Page 3 of Butterfly
Her long eyelashes flutter down for a moment, and red flushes her cheeks. She looks distraught, and I wonder how her face would transform when she’s happy. “Thank you, Mr Knightley.”
For some reason, the fact that she knows who I am bothers me. Maybe because I wish she wouldn’t see me as a celebrity. I’d rather be just Alex to her. Or maybe because I don’t know anything about her while she knows who I am. I’m rambling. As I take the bottle from her hands, my thumb brushes her skin. The touch is unintentional, but it’s like a fresh breeze after a hot day. She tugs at the edge of the bandage.
I screw the lid hard enough to cause a few drops to spill on her trousers. Damn. “Sorry. Here.”
“Doesn’t matter. Thank you.” She takes a long sip, her chest rising as she drinks. Next to me, Emily is breathing softly, her head over her shoulder and a sleeping mask on.
“May I ask what happened?” I can’t help myself.
The woman flexes her fingers and examines her knuckles again. “The storm caused an explosion in the hostel where I was staying. They say it was a tree that cut the power lines while dropping, and the sparks ignited the fuel or gas in a tank. Anyway, the blast didn’t fully hit me, or I wouldn’t be here, but I was thrown to the ground by the gust of air.” She lifts a shoulder her wide-necked shirt leaves naked. “It was painful, but I’m going to heal in a few weeks.” Her voice lacks strength. She must be in pain.
“I’m sorry.”
She nods and almost finishes the whole bottle with another sip.
I resume reading the script, trying to focus on the words, but the constant comings and goings of the attendants and medical staff distract me. Emily shifts on her seat and lifts her mask, her eyes cracking open before shutting again.
Should I ask the woman her name? Perhaps she doesn’t want to be bothered by me, although she just sits there, fiddling with her hands. No. I don’t want to be disturbed, so she likely doesn’t, either. Still, the blasted script is a jumble of words with no meaning. What the hell? Maybe I should take a nap too.
The woman lifts her head and searches around, holding her wallet. “I’m sorry, Mr Knightley,” she says in a low voice.
I turn to her and dip my head, so our gazes meet. “Please call me Alex.”
No smile or blush brightens her face. A little frown settles between her eyebrows. Did I say something wrong? “Is there a café here in the lounge?”
“Over there. The other side behind that screen.” I point behind me. “But if you need something, I can get it since you can’t walk.”
She cranes her neck towards the other side of the room. “That won’t be necessary. I should make it.”
“It’s not a problem, and I can use some stretching. What do you need?” I stand up and smile again, but she doesn’t smile back, dammit. “Tea? Coffee?” I prompt when she doesn’t say anything. “Orange juice?”
After giving me a narrow look, she says, “A black tea, thank you.”
“Won’t be a minute.” It’s with a new rush of energy that I cross the busy lounge towards the café. At the sight of the queue at the counter, my British instinct kicks in. Queueing brings normality to a situation that isn’t normal. I stand behind a short woman with a large hat.
She turns around and gives a squeak. “My goodness, Alex Knightley. What a surprise. I heard you were on the island. I’m a huge fan.”
My practised smile kicks in as well. “Thank you, madam.”
Heads turn my way. Eyes clouded with fatigue brighten. My whispered name spreads through the crowd. I shift my weight and gaze around.
“Best Bond ever. And loved your role inThe Three Musketeers,” the woman says. “Goodness, you were, what? Sixteen?”
“Seventeen.” I smile again, a genuine smile. That film was the beginning of everything. The goodandthe bad.
“Great film with many sexy scenes.” She winks.
My cheeks warm. Great.
She beams and points her phone at me. “May I?”
Selfies. The curse of the twenty-first century. “Of course.” What can I say? I’m not in the mood, but I don’t want to end up in a post about how celebrities are shitty people with a short fuse.
“Glad to see you’re in one piece,” she says, eyeing me with a clinical stare. “Horrible night. We’re so lucky.” She snaps another picture.
After a few other people shoot selfies with me, clapping my shoulder, the woman encourages me to take her place in the queue. “Go on. I’m sure you’re busier than I am.”
“It’s all right.” My protest dies as the people open a path to the counter for me. No, the special treatment doesn’t excite me, but I want to take the bloody tea to the woman.