I am now convinced everything is overblown by the media.
Nah, maybe I'm just blaming them for my own gullibility. But this is the sitch: I'm in the VIP room at Life, and I'm bored shitless. I take another sip of my Bay Breeze and try not to show it. Hell, I am at Life after all. And Life is a velvet rope club, damnit. What's the point of going out clubbing in New York if you aren't going to go anywhere important? Or be with anyone important?
Darren turned to me. "Are you having a good time?" he asked sarcastically.
"Yes. I'm in the VIP room at Life. With you. What more could I want?"
"Bullshit. I see it in your eyes." He placed a five-dollar bill on the counter to pay for his club soda with lime, waving his hand to tell the barmaid to keep the change.
"Alright, you've got me," I confessed, "Fine. I'm bored. Noone has talked to me in the last half hour except some dippy old chiropracter who gave me a half-assed massage. At least people are talking to you."
Darren took my hand and sighed. "Brittany, you're the one who wanted to come here. I told you these places are extrememly overrated. Why do you think I rarely go clubbing?"
"Well, you were here for the Elite Model--"
"That was the only time I was ever here," he interrupted. "And I haven't been back since. Nor did I ever have any real desire to go back. We're only here because you wanted to be here."
"Then maybe it's an off-night here. We could go to Veruka or Moomba."
Darren shook his head and rolled his eyes out of my immediate vision. "I"m not Leonardo DiCaprio. I can't get into either one of those places, and you know it."
"No, I don't."
"Believe me, I can't." He gave me an exasperated smile. "I'll tell you what. I'll buy you cheesefries instead." I was almost defeated. He knew I loved cheesefries.
"Mozzarella?"
"Yes."
"Sold," I said. "I"ll bet Leonardo wouldn't leave Life to buy me cheesefries."
"I don't even imagine Leonardo eating cheesefries. Can you imagine all those gooey strands coming out of his mouth?" I giggled; it was a silly image. Some radio person or another tapped him on the shoulder, no doubt wanting to talk to him because he was Darren Hayes. Industry people, all the same. Darren nodded at me and handed me his coat ticket.
"Mozzarella cheesefries and coffee. That's my idea of a romantic meal." We were exiting the diner; Darren's right arm was around me, across the bottom of my black motorcycle jacket.
"Romance is where you find it," he offered. True enough, I suppose, but going out with a popular singer like Darren, I expected a bit more of the glamourous life. Expensive cuisine in the finest restaurants, the best tables, being noticed, damnit. So far, noone did. Even the notorious Page Six from the equally notorious New York Post couldn't give a damn about him--and therefore, about me.
Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, I supposed. I was the first woman he was dating in a while; I knew because he told me. I told him that I was an exotic dancer-cum-adult model, news that didn't even faze him. But maybe, just maybe, we both wanted something more.
The night was a touch chilly but still beautiful. Winter was on its way, but it wasn't here yet. We were walking down Broadway in the Village, not quite knowing where we would end up, not quite caring either. It was still early in the night--at least for New York.
"Brittany," Darren started, carefully forming his words. "I'm wondering. About us, I mean."
"Yeah." Fuck, the break-up speech. I could smell it a mile off.
"Brittany, you know I like you a lot. And I want to stay with you."
"Darren, we're not kids. Lay it to me straight."
"No, I don't want to break up with you. I have no desire to. But why are you with me? Is it me you want to be with, or this image of a pop singer?"
"It's you, Darren. You know it's you. I'm crazy about you." I clutched onto him tightly. It was him. He was sweet, adorable, smart, funny. Okay, and a well-known pop singer. But that didn't make me a fame junkie, did it? Or a bad person, for that matter.
"Brittany--" Darren tried again, but we were being approached by a young woman in a black suit and leather trenchcoat, much like the one Darren was wearing.
"You're Darren Hayes. Of Savage Garden, am I right?"
Darren nodded. He was clearly in no mood to be recognized, but he didn't want to turn away a fan either.
The woman held out an old "Truly Madly Deeply" single. "Could you please autograph this for me?"
He took it reluctantly. "Who am I signing this for?"
Before she could reply, someone shoved a cloth in my face, the intoxicating scent like ammonia, but stronger. Ether, that was it, ether; and I only had a split second to see that someone was doing the exact same thing to Darren.
And then everything went black.