NOTE: This is another chapter from my WIP novel 'The Old Hall Hotel.' A failing hotel which still accepts permanent guests. This is a rough draft, so any notes would be appreciated! This is more of a 'stand alone' chapter- a visiting guest, Abby, thinks all her dreams are about to come true... She had Twitter to thank when she discovered that after every performance he could be found in a bar near the hotel and theatre called the Old Clubhouse around half-an-hour after the curtain had fallen. Not the theatre bar, that had been an unfortunate mistake made by some. It’s hidden away- I would Google map it before you go @LAPDfan02 had told her. Probably hiding from the LAdies, hehe! @LAdieforlife added. At thirty-five, Abby had watched the majority of her peers leave for university, get jobs, have relationships, babies…have, at some level, something that resembled a respectable life. Abby was aware she didn’t have one. At least not one that anybody would consider noteworthy. She swung from pride at her individuality, indifference at the none too subtle digs on social media, to finally self-loathing on a daily basis. She had unfollowed the majority of her few friends on Facebook because their grinning, conformed faces made her pity either them or herself, depending on where her mind had wandered to that day. But tonight, tonight she was going to own life. She had waited for this day for eighteen years. *** She sat, very aware that she was shaking. She wished she had befriended somebody else in the audience beforehand. That had been part of the plan, to find someone as invested, as passionate as her, to form a friendship that would last the ages. She had hoped to even maybe spot fellow fans at the hotel. She had scanned the audience but nobody had seemed approachable. That said, the turn out had been dismal. A semi-professional production of Guys and Dolls, on a staggered tour of the UK, had struggled to fill half of the 500-seat theatre. Her ticket had been booked for six months, front and centre, and she thought of the poor fools at home, who had missed this opportunity, this privilege. As the lights dimmed, she thought she was going to be sick. She took a long drink from her overpriced water and tried to stop her knees trembling. And then he was there. And nothing, absolutely nothing, else mattered. She had hoped the stage lights were too bright for him to see the sparse crowd, that he wouldn’t feel disheartened. He had thousands of followers on Twitter. Casual fans Abby thought. Where are they tonight? Pathetic. At one point, during the encore, in which she led a faltering standing ovation, he had caught her eye and winked. He probably recognised her from the fan-site… or perhaps even Twitter. She had contained an excited scream and found herself blowing him a kiss. Everything, finally, was falling into place. As the small crowd began to disperse, she became anxious to leave the theatre. She didn’t want to miss him. She tripped over a trailing piece of red carpet. “Can’t wait to leave too?” She looked behind her at a man, roughly her age, grinning at her. “What a let down, ey?” Abby stared at him. Who wore jeans to the theatre? “I thought he was fantastic.” “Who?” “Dale Sands.” The man frowned. “Which one was he? Nathan or Sky?” “Sky.” “Bloody hell, that one. What were they thinking? Seemed almost perverted putting him next to that young girl...what is he? 80?” She tried to keep the angry tremor out of her voice. “He’s 72.” “Jesus, is that all? He clearly enjoyed life a little too much.” Choosing not to get riled, Abby turned away and began to walk out. “Hey, hold on.” Abby kept walking. “Hey, I hope I didn’t upset you. He isn’t your Grandad is he?” Despite herself, she smiled. “I do a review blog, how about you change my mind? We could grab a drink, you could educate me…” Abby pretended not to hear. You fool...he seemed a decent one. *** She was proud of her outfit. She had bid for an original 1970s dress on Ebay as soon as she had purchased the tickets and booked the hotel room. It was close, besides a yellow stripe down the side, to being identical to the one Kev Henderson’s girlfriend wore in the two-part finale to season two. With it she had picked some beige leggings, she loathed showing her legs and she had read in an old Jackie annual she had also bid for on Ebay that he preferred girls who covered up and felt comfortable. Her final touch had been her LAPD necklace which she refused to take off, even for job interviews. She had toyed with wearing one of her LAPD t-shirts but decided against it. She had noticed, to her annoyance, that they had started to sell them in Primark of all places. She had tried for six months to lose some weight for him. She had avoided alcohol, chocolate, even bread. Yet the layers of fat still rolled uncomfortably over what used to be oversized jumpers and leggings. Her mother had tentatively suggested WeightWatchers which had led to both of them crying and screaming at each other for two hours. Abby had chosen today not to fixate on her looks. Besides, Dale wasn’t that shallow. For eighteen years she had lived for this moment. She had breathed for this moment. Fuck all the ordinary people living their photo-shopped lives. Everything was going to be worth it. Everything was about to make sense. She had a plan. She would offer to buy him a drink. That could start a conversation. Nothing seedy- she would be happy with a signature, a selfie and perhaps a hug if she was lucky. She had read on Tumblr that he gave lovely hugs. She had ignored the disgusted expressions of so-called friends who claimed she was obsessed with a man in his seventies. This wasn’t sexual. Of course she had wished she had been around when LAPD had aired. When Dale Sands was at his height, when nobody could deny his beauty. He had aged, of course, and had been the subject of cruel headline jibes about his bald spot and beer belly. Yet it was still him and she needed to show her appreciation- her love and thanks for saving her from such a sorry existence. Where would she be without him? He had to know how she felt. How loved he was. She looked around the bar and tried to see why Dale had picked it. It had, she supposed, a certain amount of charm- but it was so quiet. There was an older man sat on a bar stool flicking through his phone and a woman singing to herself in the corner. Maybe Dale liked the solitude. She had felt embarrassed by the theatre. She had felt excited initially when she had heard the news. When she was young her Grandmother used to bring her to see the panto at Christmas. The huge auditorium had reminded her of the ballroom from Beauty and the Beast. It had been full, ushers in uniform and smiles had welcomed them at every door. She couldn’t tell if the sorry state of the theatre was a victim of time or her poor memory. She had had two vodka and cokes when he arrived, hoping they would steady her nerves. There were now three other people in the bar and yet they didn’t even glance at him as he walked in. A plaid, faded shirt, his hair freshly washed. Slightly wet, eyeliner still under his eyes. He placed himself on a bar stool. Up close she could see more distinctly how bald he had become, a far cry from the golden locks of the LAPD years but still... it was him. Detective Kev Henderson. Feeling light-headed and very aware of her body, she walked up to the stool, clutching the show programme. She noticed across the bar signed pictures from actors she vaguely recognised from Eastenders. She felt embarrassed that Dale had to see them. She cleared her throat. Perhaps he would find the fact that she was so nervous endearing? "Urm...Dale? Mr Sands?" He looked at her- right at her. “Yes?” "I'mahugefancouldIbuyyouadrink?" Daniel frowned, "Say again?" His voice was croaky, making his Texan accent seem even more exaggerated, sexier. "A drink? Can I..can I buy you a drink?" "Oh." Daniels eyes glanced over her, a slight crease in his forehead. "I have a tab, sweetheart but... yeah, thanks anyway." "Oh, okay." She stood, staring, aware of her face flushing, her palms sweating. Her plan had failed at the first hurdle. "Did you want me to sign that?" "Huh?" "Your programme" he pointed to the thin booklet in her hands. "I was in the show." "Oh...I know, I know...urm...yes please." She reached in her bag for a pen but the barman had already passed a marker over. "What's your name?" "Urm, Abby." "Abby, IE, or with a Y?" "Ur, Y....yeah…Y" "Y'sure?" he smirked slightly. He flipped open the pages, found his photo, signed it swiftly and gave it back to her with a quick smile. "Okay, well. Nice to meetcha..." he had already picked up his pint and was inching his way from the bar. That couldn't be it. It had to mean more surely? Couldn’t he see? See that she was different, see how much it meant that she was stood next to him? She fingered her necklace, hoping he would notice it, realise. “Dale?” A slow turn, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” "Do you... urm, do you plan on seeing Matt, whilst you're in England?" The sentence came out in the space of a few seconds. "Matthew? No.... probably not. At least I have no plans to." "He lives here now." “Yes. So I hear.” She licked her lips. His face was still in a frown. “He...he wished you luck on Twitter." "Did he now." "Yes. He said that he would try to..." "...Come watch me? Heh. Yeah, my agent told me about that. Maybe if it's a slow day for him, kid." She was slightly discouraged by this response. Hadn't the 'buddy cops' remained the closest of friends? Godparents to each other’s children? Her Mum had cut out a joint interview the two gave a few years ago to The Times. It was one of her favourite pictures too. Arms around each other. ‘Brothers in all but Blood’. Yet here was Dale, close to being repulsed at the mention of his former colleague’s name. Perhaps he was teasing her? "I also wanted to thank you for the replies on Twitter...I’m SandsGirl12…" He gave a small laugh into his drink. "Come on, kid. I barely know how to use my cell. You think that's me on there?" "Oh…it’s somebody else?” "Of course it is." "Oh” she felt, to her shame, her eyes becoming hot “...sorry, I thought..." "Why're you sorry?" "For.. y'know...urm..." "Drives me crazy over here... 'Sorry'. "Sorry Mr Sands that you bumped into me.’ ‘Sorry but you need to be side stage...’ ‘Sorry, somebody is on the phone...awfully sorry but that’s my wife you’re screwing...Jesus” "Urm..." "Just... don't be sorry, kid. I should be thanking you. They tell me they only reply or whatever they do to people who have nice things to say" Watching her drag a hand across her eyes, he gave a small smile. "Say, how old are you anyway? Ya Mom a fan or something?" "No. Well, yes she was but... I'm the fan." "How old are you?" "Thirty-five." "Jesus, really?" "Yes.” At last. “I love LAPD." "Sure. Sure." "A lot." "Well...that's... that's nice." She couldn't work out if he was being sarcastic... or perhaps he was angry? When she had met Matt at London Comic Con he had seemed so happy, so grateful, to have a young fan. “Hey, I still got it!” he had high-fived her and even tweeted the selfie they took. "You know my name isn't really Sands?" She was pulled away from the worry and looked at him. Was this a test? A test of her loyalty? "Yeah. It's Sandham. Dale Sandham" "Oh, yeah?" Dale looked mildly impressed "Who let that out of the bag?" "Wikipedia. But I read it in my Mum's LAPD 1975 annual years ago." "Yeah. Sure y'did." "I have it with me." "Seriously?" he looked at her, amused and put a hand up to the bartender for another drink. "Yeah. It’s in my bag. Do you want to..." "No. Hell no" He took a long drink and gave a small laugh. "Actually, yeah. Yeah. Remind me of when I had hair." She reached into her bag and pulled out the annual. He reached for it and flicked nonchalantly through the pages. He paused at the double spread poster of the cop partnership. Without asking, he reached once more for the pen and scrawled his name over it. He spelled her name with an IE at the end. The barman placed two drinks next to them. Dale indicated that one was for her. She stuttered her thanks but his eyes didn’t move from the poster. "Y'know I always liked Sands more than Sandman. Reminded me of Las Vegas. My Dad used to work there, you know? Sinatra. Sammy. You know my Dad once served Jack and Bobby Kennedy? Said they were diamonds. Their dad was a pig, though. Those were the days, kid." "I know" "Na... y'don't. The hell you do. Auto-tuned shit is what you know. Miming to deadeyes. Y’know I can sing myself? Better than my old man could. He hated that.Not that you’d notice with this show. Doesn’t suit my voice.” “You sounded wonderful” “Don’t bullshit me. Why do you all have to suck up so much?” "I’m not… I…sorry." "What did I say about being sorry?" She resisted the urge to apologise again. He tilted his head, his expression was one of confused curiosity. "What did you come here for? Really?" "To see you." "Or a signature. How much would it have gone for on Ebay if I hadn't had personalised it?" "I wanted you to personalise it. I never want to sell it." "Come on. You see what an asshole I was? Covering up Matt's photo? If you ever run into him there won't be space for him to sign it." "I've already met, Matt.... so, it's okay. I don’t mind" "Oh, yeah? Was he nicer than me? Smile for the camera?" She stared at him helplessly. This wasn't going the way she wanted at all. Dale continued to stare at the poster. "I hate this in between. Y'know I was offered an All Stars tour? We were going to ride around in the freaking Partridge Family bus, with two members of The Monkees. Unless you plan on being The Beatles, never get famous, kid. I'm from the generation that had their moment and then faded. No Sinatra moment for me.There's always a fall and after that the grovelling- you become a sound bite for 'Best Cop Shows', a cameo in some fuck-awful soap or third on the bill to the car you used to drive into dustbins. Ain't a job. I never even tell my wife when I'm filming these days." "Urm, but..." “I wish I hadn’t even had that moment. Because I was so big, sweetheart. I was too big for my own fucking good. Then the phones stop ringing and you stop getting screamed at in the street. And nobody asks how much that fucking hurts.” “I…” "But at least Matthew's doing well these days, eh? The new Star Wars I hear? At least I never get 'which one are you'... kind of him, though, to remember. You know I was always the one who was going to live forever?” “But he…” “And tweeted about me, bless him?" "Yeah... and he retweeted you... or, y'know, retweeted your account." "He has my number. It's been the same for ten freaking years." She took a step back. "I was always the star after all. After the fucking car. Y'know, it broke down at least twice a day when we were filming? It was shit. Yet it's the one on the t-shirts. It even got fan mail, sad fuckers. Who writes to a car?" "I wouldn't write to a car..." Daniel burst into a throaty laugh. He put on a fake British accent. "I wouldn't write to a car, squire!' Oh, someone get that on a t.shirt...' He took a long drink. "Was there something else you wanted?" She put the book back into her bag "Urm... could I... would you mind if I had a photo with you?" "A photo?” Dale sighed deeply but ran a hand through the few hairs on his head. “Well…God bless ya, kid. God bless ya for still wanting a photo." She handed the phone to the barman. Dale put an arm around her shoulder which tensed slightly as the flash went. "Thanks..." "Sure." He picked his pint up and walked away, offering a slight dismissive wave of the hand. * The hotel seemed colder as she wrapped the sheets around herself later that night. The two single beds looked suddenly pathetic, her single suitcase made her feel sick. She jumped when she heard pounding on the wall from the room next door. Had she made more noise than she intended when she came back? Was it that late? She stared at her phone, open by default on Twitter. Her hand shaking slightly she started to type Had the misfortune of meeting @RealDaleSands tonight. He is, by his own admission, an absolute asshole. What a disappointment. And btw- he doesn’t even read his tweets let alone reply! #dontshootthemessenger #Mattwasthebestanyway Her hand hovered over the ‘tweet’ button. She had ignored the various messages she had had from the fan site asking if she had met him, what he had said… She deleted the words and paused before re-typing. Check out my pic with @RealDaleSands. What a sweetheart. SUCH a lovely guy! #luckygirl #dreamcometrue She poured a glass of wine, logged out of Twitter and checked her e-mail for job updates. An email from two weeks ago which she hadn’t even opened was addressed from her old college friend, Claire, asking how she was, what she was up to, did she want to meet up for coffee? Smiling slightly, she unceremoniously removed her necklace, replied yes to Claire with a smiley face, apologised for the delay and that she looked forward to catching up. *
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