I take in the record plaques scattered across the walls. They feature an array of artists, including the Beatles, Oasis, Amy Winehouse, and nearly a hundred others. Alexander’s attention finally drifts toward me after he hugs and high-fives a bunch of guys and a woman, who I assume must be his band.
“Guys, this is my dialect coach, Christopher,” he says, reaching his arm across to drape over my shoulder.
The mere mention of the worddialectbrings up a nauseous feeling in my stomach and I shudder. Alexander removes his arm.
I wish he had picked something, anything, other than a dialect coach.
A nutritionist. A personal trainer perhaps. But a coach?
“Nice to meet you,” I say, plastering a smile on my face. I shake their hands as Alexander introduces them and what they do. I try in vain, once more, to commit their names to memory.
Andy, Aidan, Lola.
“And this is my musical director, Freddy. He’s the one who’s been helping me with that new song I mentioned earlier.” He arches his eyebrows.
“You convince Paul to let you record it yet?” Freddy asks. His tall, broad frame and shaggy dark-brown hair differentiates him from the clean-shaven and straight-haired look of the rest of the band. But they all wear the same outfit. Black T-shirt. Black jeans. Black sneakers.
“Yeah. As long as we nail the other tracks. No pressure, guys.” Alexander lets out a different kind of laugh than the one I’ve become familiar with.
His attention turns to me as the band starts to discuss arrangements.
“Everything okay traveling here?” He turns his back on the band and lowers his voice. “They weren’t too hard on you, were they?” He nods his head at Laurie, Erica and Connie, who are standing next to Paul, Rob and a red-head—Lucy?
“Yeah.” I hesitate, taking a slight breath and keeping my voice low to match his. “But Connie seems a bit off with me, and I’m not sure how long I can keep up this dialect coach facade.”
“Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s like that with everyone. And you’ll be fine.” Alexander waves away my worry.
The rumble of discomfort bubbles up again.
I’m not sure how to feel about how quickly he pushes away my concerns.
Paul coughs loudly, then motions everyone to follow him down the hallway and into a small control room. It looks exactly like how I envision a recording studio. A large soundboard stretches across the room beneath a glass window, which overlooks a large room already set up with various instruments. A tall stool sits in the middle, a mic in front of it, and an acoustic guitar rests nearby on a stand.
“Lucy, will you look after Christopher while I go down and start recording?” Alexander slings his leather jacket on the couch, squeezing my arm.
“Sure.” She turns her attention to me. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Lucy, Alex’s assistant. I’ve heardallabout you.” A grin forms on her face.
“Is that right?” I say, following her lead. Alexander twitches as his attention darts between the two of us. “You’ll have to tell me more.”
I take off my backpack and sit down on the couch as Lucy does the same, moving Alexander’s jacket to the end.
Thank God. I’m not going to be stuck here all day pretending to be a dialect coach, and Lucy seems to know the truth.
I’m already regretting getting the Carbonara. I rub my hand against my chest, fighting off the indigestion. My eyes really are bigger than my belly these days.
The dining area at Abbey Road is only half full. His team is spread out at the various plastic tables in the center of the room. Other studio employees line a couple of the tables up against the wall, further down the room. Connie and Paul stand outside, Connie animatedly talking away between drags of her cigarette.
“Want some?” I slide my plate toward his bowl of salad and chicken.
“I don’t do pasta,” he says, pushing it back toward me.
His mood has been off ever since we sat down to eat ten minutes ago. But there’s no need for that type of blasphemy.
“No pasta? What’s next? You kick puppies? Hate dessert?” I elbow him in the ribs as I eye the cheesecake on the table across from us.
I could google the answers to all the things I still don’t know about Alexander, but I’d rather learn about them from him. At the same time, I don’t want to interrogate him. I don’t want to be like one of the journalists he complained about earlier.
Alexander forces a smile on his face, but drops his gaze to his salad.
