The Feature

XIX

The media always made dating a celebrity seem so appealing; the red carpets and designer gowns, romantic getaways in private jets and secret rendezvous' shrouded in luxury and mystique. But you were failing to see the glamour in hauling your overnight bag on a train to Kent in the middle of a rainstorm. Sitting in a cramped carriage that smelled of stale coffee and wet dog, surrounded by screaming toddlers and men with the inability to keep their legs together. 

You stared out of the window as the countryside passed in a blur of greens and greys, wondering when exactly the sparkle of being involved with an A-list actor would reveal itself. Would you find it in the dodgy train station sandwiches or the spotty phone signal? In the pockets of your rain-sodden parka or the man asking for spare change as he roamed the aisle? 

 You hadn't seen Ben in weeks since he'd began filming a new movie. And though he'd only been an hour outside of London the whole time, the long hours and his demanding schedule meant that he might as well have been on the other side of the world. You'd talked when you could; brief texts and quick calls that barely skimmed the surface of what you both really wanted to say. So when he invited you to visit him on location, you'd taken little persuading. Though boarding a busy train to Kent wasn't exactly akin to jetting off to some secluded beach resort. 

The train rolled to a stop at the station. You waited as the carriage emptied, passengers practically climbing over one another to get off, a new person blocking your way every time you attempted to slip out from your seat. When you finally saw an opening, you muscled your way into the aisle and reached for your bag in the overhead luggage rack. But it was caught on something, refusing to budge, even as you hung from the handle with your entire body weight like a child dangling from a monkey bar. You looked up at the extremely tall man waiting to get off behind you, glaring at him as he watched on impatiently without ever offering you a hand.

You finally got it free, hoisting it over your shoulder and stepping off the train onto a bleak platform; cracked pavement, a single lamppost flickering against the dusky sky, and an inexplicably large puddle that stretched across the entire exit. You tried to hop over it, but it was too wide, rainwater flooding your trainers and soaking the ankles of your jeans. 

"Fabulous," you muttered sarcastically to yourself. 

The rain hadn't yielded. If anything, it seemed to grow heavier as you stood beneath the shelter of the station, looking down at your phone and trying to make sense of the directions Ben sent you earlier.

Take a left out of the station, follow the main road and look for signs to The Mocketts. It's not too far.

Easy enough, you thought. Or at least it would have been if your feet weren't squelching in your shoes, if the main road didn't turn into a complex maze of winding lanes and hedgerows that all looked the same in the bad weather and diminishing daylight. You pulled up your hood, though it was an entirely futile act; the rain already bleeding through your coat, your hair clinging to your face as you squinted up at the faded road signs, none of which seemed to match the directions Ben had given you. 

As you trudged down the narrow, muddy road, you wondered why you'd agreed to this at all; why you hadn't just told him to make the drive back to London to visit you, why going to him seemed like such a good idea when all it had gotten you was a runny nose, ruined shoes and a spot on the missing persons' register when you inevitably disappeared down a ditch somewhere. 

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You took it out, wiping the rain away from the screen to read the message. 

Are you close?  It read. 

Depends, you replied with wet, numb fingers. If by 'close' you mean standing in the middle of nowhere with no clue where I am then yes, I'm very close.