Find Me Alastar

He looks outside. “Where is this supposed boyfriend?” he sneers.

“None of your business.” I wrap my cardigan around me protectively. Go to Hell, asshole.

He walks to the window and peers outside. “Oh.” He smiles to himself. “Him?” He gestures to Mark

sitting on the bench.

Oh, that’s it. “Yes. Him,” I reply, outraged.

“That’s your boyfriend?” He smirks. “Mark White is your boyfriend?”

Oh no, he knows him. “H-he could be,” I stammer as I feel myself go red. It’s even embarrassing

calling Mark my boyfriend, heaven forbid if he actually was.

The old lady interrupts our impending fight. “I will need your details, dear, in case we get any more

information on the ring.”

“Can I not persuade you to sell it to me, please?” he asks again.

“Yes, of course.” I reply to her, ignoring him as I hand over my license to the dear old lady. “Please,

stop talking,” I eventually say as I turn to smile sweetly at him. “You are ruining my London experience.”

He raises an eyebrow and I know he is holding himself back from being sarcastic in front of the old

lady. He shakes his head and places a white business card onto the counter and my eyes glance down at it.

“Call me if you want to sell the ring. I will pay good money for it.”

STAR

042455130510

My eyes meet his and I bite my lip to hold back my smile. What kind of fucking name is that? “Star? As

in twinkle twinkle?” I smirk.

He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips in frustration.

“Take your card back. I’m not ringing you, Mr. Twinkle Star.” I smirk as I take my ring and card from

the lady.

I turn and start to walk out of the shop.

“Call me when you want to sell it,” he shouts after me.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I reply, and then I have a thought. “Actually, do hold your breath and do us

all a favor.”

“Very funny,” he sneers.

“I thought so.” I smile as I open the heavy door. That felt good. What an asshole.

Alastar

I pull into the driveway of my terrace house and sip my coffee. I watch a family walk past in the rain

through my rearview mirror and wait for them to pass. The only annoying thing with this antique

sports car is the windscreen wiper speed. It’s either so slow it does nothing or so fast it nearly

cracks the damn screen. Currently, it’s choosing the fast option, making it sound like the car is

about to take off into flight at any given moment.

The family finally disappear out of sight, and I open the trunk to remove my large package

which is wrapped in a woolen blanket before I make my way into the house. As I walk through the

large, black glossed double doors I am reminded of just how much of a good thing photography has

been to me. What started out as a teenage hobby now has me photographing international top

models and designing editorial layouts for the most glamorous magazines in the world. My home is

opulent, just like my life. The expansive floors are dark polished wood and my lounges are all

chocolate leather. Artwork and bookcases line every wall.

I walk straight down to the basement and flick on the overhanging antique pendant lights. The

walls are completely covered in black and white photographs that I have taken over the years. A

huge mahogany desk sits in the corner of the room. I put my parcel onto my desk and unwrap the

precious cargo from its blanket casing.

I smile broadly as I drink in its beauty.

A painting of a naked brunette woman from years gone by. Its true value is unknown to someone

else, but that doesn’t matter; it’s priceless to me. I run my finger down the shape of her body

knowing the man who painted this woman was madly in love with her. I can feel it so deeply within

the brush strokes. No time for dreaming, I take a tool out of my top draw and turn the painting over

and immediately start to unclick the staples that are holding it in its frame. One by one they fall

ever so carefully as I try my damndest not to damage it. Thirty minutes later and I finally remove

the encasing of glass and smile broadly as I stare at the picture again. Oh, this was a find. I can’t

believe I actually have it. I turn it over and retrieve a different tool from my top draw and start to

unpick the canvas from the frame. It’s a tedious job, one that takes me over an hour to complete.

Until, at last, it’s free from its canvas and I can read the hand written note on the back in lead

pencil:

The Object of My Affection

What am I doing?

Regret fills me, and that feeling I try to avoid starts to surround me. I’m not going there, I’m not

doing this and yet, as if on autopilot, I take out my camera and scroll back through the photos.

There are eighty-eight in total. I took them of her this afternoon from across the road as she waited

outside the jewelry shop. A smile crosses my face instantly. She’s smiling to herself as she scrolls

through her phone. She’s breathtaking. Her thick, honey blonde hair falls just around her shoulders.

She’s curvy, soft, gentle, and I can practically hear her Australian accent like music to my ears.

The words from the canvas run through my mind: The object of my affection.

Don’t do this.

Walk away.