“You were the beautiful girl next door,” she shrugs. “Of course you were his first love.”
I shake my head, despairingly at her.
“Come on,” she says, smiling, topping my drink up, then her own. “Looks like we’re celebrating two things tonight after all.”
Chapter Three
Oh God. What was I thinking getting drunk last night? Not my smartest plan. Not that I generally have many.
I was just so nervous at the thought of seeing Jake today. And the more I talked with Simone about it, the more I needed to drink.
When she pointed out that Jake probably won’t be expecting me if rock stars aren’t informed of who is interviewing them, and then when I walk in there it will be really uncomfortable and awkward … well, I kept on drinking more and more to dull the panic.
We practically drank Mandarin’s dry. Sang Journey (Don’t Stop Believing) on karaoke like we were auditioning for a part in Glee and then rolled home at 2am.
I’ve had six hours sleep; I’m seriously hung over and am currently travelling in on the Tube, feeling like I’m going to puke any second now.
One-part hangover … two-part nerves.
When I finally get off the Tube at Hyde Park Corner, I grab a latte from Starbucks and guzzle it down, praying for it to clear my fuzzy head, as I make my way on foot to The Dorchester, where Jake is staying.
The closer I get to the hotel, the more my nerves increase in intensity. My stomach keeps clenching in panic.
No, stop it, Tru. You are a serious journalist and it’s just an interview. You’ve done loads of them. It doesn’t matter who he is, or that you used to love him.
Still do.
No I don’t.
Great, now I’m arguing with myself.
My phone beeps a text in my bag. It’s from Simone; she’d already left for work this morning before I’d even rolled out of bed. I have no clue how she’d managed it.
I open the text up:
Breathe. It’ll be fine. You’ll be talking stories from when you were kids before you know it :) Call me when you’re done. Love you x
I drop my phone back in my bag, glancing up I see I’ve reached The Dorchester. I drop my empty cup in the nearest bin, take my thin jacket off, and shove it into my oversized bag.
I’m wearing my black skater skirt, loose fitting grey T-shirt belted at the waist, and my favourite high-heeled, grey suede ankle boots. Not too flashy, not too casual, and I feel comfortable in them. They’re me. And right now I just need to feel comfortable.
I stare up at the towering hotel.
Okay, I can do this.
I take a deep breath in and walk toward the door.
The concierge opens it for me, and I find myself in the plush foyer.
I instantly feel out of place. Maybe I should have dressed a little more conservatively.
But this is how I always dress for work, and when I interview celebrities, but then I’ve never interviewed any one as famous as Jake, or none that I used to play kiss chase with when I five either.
Oh God. I am so totally shitting myself. And so totally out of my depth here.
I run my hands nervously down my skirt.
No, I can do this.
I lift my head high and walk toward to the reception desk.
The woman on the reception is very attractive, in that groomed kind of way I’ll never be able to achieve.
She looks up at me.
“Hi,” I say trying to exude confidence I am not feeling. “My name is Trudy Bennett, I’m here to see Jake Wethers.”
She smiles. It’s not real. “Of course you are. And I imagine he’s expecting you too.”
Ahh. Right okay. She’s being a bitch. She thinks I’m a groupie.
I reach into my bag and pull out my journalist I.D. badge and slap in on the counter.
“I’m a journalist. I work for Etiquette magazine and I’m here to do an interview with Jake Wethers.”
She glances at me again, eyes narrowed, then picks the phone up and dials a number.
“Good Morning. There’s a Trudy Bennett in reception to see Mr. Wethers … right … yes, of course.”
She hangs the phone up.
“Please take the lift up to the roof suites, one of Mr. Wethers staff will meet you up there.”
I pick my badge up and walk away without thanking her. It kills my inbred manners to do so, but she was mean to me.
I just don’t understand snotty bitches like that. Do I look like a groupie?
God, I hope not. I stop and glance at myself in the mirror on the way to the lifts.
My hair’s frizzed up a bit with the humid morning air. I try to smooth it down with my hand as I run my eyes down myself in the mirror.
Well, I don’t think I look like a groupie. I look like an über professional journalist, in my … um … skater skirt, which is actually quite short – has it always been this short or has my ass got bigger?
Oh holy crap. I look exactly like a groupie.
I don’t remember looking like this in the mirror this morning. Obviously, I still had my ‘Tru looks awesome in anything’ margarita goggles still on.
Fan-fucking-tastic. I haven’t seen Jake in twelve years and I’m going to see him, looking like some groupie chick in a desperately short skirt.
Good thinking, Tru. Get hammered the night before seeing Jake, then dress like you’re here for a party.
Resigned to my groupie fate, I stand at the lifts and press the button.
In a few minutes I’m going to be face to face with him. I can’t stop my hands from trembling a little.