Daylight streamed in through the curtains, and I blinked rapidly, wondering if I’d actually slept, or just imagined it.
I rolled over onto my side to face away from the bright morning light.
My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow, but the thought of trying to drink even water made me feel queasy.
This morning was the press junket.
A round-robin set of interviews with the group and then a photo call. No large conference hall packed with press photographers, where I’d be able to hide somewhere at the back.
No. I would be sitting directly across from them. No hiding.
I bolted from the bed to the bathroom and leaned over the toilet, heaving despite having nothing in my stomach to throw up.
Afterwards, I leaned against the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. Red, puffy eyes stared back at me, but worse than that was the look in my eyes. Somewhere between panic and resolution.
I brushed my teeth – twice– before getting into the shower. I stood under the spray for longer than necessary. The hot water pelted my skin with an almost trance like affect on my ragged nerves. Once the nervous tremors in my hands settled, I became aware of a different, wholly unexpected feeling deep in my chest. A tiny starburst of warmth that was so unfamiliar, I had to reallyconcentrate on the feeling to understand what it was. And when I was able to put a name to it, I almost extinguished it with fear.
Because it was there, buried deep but there. A fizzy little bubble of hope that felt as jagged as a piece of broken glass, and with far more potential to hurt.
Freshly showered, and dressed, I stood in the middle of the room and ran my eyes over the briefing sheet that had been emailed over to me before I’d left London. It included the timings of the junket, stating which publications would be involved, and in what order.Frequency, meaning me, was about half-way down the list, which was about as good as it could get. It would mean I’d be waiting around an hour or two, before my turn, and then another hour or more before the photo call.
The briefing also contained a list of topics that we were politely encouraged to ask – things like what fans could expect of the new album, which countries they hoped to visit, what foods they’d missed during their time in the military – safe, inoffensive questions that could be asked by anyone, to anyone, and never mean a damn thing.
Predictably, there was also a list of questions that would swiftly result in you being politely being asked to leave.
Any questions relating to romantic partners and/or sexuality.
Questions about their opinions on military service/political affiliations.
Any questions relating to religion and/or spirituality.
Any question relating to a scandal either directly or indirectly related to GVibes.
Questions about their families.
It seemed like a lot, but none of it surprised me, given the propensity of some publications to frame K-Pop artists in certain, defamatory, or embarrassing ways. It was an ongoingstruggle, in Western media in particular, to still present K-Pop as ‘other’, not caring that the way they spoke to the artists over-stepped their boundaries, provided they got that all important sound bite.
Frankly, I applauded their team for setting such firm rules right from the start, and I had no doubt it could, and would, be policed.
Putting the heavily creased briefing back into my bag, I took a breath, stepped away from the bed and critically assessed what I’d laid out to be taken with me.
My lanyard and ID card that identified me as an invited member of the press.
Digital recorder.
A compact notepad. One brand new pen, one old, ‘lucky’ pen.
Press kit folder. Mainly full of PR fluff about the group. Nothing I didn’t already know.
Phone. Silenced.
Honey lip balm and compact mirror. Not for vanity’s sake. More to check my makeup wasn’t running down my face from anxious sweating.
Keycard to my room, and a bottle of mineral water.
Good to go.
I carefully put everything into my backpack, before moving over to the mirror to look over my outfit. For the tenth time.
