Map to the Stars (6 page)

Oh. My. God.

This was not happening. This could not happen. I could not fall for this guy. The boy was a mega movie star and I had no interest in being
that
clichéd girl. I loved Wynn with all my heart but I could not subscribe to her unrequited crushes. Except there was something about sleeping Graham that was so vulnerable and when he paid attention to me it felt . . . different than with other guys somehow. Like we were really connecting.

And then the plane lurched out of the sky.

Well, slight exaggeration. It did not lurch out of the sky, but it did drop with a jolt that woke Graham. He looked around languidly, while I, on the other hand, scanned the cabin wild-eyed, tugged my seat belt enough to cut off circulation, and waited for the oxygen masks to drop. It took only a second for Graham to assess the situation. More specifically, to assess my terror level.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, breaking his vow of silence.

“Um” was all I could manage.

“Not a flyer?” he ventured. The plane gave another little bounce.

“I don't think so. I've only done it once before.” I clutched the armrest on one side of the couch and wished for something to do with my other hand.

“Seriously?”

“Yup. And that was five days ago.” I tried to strategize preparation for a crash landing.

He gave a low whistle, which earned him a swat on the head from Melba in the row behind us. The drop must have woken everyone. Graham threw his hands up in apology, but didn't turn around. Instead, he picked up his phone again and bent his head to type.

I've flown around the world @ least 4Xs by now. Nothing 2 it. I promise. Take my water & just try for tiny sips in b/w deep breaths. We'll be on ground soon. OK?

I read his text, but didn't answer. My mouth was too dry, so I settled for nodding. Graham gave me a sympathetic look and passed me his water bottle. I was momentarily distracted by wondering how much it would command on eBay, but then the plane lurched again
and I grabbed Graham's arm without thinking.

Wordlessly, he extracted my hand from his arm, where my nails were likely leaving marks, and held it gently in his own, his thumb tracing tiny soothing circles in my palm. Okay, so I might be about to die, but I was going to do so holding hands with Graham Cabot. I knew Wynn would consider that a fair trade.

A loud noise from the belly of the plane stiffened my spine with fear.

“It's okay. It's just the landing gear coming down,” Graham whispered. “Hey, look at me. It's okay, I promise.”

I swiveled my head to meet his eyes in the dark cabin. Suddenly, the noise of the engines and the motion of the plane seemed very far away and my terror started to recede as other emotions crowded in. I didn't break eye contact and neither did Graham. For one endless moment, we stared straight into each other's eyes and it definitely didn't feel like I was small-town Annie looking at big-time Graham.

Several heartbeats passed where neither of us moved.

Then, without taking his eyes from mine, Graham adjusted in his seat so that his head tipped slightly closer. His gaze moved away from mine for just the tiniest of seconds to flicker down to my lips and then back. I exhaled lightly and moved infinitesimally nearer. His breath was soft on my cheek.

His eyes moved back down to my lips and stayed there for a long, lazy moment. My stomach started jumping like someone had opened a can of something fizzy in it and it had nothing to do with the plane this time. Graham's forehead was mere inches from mine and if I moved
my face even a fraction of an inch closer we'd be—

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. . . .”

Graham gave a tiny sigh of frustration when the cabin lights assaulted us. He jerked his head and hands away just as Melba appeared over the top of his seat and the captain welcomed us to London. Melba complained about the evils of Heathrow Airport while Graham mimed agreement, but when I caught his eye he met mine with an expression of chagrin. And I think, just maybe, disappointment at the interruption.

After the customs officers filed off the plane (nothing like the star treatment), we waited to disembark onto the tarmac.

“I think you have a little bit of . . . what is that? Cucumber?” Graham smirked as he reached up to peel the fleck of green from my mom's eyebrow, but she swatted his hand away.

“Listen, mister, someday you'll need your beauty rituals too. Don't mock.”

Graham pretended to be offended. “I would never do such a thing!” He turned to include me when he said, “Do you want to ride in my limo to the hotel? I think there should be plenty of space.”

I caught his eye and ducked my head, nodding once. Whatever had almost happened in the air was still crackling between us and I wasn't sure I wanted Mom to pick up on it. Especially not until I figured out what “it” was.

The flight attendant moved aside, leaving the pathway to the door clear, and Graham offered me a hand, most likely just to help me down
the narrow steps to the tarmac, except I couldn't help but read meaning into it. I mean, we'd just had a total moment, right? And in a few minutes we'd be cuddled in the backseat of his limo streaming through the midday streets of London. I glanced at Mom, who was fiddling with her bag, before smiling and placing my hand in his. We stepped off the plane.

And then madness ensued.

“Graham, over here!”

“Graham, this way!”

“Who's the girl, Graham?”

Photographers were everywhere and the glare of the sun mingled with the flashes of their cameras and left me momentarily blinded. I felt, rather than saw, Graham drop my hand as if I had a communicable disease.

Springing into action, Melba, from her spot one step in front of Graham, yanked the sweater from around her neck and threw it over Graham's tousled hair, shielding him from the cameras. As soon as they reached the tarmac, Roddy filled in on one side of him and Melba and the studio lackeys wrapped around the other side, cocooning Graham in the center so they could shuffle as one toward the limo parked a short distance away.

None of this stopped the photographers from shouting and clicking, shouting and clicking. They even turned their cameras on Mom and me, while we blinked in confusion at the whole scene. Before the two of us had even descended the last step of the plane, Graham's limo was pulling away and Mom and I were left with a studio executive
who'd stayed behind to take the remaining stretch. A third driver and sedan were waiting in front of the plane to get the luggage.

What the hell had just happened?

I was completely shell-shocked from the harsh contrast between the last few dark and quiet and totally amazing minutes in the plane and the complete craziness of our arrival.

Crap.

Welcome to London, Annie.

As our limo cruised toward the hotel in the city center, I tried to shake off Graham's abrupt dismissal and enjoy the scenery. Mom's nose was practically smooshed against her window, but I couldn't concentrate. Everything had happened so fast and he really didn't even have time to react. I was sure he didn't mean to leave me in the dust. But if that was the case, why wasn't he texting me? The studio had ensured we all had international calling plans, so I knew my phone was working.

To make totally sure, I called Wynn.

She sounded groggy when she answered, “Annie?”

Damn. Forgot about that pesky time difference.

“Hey, you,” I said.

“Where are you? Is everything okay? What time is it? Why are you calling and not texting?”

“Um, sorry for the wake-up call. I forgot it's still early where you are. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

“What do you mean early where I am? Last I checked we share a time zone with New York City.” I could hear in her voice that she
was becoming more alert. “And why haven't you been answering your texts all weekend? You can't drop a bombshell on me via postcard and then go all radio silent!”

“I know, I'm sorry. I was working the whole weekend and they were taping, so I couldn't have my cell phone on. By the time I finished I could barely muster the strength to fall into bed and then we had to get up a few hours later and—”

“ANNIE!” Wynn shouted through the phone. The studio exec jerked his head in my direction. I mouthed a “sorry” and ducked my head down to speak more privately.

“What?” I whispered.

“I need to know absolutely EVERYTHING about Graham Cabot. Do you have any idea how much I've been DYING since I got your postcard? Dying! Is he just as cute in person? Wait, what am I saying? Of course he is. Have you talked to him yet? Is he to die for? Am I going to get to meet him when I come to LA for Thanksgiving? Oh my God, tell me he's just a perfect specimen of male.”

“Down, girl,” I said with a laugh, then lowered my voice again. “I can't really talk about it here. But I owe you a super-long email and I cross my heart, hope to die,
promise
to write it later when we get settled in at the hotel.”

Talking to Wynn was just exactly what I needed. I pictured her lying across her bed with her legs propped up on her wall and twirling her hair around her fingers. All of a sudden, I was hit with a wave of homesickness for my old life. Where things were simple and predictable and buzz-worthy teen stars didn't drop your hand when cameras
exploded in your face.

“What hotel? Where
are
you?” Wynn asked, interrupting my daydream.

“I'll give you a hint. I see lots and lots of red double-decker buses out my window,” I whispered into the phone. The studio exec had slipped out his own cell and was on a call of probably infinitely more importance than mine, considering I caught the words “back-end deal.”

“You're in LONDON?” Wynn screamed through the phone. The exec covered his mouthpiece and flicked his Prada sunglasses down to glare in my direction.

“Sorry,” I mouthed yet again.

“Wynn, I have to go. But I miss you like crazy. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Aww, I miss you too. And now I guess I'll get up and plot my exciting day of bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly and maybe even an exhilarating drive over to Maureen's for a pay-per-view movie tonight. I hope you don't die of jealousy, given that all you probably have on your schedule is tea with the queen.”

I laughed.

Wynn added, “Maybe we'll make it a Graham Cabot movie in your honor. Details BETTER be forthcoming. Major details, you hear me?”

I promised to write a novel-length email, conveyed the hi Mom sent her, and hung up as the sparkling River Thames came into view. We crossed over it while, below us, boats waved jaunty Union Jacks.
Contrary to the dreary English weather those required-reading Brontë novels went on and on about, the sky above us was cloudless and sun-bleached.

Okay, time to shake this. Who needed a movie star when I was living out my own fantasy? I leaned over to Mom and said, “Hey, do you think that's the Tower of London?”

Mom smiled in response. “We sure aren't in Kansas anymore, huh?”

“Or Georgia,” I told her, with a grin of my own.

When we arrived at our hotel, we were deposited at the back entrance, which seemed sort of unnecessary since we were three completely unrecognizable people. Being escorted through the laundry room felt even more excessive. Had Graham passed this way a few minutes ahead of us, and if so, was he lurking somewhere?

Settling into our room, Mom pulled out the schedule so she could see what our next call time was. We had two hours before we needed to leave for the first event: a department store appearance to launch Graham's new line of body sprays. I had no idea what a body spray launch would consist of, but at least I knew what time I'd be seeing Graham next if he didn't text. Oh, this was so
not
good. I should have been thinking about Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and the Shard building. Not about a certain shaggy-haired, hazel-eyed, left-cheek-dimpled movie star.

And
what
was all that noise?

I yanked open the heavy silk curtains and peered out the window at the street below. Oh, holy wow! About three hundred screaming
girls crammed every square inch of the sidewalk surrounding the hotel entrance and spilled over into the street. Four bellmen in fancy uniforms were maintaining a fragile velvet rope line to keep the actual door from being hammered in. The two bellmen whose faces I could see at that moment looked mere seconds away from a panic attack. About a dozen of the girls had signs of Graham's face mounted on sticks that they could wave above everyone's heads. There was another contingent wearing “Future Mrs. Cabot” T-shirts. One girl sat on someone's shoulders in the skimpiest bikini top known to mankind. The third bellman was having trouble focusing his attention on anything else. Most of the girls were either chanting Graham's name or screaming like they were at a rock concert instead of on a London sidewalk in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

Suddenly every face turned up to my window and the girls starting clutching at their hearts and screaming even louder, if that was possible. One fainted. What the—

Then I realized they weren't looking at me, but above me. Watching their faces below clued me in to the likely action above, which was a glimpse of the one and only object of their—and more disturbingly, apparently my—affection.

“Mom, you gotta see this.”

She peeked over my shoulder and gasped at the sight below.

I yanked the window as far open as it would go, which was only a foot or so, but wide enough that I could hear the screams magnified and just make out a buttery, now-familiar voice above my head.

“Ladies, thank you so incredibly much for the warm London
welcome! You are the best fans anywhere!”

Screams, heart clutches, another fainter.

“As much as I love your attention, I'm hearing that the neighbors and the other guests aren't adoring it quite as much. Crazy, right?”

I could just picture the conspiratorial sideways grin and as much as I wanted to groan, I also secretly thrilled at the image of it in my head.

“So listen, let's work together here. You ladies leave the sidewalk and instead we'll meet up over at Harrods in a few hours' time. I promise I'll have a chance to see all of you there. Win-win for everyone. Okay, girls? Please? You'd do that for me, wouldn't you?”

The guy had charm in buckets and I could see on the faces of the girls below that each and every one of them felt he was talking just to her. He was good. Too good.

And I needed to keep reminding myself of that.

I tossed my offensively quiet cell phone onto my bed and slid the window shut.

When Mom and I emerged from the lobby an hour and a half later, most of the crowd had cleared out. About thirty girls remained and each one turned breathlessly toward the door we pushed open. Their disappointment at seeing it was just us did wonders for the ego. Then again, I felt their pain. I was feeling the same churning anticipation they were, especially knowing I actually
would
be seeing Graham in a few minutes' time. That emotion was coupled with total disgust that I would even let myself feel any of those things for freaking Graham Cabot. What the hell was happening to logical, practical,
measured-response me?

Skimpy bikini girl had apparently relocated, so we were able to catch the bellman's eye easily and he flagged down a fancy London taxi for us. We closed the shiny black door on the stalker brigade and headed through the city. Destination: Harrods.

But a few moments after our taxi driver informed us we were “Getting close, luvs” in his proper British accent, he suddenly slowed to a crawl to make way for masses of people swarming in the same direction we were headed. Correction, masses of
girls
.

“Blimey, they've lost the plot!” proclaimed the cab driver, grabbing his cell phone off the passenger's seat, which was really the driver's seat in my book. The whole driving on the wrong side of the road from the wrong side of the car thing was too weird.

He talked into his cell for a second and then turned around and draped one arm over the back of the seat to talk to us.

“Sorry, but apparently there's a one-off up ahead and it's a bit dodgy from here.”

I glanced at Mom, who shrugged at me.

“Er, pardon?” Mom asked.

The driver looked at us for a second and then laughed. “Sorry. What I'm saying is there's some kind of event up at Harrods and I'm going to have to get you all sorted back here and leave you out. It's only two blocks up, but I can't make my way through!”

Mom peered over the front seat to get a total due.

“Fifteen quid, please, luv,” he said.

Mom handed over a twenty and waited for change, while I joined
the stream of girls on the sidewalk. Once Mom was out, we allowed ourselves to get swept along toward the massive department store, where everyone appeared to be headed.

I had a bad feeling about this.

If the building that housed Harrods was in any other city, it would be used for important government offices or maybe even double for royalty's city residences or something, but in the middle of London, the ornate building that took up a whole city block was all about shopping, shopping, and more shopping. Only, today it seemed to be all about hosting the entire female population of the city.

We were supposed to have been dropped at the loading docks, with instructions to meet Graham by the door for a quick nose powder, and we had to stop multiple policemen to point us in the direction of the correct area as we approached Harrods. Naturally, we had to turn and push against the crowd to reach it. Which was pure madness. It felt like we were trying to get into a baseball stadium two minutes after the final out.

My suspicions were confirmed when I spotted the high concentration of Graham Cabot faces coming at me in T-shirt form. I know Britain spawned Beatlemania and all, but this kind of turnout to a stupid body spray launch was truly unbelievable.