Damn.I have less than thirty seconds before the toaster lift springs me up onto the stage in front of nineteen thousand people, who are getting louder with every passing second.
I pull at the waistband, hoping Laurie can snap the buttons in place. A wardrobe malfunction is the last thing I need during my first show in London.
“Just use a safety pin, anything, to hold me in for now,” I say. My heart rate soars, not from the adrenaline, but the fear of what will happen if we don’t get this locked down quickly.
Nodding, Laurie pulls a safety pin from her fanny pack and quickly secures my fly in place, then jumps off the toaster lift just before it propels me up onto the stage.
I land in one piece, my heart settling slightly, and hold my position for eight counts before the opening guitar riff ofCompare To Youkicks in. I hear the screams, take in the flashes and sound, and then notice a cool draft. It’s not coming from the wind machines in front of me, but from down below.
My gaze moves slowly from the crowds in front of me down to my legs. The spotlight reflects off the safety pin on the floor—it didn’t withstand the impact of the landing. Neither did the Velcroed side seams, apparently. My black leather trousers are no longer in place around my hips, but are instead hanging halfway down my legs.
Fuck!!!
2.Christopher
Thursday
Could this day be any longer?
I tap away on the door handle with my fingers and feel another wave of irritation rise as the cab continues to wait, despite the traffic light having turned green, for an elderly woman with a walker to cross the road.
By the time we pull up to the Landmark Hotel, six hours later than I had planned, my dinner plans with Stephen cancelled, and out an extra five pounds more than I’d expected to be for the ride, I am beyond feeling pity or compassion for anyone. I reluctantly tap my phone on the card reader, grab my rucksack, and step out of the taxicab, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of the past twenty-four hours.
God, I don’t miss living in London.
“Good luck getting your luggage back!” the taxi driver shouts.
The wave of irritation turns into a tidal wave. Damn British Airways.
“Thanks,” I manage through a gritted smile.
As I attempt to make my way into the hotel, I pull at theneck of my brown hoodie. The late-night summer’s heat, a rarity in London, is oppressive, and a crowd of hundreds of eager young girls and women, many looking at me with hunger in their eyes, blocks the twenty yards between me and the hotel entrance.
“Are you here with Alexander?” asks one of them.
“Alexander who?” I attempt to edge past her with a stern look.
“Oh my God, you’re joking right?” another girl says, stepping toward me.
“Nope, afraid not,” I say, trying to keep moving through the growing crowd toward the hotel entrance. If I don’t get in before the clock strikes midnight, I’m going to turn into a pumpkin, or even worse, a gremlin, and Lord help these girls if that happens. But a third girl pops up in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
“He’s only the biggest pop star on the planet!” she exclaims.
As I look around, I notice numerous handmade posters.
Alexander, Marry Me.
It’s You That I Need, Alexander.
No One Compares To You Alexander.
I politely smile and move again toward the hotel entrance, suppressing the flashbacks to my mum’s endless lectures that these women are evoking with their relentless questioning.
The doorman, dressed in a top hat and a long winter jacket that looks completely out of place in this summer night’s heat, stops me in my tracks.
“Can I help you, sir?” His nostrils flare; his lips purse. He looks me up and down with the same disdain that I managed to hide from my face when confronted by those girls just now. But I guess, unlike me, his resting bitch face never rests.
“Yes, you can let me pass so I can check into the hotel,” I say. I press my lips hard together as I finger comb my unkemptbrown hair, unwilling to entertain the power play that he seems keen to act out.
