Billy took a sip of juice, glancing toward the entrance where one of the most famous directors of the era was said to be. There he stood, with his blond hair and slightly lean frame. And Scarlett, who seemed composed and determined, ran straight into his arms.
—I'm going to make a film with him soon. —Scarlett said, noticing Billy's expression, as if wondering who he was and why he was there, whether he wanted something from him.
She laughed at his confusion.
—Well then, great… my nights have been cold lately. —Billy remarked, looking at the director. He knew exactly who he was, but he couldn't afford a misstep. It was obvious Nolan's image was good now, but not yet as monumental as it would become in the future, when everyone would want to be part of his films and the cult of the lens would become a phenomenon—when he would be a cinematic superstar, drawing audiences in with his stories.
He could only be a star—for now.
He kissed Scarlett passionately, his tongue moving boldly in front of the director, who shifted uncomfortably. Not far away stood Emma Thomas by the door, the wife, watching as Billy devoured Scarlett, squeezing her with a fierce adrenaline. It was uncomfortable, yet it was a form of love—so raw, so direct, so lacking in discretion that anyone might take it as an excuse to leave.
—I missed you so much. —
Scarlett's red lips, the way he left her completely still.
—I'm unforgettable, it's true. —Billy replied, turning toward his guests, only to receive another playful hit from the blonde beside him. For now, she was just that—a blonde. Soon, she would be the redhead who would captivate masses, clad in tight suits. Billy noted they seemed to have a good relationship. Why hadn't he cast her in other roles? After that, it remained a mystery.
—So, what's up, Billy Carson? You're the director and the producer, right? —Billy asked.
He knew perfectly well who they were, but feigned ignorance was his best card right now. Scarlett hit him lightly and whispered in his ear that they were excellent directors, telling him to behave. She leaned against his broad back, breathing in his scent, closing her eyes—she was happy. And besides, she had to take care of him; he was careless with life… and with women.
That stirred jealousy. She had never uncovered anything, but she suspected something. Still, seeing him resting without a phone in hand said a lot. Maybe he doesn't even use it, Scarlett thought.
—I'm sorry Billy is a fool when it comes to cinema. I'm still educating him. —Scarlett said firmly, now tempted to smack him on the head for being so rude.
—It's no problem, you already invited us. It's my fault for intruding. —Nolan said, on the verge of excusing himself from the situation.
But Billy interrupted, wrapping Nolan in a sudden embrace.
—Come on, my friends, you're welcome in my humble home. —Billy said—. I assume you're here for the concert; I sent out several passes. I didn't expect to run into… well, you know, usually only beautiful women show up.
—I heard that! —Scarlett shouted.
She stood with Emma Thomas, and it was clear—they weren't far off, whispering and gossiping. Yet both women kept Billy in their peripheral vision. There was something magnificent about him, Emma thought. She observed a charisma rarely found in the world; he was the kind of figure young girls would put on posters.
—Well, that was very kind of you. —Nolan replied, taking a seat, while Billy grabbed a beer from the fridge and offered one. Nolan shook his head, opting for water instead.
—So, what are you working on? You must be from Hollywood if you're working with Scarlett. —Billy said.
—Actually, I'm somewhat known. Not so much yet, but we do have a film set to shoot in June. I came because Scarlett told my wife you had a concert in Liverpool—and that Radiohead would be there, my favorite band. They're opening tonight, and she also mentioned you're friends with them. —Nolan said, a bit embarrassed.
—Well, they're busy for now. But after the concert, you can talk to them. They're serious guys, like every show is an office job. —Billy whispered. He thought of Thom Yorke and his way of revolutionizing music without words, delivering slow, haunting rock. One of his many mentors.
He pulled out a couple of tickets.
—These will get you backstage. You can stay with Scarlett, then we'll head to the hotel and you can talk about rock. They're a bit philosophical—you might end up with a headache. —Billy said.
—Not at all, he loves the band. —his wife replied—. And philosophy… his fourth love. —
—Yeah, well, when you're not as handsome as your brother, you have to make up for it somehow. —Nolan replied simply.
—Oh God, so handsome… I'd love a signed album. —Emma Thomas said. She had no doubt their records would appreciate in value; as a collector, that was her aim—though perhaps she'd give them a proper listen later.
A scream suddenly echoed through the dressing room. Two young fans, no older than twenty, were completely out of control, trembling, clutching their chests, stammering as if on the verge of a heart attack.
—Billyyyy!! Oh my God! —the girl cried.
Security followed close behind—two tough women, former members of the British special forces, a rarity in their field. Provided by the event organizers, they approached from behind as the girls nearly lunged forward, holding themselves back only slightly because of the people around them.
—Billy, oh my God, oh my God!
Nolan fell silent as he watched the girl burst into tears. Billy stood up and embraced her.
—I know, sweetheart, I know. —Billy said.
The girl froze, stunned, while the other pressed her head against him, trying to melt into his body. Billy whispered something to them, and they both nodded, handing him their records, which he signed. Then he kissed each of them on the lips. They screamed, shrieked, practically delirious.
Scarlett looked away. It was uncomfortable, watching how women threw themselves at him—though, in truth, she had done the same.
The girls were escorted out, one barely able to stand, the other almost catatonic, posing like a statue. A minute later, as they left the room, their screams echoed like ambulance sirens.
—Does that happen all the time? —Nolan asked.
—All the time. At least these ones were dressed. —Billy laughed, glancing at Scarlett, who breathed deeply and turned her back before resuming her conversation.
—I've only seen something like that once… I think. Thanks for the tickets. —Nolan said, realizing this guy was a magnet for women and trouble. Perhaps it was better to continue any questions in a more controlled environment.
—No problem, sir. You can stay here or hop on the bus—we'll leave after the concert. —Billy replied.
The couple left, and Billy nodded before turning back and attacking Scarlett with a deep kiss, pulling off his shirt as she followed his lead. They were both in ecstasy, filled with pent-up desire. Scarlett's body was nothing short of divine.
What a perfect woman. When I sing, I'll have to focus on the new songs—but love will find its way to you, in a melody I'll claim as mine, as I look out into the crowd so you'll know when I've been thinking of you. If you wait, you'll understand that someday, all my works will come back to you, my love.
...