Find Me Alastar

We are driving to a country estate to see one of our good news stories. I’m excited for the first time in

a long time. Apparently a celebrity fundraiser is being held here today. The photographer I am with,

James, also freelances for the gossip columns, and the owner has asked if he can take some photos of the

party for the local paper while we are there. Considering I have been binge drinking like a college kid

since Alastar screwed me over six weeks ago, I’m looking forward to it. Something civilized for a change

and, quite frankly, I never want to date another man for as long as I live. The memory of losing my very

last ounce of dignity at Alastar’s house the last time I saw him is horrific, and something I don’t want to

ever revisit with a man ever again. Understandably, neither does Brielle. She came to Alastar’s house that

night and scraped me off the floor. If she hadn’t, who knows? I may still be there waiting for him to return.

I guess it’s just going to be one of those horror stories that I will always remember. Went to England, fell

in love with a player who totally fucked me over, became a nun… End of fairy tale. Life in the monastery

is going to be positively peachy keen and drama free. I stare out of the window as my wayward mind

wanders. I wonder what my Twinkle Star is doing right now?

I go over the conversations we had where I thought he might have been sick. I hope he’s okay, and I

hope that whatever the reason he left me for was worth it.

Deep down, I’d like to believe it must have been.

Driving into the large stone gates, I look around excitedly. This is one of the country estates that you read

about in magazines.

We continue up a long road until we get to a grand house where cars are being parked by the valet. I

look around at the dumpy truck we are driving in horror. “Why didn’t you clean your car before we

came?” I cringe.

James shakes his head. “I didn’t bloody know they would have valet, did I?”

I run my hands through my hair in frustration. “God. How embarrassing. There must be at least ten

empty coffee cups in here.” I frown.

“Oh, shut up. Have you seen your desk at work?”

He’s right; my desk is a shambles. I really can’t talk.

We arrive to the car park attendants who are donned in red coats and black pants. I get out of the car

while James scrambles around the van looking for his camera and I retrieve my bag with my notepad and

pen.

“You are?” the attendant asks with a raised brow.

“We are here from Chesters for an interview and I’m also here for the Mercury social pages to take

some photographs for the paper,” James replies.

“Identification please?” he sighs in a bored voice.

James shuffles around and passes his identification card over.

The attendant looks us up and down and then signals through the house. “The party is in the marquee,

just out the back.”

“Thank you.” I smile.

The attendant nods dutifully, straight faced.

“What a knob,” James whispers as we walk up the grand staircase.

“He does take his job very seriously,” I whisper.

James shakes his head. “He parks cars, for God’s sake. Even our shitty job is better than his.”From NôvelDrama.Org.

I smile and we make our way into the huge establishment that looks more like a function center than a

house. We are greeted by a middle-aged man who is wearing a black suit. “Hello, can I help you?”

I smile nervously. “Hello.” I hold out my hand and shake his. “I am Emerson Mathews, and this is my

colleague James Sutherland. We are here from Chesters to photograph some art that we sold to you.”

“Ah, yes. I have been expecting you. This way, please.” He walks off and we smile at each other as

we follow him. He opens a large set of double doors, which lead into a huge ballroom. My mouth drops

open. Holy crap. Every single wall is full of beautiful artwork. “I believe the pieces you are here to

photograph are here.” He points. “Here. Here, and on this wall.” He turns to his left. “I believe it is the

six bottom pieces. And on this far wall, it’s all of the oils.”

I smile in awe. Shit! These were seriously expensive pieces. This collector must be loaded. “Thank

you.”

James gets his camera out and starts clicking away while the man stands and waits.

I turn to him. “Is the owner here? I was supposed to be giving a brief interview with them. If today

doesn’t suit, I can call through the week.” Jeez, this is the last thing they want to do when they are having a

party. How inconvenient?

“Yes, Monica is out the back. I shall ask if she is available.”

He leaves us alone.

James and I look at each other and smirk in amazement.

“FYI: I’m going to try my best to shag Monica,” James whispers. “I don’t care if she’s a hundred. I

need me some of her cash.”

“Me, too,” I whisper. “This is bullshit rich.”

“Totally,” he murmurs as he starts to snap away, taking pictures of all the artwork.

Ten minutes later, two women come into the hall-one around forty-five and immaculate, the other a

younger hippie, arty type woman with long blonde ringlets in her hair.

“Hello.” The attractive older woman smiles. “I’m Monica, and this is my friend Tabatha.” She

gestures to the blonde.