Hopelessly Devoted to Holden Finn

By: Tilly Tennant

One


‘A letter’s more personal, right?’ Bonnie stood in front of the mirror and scraped her hair back into a ponytail. ‘If I take the time to write an actual letter, he’ll see just what a nice person I am. Maybe he’ll decide to get his bodyguards or whatever to bring him round to say hello?’ Bonnie’s reflection offered no reply. She was right, though, because it was a stupid idea and even her reflection knew it. Holden Finn was no more going to visit her home than Bonnie was going to get a job with the FBI. She sighed and fastened her tabard, grimacing as a new grey in her fringe caught the light. At thirty-five she was already battling the silvers in her natural ash blonde hair, when her mum hadn’t had to colour until she was well into her fifties. Bonnie winced as she tugged the offending hair out. Her mind returned to her mission. So, a letter was not going to get Holden to notice her, but working quietly and anonymously in a greengrocer’s shop wasn’t going to either. She had already tried emailing his management company and the record company to no avail, had tracked his mum down on Facebook and sent her what she thought was a polite and perfectly reasonable request (which had got her blocked the next day) and had tweeted him whenever she had a spare moment (her stats showed fifteen followers but two thousand tweets).

Devoid of a better solution, Bonnie went to the drawer in the kitchen table to fetch the matching floral paper and envelopes she had bought the previous day.

Passing Paige’s open bedroom door, she noticed that her daughter had managed to turn the alarm off and go back to sleep. Paige hated going to her grandmother’s house for the day and had clearly ignored the alarm in a cunning attempt to make Bonnie so late that she would have to leave her at home. There was no way that was going to happen. Paige might have been fifteen but Bonnie still wasn’t comfortable with leaving her alone in the flat all day; she had, after all, been fifteen once too. And keeping this tiny flat and their meagre income meant Bonnie keeping her job at Applejack’s, and that was not going to happen if she couldn’t even turn in on time. Whether she liked it or not, Paige was going to have to get up.

Bonnie’s gaze travelled around the rest of the room with a deep sigh. The floor was littered with clothes – many of them obviously dirty – a plate full of toast crumbs peeped out from beneath the bed, a mug that Bonnie didn’t even dare look inside sat on the bedside table. It was just another teenage bedroom – Bonnie recalled her own being more or less the same, the décor and the styles of clothing the only clue that they were generations apart.

Just as she was about to shake Paige again, her gaze was drawn to the poster above her daughter’s bed, the young, impossibly attractive man posing on it smiling down at her with a cheeky yet seductive look in his eye. What did it matter if Holden Finn was almost young enough to be her son? It wasn’t like she wanted to have sex with him or anything (although if he showed an interest, of course, she’d have to give it some serious consideration), she only wanted to meet him, to say hello and tell him how much she admired his music… and the hair that begged to have her hands run through it…. and the eyes that twinkled with barely-disguised sexual dynamism, perfectly controlled so that his teenage fans couldn’t yet identify what it was that stirred them to a frenzy at the mere mention of his name. Suddenly noticing that her mouth was hanging open, Bonnie shook herself.

‘Paige, get up.’

Paige rolled over. ‘I am up,’ she replied groggily.

‘Looks like it. You know we have to leave for your gran’s house in half an hour and you haven’t even showered yet.’

‘I can shower there. There’s nothing else to do.’

‘She said last week that she was going to get some DVDs for you.’

‘They’ll be crap.’

‘Maybe they will, but they wouldn’t have been if you had given her some sort of clue about what you wanted when she asked last week.’

‘Ugh.’ Paige pushed herself to sit. ‘It’s not my fault her voice turns into a boring noise after two seconds of speech.’

‘That’s my mother you’re talking about.’

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