The brief encounter

IZZY
She was literally feet away from her idol, Marc Donovan the green eyed, sandy haired god, and could hear his voice. But something wasn't quite right. The voice didn't fit in with the image in her mind. She'd heard him talk on many occasions on TV and radio interviews but the tone was different. It was strained, sharp, indifferent, impatient.
"What's yer name?" he said to one girl without even looking her in the eyes. The girl was too wrapped up in the moment to notice his disaffected manner but it cut through Izzy like a serrated knife through cardboard. Was he going to be so cold with her? His destiny?
As she approached the desk she dug into her bag and pulled out his auto-biography that she'd ordered two months ago.
He gave her a cursory glance and dragged the book across the table toward him.
"My name's Izzy. Short for Isobel," she said. She wanted to say more, to say something interesting, profound, something to get his attention but her mouth was so dry and her mind so fogged that nothing came to her. All she could do was look at him. But again his appearance wasn't what she was used to: his porcelain skin was orange and pitted and caked in so much makeup she couldn't see the real man underneath; his fingers were dry and yellow, and a waft of stale smoke emanating from him drifted across the table toward her. Suddenly her attraction to him waned. She didn't want it to. She tried to grab hold of her previous, bubbling excitement as it dropped through her stomach and into her feet. He hastily slid the book back toward and looked to the girl behind her. Her moment was over. Thirty seconds, nothing more.
As she walked down the steps from the podium she heard him speak to someone behind her.
"How many more have I got to do?" he asked impatiently.
Someone gave an answer she couldn't make out but his response was clearly audible.
"For god's sake," he huffed.
And that was it. Izzy opened her book at the title page and studied his signature. It was so illegible it looked like an army of ants had just crawled across the page. She felt empty, nothing. A huge void had just opened up inside her heart where he had previously taken residence.
As she was guided out by yellow-shirted staff she spotted a large plastic bin filled with plastic bottles, crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and general trash. Without a thought or deliberation she dropped the book into the bin.
"What a waste of thirty seconds!" she said.

MARC
Marc's driver pulled up outside the back of Flick's book store. "You'll need to dash in, Mr Donovan. It's raining pretty heavily out there," he said.
Marc checked his mobile phone-a text from Mike, his manager, flashed up on screen. "Already inside. Make up artist and stylist here too. Hurray up," it read.
'Typical,' Marc thought. 'All he can think about is his damn schedule.'
Marc clicked the car door open and dashed through the puddles and teeming rain toward the open delivery entrance. A tall man with frameless spectacles, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt ushered him inside and into a large, smoky room with soft seats and a small kitchen in the corner.
"Marc, over here, hurry," said his manager as he guided Marc toward a high chair in front of a lit mirror and the tall blonde woman who stood beside it.
Marc choked his way through the foul stench of smoke and checked his watch-11.50am, almost thirty hours since he last slept.
"Just touch him up," Mike said to the woman.
She nodded at Mike before she scrutinised Marc's face and then busily sorted through bottles of foundation, selecting various tones.
"Take a seat," she said.
Yet another layer of tan make-up was smoothed onto Marc's face. His usually milky white complexion took on an ever deepening shade of orange brown. Marc flinched inside, all to aware of how he was starting to look. The bags of sleeplessness underneath his eyes were evident. He felt like he looked eighty not eighteen.
As he slid of the make-up chair another woman handed him a lemon yellow shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. At least there was something he was being forced to wear that he actually liked.
He'd only just done up the last button when Mike grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him toward the door. "Come on. Show time. You've got to make about five hundred screaming girls' dreams come true," he said.
Marc knew exactly what he had to do. Ordinarily he would have done it without question, without thought as he never once felt like he had short-changed a fan that had taken the time out to see him. But today he had neither the energy nor the compunction to go through with it. All he wanted to do was sleep and it was the one thing he couldn't have.
As he stepped out from behind a black panel the glaring, red-hot lights from the podium shone in his eyes and a cacophony of screams temporarily deafened him.
A girl in a yellow Flicks t-shirt guided him to a solitary chair behind a black desk. He took his seat and waited as the first girl approached him. She was hiding behind her book, giggling and trembling.
"What's your name?" Marc asked her.
"M...Melanie," she stuttered.
Marc carefully wrote her name on the title page and signed it 'love and prayers, Marc' like he always did.
The first hundred girls or so Marc had no trouble giving his undivided and careful attention, but as he approached two hundred and then two fifty his diligence waned. The burning hot lights that beat down on him were making him feel sleepier and sleepier until he lost all willingness to carry on. He didn't care anymore.
When a girl with pouffy blonde hair approached he was close to giving up.
She handed him her book and he snatched it from her.
"What's your name?" he said without even looking the girl in the eye.
She answered and he scrawled her name across the page, barely caring whether it made any sense and slid the book back towards her.
As she delightedly trotted down from the podium, cooing about finally meeting him, Marc felt the sting of guilt in his heart. He looked across at the next girl who confidently strode up to him.
There was something about her that set her apart from all the other girls. He was used to them scream and grabbing at his clothes but she appeared unaffected by all that hoopla. She was cool and confident with long glossy brown hair and a delicate pink sheen to her lips. For the first time in a long time he felt a flutter inside his stomach. He glanced up at her and instantly looked down. It was a totally involuntary response. He hadn't been that shy in the presence of a girl since he fell head over heels for the girl that lived next door to his parents when he was ten.
The girl handed him her book open at the title page.
"My name's Izzy. Short for Isobel," she said.
Marc tried to write her name as carefully as he could but his fingers cramped up like a crab's claw and all he could manage was a scrawl across the page. He couldn't have been more disappointed with himself. Ashamed he skimmed the book across the desk toward her and lifted his head only high enough to smile at her midriff.
As she moved off the podium he walked her walk away. He'd had enough.
"How many more have I got to do?" he asked.
"Another fifty or so," said the book store Manageress.
Marc sighed. He was so exhausted he could barely feel he was in the room.
"For god's sake," Marc's manager hissed. "Just do it, Marc."
Marc looked across the throng of girls and spotted Izzy walking through the crowd. She was looking down at the book he had signed as she passed a large black bin. His heart wrenched when he saw her dump the book inside it. Of all the girls in that room that he wanted to impress she was the one he seemed to disappoint the most. It was a harsh realisation that for some people the line between fantasy and reality was too wide to be ignored, and he couldn't ignore it either.
When he left the book store that afternoon he rang The Times newspaper and gave them an exclusive interview out with the direction and guidance of his manager. He announced to them, and soon to be the rest of the world, that he was quitting the music business, forever.