It must have fallen out when I fell.
Is this how it ends? Some CSI detective finds my earbud, retrieves my fingerprints, and then pins the bicyclist’s death on me?
I shake my head. That train of thought is the hot messexpress to either hell or disaster. No one will put two and two together, and I’ve got plenty more Bose earbuds back at the hotel from my brand deal anyway.
As I make my way back into the pub, a chiming sound from the grandfather clock alerts me to the fact it’s already 3 p.m.
Great. If I’m lucky, I’ve got five minutes, ten max, before the team realizes I’m not where I said I was going to be and a crisis unfolds. I pull my phone out from my shorts pocket and look at the lock screen. No new messages from management or security appear, so it seems I’m safe for a little while longer. I breathe more steadily and return my phone to the other pocket.
I exit the restroom and pass a small scattering of people filling a handful of tables on my way to the bar, intent on finding something to squash the ruminating thoughts in my brain. If you were to ask anyone who knows me or of me, they would tell you my professional title is singer. But that is my secondary profession. The first? Professional overthinker.
I’d win an Olympic gold if they turned it into a sport.
The bartender, mixing someone else’s drink, looks up at the mirror behind the wall of spirits as I approach and catches my eye, prompting me to adjust my baseball cap once more. I haven’t come this far and gone through all of this to have my cover blown now.
In the time it takes for the older woman beside me to pay for her drink and the bartender to wipe down the surface of the bar with a gray towel, I decide what drink to go for.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks in a Cockney accent, flinging the towel over his shoulder. His eyes sparkle at me as I pause, trying to make sure I understand him correctly.
“A Jameson on the rocks,” I attempt in my best British accent.
His eyes narrow, causing my skin to prickle with icy dread.
Does he think I’m underage?
Will he ask for my ID?
Is my British accent that bad?
Has he recognized who I am?
He doesn’t look like one of the nineteen thousand people who’ll be attending my show tonight, but I’ve learned not to assume that no one over the age of forty will know who I am.
“Coming right up.” The bartender breaks his stare, raps his knuckles twice on the wooden bar, and grabs a glass, filling it with ice before pouring the drink and turning back to me.
“That’ll be six fifty.”
My phone puts up a fight as I prize it out of my pocket, sending the other contents inside flying across the floor to hit the metal foot of the table behind me.
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as I tap my phone on the card reader next to the cash register.
Thank God for Apple Pay. One less thing to potentially expose my identity.
As I grab my drink and turn to retrieve my things, a man who looks about the same age as my father picks them up and hands them to me.
“Here you go,” he says with a genuine warmth that reminds me why I love London and the people here.
He slides my hotel key card and metal chip medallion into the palm of my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, and quickly push them back into my pocket. I’m unsure if he knows what the chip symbolizes and I don’t want to draw attention to it, given the drink in my hand. Especially since my team gave it to me just this morning, in honor of my two-year soberversary.
By the time I find a seat in the back corner of the pub, where I’m least likely to draw attention, the minute hand on the clock has already reached five minutes past the hour. With the hotel a good ten minutes from here and a lobby call time at three thirtyto head to the O2 Arena, I barely have time to down my drink and sneak back to my room before anyone notices I’m not in the gym.
I cup my hands around the tumbler, the coolness and condensation of it causing another short burst of pain to flicker across my palm. But I’ll take everything that’s happened today, all of the pain, if it means I can get a moment of normality. These days, it feels like I’ll do pretty much anything to get a stolen moment of freedom.
I close my eyes and imagine myself floating across the concrete on a skateboard, but I’m jolted back to reality by a vibration in my pocket. Taking a deep breath, I pull it out, carefully removing all the contents this time. I place the room key and chip next to the cardboard coaster on the table before seeing Paul, my manager’s name, flash on the screen.
I can feel disdain etched across my face at the sight of his name.
