I Knew You Were Trouble

Chapter Four

Back in my hotel room, I open Meredith’s file to find the information on Aidan. I scan over Meredith’s notes, picking up a black-and-white photo. He’s twenty-four, a Leo, making him almost five and a half years younger than me. Tall, athletic, handsome as hell. At eighteen, he auditioned for the band in London and, along with eight other male candidates including Jean-Baptiste, proceeded to the final auditions in LA. He has a fraternal twin sister named Paige, who auditioned simultaneously for the girl band, but who wasn’t successful in the final auditions, and one older brother, named Rohan. Meredith’s comments tell me he’s known for his maturity and self-assurance. That much was obvious. Her last sentence says that Rebel Heart doesn’t have an official frontman, but if they did, Aidan McArthur would likely be it.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my fingers. This is just… great.

I close the file. My eyelids droop. The jet lag means that even walking to the bathroom to brush my teeth suddenly seems like a colossal effort.

The jet lag also means that by five a.m., I’m wide awake again.

Peeling back the blackout curtains, I watch a vast city sleep. I look up the pool operating times, pleased to see I only have to wait another forty minutes for it to open. Relieved that I’d thrown a simple black swimsuit into my suitcase on the off chance, I change out of my pyjamas and into the suit, covering myself with a hotel robe and sliding my feet into the pre-packaged white slippers. I glance in the bathroom mirror, trying to smooth down the remnants of my bed hair, sticking up wildly at the back, before I venture down to the fitness suite.

As I enter the pool area, I freeze. Aidan McArthur sits at the far end, flanked by dramatic windows rising into a pyramid shape, the sun coming up behind him and his legs dangling into the water. He wears nothing but a pair of black swimming shorts. I duck behind a potted palm tree, hoping he hasn’t seen me. We are the only two here.

For a few moments, I watch him. He’s motionless, other than the ripples set off on the water’s surface by the small movements of his feet. Much like last night on the rooftop, he appears lost in his own world. He has wide shoulders, lean muscles and a figure that belongs on the cover of Men’s Health .

A weird sensation balloons in my stomach. After last night’s exchange, I feel the need to make peace. I realise I’m staring, so instead I step out of the shadow of the palm and clear my throat. The sound seems to echo up to the glass-panelled roof. Aidan snaps out of his reverie.

‘Oh. It’s you again,’ he says, and he couldn’t sound less impressed if he tried.

At the opposite end of the pool, I tie my hair back. He’s not going to get rid of me that easily. I’ll get on with my swim. ‘Me again. Good morning.’

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

‘I slept fine, thank you. Jet lag has me up early.’

I wriggle out of my robe, self-conscious that his eyes are on my body in the swimsuit. The cut isn’t flattering. It’s the kind of suit my grandmother used to wear to the local lido. I’m thankful for the lack of swimming goggles, which might have made things worse. Kicking off the hotel slippers, I lower myself into the water at the other end to Aidan, sucking breath as the cold hits my skin. I soon realise that a lack of goggles means I can’t really see where I’m going under the water. As I draw nearer to him, in a slow front crawl, I see through blurry vision that he’s shifted his position a fraction, so his legs now dangle at the point where my hands will touch the other side. He’d done it on purpose, I suppose. As I lift my head, wiping the water from my face, he’s staring down at me. He’s not smiling.

‘I looked you up,’ he says.

‘Oh?’ I say, wiping water from my eyes. ‘And what did you find out?’

‘That you won an Oscar earlier this year.’

I tread water, rather than rest my hands against the wall. ‘Does that make you more inclined to work with me?’

‘Makes you more impressive than the last guy. I don’t remember him having an award like that under his belt, and you’re way younger than he was. Seems you’re quite the sensation in the world of documentary filmmaking.’

‘I don’t know about that. I got lucky. Some people might say the same about you.’

He gives a frown. He has the most incredible skin. ‘Luck will only get you so far through a gruelling twelve-step audition process where the viewers decide your fate. Eventually it comes down to how talented – or not talented – you are. Equally, I would say you don’t win an Oscar for Best Documentary without some kind of apititude for filmmaking. So, believe it or not, I’m not just a commodity.’

‘I never said you were a commodity.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

Under the water, my thigh muscles are beginning to ache. ‘I think you’ll find that if I was going to refer to you – as in Rebel Heart – at all, I would have said you were a homogenized, identikit version of a previous formula that’s proved successful going back to the Fifties and Sixties. Boy bands are boy bands. It’s horses for courses.’

His eyes flash, as though I’ve struck a nerve, or narked him.

‘I watched your acceptance speech on YouTube,’ he continues, changing the subject. ‘You dedicated the award to your mum. I’m sorry to hear she passed away… How long ago was it?’

I am out of breath and energy. The mention of my mother propels me to grab the outer rim of the pool to my left, avoiding the spot nearest to me, which lies between his legs. I am annoyed that he’s brought her into our conversation, when he’s only just met me. ‘I was still in school.’

‘That must have been rough.’

I wipe the water from my eyes. The memories are still raw, even after almost thirteen years.

He bows his head. I wonder whether I should continue with my swim.

‘You should know that I agreed with the lads I would interview you,’ Aidan says with a sniff. ‘Before you meet us all properly later this morning.’

I blink at him, speechless. Who does this clown think he is?

‘What do you mean, interview me?’

‘See if you’re up to the task.’

‘I can assure you, I’m well up to the task,’ I choke out. ‘I don’t need a little golden statuette to tell me that either. I’m good at what I do.’

‘The boys trust me. They look to me for guidance. I’m UBL.’

I’m just irritated now. And cold, too, in this frigid water, because someone is stopping me from making a few laps of the pool.

‘Which means?’ I ask.

‘Unofficial Band Leader.’

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

‘So. You and I are going to take a walk to the Meiji Shrine. It’s not far from here. Us boys usually start the day in the gym for a couple of hours, with all the dancers. Then rehearsal. I’m skipping today’s session. We can discuss your vision for the project.’

I move a fraction closer, keeping my grip on the side of the pool. I don’t appreciate being bossed about. ‘I’ve only just been given this job and I haven’t even met all of you yet. What if I haven’t decided on my vision?’

‘Then you might want to come up with something in the next twenty minutes. Or I’ll be on the phone to Silverpix asking for another replacement.’

The look he gives me makes my nipples harden in the frigid water. It’s grumpy as anything, but I get a flash of sex appeal.

This trip hasn’t started out as expected. I haven’t had time to consider what my relationship with the members of the band will be, but, as per any other project I’ve been involved in, it definitely isn’t meant to be personal, only impartial. I am to view the band members as my subjects. Yet if Aidan McArthur doesn’t think I’m up to this job, between them, he and Vaughn Herrera could derail my career.

‘So will you go with me?’ Aidan asks, as though softening his demand.

Under the water I’ve started to shiver. I need to move. ‘What time?’ I ask.

‘When you’ve finished your swim. It opened at sunrise. I’ll meet you in the lobby.’

‘What if I say no?’

He gives a nonchalant shrug. ‘Then I’d say you can kiss goodbye to any cooperation from Rebel Heart.’

With that, Aidan places two hands on the side of the pool, lowering himself into the water until he’s fully submerged. When he resurfaces, he shakes the hair from his luminous eyes, wiping his face. I’m flustered, because it’s been a while since I’ve been up close and personal with a man as beautiful as he is.

It takes me a moment to realise it, but that’s really not a good sign.

An hour later, still before seven a.m., I wait in the lobby with my camera bag, sending a WhatsApp message to Duncan and Meredith, letting them know I’m going to a shrine, telling them that the band meet has been arranged for eleven a.m. I don’t tell them that I’ve been summoned by Rebel Heart’s Antagonist-in-Chief.

Aidan McArthur emerges into the lobby wearing jeans, with what looks like a brand new pair of white trainers, a white hoodie and a black leather jacket.

‘Bodhi’s insisting that I take security,’ he grumbles. ‘The hotel’s providing someone at short notice.’

‘I was expecting to see a crowd of screaming girls on arrival.’

‘When we landed, we put out a rumour that we’d be staying at the Shangri-La. Within minutes it was all over the fan sites and on Reddit. I heard they were making quite a racket until someone told them they’d got the wrong hotel.’

‘And what happens when they find out where you really are?’

He gives a sigh, tinged with exasperation. ‘Then I sleep with my ear plugs and put the chain on the door.’

‘Do you check in under weird names?’

I’m yet to raise a smile out of him. ‘Deceased musicians. Cal always goes with Luciano Pavarotti, don’t ask me why. J.B. is Hendrix. Rav is Marvin Gaye. Miller changes all the time. He’s been everyone from Elvis to Kurt Cobain.’

‘And you are?’

‘Freddie Mercury. He’s a personal hero of mine.’

‘Nice. And do you ever get to go anywhere without security?’

‘I like to go wandering sometimes. These days I get overruled. So unless you know any aikido, we’ll have company.’

‘My aikido’s a little rusty.’

He grimaces. ‘Mine too.’

The receptionist makes eyes at Aidan, indicating that our designated bodyguard is waiting in the corner at the entrance to the lobby.

‘Okay, we’re good to go, let’s get out of here.’

Outside, Aidan seems on edge. I walk with him in silence under a series of underpasses, into a rabbit warren of narrow low-rise residential streets, small apartment buildings and offices on either side. He walks with purpose, the stoic bodyguard behind us practically having to jog to keep up. The latter certainly doesn’t have the look of a ninja assassin. It’s still early, the city is coming to life, and the air is tinged with the aroma of delicious ramen intermingled with the stench of engine grease.

‘So,’ Aidan begins, shoving his hands inside his pockets.

‘Wait,’ I interrupt him, stopping a moment. ‘Is this the start of my interview?’

It’s my attempt to lighten the mood but, once again, my efforts are thwarted when he frowns at me. Aidan McArthur frowns a lot . ‘Fine, if that’s how you want to play it.’

‘I meant I’d rather get any interrogation out of the way.’

‘I didn’t say it was an interrogation.’

I lift my brow. ‘Well, it feels like it.’

He huffs, his expression darkening even more. He checks the position of the bodyguard. We’re on a narrow street and the tension between us is palpable.

‘What is it you want to know?’ I ask when he says nothing.

He starts walking again. I’m bordering on exasperated. The guy is a diva. I run after him, trying to catch his eye.

‘Tell me why you became a documentary filmmaker.’

‘I… my father gave me a camcorder, so I started making my own documentaries from a young age. He was a director. He left when I was eight, and then my parents divorced when I was ten. I stayed with my mother, who was an actress on and off. My father moved to California and bought me expensive gifts to make up for the fact that he wasn’t around anymore, and he remarried in the States.’

‘Where’s your father now?’

‘He lives in LA still. We’ve never been close.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Patrick Hart.’

‘Do you have any siblings?’

‘None. You have a twin, yes?’

‘Paige. And an older brother, Rohan. He’s married to Jo-Jo, they’ve got two kids. Are you married?’

For some reason I don’t want to admit my single status to him for fear of his judgement. ‘Enough personal questions,’ I answer. ‘Back to work-related questions.’

‘Fine. The documentaries. Tell me about them.’

‘After university, I got into film school. I made some short films, but then I secured funding for a project about a group of homeless people living rough. That brought me to the attention of Silverpix’s commissioning team. They funded my first documentary feature, which was about people trafficking, which led me onto Crossing Over , which was about migrants crossing the channel, which is why I won the Oscar.’

It’s a moment before he says, ‘Impressive.’

‘Thank you,’ I say stiffly back.

We’ve reached a junction. Aidan checks the map on his phone, tilting his head in the direction we need to go.

‘So do you have a boyfriend?’ he asks me outright as we cross the road.

I roll my eyes, thinking he needs to work on his interview technique. ‘Do you?’

‘No, no boyfriend, I don’t really swing that way.’

‘Meredith told me none of you have girlfriends. Is that because you’re not allowed?’

‘We’re allowed. But the lifestyle doesn’t really lend itself to successful relationships.’

‘From what I saw last night, some of you make the most of the single life.’

‘Difficult not to when it’s being dangled in front of your face all day. Sometimes we get to let our hair down. Ziggy keeps us away from our dancers on the tour. They stay at a different hotel.’

‘Why, because they’re all female?’

‘The only time we see them is in the gym and for rehearsal. And for the live shows, of course. Plus, they’re on some kind of rotation, I think.’

We keep walking in silence. Aidan seems to know where he’s going. ‘Why did the band break up in the first place?’ I ask.

‘We were exhausted,’ he says, as we cross under another overpass and enter some parkland. ‘Mentally, physically, emotionally. We’d barely had a break in more than four years. We’d put out three albums in that time, promoted them all endlessly, toured… endlessly. Work, work, work, that’s all we did. No one looked out for us, our manager especially. We ditched him. Now we have a new manager, someone we chose, who knows how we want to work, and someone who isn’t afraid to tell the record and management company what’s what.’

‘And are you all happy now?’

‘More or less. But none of us want this documentary.’

‘From what I’ve been told, it doesn’t really matter what you want. We each have to get our jobs done.’

He comes to a halt. He looks down at me, frowning again. ‘Because we’re just performing monkeys, right? When we got back together, we said no more of that bullshit. This time round, things had to be on our terms.’

He shakes his head, then keeps walking. My feet move fast in an attempt to keep up. We reach a vast timber entry gate to the Meiji Shrine, more than ten metres high, constructed in the traditional Japanese style. As I pass underneath, I gaze up at it, amazed by the beauty of its imposing shape. It’s a sacred place, so much so that I don’t feel the need to talk. I watch Aidan, slightly stooped over as he walks, the slender bodyguard still lingering in the near distance. Aidan seems to immerse himself in the peaceful silence, broken only by a pair of girls wanting to take his photograph. He seems happy to oblige, and I offer to take the shot on one of the girls’ phones. They are excitable, but not overly so, and Aidan’s inadequate grasp of the Japanese language only stretches so far. He doesn’t smile, but he does manage to look handsome and effortlessly cool.

‘What do you do on the days when you don’t feel like having your photograph taken?’ I ask when they have moved on.

‘There isn’t an off switch,’ he replies. ‘You’re either a dick about it, or you slap on your happy face.’

‘And if your happy face isn’t in the mood that day?’

He pulls a face like a model, which isn’t all that different from his resting expression. ‘Then you smolder and look broody.’

I let out a laugh. ‘Oh, so that’s what that was.’

He walks backwards, facing me, hands in his pockets. ‘What else did you learn about me then?’

I give a shrug. ‘That fans proclaim you have the best voice, not Caleb. That you are an incredible dancer, despite being tallest. That you’re not as flamboyant as some of the other members of the band. That you have a reputation for being protective but considerate… the sensible one. That you’re closest to Miller, but you’re the oldest, and therefore—’

‘Unofficial Band Leader,’ he interrupts.

I’m about to respond when I’m stunned by the main shrine that comes into view.

‘Last time I came here, they were holding a traditional Shinto wedding,’ Aidan says in a low tone, after I’ve taken some photographs. ‘The bride wore a white silk kimono. They told me she has to hide a dagger in her robe, to protect her family. I love that.’

‘I thought you’d never been here before.’

‘I never said that. I wanted to come back. I like it here, it’s quiet. I can be myself.’

We’re silent for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere. Something in the air makes me feel like it might rain.

‘Why us?’ he says suddenly, standing his ground. ‘Why go from hard-hitting topics to filming a documentary about a boy band you know nothing about? What does an Oscar winner want with Rebel Heart?’

My mouth opens, but my response is wedged in my throat. Because there’s no getting away from the fact that he’s angling for the truth.

‘The Chief Content Officer at Silverpix withdrew my funding,’ I confess after a moment. ‘The only way I’ll get my next project off the ground is if I film your tour first and turn it into a documentary.’

His look is thunderous. He looks to the ground, shaking his head. ‘I fucking knew it,’ he mutters under his breath.

‘With my portfolio, you didn’t actually think I’d be here willingly, did you?’ I snap, because I’ve had enough of his shitty attitude.

‘No,’ he seethes, and his fingers rake through his hair. The first smile I get out of him, and it’s a sarcastic one. ‘No, you just told me everything I need to know. Interview’s over.’

He stalks towards the unfortunate bodyguard, who stands to attention when Aidan McArthur snaps his fingers in his direction. The abrupt call to action makes me despise him more.

I watch them go then look to the sky. My eyelids slip shut. I feel raindrops.

I may have just completely messed this up before I’ve even begun.