Chapter Eleven

J U N K Y A R D H E A R T

Saturday, June 13th

A triumph of colour, and flattering cuts with founder, designer and obvious muse Violet Halliday (daughter of noted socialite/philanthropist Beatrice Halliday) stealing the show. The collection is one that's wearable yet also sustainable for the eco conscious and those who prefer substance over mass produced style."

As I type out the words my breakfast threatens to creep back up. The beans, burnt bacon and sloppy eggs queasy in my overtly gushing, completely false review of Violet's party, and collection. But it's work. It's my job. It'll please Norine and get us in the top fifth of the search results for the morning.

At least that's something. Even if I am pandering to the celebrity worship machine, just another cog, lazily turning, churning out bullshit to sate the egos.

Sat crossed legged on my bed, dress on, hair washed, minimal make up applied because I still haven't mastered the art of perfect eyeliner, I collate the review with Ruby's impressive interview and hit publish. The burden of getting it out just after the papers reveal their own now, thankfully over.

It means I can get back to the task at hand. The reason why I woke in a cold sweat at four am, in a panic to check I'd ironed said dress, charged the laptop, got the directions printed out for the super risky surprise for Dylan.

Once I've logged off, shut down the part of my brain that houses all things Aspire related, I leave Abbie and Dave a note alongside their's about an appointment on the kitchen . I scribble down conformation that'll be back in time for pasta and wine, re-runs of Puppy Rescue, to save Dave the pain of cancelling guys poker night because his fiancé hates being in the flat alone. I don't mind, I feel like I haven't spent any quality time with Abs and it's starting to become somewhat of a passing joke that I know has the prospect of becoming a real issue if I don't get my act together.

Still that's later, and this is now. My promise to Dylan to act as an unofficial tour guide, show him the parts of the London that aren't so well known the priority. Hoping to elect some form of excitement he hasn't experienced, or felt so far. Fingers crossed.

And if I've done my job right, today will make that a reality. If only I can get to the station on time, and fathom the cryptic directions to the junkyard that houses all kinds of excitement. Or so I've read in all the reviews and lengthy praise for such a place.

A neon temple, a wonderland - a junkyard in an converted industrial warehouse in the furthest reaches of outer London. A bitch of a tube ride to get to, but it should be worth it the long slog. Just to see the look on Dylan's face, and the brownie points I'll hopefully receive for being so thoughtful, amongst other things that plague my mind, and make me push my knees tighter.

Scenarios that light a fire in my chest, keep my fingers crossed. Thighs pressed together. All the potential mischievous, wicked ways he might bestow to demonstrate his thanks.

*** *** ***

In a rare feat of time keeping, I arrive at Hoxton Overground with ten minutes to spare. The fragrant coffee kiosk out front calls to me but I've not got enough loose change for mints, and I doubt I'll have enough time to drink, and rid myself of the aftertaste. Rancid coffee breath isn't what I want Dylan to remember about this day.

As I wait, I battle with the breeze that dances up to lift the fabric of my dress. A white van man whistles in appreciation when I inadvertently give him a flash. The wind too strong, my grip too feeble. The sun rising behind the clouds, the weather reporters promise of a heatwave blown away like my dignity.

It's some small miracle that with Dylan's arrival, the troublesome breeze subsides and I can relax, appear normal again. The polka dot dress hem where it should be, my knickers safely hidden away again. Much to the watchful van man's dismay I'm sure.

Though trust Dylan to make them want to fall to my ankles, in swoon like appreciation. Because he looks drop dead gorgeous, striding towards me with casual ease. Wearing a light denim shirt, and white tee, a glorious pairing that flatters every inch of him and a pair of dark jeans that hug in all the right places. My chest pounds erratically, as expected and when he greets me I'm like unset jelly in the palm of his hand.

I think I say hello back but I can't be sure. There's blood pumping to places I can't control, and my heads drowning in speculative montages of how they one day might all become a reality. The imaginary satisfaction only ramping up the heat.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long," he smiles, camera strap slung over his shoulder. It's different to the bulky one he carried yesterday at the party. An older, smaller model that looks like something my granddad might have used to capture my first bike ride without stabilisers.

Shaking my head, I brush off the fact that he's a wee bit late and that I've been trying to keep my composure in the face of unruly winds and leering passing strangers.

"So can you give a guy any clues about what we might be doing today?"

"I don't want to give anything away," I grin. "It is a surprise after all."

Dylan walks with me to the stations forecourt to get our tickets. "Ok, but can you give me some indication of where we might be headed, so I can buy one of these?" he points at the screen options.

I take the reigns and select it for him - a quick ride on the overground to connect to a tube journey that I don't want to admit will take almost an hour. I fear his excitement levels might dip with such information.

As we board the train, opting to stand because the seats are filled with day old newspapers, Dylan swipes a copy and flicks straight to the centerfold.

His fingers trace a bold headline and then he turns it round, a big grin building. "Seems like my efforts to destroy all evidence of your unwelcome admirer didn't factor in sneaky guests and camera phones," he says as my eyes scan over the small grainy image of a women in a tight red dress, leather jacket flung over her shoulders.

From the perspective of an outsider if appears that I'm deep in conversation with what the byline describes as one of London's most sought after bachelors, and an actor on the rise. Fisher Scott's stupid wavy hair, and designer stubble the target of my gaze. The angle's terrible and I want to snatch the paper away, tear it into little pieces, burn it to ash.

"Ah come on it's not that bad. Must have been one of the guests, sold it to the paper," Dylan sighs.

I squint at the small words underneath, reading them aloud slowly with irritation. "Lady in red? Lady in red? What the hell."

"Suits you."

Dylan pretends to flinch when I gently tap him with the back of my hand. I continue to shake my head. Worrying that Norine's probably choking on her brunch reading such a thing. The thought of an unscheduled trip to her office Monday morning to explain a real dampener on my plan to keep my head down next week.

When we change platforms, and I tell him that maybe we should take a seat for the next part of the journey he folds away the paper, and the conversation finally turns to something far less embarrassing.

"I've been reading some of your Top Ten lists, in preparation for today," he reveals, the personal space between us non existent. Just like how I'd imagined it to be. "And I have to say that you're a really great writer. Humorous too."

"I think you may have read the wrong lists..." I reply, critical that he's just trying to flatter me.

"Oh no, they were definitely yours. A particular favourite being your Valentine's Day prep list. That's not to say I didn't appreciate the tips on finding the perfect eyeliner from last week," he grins.

I laugh quietly. Secretly quite chuffed he'd picked up on my scathing, tongue firmly in cheek Valentine's list that by the grace of God Norine didn't proofread. Allowing it to slip through the net and onto the web, pissing off a whole host of dedicated romance traditionalists, and gaining the site a fiery comment section worthy of publication, enough to require a trilogy to say the least.

"Your eyeliner game is on point though," I tease, enjoying our tube tete ta tete. "So I guess I'm not so terrible at my job."

"I've been practicing all morning," Dylan laughs, motioning round his eyes.

Obviously he's not wearing any such thing but it's fun to have an excuse to admire his blue eyes, the magnetic pull of them irresistible.

"The guys at the magazine tell me it really brings out my eyes."

My mind substitutes guys for girls, and I nod. I understand we're joking yet somehow I don't doubt that there's some truth there - eyeliner or not. I can only cringe at the mental image of just how Aspire staffers would react to him joining our ranks.

"How is work?" I ask, genuinely intrigued to find out more.

"Still finding my feet so to speak. It's different. The assistant to the creative director has been really welcoming, she's friendly but I'm still trying to figure out the rest. London, some of the people and the way they do things... it takes a while to get used too. And understand."

"But you're enjoying it?"

Dylan smiles. I envy his constant enthusiasm. "Of course. For the most part it's been awesome, especially now that I've come to realise that it's a totally, normal British thing to apologise when you bump into them, or when they hold a door open for you."

He's being sarcastic again, and I savour it. "We are a confusing bunch, that's for sure. Sorry."

His laughter fills the carriage, much to the annoyance of the guy with his face lost in the pages of a bulky, tome of a book. Quickly he fires off an unimpressed glare, then continues to soak up dragons, and swords and winter winds.

"I don't think you are. Not in the slightest. In fact I'd say that you're the friendliest, least confusing person I've met here. And that's wonderful."

"I dunno... You haven't bumped into me yet," I joke. "I apologise for everything. Well anything that isn't my fault at least."

Cue more death stares from book boy, not that Dylan seems to notice or care. His warm laughter dissolving the minutes as we speed towards a destination he has no idea about. The giddy anticipation helping to push us ahead, all the way out of the tube station out and up onto a busy main road.

"Hmmm," he mumbles. Hand resting on his chin, eyes scanning the grey suburban landscape. Terraced brick houses, boarded up shop fronts and uncollected refuse. "Where on earth are we?"

Admittedly it's not the most pleasing of sights. "Don't worry Sherlock, you'll find out soon."

Paper print out in hand, I steer us north and follow a long narrow road that only allows one pedestrian at a time. Dylan trails behind, still smiling through I understand he's probably wary and confused. The abandoned bank we pass, the top half charred black from a fire, it's insides gutted isn't quite the build up I'd been hoping for. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he thinks I'm about to off him in the used car lot that we pass in a hurry.

I attempt to make small talk, turning my head back over my shoulder so often it starts to ache. I realise as we dodge a man and his dog, stepping preciously close to the speeding traffic that I don't actually know that much about him to keep it up. But I'd like too. I want to know all the things. I just don't think now's the time and so I cease my chatter, and concentrate on finding our final destination. Which is a lot further than anticipated. The map I'd printed out stretching the truth about it taking ten minutes, with a short cut that only leads us round in circles.

Unfortunately I don't even have a back up plan. Visiting the neon junkyard the only official entry to the 'specially curated' Top Ten I'd promised Dylan. But I've been busy. I've been lazy. It's slipped my mind.

As I hover by a rundown path that leads towards an imposing looking industrial estate dotted with grey warehouses, he places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Should I be getting concerned now?" he smiles.

It's admirable that he's not sprinting in the opposite direction, still I know I've really tested his blind trust, and patience. If I were him I'd jogging for the safety of the train station right about now.

I keep following the red arrow, leading us into the unknown. Until the sign I've been wishing my life away to find appears. Hung up proudly, a beacon of shining light above the corrugated metal sheets. The sheer relief threatens to knock me off my feet.

"We're here," I announce. Stifling the urge to punch the air in triumph. "I'd say remove your blindfold but I forgot to bring it."

Dylan shakes his head, a wry smirk on his lips. "I can close my eyes if you like."

"No, it's okay. I think you'll want to see this. At least I hope you will." My heart beats a drum roll as I tread the gravel path, Dylan close by my side to open the heavy door. Pulling back a heavy blackout curtain I step inside and though it might just be the sound of metal hitting hinges or the thrash music playing in the background, I swear I hear a loud, sharp gasp.

I think Dylan says f u c k. Slowly. Like one might do if they've just stumbled upon a suitcase full of gold or a well of water out in the desert. A friendly chap in a flat cap welcomes us and instructs us to go ahead. Explore.

Rounding a corner, I feel Dylan's hand on my shoulder again. "This... is..." he says, breathless, perhaps a bit tongued tied. "Jemima, this is incredible. Completely unexpected. I mean. Holy shit."

I couldn't have hoped for a better reaction if I'd written it down on paper, and forced him to read to back to me. It is perfectly in keeping with all the daydreams about such a moment.

"I know it's not quite Vegas but it's the closest I could get -in London. It's actually pretty famous though still relatively unheard of because it's a pain in the arse to get to," I laugh, treading with careful ease into the vast space. My head titled up like I would to marvel at the nights stars.

It is a neon wonderland. A glorious temple of colour. A riot of rainbow rays to the senses. Everything feels larger than life, and bright. A real feast for the eyes. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. We're not alone either. An older couple walk past, lost in the neon glow of salvaged motel and diner signage. The man stops under an illuminated Girls Girls Girls sign, and the women giggles, takes a quick snap on her phone. They look like they're high on the wonder of it all.

Dylan moves to my side, and I can see that his fingers itching to lift up his camera though his heads still titled up, mouth open. Eyes lost in marvelling at the electric creations. Everything filtered in red and blue hues. The hum, fizzle and buzz of the neon tubes swirling all around.

Back when we'd come to the end of our first coffee date, after crossing the street to stop outside an art gallery with the bold neon signage, and after Dylan had waxed lyrical about his love for the neon junkyard back in Vegas, an idea flashed back about an article I'd read once in the back pages of the Evening Standard. About a museum of light and colour unlike anything imaginable. Showcasing creations by a spectacular artist, commissioned to create neon set pieces for cult film classics and celebrity collectors. I'd filed it to the back of mind for a possible future feature then lost it. That is until Dylan restored it, and bought it to life again.

Running a finger along a green neon heart shaped tube, he smiles at me, eyebrows raised. "You knew. You listened. That's crazy."

It's slightly cryptic but I get the gist. He's in shock that I actually paid attention. "When you talked about that place in Vegas, I thought why not bring a little slice of that back here..."

"That's awesome. Honestly. I don't know what I was expecting but it definitely wasn't anything like this."

"So I take it you like it?"

Dylan runs a hand through his neon red soaked hair, lets out a long, deep sigh. "I don't think like quite cuts it Jemima. Try love."

To take the heat off my cheeks, the intense attention he's giving me after such a strong statement I jokily point up at the large, comically sized neon LOVE sign hanging above us, lit up with megawatt bulbs. He chuckles and continues to lead us into the maze of fluorescent light. Packed to the rafters with religious icons, jazzed up Jesus statues and two huge glitter balls the size of a small car. It's like being on a roller coaster just without the motion sickness but still with the sweet rush of adrenaline.

Dylan busies himself by photographing some of the jokey signs. Taking a particular liking to the Sex, Drugs and Bacon Rolls signage that hangs above another similarly pun-tastic sign. The whizz and twist of his analog camera alerting me to his presence behind me as I admire a tall blue neon cross. Just like the one I imagine Romeo walked past down the church isle, it's light leading the way to Juliet, laid down in a neon induced nightmare.

When we stop to marvel at a crude old sex club sign, I find Dylan's eyes on me, bathed in neon light.

"Can I take your picture?" he says, the warmth of his accent dancing between the canopy of Go Go Girl silhouettes and X Rated shapes. "I promise I won't sell it to the papers."

"Oh really, how can I be so sure?" I tease him, as he comes closer.

"You can't," he replies, voice low. The flash of the camera quick and intense. "But I won't."

I trail behind as he continues to snap away. "So that was for your private collection then?"

Dylan turns round, shakes his head. I start to panic that maybe I've sounded too flirty, a bit too forward but then he grins. His megawatt smile visible still even under the assault of glittering light.

I'd like him to spin me round right about now, but sadly he doesn't. Still I get to momentarily feel his strong arm rest round my shoulders as we walk in sync back towards the entrance.

"Man, I'd love to take one of these with me, to hang up back home," he sighs as we take a quick loop back round, in case we've missed anything.

"I'm not sure what the onboard baggage allowance is anymore but you never know, worth a try," I reply in sarcastic fashion.

By the X rated signs, somewhere between the third neon Jesus and day of the dead mexican skull, Dylan stops and tilts his head up again. Eyes surveying for the last time all the bold colour and the technicolor light. When he peers back down, slowly walking forwards I'm sure I feel his hand brush up against mine but the entrance is dark and when I quickly glance down there's empty space between us.

Even if I'm imagining such a gesture it still gets my heart pumping. Desire wanting to devour him right under the neon crosses and hanging Jesus. I have to take a long moment to collect myself, and push out naughty thoughts. Dylan's joyous laughter as we come full circle doesn't help, and when we're pointed helpfully in the direction of the cafe out the back of the warehouse by the smiley chap in the flat cap, I still feel like I'm wobbly with lust. Even when we eventually take a seat at a rickety metal table.

We order some drinks and food. I opt for a bacon and avocado sandwich and Dylan risks the sticky pulled pork special that another visitor has recommended while waiting in the queue.

As soon as my food arrives I regret such a choice. Because eating in front of someone you have a pretty hyped up, intense attraction too is never an easy feat - the shame of making eye contact while biting into a sandwich. It doesn't help that the avocado's slimy and the bacon tough. I feel like a Rottweiler on a rag doll. Chewing, and pulling, making a fool of myself.

Between bites I try to distract him with conversation. "So will I get to see the results of all that snapping you did back in there?"

Dylan wipes his fingers on a napkin. His pulled pork sandwich messy too. "Yeah. Once I develop them of course. Why?"

I sigh, tease him. "I just thought I could do with updating my profile picture."

He grins. "For your MySpace?"

Shaking my head, I laugh and tell him that he's much too young to remember such a thing.

"Am I?" he responds, pausing for a second too long than is pleasant.

Wonderful. I've put my foot in it. Pointing out the minimal yet still noticeable age gap between us - a woman on the verge of turning thirty and a man only just hitting his prime. I'm pretty sure my unintentional condescending tone doesn't help matters.

But how do I gently explain that I've got a few extra years under my belt than I'd like? Do I tell him that I clearly remember the time of internet dial up, and that ear-splitting sound, coupled with the devastation of a parent picking up the phone line? The disappointment of foregoing MSN flirting with a crush just so your mother could hassle the post office about a late delivery? I've no idea.

Instead I stumble, wheeze my way through a reply. "I uh, well. I don't know. I guess I just assumed you were. Young I mean."

"You know that I'm not going to ask for your age because a man should never do that," Dylan says. "But if you must know mine..."

"Twenty nine," I blurt out, loudly. The pulled pork pusher from the queue spins his head at the table next to ours. He looks confused.

"Well ok then," Dylan smiles, points down to his chest. "Twenty four."

"Ok. Great," I reply, before silencing myself before I say too much. Ruin the great atmosphere by sounding rude, and agist and patronising.

Thankfully he changes the subject with ease. "So do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?"

"Not really. Although I'm in tonight, with my flatmate. Her fiancé has this monthly poker night, and we get wine, Chinese, watch TV."

He nods, wipes his mouth. "Sounds good."

"You?"

"Might check out one of the skateparks Sunday, depends on the weather I guess."

"Everything depends on the weather here," I laugh, as the sensation of my knee knocking into his rocks the small table.

"It seems so," Dylan stretches his legs out and rests his arms on the table. "I can't lie. Some sun would be good."

"Do you miss home?"

"Kinda. I miss family, and some of my friends. The familiarity. And the weather," he says quietly. "Even though I lived in Austin for a while, me, my mom, my sisters we were a pretty tight knit family."

His honesty is refreshing.

"It's nice that you're so close. I'm sure they're happy for you, will they come visit?" I ask, enjoying a slightly more subdued, mellow Dylan. It's honest talk, and I hope it means he feels like he can trust me, that I've become somewhat a friend to him.

He shrugs. "It all depends on this sponsorship. They might boot me out the country before that happens though so who knows. Hopefully not. That's worst case scenario."

I swallow hard. I don't like the way any of that sounds. "Let's hope not."

"You close with your family?" Dylan asks, finishing off his drink.

"Um... well..." I stammer, because just like back at the cafe with Ruby, there's a simple answer yet it's becoming harder to express it. "Not really. But it's fine."

"No brothers, sisters?"

"Nope. And that's just the way I like it," I find myself laughing like some selfish sociopath, and Dylan's eyes grow wide. "I mean, it's just how it's always been so it doesn't bother me."

He just nods sweetly. Lips closed, hand resting on the table, fingertips so close I can almost touch them with the ends of mine. "Well if you're happy, that's all that matters right? Family is always complicated. I don't think anyone gets away unscathed."

I ponder his reply for a moment, and smile. Then I set out to learn all the things. It's time I discover what makes him tick, all the loves and likes that make up such a beautiful man.

Dylan tells me between the small, quick downpour and the emerging sunshine that skateboarding and a chance encounter with a photography book in his high schools library sparked an interest in picking up a camera. His biggest influence a prolific American photographer.

"Her humanist portraits, little kids in paddling pools smoking, the homeless on the streets really shocked me. But I found them raw, and honest, brutally unapologetic. It felt like a lot of what I saw back home," he explains with such conviction I make a note on my phone to seek out such a great influence. He makes me want to learn more.

Dylan's full of interesting stories, and likes - rum and coke, eighties movies, mexican food with some barbecue thrown in. He tells me that he used to smoke a ton of pot growing up till be blacked out and woke up in the Venice Canals, on the kissing bridge. His first, much treasured camera stolen.

Punk Rock, and sweaty live shows used to be his fuel but now he prefers indie fare, artists with soul.

American politicians scare him, and he worries about the world his younger sisters will grow up in, what choices they'll have to fight for.

He's a Taurus - I have no idea if this is a good or bad thing, or if it even matters but I'm drawn in by the way he speaks about all things with passion, sentiment and an infectious zeal.

Dylan tells me so much but yet I still yearn for more. And when the tables are turned I find that I don't have nearly as many interesting things to talk about.

But bless him for trying because he nods along when I confess to a constant hunger for authentic spanish food, my preference for cheesy pop and chart music. My crushes on strong, fierce female singers, how I like to copy dance moves in the privacy of my bedroom. Like a teenager might do.

"I smoked a lot of weed back when I was sofa surfing," I tell him. "Until my heart started to feel like it might explode from ripping makeshift Sprite bottle bongs." This actually makes him laugh, and I feel like we have some kind of past kinship, a connection over wacky backy and being too young, too naive. Stoned off our faces.

I jazz up a story about why I don't drink, or accept shots anymore, creating a slightly more elaborate tale about the flaming sambuca that singed by eyebrows and left me in A & E for eight hours.

Although Dylan politely disagrees when I wax poetic about the many favourable traits of Dogs versus Cats. Yet he seems invested in my ramblings in spite of it, and it's a sweet relief.

And when we vacate our table and head back down the overgrown path, back up the long stretch of road to the tube station we still have a lot to talk about. The journey home not so laborious.

Outside Hoxton Station we prepare to go our separate ways, and Dylan thanks me for a wonderful time."Honestly this has been an amazing day."

"Just wanted to show you something different. I know it's not quite Vegas but it's the closest I could get," I laugh.

"Are you joking? It was so much better. Trust me."

"Really?"

Dylan grins, camera slung over his shoulder. "Honest."

"Well I'm glad."

"It's been really fun."

With a sigh I tell him that I should probably get going. "Got a date with a lonely flatmate, a bottle of wine and a dozen or so puppies just trying to find their forever home."

"Stop you're making me jealous," he smiles.

As he steps forwards, I take my chances. Wrap him up in a hug, rising tall to my tip toes. He laughs sweetly when I barely even reach his broad shoulders.

"Are you free next week?" he asks, breath hot against my blushing cheek. The scent of his aftershave musky and manly sends a tingle of waves down the back of my neck.

"Yes," I mumble.

Dylan shoulders relax, and my arms slowly fall away. The lingering kiss me plants tenderly on the curve of my cheekbone is a surprise I'd like to receive more often. And when he pulls away I can still feel it, like a phantom limb, the sensation of his warm lips an imprint on my skin.

He backs away. "I'm shooting in Brighton, for work at the weekend but I'm free Thursday afternoon."

I'm a mumbling wreck. "Uh huh. Ok. Sure. Yes. Sounds great. Good."

"Awesome."

"Awesome," I mimic back. My face instantly wanting to slam into my palm. Oh god.

Dylan grins. "Have a great weekend Jemima, and thank you again for today. You've converted me into a fan of surprises."

"Uh, no problem." I am definitely not nailing this whole cool and casual goodbye thing. "You too."

When he disappears through the barriers, I decide to walk back to the flat. I need to calm myself down, get my feet firmly back on the ground. But even after a long detour, the breeze against my back, I'm still flustered and inconspicuously giddy as Abbie greets me at the door.

"You're looking awfully chipper," she remarks. "Been on the wine already?"

I laugh, brush her off. "Nah, just had a good day."

Abbie enquires no more. Get's out the Chinese takeaway menu, writes up our order. And later as evening creeps in, we sit together on the sofa and watch the runt of a Labrador litter win over the hearts of a young family. A few highly edited setbacks thrown in to keep the audience on a knife edge.

Tears roll down Abbie's cheeks, her own heart full to burst. She glances at me. I'm all smiles. She probably thinks I'm cold, and completely devoid of a heart.

But I'm not.

Mine might still be full of old dead parts, blown out fuses, and rotting signage of the past but there's also a new addition. The image of Dylan a promising flicker of colour, lighting up the darkness of my junkyard heart.

. . .