Trust (London Love #5)

“Me?”

God, I was an idiot. How did you do this again?

Then he hung up. I didn’t blame him.

I rang him again.

“Reubs!” I shouted as soon as the line connected. “It’s…Dieter.”

“Then say so. How am I supposed to know who me is? I was just fucking with you, anyway. I have your number now. I would’ve, like, rung you back.”

“Sure,” I huffed. I didn’t like fuckery.

“What do you need, mate?”

I hated all the mate stuff. I wasn’t his mate. No more than I was some twat called Dieter.

“You think I could have some dinner?”

“Sure! What do you fancy?”

“Ehhhr…” I really didn’t have a clue. Typical me, to impulsively decide I want food without actually thinking about what I wanted.

“Did you look at the menu?” Reuben asked calmly. “There’s a QR code on the plaque by your bed. Lots of food. But hang on…”

He went silent for a bit. I could hear fingers tapping against a computer keyboard.

I hated this. I hated everything. God. Help!

“Can you just choose something and bring it up? Is that…like, possible, please?” I had manners. I used to think I didn’t need them, but if this school of life had taught me anything, it was that manners mattered, and I bloody well tried to use them.

“You want me to feed you and you won’t even tell me what? Have you got…I mean…allergies? What do you usually eat? Are you vegetarian or anything?”

Was I? I was supposed to be. I had a personal chef. Someone who carefully curated meals for me on tour. I needed a certain level of energy to function on stage, but with the constant jet lag and minimum sleep and workouts and—

“Dude, I’ll ring you back.”

Then he was gone, leaving me sitting here like the fool I was.

My name wasn’t Dieter. I had a real name. One I couldn’t even remember how to use anymore, and the longer I sat there, the more I began to wonder if I even existed.

So I did the one thing I knew would bring me back down to earth. I rang my parents. I loved their daily chatter and laughter about my dad’s gardening and Mum’s circle of friends. They had been far too old when they’d unexpectedly had me and had both retired before I was even out of senior school. I’d had a good life. No trauma. No stress.

Then I’d entered some stupid audition on TV. Fast forward ten years later…

“Are you keeping safe?” Mum asked. “Are you listening to those people around you? Don’t do anything silly, Graham. You know how most of these singers end up.”

Dead, Mother. I didn’t say that. I might as well be dead the way I was living my life.

“I know, and I won’t. Love you, Mum.”

“Ah, you’re a good son.” She always said that. Maybe I was, but I didn’t feel it. “I love you too, sweetheart. Good night!”

“Night, Mum.”

Did I feel any better? I had no idea.

So.