“Russian,” she says, pointing her glasses at me.
“No, it’s not Russian.” The pitch of my voice elevates to a level it hasn’t been at since my balls dropped over a decade ago.
“Leave him alone,” the brunette woman beside me says, reaching over and whacking her on the leg. She turns back to me, stretching out her hand. “I’m Erica. Nice to meet you.”
“Christopher. Nice to meet you,” I say, meeting her smile with my own.
My stomach settles slightly, grateful for the conversational pivot.
“You’re English too,” the woman opposite says. “Laurie, by the way. I’m Alexander’s stylist. Erica there,” she points at the brunette, “is hair and makeup. and I guess you already know Alexander’s publicist, Connie.” Laurie’s hand meets mine as I pull it away from Erica’s.
I nod, though I didn’t have a clue who Connie was, and quickly try to remember their names.
Connie. Erica. Laurie.
“Where you from?” I ask, trying to make small talk, although I’m certain she’s from Birmingham based on her Brummie accent. I may not be an actual dialect coach, but I can at least decipher where people are from.
“I’m from Birmingham originally, moved out to LA a decade ago. You?”
Looking at her tanned skin, green eyes, black crop top, and black jean shorts, I’d never have placed her as someone from this side of the pond. I guess that’s what LA does to you. Her accent is the only giveaway. There’s not a hint of America laced in it.
My accent, on the other hand, started to slip as soon as I moved there. The constant need to change the pronunciation ofwords like water and mum, or replace words completely, like changing over from lift to elevator and toilet to restroom, slowly eroded my North London accent into a more mid-Atlantic one. Now I’m stuck somewhere between the two.
“I’m from North London originally. Moved to LA three years ago for work.”
Keep your answers short. Concise.
No need to give them a monologue.
“Have you ever thought of Botox?” Laurie asks, deadpan.
Jesus. Talk about forthright. I know I looked rough this morning, but what a way to knock a guy down when he’s already feeling uncomfortable and insecure.
“For your armpits, I mean.” She points her sunglasses at my pits. “It does wonders. Stops sweat stains from forming.”
Oh.Oh.
My instant relief turns to discomfort as everyone turns to look.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll have to look into it,” I say. Heat rises across my face.
“Are you also staying at the hotel?” Erica asks.
Connie removes her glasses to look at me with a pointed stare. Clearly, she’s not one to be crossed. I feel a lump come up into my throat.
“Err, yeah. It was easier than staying with my family, while I’m here. My sister’s—” I stop myself just before I reveal the true reason I’m in town. Connie’s eyes widen.
“Why don’t we leave the poor man alone,” she breaks in. “He’s got enough to contend with. Plus, we’re nearly there.” I smile aThank youat her for saving me, but she doesn’t respond in kind. She turns her attention out the window instead.
An unnerving feeling rises inside once more.
Did I do or say something wrong? Did Paul tell her something that’s causing her to act this way?
Thankfully, we’re at Abbey Road Studios mere moments later, and I’m startled as a hoard of fans surrounds our car, banging on the sides. They press their hands against the windows, trying to peer inside.
As we pass through the gates and onto the gravel drive, the banging stops, but the loud sound doesn’t seem to abate. Instead, it gets louder as the car door slides open. The three women get out and I grab my bag and exit the vehicle.
There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of people beyond the gated wall. Alexander stops at the top of the stairs, turning briefly to wave at the crowd before heading in. The rest of us follow him inside into the reception area, where everyone seems to congregate.
