It wasn’t swarmed yet. The Music Choice Awards weren’t for a couple days, so all the press, management and talent hadn’t arrived yet.
I made my way up to my room on leaden legs, though that could just have easily been from sitting in economy for the eleven-hour flight from Heathrow.
One thing I had learned from my relatively numerous long-haul flights was that despite the common advice to sleep early to avoid jet lag, the best thing was to stay up for as long as you could, and only sleep when it was nighttime in the country you’d arrived in. That advice sucked when you were super tired after a long flight.
Trying my best not to look longingly at the plush, super king bed in the middle of my room, I unpacked. It didn’t take long, I was only going to be in the city a few days.
While I wasn’t staying with Becka, that didn’t mean I was going to be here and not see my best friend, so after I finished unpacking, I changed out of my rumpled clothes and went out to meet her for brunch.
It had been nearly a year since I’d seen her, despite the good intentions we’d made on New Years to see each other more. The simple fact was that she lived in LA, and I lived in London, and we both had busy lives. Good intentions didn’t always match up with the real world.
She looked as she always did – perfect, to me – and I gripped her tightly as we collided in the middle of the street outside a little bistro that smelled like coffee.
“Babes,” she sighed into my hair as she held me tight.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I grinned.
Once we had separated, we made our way into the warm, little cafe and ordered hot drinks and pastries.
“So, talk me through the state of play,” Becka said, neatly crossing her legs under the table, and leaning forward as she took a bite out of her flakey pastry.
I chewed thoughtfully, running over the itinerary in my mind before answering.
“The concert is tonight, then tomorrow is free, so I’ll probably use it to write about the concert, then the next day is the awards show.”
“And when’s the junket?”
“The morning of the awards show. I’m surprised they’re shoehorning it in, actually,” I said, picking at my cherry danish.
Becka frowned. “Why?”
I gave up on the danish, putting it down in favour of picking up my chai latte, wrapping my hands around the ceramic to warm my chilled fingers.
“It’s usually a long process. The invited press and publications – like Frequency – will be doing a round-robin of separate interviews. We’ll each get a few minutes in a room with the group, before the photo call at the end. But because there will be a lot of press, it’ll take hours.”
I’d done a couple of these. It was not a quick thing. Each publication, or outlet, usually got somewhere between five to ten minutes with the artist, and for GVibes, there would be dozens of journalists.
I’d only found out yesterday that the interviews would be conducted in this manner. I’d been under the impression it would be a room full of journalists, but no.
There would be no hiding in the back of a packed room. I’d considered faking an illness, and I had needed Becka to remindme that I was a strong, independent woman just to get on the plane.
Becka nodded thoughtfully, nibbling her almond croissant.
“And they’re performing at the awards show, as well?”
“Yeah. They’ll probably have to go straight from the hotel to the Theatre to do sound checks and rehearsals.”
“All that on top of their concert tonight,” she whistled softly. “Busy boys.”
I nodded in silent agreement. They were probably at the stadium, right now. I knew from the ticket information that there was a sound check for fans who’d bought VIP tickets. It was essentially a bonus performance disguised as a technical process.
I wondered if they were nervous. I shook my head to clear the thought away.
“How long are you staying in LA for?” Becka interrupted the errant thoughts drifting through my treacherous mind, and I was grateful for it.
“Not long. My flight back to London is the morning after the awards.”
“Fuck,” Becka exclaimed, “they could have given you a bit of breathing room.”
