“Everything okay?” Erica asks as she comes in to do some last-minute touch-ups. Her brown hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail.
I take a deep inhale, pushing myself up and ready to tell her, when the sound guy asks me to test the mic. My shoulders drop again as I run through the usualone-two one-twotestingscript, getting a thumbs-up from him.
Only a handful of people know about my sexuality, and everyone, including my parents and brother, are under a strict non disclosure agreement to ensure it doesn’t get out. This image of me, carefully crafted over the years, allows my fans—who are predominantly female and under twenty-one—to buy into the dream that they may one day become the future Mrs. Morgan.
Last night’s scandal wouldn’t even register on the Richter scale compared to the seismic impact me coming out wouldcause. According to Paul and Connie, my career as a pop star would be over. I tried to point out that many artists are gay or at least bisexual, including George Michael, Elton John, Freddy Mercury, David Bowie, and Sam Smith. But Paul and Connie dismissed me by saying those artists were all British, came out later in their careers, and didn’t always recover from the scandal. “Different rules apply to American artists,” Paul had said, “especially when trying to appeal to the Bible Belt of middle America.”
So, that was that, and I stay closeted, fearful that everything I’ve built will be taken away in a moment. I play along with the narrative that the team put out, which includes linking me to a string of women anytime a sniff of my sexuality makes its way beyond harmless fan fiction and into the media.
“And can we expect any other big reveals, while you’re here in London?” The male journalist fromTheSunraises his brows as he leans forward to ask.
I feel my cheeks getting red and I shift my right leg to cross it over my left.
“Carl!” Connie shouts from behind the camera.
Her glare is directed straight at him and would burn a hole through him if it were a laser. That is all it takes to force his brows down and for him to lean back into his chair.
“Sorry,” he says, raising both his hands to her before turning back to face me.
“Your fans here in London want to know, are there any exclusives you can share with them while you’re here in town?”
I’ve been playing this game for so long now, I almost kid myself into thinking I’m letting him in on a secret—giving himan exclusive scoop. I lean forward, looking directly into his green eyes.
“I’ll probably get into trouble from you-know-who,” I say, thumbing over my shoulder at Connie with one hand and covering the microphone with another. “But between you, me, and the English fans, I’ll be heading to Abbey Road Studios next week to record a live album, including my latest singleMy Anchor, which my team told me this morning is number two here in the UK.”
The sparkle in Carl’s eyes tells me he’s bought into my acting, and it’s reaffirmed when Connie gives him the nod that he can run with what I said on the record.
“Congratulations!” he says. “And I’m sure with the shows this week and everything else, you’re on course for your fifth number one single.”
“That would be the perfect present to end this tour and my time in the UK with, Carl,” I say, leaning across and squeezing his knee. I leave it there a beat longer than I should, just to ensure this line makes its mark and he includes it in the final piece. If he does that, it will mobilize the Morganites, as my fans affectionately refer to themselves, to drive streams and sales of the song all this next week.
But that wouldn’t be the best present from this trip. That would be Christopher.
With that, the interview concludes. Carl and I exchange a brief hug and thank you, and we snap the obligatory selfie before Connie escorts him out of the room and readies the next journalist.
“Can I grab five please?” I say, looking at Lucy. Her bright red hair stands out in the darkness where she sits next to Erica by the playback monitor.
“We need to keep moving, we’re on a tight schedule today,” she says, briefly looking up from her phone. She returns hergaze to the screen, continuing to type away. So much for being the easy one to manipulate.
We’re only three interviews down and I’ve got another nine to go before we have a brief break. I try not to be difficult—I don’t want to be accused of being a diva for always keeping journalists waiting—but I need a moment. I opt for the line that always works.
“I’m going to piss myself if I can’t grab just two minutes to go to the toilet.”
Lucy looks up, dropping her phone into her lap, and nods. “Fine, go,” she says. “But quickly.” Mission accomplished.
Removing the small microphone and placing it on the seat, I attempt to make my way to the main door in hopes that I might catch a glimpse of Christopher, but Lucy stops me.
“There’s a toilet back there.” She gestures behind her.
Quick,think on your feet.
I need to take a shit. Nope, too many people here, that’ll be too embarrassing.
Ah, that’s it.
“I need to get something from my room,” I say, though I’m not all that convincing judging by the look on Lucy’s face.
“We can send Rob to get it for you when he gets back.”
