It happened really fast. I tried to find something original to say, kind and thoughtful. But nothing came out. I was dreadfully cramped. Facing the reality of my character, I couldn't re-read myself nor think of the scene one hour or two. No retort. I smiled like a dumbass, stood to shake his hand and took a posture next to him in front of the readers and their cameras. My editor shrugged with a slutty smile to let me know that it wasn't her fault. We then exchanged some vague "nice/fun meeting you" and he promptly disappeared.

The exhaustion, the stress, the shitty morning awakening and the lightning fast passing of my character were quite a hit. We warmly thank the manager of the store and his staff and I try to find the words for the readers who remained at the library after Dylan O'Brien was gone. Selfies; again. Anastasia and I greet Vanessa Clarkson and Nancy Briggman before leaving, we will see them at the book signing of tomorrow anyways.

The hotel is at less than a mile of the library. After a few steps I cannot contain myself, I bluster while exhaling a cloud from my cigarette.

- I hope it entertained you. Happy now? Proud of the show?

- Saah, what are you talking about? It was a success; it went pretty well. What have I done this time? She asks bumped by my remark.

- Dylan O'Brien. That was a lousy marketing scheme that you did behind my back! You really are pathetic.

- Not at all! That took every one aback. And what a surprise! No complains there, the readers were thrilled, the pictures will go all around the social media and create a buzz at the event, and tomorrow it should be euphoric at Foyles'! This is good for you. This is good for us.

All around the social media. I guess that I am being tagged on Twitter and Facebook. My author page must be packed with pictures of me with my makeup slobbering and overly thick thighs.

Anxiety takes me abruptly: I look for my phone on my bag with frenzies that are not quite dissimulated. It will be Bagdad on my message box if he had already seen the pictures.

23 missed called. 15 unread messages.

A vice is tightening my chest. It will cost me a lot to catch up. I am imagining the comments waiting for me from the other side of the phone.

- What did we say? Starts the voice of my anger and my desires.

- I... I am sorry Anastasia. I have some phone calls to make and I am really taken for the day. See you tomorrow?

- You don't want dinner?

- I will get something made for me I think. Or grab a quick bite. I don't know. No thanks, but I think I need to be alone right now, don't be upset.

- No problem. Get some rest, there is a long day waiting for us tomorrow.

In front of the hotel I take the time to enjoy another cigarette before facing my phone.

- I won't let you down.

- You sure as hell better not, because I am loosing it, I realize that, everything is getting out of my grip: I am failing on keeping focus.

The Dragon doesn't let me down while I am struggling with loneliness in my hotel room, but I am far from getting out of it unaffected. My pride is moribund, my ego got crushed and my mood give its last breath when I hang up.

- You need someone to take care of you. Let me do it. Start by crying for thirty minutes in the shower. We will get things in order.

I execute and let my last tears flow under the water. I sob for everything that is eating me inside, I cry for the alcohol that fucked up the guy who was handsome and funny, I bubble for not finding anything else able to strengthen me against the world than arrogance or disdain. I whine in the shower thinking that once I get dried up I will be someone new although, deep down I know that I will remain who I am.

Once I'm certain that I don't have anything left to cry about, I shut down the water and go get dressed to get out of the hotel. Walking. Walking far or for a long time. I go up to the bridge and put in place every pieces of the puzzle that my scaled conscience gives me.

I have been published.

And translated.

And I have three days to spend in the United Kingdom to sign the paperback version of my book for the people who liked it.

You met the Big Cat too. Very, very fast, I will enjoy it later looking at the pictures on my phone or tablet.

I take Withecomb to head towards the St James Park, I pass in front of the Royal Guard but there is not a single floating dust outside. I go back to take The Mall and head to Victoria Memorial. The winter night and the rain pouring nonstop show a surrounding area as grandiose as worrisome of the Buckingham Palace. I light a cigarette in front of the monument.

- You had the day of a princess why this splenetic humor?

- I had ta princess day but I have to deal with the aggregate of all my frustrations, my anxieties and my anger in the form of an imaginary Hideous Beast. In fact,, we are far from the life of Princess Kate.

- You are a Princess and I am your Dragon, it is some kind of good new, isn't it? It means that it shouldn't be long before a Prince make his entrance to your story? What would he look like?

- The Marlboro cow-boy with the education of a Lord. I said catching a new blonde between my lips.

When going back I consider to stop and eat some ramen on Regent Street but change my mind thinking about being alone at the restaurant. I go for a Fish & Chips and ask myself if Princess Kate eat those sometimes. Does she drink beer too?

When I arrive at the hotel, there is a group of little girls playing in the rain like wet ducks, mascara on their cheeks and lips gloss on their chin. I have to push over the crowd in order to reach the hall W where I can see a bunch of men in black disappear on the elevator, once again. I wait for mine, leaving a puddle of rain dripping from my raincoat on the dark floor of the hotel.

I let my pants and my coat dry on the bathroom door and manage to find something to watch on TV wearing just my underwear on the king size bed.

- We could have bought ourselves some chips and beer. At least to celebrate the Princess Day and our homecoming, grinned the Dragon.

- Well yes: quite chic stuff like this in a palace: we come back with a pack of six and some chips!

- Considering the room's pricing...

- And considering that I am not the one paying for it...

Nonetheless this conversation raise an important subject: I just spent the afternoon signing my book edited in English and tonight I am alone head to head with my demon to celebrate it. How convenient. A glass of champagne is in order nevertheless, right?

- Or two pints?

- Shut up. Your anger is fine, I am indifferent to your desires.

- We'll see, grins the Monster.

I argued for another half hour with myself and finally put some clothes and went to the hotel bar. Drinking alone is a recipe for losers I know, but a glass of champagne to go along with my report on what's up on social media is still ok.

I really like the place. Red, black and shiny: it's elegant and stunning like a British dandy. I order champagne while dreaming of an IPA. I throw my middle finger at the Dragon to show him I can drink like a lady.

The music is plain and unobtrusive, the semi-darkness and the corners perfectly hide the customers lying low on their club chairs. There's just a few persons even if it's a mid-week day. I drink to the Leopard and Clement, to their possible wedding in the sequel, to their separation because one of them could have...I draw my tablet and go to the notepad to write down some ideas that may work one day. After a second mouthful of bubbles I glide my finger over the blue icon of a social media to do a recap of this afternoon and thank the London readers for their patience under this rain.

My Facebook and Twitter account are overflowing with notifications. The timelines are now a playground for mad fans: the ones who like the "Leopard", Dylan's fans and the ones who despise, judge and are jealous of all of this. All over the web, new "#" came to life and I'm facing around twenty shots titled #Dylan&Saah  #Dylaah.

I'm shocked.

My picture is everywhere, non photoshopped, smiling and it's the same for the American actor with his book and his thumb up while his other arm is around my shoulders. The memory is still blurry and distant in my mind and the picture is still abstract. Dylan is still my character. In the photos, he's mine once again. They come from every angle. On one of them, I am actually not bad, even him, he's good.

-Yeah, I saw this one. I think we are cute on this, don't you? Asks a man with a black sweater over my shoulder before I could notice when he approached.