any fodder for the tabloids, no matter the cost to Albie or to his friends and family, is so valuable to the vultures of Fleet Street. It doesn’t matter to them the sensitivity of the situation; they’ll want the scoop and will stop at nothing to get it.
Sat here, staring at this shell of a man who is ordinarily larger than life, I sense there is something here that the press would kill to know.
“Kallie said we can escape in her car. Don’t worry, I moved six months ago and didn’t tell Sharon where.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “Kallie still lives there but her and Toni are a nightmare to live around. I had to get out.”
He chuckles. “Living with two lesbians sounds like heaven.”
“Yeah, until they’re plastering each other with chocolate body paint and you walk in on them in the kitchen you scrubbed not three hours before… following a similar body licking situation.”
He raises one eyebrow and lowers his head so I can just about see his eyes above the sunglasses. Even in these circumstances, I can see some semblance of amusement in his gaze. “As I said, sign me up. Should we go there?”
I thump his shoulder. “Fine. My digs aren’t good enough.”
“Women,” he huffs, folding his arms.
I leap from bed and collect what items of mine I see strewn around, shoving them into my carpet bag. Before I pack everything, I head behind the modesty screen and change my underwear, then pull my Daisy Dukes back on and also, a clean t-shirt. It happens to be a black belly shirt with a white impression of his face. Jesus. I was going to wear it last night as a joke.
When I emerge, I hold up a finger. “Make a comment and risk death. I swear down.”
“I was just gonna say, how to get out of here without getting caught…”
I instantly see his point. “Jesus, shitting Christ.”
Albie rolls his shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a way of getting around.”
He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and produces a red beret, a pipe and a whole lot of extra beard that’s thick and black. He dons all three and could be just any other weirdo at Glastonbury—his signature quiff hairdo tucked into the hat and the jaunty angle he holds the pipe seeming nothing like Albie Hart, arrogant lothario who much prefers a dirty cigarette hanging constantly out of the side of his gob.
“How’d you get in here last night?” I’m more than curious to know.
“I had one of the Glasto staff smuggle me in. A good fella called Bill. Gave him some weed to keep him quiet. He’d found out for me where you were staying.”
Rubbing my temples, I shake my head. “Does everyone do whatever you say?”
“Nope.” The word literally pops out of his mouth, then he makes a pistol shape with both hands pushed together and points his index fingers at me.
Having packed the last of my things, I quickly roll some deodorant under my armpits, swill mouthwash around my teeth, spray on some Miss Dior and tie my messy blonde hair up in a bun on top of my head.
“We’re not off to meet the Royals or anything, love.”
“No, but unlike some people, I prefer to be ready for anything.”
The last thing I grab are Kallie’s keys off the nightstand nearest her bed. Chucking the carpet bag at Albie, I shrug. “Well, completes the ensemble if you ask me.”
Funnily enough, as we exit the tipi area, his disguise works and the pipe even produces fake smoke when he blows out of it hard enough (no doubt he got it from a joke shop or something). He swings the carpet bag over his shoulder which also lends itself to this persona he’s adopted of bohemian intellectual who’s looking down his nose at everyone.
