“Ohhhhh…” he says. They share a concerned look before looking over at me. Kelly slowly hands her phone to me, almost apologetically, as if hating to be the bearer of bad news. And as I look down, I can see why Daniel’s eyebrows dropped. My heart falls to my feet as I read the headline:
Rita Watson Caught Leaving London Club with Alexander Morgan.
I’ve been berating myself for the last half hour. I’d tortured myself on the forty-minute tube ride back from Hampstead by looking at videos and posts of the incident on social media. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I’d opened my laptop as soon as I got back to the hotel, opening tab after tab. Now, I’m pacing up and down in my hotel room, looking across the room at the multitude of tabs on my web browser.
Of course he’s fucking straight!
Why must I always go for the unavailable ones?
Or the straight ones.
Or both.
My thoughts continue to spin as I throw off Daniel’s top and remove my jeans, socks, and boxers, leaving them spread across the floor. I grab my pajamas from my suitcase and head into the bathroom.
“It’d be so much easier if I were straight,” I say out loud, looking at my worn-out face in the bathroom mirror. I reach formy electric toothbrush and toothpaste and start scrubbing my teeth viciously.
If I were straight, I wouldn’t have had to come out. Dad would still be alive. And Mum wouldn’t resent me for Dad no longer being here. I’d be able to date without having to hide it from my extended family, and I wouldn’t be in this position right now.
A knock on the door startles me. I switch the toothbrush off, placing it next to the handwash, and grab the towel to wipe the toothpaste from my mouth before looking at my watch.
It can’t be.
He’s got a show tonight, and he won’t be back for at least another couple of hours.
Another knock sounds as I make my way toward the door.
Peering through the peephole reveals a bald man with glasses, wearing a smart buttoned-down shirt and chinos, standing on the other side. A folder is clutched in his right hand.
He looks like one of the guys I saw in the lift the night Alexander arrived, which must mean he’s someone important on Alexander’s team.
I take one quick look in the mirror—my pajamas aren’t the best outfit to greet him in—and slowly open the door.
“Christopher Foster, right?”
I’m immediately taken back by his forthrightness. How does he know my full name?
“Can I help you?” I ask. My shoulders tighten as he looks me up and down.
“Yes. I’m Paul, Alexander’s manager. I was hoping you might have a moment.”
I grip the door more tightly, keeping it slightly ajar.
“What’s this regarding?” My confusion and irritation merge into one.
“Would you mind if I come in?” he asks, stepping forward. “It’s a rather personal matter and I’d rather not discuss it out here.” He looks both ways down the hallway before turning back to me with a harried look on his face.
I’m guessing that look is quite common for managers, based on my limited exposure dealing with talent through the creative campaigns I oversee at work, but I don’t relish seeing it directed at me.
I debate for three beats whether to let him in, but curiosity about the folder he holds firmly in his hand gets the better of me. I pull the door open and wave him through to the room. I flinch as he walks past me, and I close the door a little harder the necessary.
Paul steps over my clothes, which are strewn across the floor, making himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, and I quickly pick them up and throw them in the suitcase before I join him, sitting down in the other.
“What is it you want to discuss?” I ask, trying to regulate my breathing. Suddenly it feels as if I’m in some sort of trouble.
Paul places the folder down on the table between us.
“It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve had some, erm, how do I put it,interactionswith Alexander since we’ve been here in the hotel.”
