Now it’s me swallowing hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
The card does have food as the last stop, I checked when she wasn’t looking. Going by what Orlando had written, he’s booked out the entire top of the Empire State Building for a private meal for just the two of us.
I get the feeling that Olive Herring isn’t the type to enjoy something so formal and intimate.
I nod. "He’s telling us to get pizza."
"Perfect."
"You’re notactuallygoing to let me do whatever I want to you, are you?" I ask as we walk side by side towardTony’s in Manhattan.
"Not even once."
Chapter twelve
Olive
Atsomepointinthe last six haze-filled days, I agreed to this interview. Although I’m not at all convinced it was me who agreed to it, and more my manager’s doing.
Josie has a way of suggesting I do things, but making it feel like it is my idea.
Like the auction a week ago. While that night was well and truly out of my hands, I will never actually admit out loud that I had a nice time. Avery wasn’t as insufferable as I expected him to be.
But Josie claims this interview was all me, and I’m too tired to tell her she’s wrong.
Not like it matters. I’m already here, mic’d up and ready to go.
They had a woman offer to do my hair and makeup as soon as I walked through the doors to the studio.
I agreed to the hair because she promised to keep it simple—soft waves hanging just above my shoulders, but I politely declined the makeup. I already have to wear it for every show soI don’t look washed out on stage I don’t want to wear it when it isn’t necessary. I don’t think an interview for YouTube where a guy talks to me while we paint and drink a glass of non alcoholic champagne, falls in the category of high importance.
Not like anyone will watch it, anyway.
There’s an empty canvas on an easel on the table before me. A paint palette with blobs of red, yellow, blue, black and white, and a champagne flute with bubbles rising to the top on a constant loop. I feel my skin crawl at the unknown of all that is about to go down, and how out of my control it all is.
But I promised Josie, who promised the label, that I would do whatever it takes to make it.
A promise I'm regretting with each passing day.
"This is just a regular interview," Josie reminds me, placing her phone in her lap, her dark eyes making contact with mine. "You’ve had media training to prepare for situations like this. It should just be all muscle memory for you."
She’s right. While on the last tour with Akira, when I wasn’t on stage, I was preparing for this tour in more ways than one. It should be a cake walk.
"I’ve got it covered," I assure her with a tight, weak smile, right as Trevor Lockwood, the host ofPaint and Spill,enters the room.
"Good to meet you," he says, taking the seat on the other side of the table. The difference between his smile and the one I just gave Josie is that his appears genuine.
"Likewise," I respond, shaking the hand he’s holding out for me.
There’s no fluff. No banter in between, not even an attempt at conversation to get to know me.
He’s here for business, and nothing more.
Good.
As soon as he lets go of my hand, one of the many producers around us gives him a nod, and I know it’s go time.
I’m about to put my horrible painting skills to the test, while giving this man as little as I can get away with.
