It’s like pistols at dawn.
But this time, I’m not going down without a fight.
14.Christopher
Monday
“Can I help you, sir?”
The bellman turns to face me after he returns a luggage trolley to the concierge desk. Which happens to be right next to the chair I’ve resorted to sitting in while waiting for Alexander to come down for the last ten minutes.
“I’m actually waiting for—” I pause, unsure of what I should say. I sort through my options and their consequences.
The lobby area bustles with people checking in and out. A Middle Eastern family has so much luggage it looks like they’re moving in. A few people are loitering for no apparent reason. And a couple of twenty-something scantily clad women, seemingly more dressed for a night out than a late-Monday morning, hang out near the flowers, probably hoping for a glimpse of Alexander.
“I’m good, thank you,” I finally say. The bellman nods and turns his attention to the laptop on the counter.
I’ve been trying to calm myself down since coming down. I opted to sit and take deep breaths after pacing the lobbyattracted too much attention. Every part of me wants to run back to my hotel room.
I mean it’s weird, right? Going to someone else’s place of work when you have no reason to be there? It almost feels like the “bring your child to work day” that we have once a year at the office back in LA. Inevitably, the kids always get in the way, and I don’t want to do the same.
A sudden flurry of activity starts in the reception area, the number of staff almost doubling in a matter of seconds, and I take it as my cue that Alexander must be coming. I lift myself out of the seat, throw on my backpack, and head toward the door.
The sound of the screaming fans increases dramatically as one of the doormen opens the doors to the main entrance, clearing a path to the three cars waiting outside.
My heart starts beating out of my chest as I see Rob turn around the corner. The sweat patches under my armpits almost double in size and my back suddenly feels like it has become Niagara Falls.
Alexander emerges behind Rob, looking effortlessly cool. His hair is slicked back and his sunglasses sit perfectly on his cheekbones. The fitted white T-shirt he’s wearing showcases his enviable physique, and the look is topped off with a silver chain, black ripped jeans, and a pair of black biker boots. He looks like a painting from the Tate Modern come to life.
Before I know it, they’re at the entrance, and the two scantily clad women briefly stop Alexander to get a picture. Paul comes toward me, a disapproving look on his face.
“You’re in the second car with them,” he says, pointing back to three women behind him. He doesn’t bother to stop as he follows Alexander, Rob, and a short red-haired woman dressed head to toe in black, out into the first car.
I catch another glimpse of Alexander as I pass the first ofthree state-of-the-art Mercedes people carriers, but he doesn’t seem to notice me, so I slide inside the second car after the other three women sit down. Fuji-brand water bottles line the cupholders in the sides of the doors, and there’s a light aromatherapy scent. The air conditioning is a welcome relief as I remove my backpack, placing it between my feet.
“Who’s this?” a tall blond woman asks. She lowers her sunglasses to take a better look at me.
I momentarily freeze.
I was expecting to be in the car with Alexander and Paul, not in one with three women I barely know and have only seen in the elevator. I look at the door, wondering if I should make a dash for it, but the door begins closing, leaving me trapped inside.
Guess I’m stuck now.
“He’s the dialect coach we’ve brought in to help Alex prepare for the upcoming film,” another blond woman sitting diagonally across from me says as she reaches for a Diet Coke from her bag.
It seems like this woman wants to control the narrative, and I’m more than happy to play along. The less I say, the less reason there is for the story Alexander texted me to be questioned.
Dialect coach. Film. New Mexico accent.
I shake my head at the excuse. The closest I get to American accents is my poor attempt at LA Valley girl, an even worse Southern drawl, or a slightly above average New Jersey accent.
I’m just hoping no one asks me to demonstrate.
“Oh cool, so everything’s moving ahead?” a brunette woman next to me asks.
“Paul got the revised script this morning, so looks like it.”
“What accent are you teaching him?” the first blond woman asks, removing her sunglasses. “No. Wait. Let me guess.” Sheputs the tip of the glasses arm into her mouth as she studies me.
