Matt Reilly Stories by Flyboy707 Page B

female The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer concierge.
    ‘I’d
heard he was young, but I didn’t know he was so cute,’ the desk girl was
saying. ‘That’s the funny thing about authors, you never know what they look
like. Anyway, I recognised his name on the computer when he checked out and
asked if he was Mark Ridley, the author. He said yes he was, and I said that I
was huge fan. Then I just stammered and stuttered and I felt like such a
doofus, but he was so sweet. He even had a spare book in his bag and he gave it
to me. Signed it and everything. Look!’
    What
struck the Rock Princess most of all was that this was a girl talking. When
she’d chatted with Author Guy the previous evening, his novels had sounded like
boys’ books, and (she had to admit) she’d dismissed them as stories for
Rambo-loving men.
    As
she headed for the limo, she was joined by one of her back-up singers, a voluptuous
sort named Vanessa—all big hips, short skirts and a whole lot of Wonderbra.
    ‘Did
you hear about that writer who was staying here?’
    Vanessa
said.
    ‘What
about him?’
    ‘Young
honey from Australia. Get this. Seven million books sold around the world, in
15 different languages. Movie version of his first book comes out next
summer—he sold it to Paramount for a bomb. Starring Brad Pitt. Just signed a
new book deal worth 14 million dollars. They say he’s on tour, too,
parallelling us across the country.’ Vanessa adjusted her bra, positioned her
breasts for maximum impact. ‘Have to make sure I’m ready in case we bump into
that young fella again.’
    They
headed for the airport.
    Separate
tours.
    Bouncing
across the United States.
    The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer For her: a blur of hotel suites, limos
at airports and screaming crowds at in-store and studio gigs.
    For
him: a blur of hotel rooms, departure lounges, airport check-in counters.
    In
his mind, hotels began to blend into each other. In Cincinnati, he mistakenly
went to room 405—he was actually in 715; 405 had been his room number in the
previous city.
    His
bookstore appearances were solid if unspectacular. Fifty people here. One
hundred people there. Good showings for a ‘foreign author’ on his first US
tour.
    For
her part, she began to notice something in airport terminals.
    In
every single one of them, in the newspaper/book kiosks near the gates, she saw
his books. Constantly saw his name.
    Over
and over and over. She’d never even noticed them before.
    Different
worlds, she thought.
    And
strangely, in quiet moments, she found herself thinking about his smile.
    Their
tours crossed paths again in Dallas. They were staying at the same hotel: the
Magnolia.
    The
thing was, they themselves didn’t actually meet.
    It
was afternoon, and she was out doing a TV interview. He was in the hotel’s
library, working on some notes for a new novel.
    It
was Vanessa who noticed him sitting there.
    ‘Hi
there,’ she said, coming over, eyes predatory, hips deadly. ‘Mind if I
join—wait a second. I know you. You’re that author. You’re Mark Ridley.’
    It
wasn’t often that he was recognised. Sometimes people recognised his name on a
computer or when he used his credit card, but rarely did anyone spot him just
by looking at him.
    The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer It got his attention.
    She
sat down opposite him and started talking.
    At
first, Vanessa spoke about him. She’d read his books (this was true: she had
bought one at the airport on the way out of New York), and loved them, she
said. They were so…so manly.
    He
thought they were simply escapist entertainment.
    She
gushingly professed her lifelong love of reading (this was not true) and the
importance of books on young people’s minds (also not true).
    He
listened politely.
    And
then she started talking about herself.
    About
how this back-up stuff was just the beginning, how her first solo recording
would soon be produced by somebody named P-Diddy, how the Rock Princess