Love on the Air

7

I had known Finley Stark since the early days of his career—when he didn’t have a security detail and happily handed out his number to music journalists he met on promo tours. He was twenty-two, and I was twenty-seven, and initially I’d done the interview as a favour to my mate Miles who worked at the record label. Finley had just been signed and didn’t have a hit on his hands yet, but the label was ‘sure he was on the verge of something huge’ so Tom scheduled him in for a fifteen-minute interview.

These gambles rarely paid off, and usually the kids they wheeled in on the promise that they were ‘about to be huge stars’ did not make a second appearance.

The morning of the interview I pressed play on the advance copy of his single while brushing my teeth. I knew by the first chorus that Finley Stark might just be the exception. I was right, and within six months he was the biggest pop star on the planet.

We hit it off straight away. He had banter as strong as his musical chops and a cheekiness that instantly cemented him as the annoying but extremely lovable little brother I never had.

Finley was tall with thick, auburn hair that he slicked back and tucked behind his ears, the kind of guy who could make a Gucci silk shirt look strangely masculine. The morning we first met, he wore big chunky rings on each finger and contrasted his big black Alexander McQueen boots with a raw silk shirt that made his green eyes sparkle and caused everyone to stare as he walked through the radio station and into my studio. He had the kind of presence and swagger that should have come across as dicky but somehow didn’t. We bonded over a mutual love of Paul Simon and Stormzy. We laughed at jokes no one else understood. I took the piss out of him and he revelled in the banter. By the time we’d stopped recording we both knew that we would be friends for a long time.

That night after the radio show wrapped, Tom and I had headed to a chic hotel downtown for drinks with Finley, Miles and a couple of their crew, where the banter flowed as freely as the expensive booze. The hangover I endured the next day was worth it for the friendship that blossomed that night and continued in a rush of WhatsApp messages, random drinks in random bars around the world when our schedules aligned, and a whole lot of love.

I sent Finley a quick voice message to see if there was any possibility of a London crossover, knowing full well that my chances were low. He was so rarely at home these days between the touring, the recording and the general duties that came with being one of the most famous people on the planet. By some miracle, we discovered a one-night overlap between us arriving and Finley leaving for Los Angeles, and plans very quickly swung into place. While I suspect that Leo was envisioning a fully filmed and recorded sit-down interview, Finley had more of a rager in mind. I was confident I could make both work.

On my insistence, Georgia Jones was very quickly hired as the show’s new senior producer, although after a quick perusal of her CV and a five-minute chat, Leo didn’t need much convincing. She’d started on Darren’s show the week before I left, so while I was lounging about in paradise attempting a life-reset, she was spending her days brokering peace deals between Darren and his new co-host Skye (I was right, they’d had a fling and things had soured quickly). She was a couple of years younger than us but was such a radio nerd that she’d skipped university and started doing station internships straight out of high school, scoring a full-time job at nineteen and working solidly in the industry since. I must admit, it was great to have someone so even-tempered on the team, given that Tom and I often gave in to our more dramatic urges. On the morning of the announcement, I was making myself a cup of tea when she walked purposefully into the office kitchen and stood beside me.

‘Soooooo. How are you feeling?’ she asked as she scooped bright green protein powder into her tumbler.

I poured a tiny splash of cold water into my piping hot chamomile and brought the mug to my lips. ‘About the announcement?’

‘Yep. I mean it’s exciting, but …’

‘… but it makes it real and it’s so much pressure and it would be understandable if I wanted to vomit when thinking about everyone finding out that I’m taking over the biggest radio job in the country?’

‘Ahhhh, I wouldn’t worry too much. Since when do people give women in media a hard time?’

I let out a loud cackle, placing my tea down on the bench to avoid a spillage. ‘I mean in many ways the gig is like a poisoned chalice. It would be so much easier to replace someone who sucked. But Goldie? She never sucked. Not even for one second.’

She gave me a thoughtful look. ‘True. But people are going to have opinions regardless.’

‘Yeah and now they have 500 ways to share them. Back when Goldie started, if someone didn’t like you they’d have to take the time to write a letter and pop it in the post. Now they can tell me how utterly crap I am before I’ve even gone to a commercial break.’

I’d never harboured much self-doubt in my life. It’s not that I normally had a false sense of self-confidence, I just always backed myself pretty hard. The break-up had temporarily rocked my confidence (and confirmed my lifelong fear that the men in my life would eventually leave), but when it came to work, I generally had a pretty unshakeable belief in my ability to nail it, which is why the trepidation that kept creeping in felt so unfamiliar. I suppose in a way it was like I’d been playing in the little league all these years and now I was being promoted to play with the big boys (I say boys because radio is largely dominated by them).

‘Yeah, I get that.’ Georgia sighed. ‘But the internet isn’t real. The only thing that’s real about it is how shitty it can make you feel. So, maybe stay off it today?’

Obviously her advice was correct. Obviously I was going to ignore it.

It took about thirty minutes for my phone to start blowing up once the press release went out. Friends, colleagues and randoms whose numbers I no longer had stored in my phone but who were suddenly elated for me and keen to catch up. There were emails from management companies asking if I needed representation, journalists looking for quotes and even an old boss who had made me cry nine days out of ten offering his services. I deleted that one before I’d read halfway. How short did he think my memory was?

So far, I’d managed to avoid reading the Daily Mail comments section and anything on social media. The attention certainly felt exciting, but now that it was all out in the open I couldn’t deny that I was even more terrified. Tributes to Goldie read like obituaries, spanning decades and decades of her career, reminding me just how big the shoes were that I was expected to fill. The press’s reaction to my new gig was overall pretty positive, and the general consensus was that it was a brave decision by the network to pass on the torch to a ‘young gun’, and time would tell whether I could cut it. I wasn’t sure whether ‘brave’ was code for ‘stupid’ but was thankful that any true disbelief was vaguely masked. The press could often be cruel, and I suspected that they were showing me kindness because of Goldie.

Then there was Darren Chase.

I’d mostly been working from home, avoiding the office whenever possible to keep rumours at bay, which meant I’d not seen him face-to-face since our coffee shop encounter. In the past, every now and then word would filter back to me about some insult he’d hurled my way or an off-colour comment he’d made about me to some colleagues, but I didn’t care enough to be offended. This week, however, he hadn’t been at work, and rumour had it that his absence was a form of protest. I knew Darren would have something to say about my new gig, especially since he always assumed himself to be Goldie’s natural successor, but I didn’t think he’d care enough to say something publicly. Evidently, I was wrong. He’d supplied a quote for a news article, which wasn’t surprising given that he had made a point of staying chummy with the press. Tom had screenshotted it and sent it through, accompanied by a turd emoji.

‘Goldie Miller was a once-in-a-lifetime talent who cannot be replaced. She will be sorely missed.’

Given that we technically worked together and he couldn’t flat-out publicly insult me, he’d obviously figured that the next worst thing he could do was not mention me at all. Tom was absolutely right. Darren Chase really was a top-rate turd.

That night, May sat on the edge of my bed, rollers in her hair, FaceTiming Mum as I packed for London, the two of them oohing and aahing over the outfits I was laying out for the trip. May was my mother’s sister, and for as long as I could remember our relationship had always been a special one. As a kid I’d often fly up to Sydney for visits during school holidays, especially after Dad left. I never got homesick because she was so much like my own mother. The two of them were best friends, and their daily FaceTimes meant that as long as I was living under May’s roof, I never had to remember to call Mum. The two of them spoke so often that Mum may as well have been living with us too.

‘May told me your new boss is quite the looker! Send me his Instagram name so I can have a look!’

‘Ma … in what universe am I going to do that? Plus, he’s married! And we work together! Enough of that. Now: McQueens or Chloés?’ I held up a chunky black Alexander McQueen boot in one hand, and a more formal Chloé boot with a small heel in the other.

‘The McQueens,’ they both replied in unison. At least I could always trust them to agree. I stuffed the boots with socks to help them keep their shape and then zipped them away in the top compartment of my suitcase.

‘Darling, still no word from “he who shall not be named” I hope?’ Mum called out, her face drawing closer to the camera.

‘Not a word since the day we broke up. I don’t even know if he’s still living at our place or not, and to be honest I don’t care. I’ve got more important things to think about—like the fact that I’m taking over Goldie freaking Miller’s breakfast show.’

It took two and a half seconds for tears to appear in Mum’s eyes.

‘Oh, my darling. I’m sooooo proud of you! I still can’t believe this is happening!’

To be fair, she would have been proud of me even if I spent all day locked in my room playing World of Warcraft , but this new job had pushed her over the edge and there had been a lot of emotional outbursts this week. The fact that she hadn’t alerted the entire family tree and broken the news early was a miracle.

Mum’s sob-fest was interrupted by a phone call. I picked up to hear a breathless Tom on the other end.

‘Babe. We are horrible people.’

I took a moment to scan my memory for any recent behaviour that could warrant such an outlandish claim and found nothing. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He’s not a lying, cheating philanderer.’

It took a moment for me to figure out who he was talking about. ‘Leo?’

‘Yes. He’s not a cheater. He’s … a widower. As in, his wife died.’

My stomach dropped. I stood up and hurriedly walked into the study to be alone, leaving Mum and May chatting away.

‘Fuck. That’s horrible. We are horrible. Oh my God. Fuck. How do you know?’

‘I was chatting to Caroline, the PR girl. You know, the brunette with the bangs? She told me. She didn’t know any details, but it was two years ago. I suspect she’s got the hots for him and did a bit of snooping. I mean, come on, have some respect.’

It all made so much sense. Why he got weird when I mentioned his move home. Why Goldie shut me down so quickly when I brought it up with her. Why he always fiddled with his ring when he got nervous.

We both sat on the line in silence. Tom eventually spoke first.

‘I suppose we don’t really have much of a reason to hate him, do we?’

I looked up at the ceiling and rubbed my forehead with my free hand. ‘Maybe not.’ I sighed. ‘I feel like an arsehole.’

‘Go make yourself a gin. Wanna share an Uber tomorrow morning? I’ll swing past May’s on the way to the airport.’

‘Sounds good, babe. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘Hey, keeping up this many relationships in the office is exhausting but ultimately has its benefits. See you tomorrow. I hope there’s at least one hot flight attendant on the plane. If I’m in business class they contractually have to flirt with me, right?’

‘Definitely. Night, darling.’

By the time I’d hung up, May had gone upstairs. I went back into my room, hopped into bed and pulled the covers up. I felt sick. And sad. And then, before I knew it, there were tears in my eyes. I didn’t even know who or what the tears were for.

Sleep wasn’t an option, so instead I put on my José González playlist and let myself fall into a spiral of online shopping, purchasing approximately half of the Sephora website’s stock and a pair of silk pyjamas with feathers on the cuffs. They felt like something Audrey Hepburn would wear in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and were entirely impractical but fun. I set my alarm for am and finally fell asleep around 1 am, praying to God that I wouldn’t have the carpark dream again.

Spoiler alert: I had the carpark dream. And, as usual, I woke up before I got the chance to yell at Dad. Rude.

When you host a music radio show in Australia, and most of the action happens on the other side of the world, you spend a lot of time travelling long-haul. Work usually paid for seats at the pointy end of the plane, and the copious amount of travel also meant that I had top-tier frequent flyer status. As such, Tom and I had spent many an hour drinking fancy champagne in fancy lounges all around the world. This time, however, Leo the babysitter was tagging along and we had to be on our best behaviour.

Tom and I checked in quickly, got through immigration and made a beeline for the lounge, where we would spend forty-five minutes eating our way through the entire menu. ‘Free is me’ was a notion that we had truly taken to heart, and even though work would be paying for everything over the next week, it still felt right to take advantage of any menu on which every item was entirely complimentary.

I loved the First-Class Lounge for many reasons, but my favourite was the people watching. I once witnessed an eight-year-old-child wearing a blazer summon a waiter over and ask if the calamari was back on the menu yet. I both loathed and loved that child in equal measure and remember him often.

As was tradition, Mum had called for a quick pre-flight chat, which I’d taken in a quiet nook near the lounge entrance. (She also tracked on her phone every single one of the flights I took and would text me the second I touched down, no matter the time of day. It had started as a cute little ritual, but soon became oddly superstitious.)

En route back to the table, I spotted Leo sitting in an armchair across the room, writing notes in a Moleskine notebook. As usual, he was wearing his uniform, this time with a dark, olive-green jacket resting on top of his carry-on bag. I suppose while I wouldn’t necessarily call it a ‘splash of colour’, it was an improvement. I’d never seen anyone in my life who consistently looked so well put together. Nothing ever out of place. Even as he stared down the barrel of a twenty-four-hour transit.

I, on the other hand, was wearing harlequin-print knitted flares, yellow crocs and an oversized Beyoncé tour sweater (as a rule I never wore artist merchandise, but Beyoncé defies all conventions). Next to him I probably looked like a kindergarten kid on mushrooms who’d dressed themselves for the first time.

I felt horrible for assuming what I had about Leo, but it was still clear that he was less than excited at the prospect of us working together. I thought back to my two options. Make him see how fantastic I am, or hope that he quits. The latter was still the preference, but I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to turn on the Alex York charm a little.

I walked confidently in his direction. He noticed me straight away (the outfit was hard to miss) and took his AirPods out.

‘Ready to spend twenty-four hours in a metal tube flying through the air?’

Why did I say that? Why was I being weird? Why was I talking like I’d never taken an aeroplane before?

His face was polite, calm. ‘Ready indeed. Hoping I can finally get some sleep. Are you guys all set? How did you go with Finley?’

Could this man talk of nothing but work?

‘Yep, we’re going to see him a couple of hours after we land, before he heads to LA to do some recording. I’ll be sure to get ten minutes of audio in the can before things get out of hand. Which they always do with him.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got it all under control.’

‘Yep. And, Leo … I need to apologise to you before we go.’ I paused a second and crossed my arms nervously. He must have noticed my change in tone and sat up a little straighter. Like clockwork, he began to fiddle with his ring. ‘I’m sorry for getting defensive about you coming. We’re just used to kind of doing our own thing and flying under the radar. But this show is a big deal, and I get that there’s a lot more at stake now. So. Yeah. I understand why you’re here. And sorry I was weird about it.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Right. Thanks.’ His brow furrowed a smidge, before relaxing back into place. ‘I’m glad we sorted that out before spending twenty-four hours in a metal tube flying through the air together.’

‘Great. I’ll try to refrain from offering you any more drugs for the duration of the trip. And for the record I don’t actually do drugs. Mainly because I’m a hypochondriac and I’m convinced I’d have a stroke the first time I try them. And then someone would have to call my mum and explain that I died from taking drugs.’ Oh God. I was talking about dying. I didn’t know how to stop. ‘Anyway, that’s enough of that. Wow. I swear I don’t ramble like this on air.’

‘I know. I’ve spent a better part of the last week listening to old episodes of your night show.’

I looked down at his notebook just as he closed the cover, obscuring my view.

‘Is that what those notes are about? Oh man. Is that what you were listening to?’

‘Ah, no. I was actually listening to music. Don’t give yourself too much credit. And before you ask, I’m not going to tell you what kinda music I was listening to because if I’ve learned anything from a week of listening to your show it’s that you have a near encyclopedic knowledge of all popular music. And I am old.’

‘So, what did you think?’

‘Of the show? I think we’re going to be fine.’

And then he gave a look that I could not for the life of me figure out. It was resolute, but it also could have been the kind of look you give when you flat-out lie and want to shut down the conversation entirely. ‘Fine’ was hardly a glowing review. But for now, it would seem that ‘fine’ was all I was going to get, and I should probably exit the conversation while I was ahead.

‘I’ll take “fine”. See you up there, Leo.’ I gave him an awkward wave and walked back towards Tom, who had already caved and ordered himself a glass of champagne. As I got closer to the table, I saw a second glass waiting patiently for me too.

Five hours into the flight, I was a little restless, having decided to save my big sleep for the second leg of the journey. Tom, on the other hand, had spent most of the trip so far watching The Twilight Saga , drinking Bollinger and flirting with a Dutch flight attendant named Hendrik. I’d headed to the business-class bar at the rear of the cabin and was nursing a gin, animatedly regaling two of the flight attendants with some of my most memorable celebrity encounters. They were lapping up a particular favourite from my early days as a music journalist about a time I threw up on myself five minutes before an Usher interview, when all of a sudden they stifled their giggles, acknowledging a passenger behind me. I swivelled my chair around as Leo appeared through the curtains looking just as tired as I’d left him hours before. He clocked my performance and shook his head, half-chuckling.

‘What can I get for you, Sir?’ one of the flight attendants asked politely as he approached.

‘Whisky, please. On the rocks,’ he replied with a weary smile as he sat down next to me, stretching his neck from side to side. ‘So, who told you about my wife?’

I sat up quickly, panicked. ‘What?’

‘People always act differently towards me once they know. Human nature, I suppose.’

I’d been found out, and there was no denying it now. ‘Tom told me last night.’ I swallowed. ‘He heard from someone at the office.’

‘Well, I managed a full week before it became office chitchat, so that’s not so bad, I suppose.’

‘I hope it doesn’t sound like we were gossiping. It’s just that—’ I paused. ‘Ugh, I don’t know if this is going to make it sound better or worse.’

‘Try me.’

‘Okay. When I first saw you at the hotel bar, you weren’t wearing your wedding ring. And then the next day at the office, you were wearing it. And I had mentioned that to Tom …’

His face told me he understood. ‘Right. You thought I was some sort of—’

‘I believe the words we used were lying, cheating philanderer.’

He chuckled. And I chuckled. And the tension lifted ever so slightly. I took a sip of my gin and gave him an apologetic look.

‘Well, if we’re going to work together, I suppose I’d better just get it all out on the table. Her name was Laney. We met ten years ago at a bar in Sydney—she was out doing a gap year and I was working with Goldie. It was love at first sight; you know the drill. I was enamoured. I followed her home to the UK. We got married. And then she got sick. We had some great years, some tough years and then some even tougher years. She passed away two years ago.’

It was a lot of information all at once, but it sounded as though it was a script he’d recited hundreds of times.

‘I’m so sorry, Leo. I don’t think I have the right words for how incredibly shitty that is.’

He shrugged. ‘Shitty is right. Thank you.’

‘So now … you’re back in Australia?’

‘I am. I thought a fresh start might be nice. Anyway, when Goldie calls, you answer.’

I leaned in, intrigued. ‘What did she say, exactly? To get you home?’

‘That she had a huge idea for her show. That it was going to be the next big thing. That she needed me home to help her.’

I was starting to understand.

‘And when exactly did you find out that the next big thing was … her quitting?’

‘About two hours before you saw me at the bar that day.’

Right. This changed everything.

‘I don’t normally drink martinis alone in a bar on a workday, Alex. I was coming to terms with the fact that I’d moved my entire life back to Australia to work with Goldie Miller. And instead …’ He paused.

I put him out of his misery. ‘You don’t have to finish that sentence. I’d need a drink too, after that.’

Leo smirked into his glass as he took another sip.

‘So, Alex. Tell me. I know the marketing spiel and our positioning in the market already, but on a personal level, have you thought about what you want this show to be?’

‘Hmm. I’ve only been thinking about it for around twenty-five years.’

‘Well, you should have the pitch pretty well ironed out then—hit me.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘What, now?’

‘I’ve got nothing else to do for the next seventeen hours or so.’

I put my gin down and sat up straight.

‘It’s simple, Leo. Joy.’

He gave me a curious look. ‘Care to elaborate?’

‘I just want the show to be joyous, without being condescending. I want to use it as a tool to celebrate music without being exclusive or snobbish. Like an awesome party that everyone is invited to. Life is complicated and stressful for most people, so I want keep the show accessible and easy and fun. Not just a distraction from the shittiness of life, but a reminder that even in the shittiness there’s joy and wonder and fun to be found. And for so many of us that wonder is found through music.

‘I want to connect tired, stressed people with the magic of music again. I want exhausted mums to win trips to Vegas to see the Backstreet Boys, and dads to surprise their kids with tickets to their favourite pop star’s sold-out concert. That’s the kind of radio I love to hear, and I think it’s the perfect antidote for the world we’re living in now. Our competitors aren’t doing it, and I know it’s what I do best.’

Leo’s narrow gaze focused in on me even more, as if he had been reading my dialogue in subtitles and needed a moment to catch up. After ten seconds or so he still hadn’t spoken. There was a whole world of conversation happening in his mind, I just had no idea what it was about.

‘Well? What do you think?’

‘I think …’ he mused, the corners of his mouth beginning to curl up.

Oh, for the love of God, would this man please hurry up?

‘I think … you know exactly what you want to do, Alex York. You’ve got stars in your eyes, and the audience will be drawn to that. It’s infectious.’

I stifled a grin, slightly embarrassed.

He stiffened a little, as if switching into business mode. ‘I’ll have a think about some concepts that we can incorporate that help bring that vision to life practically, and more importantly, how we can monetise it in a meaningful way—which is really the only thing the board will want to hear about.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, I’m aware of the fact that you just poured your heart out and I’m talking about dollars and cents but—’

‘I get it. Go for it. You do your thing. I’ll do my thing. Who knows, we might just end up being a good team after all.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Leo quipped as we clinked our glasses together and knocked back the last of our drinks.

Ten minutes later I was back in my seat, fully reclined and peacefully drifting off to sleep with a glimmer of hope that maybe I might not want Leo to quit after all.

By the time we arrived at the hotel in London it was 8 pm, which left an hour before Finley was picking us up downstairs. Leo headed straight from the airport to dinner with friends and we all agreed to regroup over breakfast the next morning.

The handsome blond on reception beamed as we approached. ‘Welcome back to The London EDITION, Ms York. Both your and Mr Winter’s rooms are prepared and have been paid for, I’ll just need a signature here and a credit card for any incidentals.’

I handed over my Amex and gave Tom a look that said, ‘This had better not be a repeat of New York.’

How anyone could rack up US$800 worth of champagne and lobster mac ’n’ cheese on a four-night stay was beyond me, but I had asked no questions and instead lied to the finance department about the meals being a ‘specific request’ from an ‘A-list celebrity’ we were interviewing.

Thankfully they bought the lie and the expense request was approved.

The concierge passed us our room keys and motioned towards the elevator.

‘Both of your rooms are on the sixth floor. Enjoy your time with us!’

I had stayed at this hotel the year before for two nights after a trip to Amsterdam, and while my memory was as hazy as you’d expect after a trip to Amsterdam (I never did drugs, but everyone knows weed doesn’t count as it’s basically a salad), I did remember that the rooms were small but incredibly chic, (what else would you expect when the cheapest option was 500 quid a night?).

The elevator doors opened and we followed the signs down dimly lit hallways to our rooms. At the final corridor, I went right and Tom went left.

‘See you downstairs in an hour,’ he called out as he walked away, waving behind him.

I found room 608, scanned my card and pushed the heavy door open.

The room awaiting me on the other side was nothing like the one I had stayed in last time. Dark wooden floors, soft fur rugs and pendant lights exuding the most gorgeous warm glow. A thick velvet throw lay across the perfectly made king-sized bed, and fresh flowers added a splash of colour to the bedside tables. Glass doors by the bed led to a terrace that overlooked the busy London street below. Past the bedroom there was an entirely separate area with a large Chesterfield sofa, a reading nook and a full-service bar that was built into the wall.

There was no way this was the room my company had booked. My room phone rang, and I quickly picked it up.

‘Is your room insanely bougie?’ asked Tom. ‘Or does the blond on the front desk want to fuck me?’

‘I was just about to call you and ask the same question,’ I replied, confused and delighted.

It was then I noticed a bottle of Bollinger resting in a bucket of ice with a small note attached. I opened it with my free hand and read it out: ‘“ Enjoy the suite life. So good to have you both here x Finley”. Did you get a note too?’

After some huffing and puffing down the line, Tom finally responded. ‘Sure did. Same thing. I gotta go and take pics of the room for TikTok.’

And with that, the line was dead and I was left to swan about the palace I would call home for the next three days. I pulled off my shoes, removed my bra and collapsed into the huge puffy cloud of a bed, letting the soft mattress and expensive linen envelop me. I pulled out my phone again and opened my emails, quickly scanning for anything important, and as I did a new WhatsApp message popped up on my screen.

Hi Alex. It’s Leo. Hope you made it to the hotel safely. A thought. iPhone audio is fine for the Finley chat if it’s too hard for Tom to lug a mic out to dinner. See you in the morning.

I threw my phone back onto the bed and laughed at the idea that Leo thought we’d be having some sort of civilised dinner with Finley Stark. He was too famous to sit at a nice restaurant for more than fifteen minutes without some sort of a kerfuffle. A dark nightclub suited him much better. I did a speedy unpack and headed into the huge marble bathroom. Before long I was standing under the shower, exhaling as the hot water hit my shoulders and the steam filled my lungs. There is quite simply no better feeling on Earth than a hot shower after a long flight and I found myself half-wishing I could crawl straight into bed.

Instead, I dried my hair, pulled out my make-up and toiletries bags, and got to work transforming myself into a somewhat presentable version of the bleary-eyed traveller in the mirror. Half an hour later, I headed through the lobby looking pretty damn good in a Maje muted green sequin mini dress. It was off the shoulder, with a small cut-out on the right side of the waist. I pared it back with my black McQueen boots and a casual black leather jacket. The pièce de résistance was a silver Miu Miu clutch that Tom had never seen, which meant a dramatic reaction was more than likely.

A dark spaceship-esque vehicle that looked like it could fit an entire football team was parked directly in front of the hotel entrance with the lights on. If Finley wanted to go incognito on the streets of London, he was doing a bloody horrible job of it. I knocked on the window and waited for the door to open.

‘Come on, Finners, open up!’ I yelled as I continued to knock.

Twenty seconds later there was still no movement from inside the car.

‘Real funny, you little shit, let me in—people are starting to look!’

The window of the spaceship-esque vehicle slowly rolled down to reveal a car full of Japanese businessmen in identical suits staring back at me with looks of utter confusion. I quickly spun around, mortified to find Tom a couple of metres away, filming me on his iPhone and laughing.

‘Stop filming me, you idiot! Have you been there the whole time?’

‘Yeah, but I only started filming like five seconds ago.’

A loud beeping sound rang out from the street, as a mattblack Mercedes G wagon approached in the distance, with one Finley Stark at the helm, right arm out the window waving frantically. If I’d thought the spaceship car was an unsubtle approach, then this was about as conspicuous as humanly possible. This guy truly gave zero fucks.

I ran around the front of the car and hopped into the passenger seat, squealing as Finley leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. Tom closed the door in the back just as the commotion kicked off on the street—iPhones were out, pedestrians were yelling and even the hotel concierge was craning his neck to have a look. Within seconds, Finley’s foot was on the accelerator and we were on our way, leaving a trail of excitement and hormones in our wake.

‘My two favourite people! Right here before my very eyes!’ Finley yelled as he reached his left arm towards the back seat to playfully punch Tom in the chest, only for Tom to swat him away with faux annoyance.

There was something about Finley’s energy that made my heart burst. He was joy and fun and fearless youth all wrapped up into one human being, and he instantly made me feel like anything could happen. A ball of sunshine dressed in a fuchia hoodie with black shorts, Converse All Stars and odd socks. On anybody else the get-up would have been ridiculous, but he truly looked like he’d just walked off a catwalk at Paris Fashion Week.

‘Thank you for the rooms. Tom thought the receptionist must have wanted a piece.’

‘And the room is so nice that I probably would have obliged,’ Tom quipped.

‘I couldn’t have my Aussie mates in anything less than a suite. And, if I’m totally honest, they didn’t even charge me. Isn’t it weird that the richer you are, the less you have to pay for shit?’

‘Weird is one word, babe,’ Tom scoffed.

Finley caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and gave him a wink. I could have sworn I spotted a quick grin flash over Tom’s face before he broke eye contact, and then Finley was looking at me with a wildness in his eyes that made my liver shudder in anticipation of the night ahead.

‘Okay, Finners. Three or four questions. Nothing crazy. Let’s just record it before things get hazy so I don’t get fired. And I’m pretty sure for legal reasons you can’t mention that you’re operating a car while we do the interview.’ I knew from previous experience that it was best to get business out of the way as soon as possible.

‘I am but your humble servant, Ms York. Proceed.’

Tom pulled two small USB microphones out of his bumbag and passed one to me, then reached over the middle console and held the second under Finley’s chin.

The next ten minutes contained so much hooting, hollering and colourful language that I couldn’t decide whether it was incredible or altogether unusable. Tom gave me a nod, which indicated that he could work magic with the edit. Which he always did. He zipped the recorders back into his bag, and with that it was time to let the good times roll.

And roll they did. They rolled so hard that I still don’t actually remember how we got back to the hotel. In fact, everything got a little blurry after the tequila shots. When was I ever going to learn that things always get blurry after the tequila shots?