After trying three different suitcases, we finally landed on one that can fit Alexander’s broad frame. He contorts his body bringing his knees right up to his chest, to fit inside. Forsomeone who is three inches shorter than me, he can certainly pack a suitcase.
“Right, have you got enough room in there?” I ask, my hand on the zip.
He nods back at me, his face wearing the same excited smile that was there when I told him the plan two hours ago.
Understandably, he had to tell Rob about the plan, and I thought he was going to pooh-pooh the idea. But Rob actually chipped in, helping us find a suitcase big enough and promising to keep it secret from Paul, Connie, and Lucy. All of this, of course, with the provision that I check in with him every hour.
I take one final look at Alexander, who looks strange wearing my clothes. My gray hoodie and black running shorts are almost too tight for him. Thankfully, we are at least the same size sneakers. But Rob had insisted that the less he looks like himself, the more likely he’ll go unnoticed.
“It’ll only be fifteen minutes, twenty tops,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water from the table and throwing it to him.
“I’d happily be stuck in here for an hour if it means I get to leave the hotel,” he says. I zip the suitcase closed as he opens the bottle.
I grab my backpack, filled with a change of clothes and toiletries, and wheel the suitcase to the door. We’ve timed our departure to coincide with the hotel’s check out time. Hopefully the busyness of the hotel will make it less conspicuous when I leave.
Concierge had offered to help me with the bags when they brought up the luggage trolley. I’d thought that getting their help made sense, but Rob didn’t trust any of them. He did, however, agree it would be weird for me to push the luggage trolley out to the taxi on my own.
Thankfully, Imani was still in the hotel, and agreed to help. She greets us at the door with a cheery smile.
“You should have seen what Princess Anne used to make us smuggle in and out of the hotel,” Imani says, laughing as Rob helps me to get the suitcase onto the trolley. The wheel of the metallic suitcase clips the gold bar as we finally wrestle it into position.
“I can only imagine,” I say, my eyebrows raising. As I chuck my backpack on top and wave goodbye, Rob whacks me on the back and reminds me to text. Imani and I work our way down the hallway and into the elevator.
“Hold the elevator!” Two women strolling down the corridor shout at me as the door opens. They’re the same two women from that I saw stop Alexander for a photo before we headed out to Abbey Road.
But this time they’ve swapped their cocktail dresses for sporting attire.
“Do you think he’ll already be in the gym?” one of them asks the other. She pulls a lip gloss from her shorts and leans into the elevator doors to apply it.
“Maybe,” the other says, without lifting her head from her phone. She’s scrolling through a load of social media posts, all of them with Alexander in them.
Talk about obsessed.
I shake my head when I catch Imani’s gaze. Imani rolls her eyes, forcing me to fight back a chuckle.
By the time we exit on the ground floor, the women have outlined their whole plan for how they’re going to approach Alexander. They bicker over which one they think he’ll prefer and how they’ll ultimately share him if need be.
“Are they always that crazy?” I ask, loud enough for Alexander to hear.
“That’s nothing,” Imani says as she pushes the trolley toward the exit. “You should have seen the lengths MichaelJackson’s fans used to go to. Makes those two look like amateurs.”
The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine.
Imani nods to the doorman and he opens the door, whistling for a taxi. There’s a sea of fans and paparazzi waiting outside. They slowly clear a pathway to allow us through.
“Have you seen Alexander?” one girl asks.
“Who?” I respond. I take my backpack and place it on my shoulders. My response is the easiest way I’ve found to deal with these fans.
“Alexander Morgan. You don’t know who he is?” Her face fills with disgust.
Finally, a taxi pulls up. The doorman opens the door, and I carefully slide the suitcase into the backseat, then climb in after it. I thank both Imani and the doorman, handing them each a twenty-pound note. The doorman graciously accepts, but Imani waves it away, telling me not to be so stupid.
The fan still eagerly waits by the taxi for an answer.
“I don’t know her,” I say to the girl, slamming the door behind me.
A smile rises on my face as Mariah Carey’sObsessedplays out on the radio.
