If I’m a guppy in the music world and Ben is a tuna, Maximus is a great white shark. It’s fitting, because the man displays an unnatural amount of teeth in paparazzi photos in music magazines and tabloid rags. He’s got bravado down, with good reason, and more than enough stage presence on his own for a continent of rock bands.
My compulsive googling tells me a few things. At this point, I could write my own bio of the man based on my search results, like a twisted uni paper better suited for a student news column.
Born in Cheshire and raised in East London, rocker Maximus St. Pierre exudes London hipster cool. Aged thirty-two, St. Pierre’s played gigs since he was sixteen, a talented ingenue rightfully deserving of acclaim. Winner of a Grammy Award, MTV Europe Music Award, American Music Award, and three previous Brit Awards, St. Pierre most recently won Album of the Year at last year’s Brit Awards, a veteran of the rock scene.
Visitors to his Wiltshire farm home studio read like a who’s who of British rock of the decade. Launching his own label last year, St. Pierre continues to trail-blaze in the industry. When he’s not rocking out, he spends his time working to save endangered species such as the Northern Spotted Owl from the brink of extinction and gives generously to children’s charities.
St. Pierre’s love life has gained nearly as much attention as his musical prowess. He’s continually paired with the latest up-and-comers like a shark looking for tender chum. Do his boyfriends track to success because they’re already on the up, or because of St. Pierre’s connections?
Okay, so I might have embellished on the last paragraph. Still.
I shake my head and sigh as I put my phone back in my pocket and take off my apron. Lars takes over on the coffee machine while I head off for a break. Ben’s very talented, all on his own. I’ll probably be fired as a rock columnist given my tangents. Plus, I don’t have the connections. Or the press pass, which would have been useful when I tried to get into Ben’s gig weeks ago in Camden.
Grabbing my coat, I turn up the hood and set out on a walk to clear my head, despite the rain.
No good comes of obsessing, Charlie. You’re doing the right thing.
Ben’s in an entirely different world. A world hopefully where he’s not a snack to higher-order sea life, but really, I’m barely an amoeba on this scene. And that’s not being hard on myself—that’s just facts.
I don’t get too far on my walk when I receive a text from Emily.
Very sorry to ask, and I wouldn’t if it wasn’t urgent, but could you come look after Carys? We’ve both come down with a bad flu. Katherine’s away. Please let me know. x
Cue reality.
Chapter Forty-Five
Of course I text Emily back in short order that I’ll be there tonight. And I go back to the café to let them know I have to leave for a couple of days for a family emergency. It’s still early in the day, not even lunch. And this time, it’s not Ben saving me when I need to get to Swansea. This means no Posh Van. No flirting over texts. Thinking of the van makes me think of my tears in Victoria Station and Ben helping me without hesitation.
God. Don’t think about Ben. That’s not helping anything.
It’s gonna be a long train ride out to Wales today. Needing something to keep my brain busy, I pop into Barnes Books, just around the corner from the café, and see my friend Aubrey, a once grumpy and now cheerful man. Just look at what love does.
Today, it’s Aubrey working alone in the shop. A couple browse in the history section. They had been by the café earlier.
“Hey,” I say to him. He looks about how I feel. It’s a Monday after all. “I need a couple of novels with unhappy endings.”
Aubrey glances up at me from his stock notes behind the till, giving me a bit of an odd look. He’s a darker strawberry blond than Ben. Attractive, but he’s a man off the market with Blake. “Hi, Charlie.”
“I hope my request isn’t too weird.”
I suppose the man’s heard it all by now.
“No, but that’s very niche.” Aubrey gives me a ghost of a smile as he considers my specific request. Even though he’s young like me, he’s run the shop since forever. Since I can remember. Like Ben, he had to step up to run the family business after tragedy struck.
Why can’t I stop thinking of Ben? Damn brain. Whose side is it on, anyway?
“Well, if books with happy endings like Romance are a genre, aren’t books with unhappy endings a genre too?” I point out.
“That’s called literary fiction.” Aubrey grins. He gives an expansive gesture at the fiction section beside him. “Knock yourself out.”
“I only need a couple of books. Suitable for a long train ride to Cardiff.”
“Well, if you insist. I might have something to suit.” He gazes over at the shelves, frowning. “There are plenty of unhappy Russians in classic literature,” he points out. “Or you could go full Orwell and readNineteen Eighty-Four.”
“Read it. Could do with another read, though. Lit student, remember? It’s the right tone, though. Could also use something I haven’t read before.”
Aubrey looks at me gravely. “Have you readLittle Women?”
