Chapter 29
Saturday
The voice of God echoing above me from the speakers ignites a fury inside of me.
“Great, thank you. That’s a wrap on Alexander Morgan.”
I’m not ready to wrap.
I’ll tell them when I’m ready to wrap.
They’ve given me ten minutes and two run-throughs of My Anchor. Yet the rest of the performers in today’s Grammy rehearsals have gotten double that, given their extravagant set designs.
My leg starts to twitch.
Maybe they want me to fail. Maybe they want another VMA moment for their viewing figures.
The thought poisons my mood and leaves me sick to the stomach.
John comes marching onstage directly to me, Lucy following behind.
“Do you want to run it one more time?”
The tech crew is already onstage and are poised to wheel off the band setup, to get ready for the next performance, which has been shrouded in mystery.
“Yes,” I say emphatically.
The producers sitting at one of the tables on the floor exchange words and look back at us.
“We’re not done here,” John says, holding up his hand to stop the crew from moving anything off stage. My band stays put on their stands, unsure what to do. “We need to run it through one more time.”
A bald-headed producer picks up the microphone from the table.
“We’re already behind schedule. Your slot is finished.” His English accent adds an extra stamp of seriousness and authority to his words.
“And who’s fault is that?” John snaps back.
Disgruntled faces stare up at us.
Ever since John became my manager and not just my lawyer, I’ve noticed a shift in him and myself.
He’s like a lioness. Me his cub. He protects me from others, but also makes sure my needs are met.
He’s encouraged me to speak up and out for what I need, rather than conforming to what everyone asks or expects of me.
“Guys, get back to your instruments.” John motions to the band, ignoring the producers below, and walks over to the sound engineer at the side of the stage.
I guess I will get that third run through after all.
The last time we were all around this table, it ended in rupture and despair, but since my dad’s apology via text for his behavior, things have been better, even if my parents are still getting a divorce.
And to be honest. I’m glad dad and I are back to talking again.
I couldn’t imagine being at the Grammy’s tomorrow and not having him here, considering he was the one who got me into music.
He was the one who bought me my first guitar and drove me to all the open mic nights as a child.
He’d calm me down when my nerves got to be too much and prevented me from performing, like right now, as I think about tomorrow’s performance.
“You’ve got to eat something, you’re wasting away.” My mom’s hand pulls at my T-shirt from across the table.
“I am.” I shake her hand off me and push the chicken enchiladas Valentina cooked around on my plate.
My mom’s jaw clenches.
I’d hardly say I’m wasting away, but T-shirts like this, which used to hug my muscles, now hang loosely on my body. My motivation to train intensely, now that there’s no tour to constantly be building stamina for or a film to stay in shape for, is all but gone.
That, and my need to use the gym to distract my mind from intrusive thoughts or channel my anger has subsided. Instead, I feel like I have a healthier relationship with my body and therefore with working out.
“Is it because you’re nervous about tomorrow?” My dad reaches over the table for more hot sauce. He’s always been the more perceptive of the two. Maybe because he has the same fears deep down from when he used to perform as a teenager.
My mom’s constant worrying causes her to be mind-blind, and she doesn’t see what the underlying reason could be.
“What if I fuck up on TV again? What will everyone be saying about me then?”
The fear is never far from my mind.
He’s a fuck up.
A has been.
A junkie, an addict, and a loser.
“Oh son.” My mom gets up and walks round the table, pulling my head into her chest. “You’ve been working so hard this week. In rehearsals, on yourself. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, look how far you’ve come these past few months.
You’ve finally got rid of Paul. You’re working with Lee to process through everything that happened.
Even me and your mom are getting on better since we filed for divorce.
” My dad reaches for my hand as my parents share a smile.
“And you’ve got Harrison and Christopher here with you, so you’re not always on your own in this big old house. ”
Christopher nods in agreement, finishing the last mouthful of his food.
“What’s that about me?” Harrison lifts his head from his phone, blissfully unaware of anything other than what’s in his handset.
“Nothing.” I shake my head as he returns to his phone.
I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten repetitive strain injury from the number of right swipes he’s made while trying to match with women here in Los Angeles. I’m grateful that using dating apps like Hinge or Raya to meet someone is one thing I don’t have to worry about.
Maybe they are all right.
Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about after all.
Sunday
I let myself savor the fantasy for a moment longer and look at the Billboard Music Awards in the award cabinet here in my office, wondering what it would be like to add a Grammy Award.
A warm feeling rises inside and my cheeks lift.
The moment I’ve dreamed of for years is now mere hours away.
Yes, to be nominated is an honor, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted to win, that all us artists do. We all want, need, the validation of others. To reaffirm we are good enough. That we are loveable.
The Grammy invites stare back at me on the oak wooden desk.
The first time I’ve been officially invited to the show in ten years since breaking out.
Finally deemed cool enough to be allowed in.
Yet at the eleventh hour I’m still deliberating who to sit next to.
Christopher, John, my mom, my dad, or Freddy?
Freddy makes sense as he helped coproduce My Anchor.
My mom gave birth to me, though she’ll be insufferable all evening, going up to all the artists in between breaks and embarrassing me.
My dad gave me my first guitar, which gave birth to this career of mine, but it still feels like early days in the repair of our relationship.
I could choose John, because most other people have their managers sit with them.
But I want Christopher next to me, to share this night.
But I still don’t know if having him next to me is worth all the attention.
It might be better just to keep my private life exactly that: private.
The way Sam Smith and Shawn Mendes have been treated for disclosing their sexualities, and the impact it’s had on their careers, reaffirms my position.
A knock snaps me out of my trance.
“Your glam squad is ready when you are.” Christopher pokes his head round the door, keeping me on track like he promised.
The house is abuzz with energy as I pass through it.
My family, John, and the band are all gathered in the main lounge.
I head through to the second lounge, where Laurie waits alongside two racks of clothes.
The countertop in the adjoining kitchen has been turned into a hair and makeup station.
Erica’s kit is immaculately laid out in front of a mirror.
“These are the three looks we’ve got for today,” Laurie says, pulling the first one off the rack. “This is a bespoke charcoal Gucci suit, which their team in Italy made especially for you.”
Laurie hands me the blazer. It fits perfectly, despite my shrinking figure. “I was thinking we keep it simple. A nice white T-shirt underneath, no tie. Keep it smart but not too formal.”
“I like it,” I say, taking it off.
Laurie runs me through the other looks for the evening. I get slightly distracted by Christopher pacing up and down outside by the pool, listening to his phone.
“Can you give me a second?”
I hand my performance outfit back to Laurie—jeans, leather jacket, and a white T-shirt—and head to the glass door, sliding it open and joining Christopher outside.
Christopher quickly stops his voicemail and turns to me.
“You, okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah. All good.” Christopher shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake his annoyance away. A smile appears on his face.
Something is clearly off, especially because over the last couple of months he’s seemed to be the calmer of the two of us. I rack my brain to work out what it might be, and land on Kelly.
“Is it your sister? Has she gone into labor?”
My heart leaps into my throat. I hope it’s not. I need him here tonight.
“No, she’s okay. It’s nothing, just my friend Stephen being melodramatic because his boyfriend broke up with him.” He slides his phone back into his pocket and motions for me to head back inside.
I pause.
“He’s the Irish one I met at the hotel back in London, right?” The name vaguely rings a bell. I sit down on the sun lounger and encourage Chris to do the same.
“Yeah,” he says, sitting down, looking out over Beverley Hills below.
“I’m sure he’ll get over it. He can’t have been with the guy for long.”
“You’re right.” Christopher shakes his head again and squeezes my leg.
“Actually, while you’re here, there’s one thing I wanted to ask.” I reach for the Grammy tickets in my pocket.
“Alexander! Alexander!”
The wall of paparazzi shouts my name as I step onto the red carpet.
Lightbulbs flash as I pose briefly. Leaving the Grammy backdrop behind, I walk down the red carpet.
I’m constantly distracted, with no idea where to look, who the reporters are shouting at, and in disbelief that so many of the people I respect and admire are so close to me.