Money in the bank

He ate quietly, steadily, like he was savouring every mouthful, gripping firmly around that burger as if he expected someone to snatch it right out of his hands. He had nice nails. All shiny and perfect. Not like mine that were bitten down and looked like crap.

I didn’t care much about the way I looked. Not anymore. I mean, I was clean and tidy and used deodorant and all that, but none of the rest of the stuff people waffled on about. Even my dad moisturised. Bought big bottles of weird-smelling lotions that he slathered all over. Not that it made him look any better. My dad was a handsome dude. Tall and built and impressive all over. He didn’t even work out, but doing the job we both did, we were both kind of fit and strong.

Who was I kidding? I was textbook mediocre. A normal kid, a bit taller than average, and my skin was better than it used to be, but I showered and shaved and that was it. No point doing more when I had the kind of hair that even the local barber had given up on.

The Dieter, though?

“Yo, man. Talk to me. Wanna tell me why you’re here? I mean, you mentioned something about someone flaking out on you. Wanna talk about that?”

“Not really.” He took another big, showy bite out his burger. I hadn’t joked about them being fully loaded, because that burger joint was the best for miles around. My dad and I were the kings of brilliant takeaways.

“Then why the hell are you camping out in a hotel suite on your own? For fun?”

“Does this look like fun to you?” he kind of snarled.

“It does, actually. And yeah, I invited myself in to dine with you because I mean, how often do I get an excuse to hang out in the King George Suite?”

“Like daily, I suppose?” he snapped back, but he was smiling. Good. “You work here, don’t you? Fancy uniform and ID around your neck and all that?”

“Doesn’t mean I can just come up here and hang out. To be honest, I shouldn’t be here now. Us employees are not supposed to fraternise with the guests.”

He snorted. “A bit late for that…mate.”

Prickly little bastard.

“Dieter—”

“My name’s Graham, actually.”

He looked small and uncomfortable as he said it, like the name didn’t sit right in his mouth.

“Is that what your mates call you?”

Rude. But whatever.

“Yeah. Or Gray. G.” Now he looked embarrassed.

“G,” I repeated quietly, tasting it. He didn’t feel like a G to me. Maybe not to him either, as he was staring at his hands.

“What’s up?” I asked gently. I was surprisingly calm. It was a new state for me, having fought all kinds of diagnoses since my teens. ADHD was only one of my many letter combinations that my usually fried brain couldn’t deal with. When I’d first been medicated, I’d felt even worse than when I’d been popping stuff that was nowhere near legal, but I was on a good combo of meds now that didn’t make me feel like a zombie. Instead they gave me this. A sense of space where I could hear myself think.

And apparently, I’d said all that shit out loud. No surprise. Sometimes my mouth talked before my brain engaged. Sometimes my brain just shot shit out of my mouth.

“Meds are good,” he said, watching me like he was trying to figure me out. Usually people looked at me like I was a freak when I got my little pill boxes out and shoved a bunch of little colourful shapes into my mouth, like I was doing now, seeing as I’d told him anyway. I had to take them. Keep myself on the straight and narrow. Not disappoint my dad. Keep my job. Stay sane.

“Keeps me functioning. I used to get all messed up. Piss people off. Do stupid shit that no kid should ever do. It’s better now.”

“Tell me about it. I’m on a bunch of sleeping pills and anti-anxiety meds. The life of a huge superstar.”

I laughed. “Seems to me you slept pretty well. You still have the bed sheets imprinted on your face.”

He smirked. “I sleepwalk. I have to take them so I don’t fall down some death stairs somewhere and break my neck in public. You know?”

“Bullshit,” I said. Not that I doubted him, but it was rare I met someone who was even more fucked up than me. And that was way fucked up.

“So you really need someone to lock the door on you from the outside? Like you’re some…I don’t know. Do you even know you’re doing it?”

He laughed. I liked that.

“Reubs. I have money in the bank. I work, like…all the time. I have a team of bodyguards pretty much living in my house—”

I had to stop him there. Holding my hand up as I shook my head. “At all times?”

“Yeah.” He sighed.

“That’s some serious… I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Neither do I. It’s all…well, I had a stalker. Someone I thought was a…a friend. And they kind of…were in my house when I wasn’t there. Slept in my bed. Touched my stuff. Turned up in the middle of the night and scared the shit out of me. And the stress and working, and then there were some threats online, and my management thought…”

“Dude.” I was a bit weirded out that he was telling me all this. It was stuff I could go to the press with. Not that I would. Because look. I wasn’t a dick. Most of the time.

“So why are you here? You’ve kind of spilled a lot of crap right there. So now you need to elaborate.”

“I might need some more food for that.”

“That was two double burgers and a shit load of fries.”

“And full-fat Coke. I’m sugared up now. Feeling the high.”

Okay. I took it all back. Dieter was rolling his eyes and giggling hysterically.

“Gray,” I tried. And his head kind of snapped back into place. “Don’t put on that stupid whatever bullshit. You don’t have to impress me. I am already impressed. And…”

He got up and grabbed his rucksack off the floor. Opened it up and dug around. Placed two bars of chocolate on the table between us.

“Secret stash,” he muttered, back to looking down.

“You carry chocolate in your bag,” I said sternly. Then I sat back and crossed my arms. “Like a totally normal person. I’m so disappointed I could cry. Here I was, assuming The Great Dieter would at least have a baggy of cocaine in there. Gold bars. Stacks of fifty-pound notes.”

“You’re weird.”

“And you’re bloody insane. Why the hell are you here, Gray?”

“Told you!” he almost shouted. “I was going to bring someone, but that was months ago, and he psyched out on me, and I hate my house, and I can’t even take a shit in private without some bloody bodyguard coming to check on me. I have no food in my fridge because people like me can’t go shopping, and this stalker thing totally did a number on me. So that? That’s why I’m here. Because…my life fucking sucks, and I just wanted a little bit of peace and quiet. On my own.”

That told me. He was hyperventilating and looking all unhinged and actually scaring me a bit.

“Gray.”

“What?” he squeaked out.

Okay. Good grief. These pop star celebs were hard work. The Dieter more than most.

“I should go,” I said. “Because you’re here for peace and quiet, and not for having social get-togethers with the doorman downstairs. So, I apologise.” Gathering up the paper bags and empty containers, I cleaned a smear of ketchup off the table then wiped my hands, slowly, waiting for him to react. To say something.

“Yeah,” he said. Good.

“You’ve got a lot on. I understand.” I actually did. I lived with my dad.

“I live with my dad.” Hello, brain. Talking for me again? “I can’t even take a piss in peace and quiet. Don’t even mention having a sneaky wank.”

That made him snort. He was calm again. Or calmer at least.

“Also,” I continued, “my dad likes to hoover at six in the morning. It’s his thing. The neighbours write petitions sometimes. Try to ban hoovering before ten in the morning.”

He laughed. It was a good sound.

“I just want…some kind of normality, Reubs. Be able to breathe. And I can’t remember the last time I jerked off because, you know…”

“Yeah.” Trust me to steer the conversation onto…weirdness.

“I’m gonna go,” I said quietly. “Leave you to enjoy the fact that there won’t be anyone outside that door unless you call for them. You have my number, and there’s a phone right there. Dial one for anything you fancy. We’re like a twenty-four-hour-a-day problem-solving machine, we are.”

That wasn’t the official hotel tagline, but whatever. It felt like it should be.

“You are,” he said. I think there was a smile still there. “Thanks for the food. I, uh, don’t have any cash on me to pay you.”

Not even an apology. A statement, like he was so used to everyone else paying.

“Least I can do,” I said, and I meant it. How many people in the world got to have dinner with The Dieter?

But it wasn’t The Dieter sitting there looking small and scared and like someone who needed a hug. Maybe that was an act. Maybe he was still in character from that film job or whatever. Or doing research.

“Dude, call me if you need me.”

Professionalism. That was me. And I even took the rubbish with me as I closed the door behind me.

He was not my friend, and I was just the bleeding doorman. A skanky kid. Yet I’d bought him a burger and invited myself in to share grub. Not my place. Not my job. It had just seemed…natural. What a decent person would do.

What did I know?

Bah.

I took the lift down and let myself out through the staff door. Found my car where I’d left it, in one piece. A good result, as always. This was central London, after all, and even though I knew all the little nooks I could tuck my small rust bucket into, it wasn’t always safe or a good idea.

But it was my car. My decisions. My risks and my life. And my life was good, just like this, so I switched on my tunes and tried to forget about things that really didn’t matter. I drove, the wind from the open window in my hair. It was spring and I should have been cold, but I wasn’t. I was good. Life was okay.

I wondered if The Dieter was okay. The Dieter. I couldn’t even make myself think of him as anything else. Calling him that kept the distance. A shield.

He wasn’t my mate. Never would be.