Chapter 29 #2
Connie, who’s shown a lighter side to her since I fired Paul, guides me to one of the reporters lined up to speak to me.
I wasn’t sure whether to keep Connie on board when I fired Paul, but John assured me that Connie wasn’t directly intertwined with Paul.
She operated on her own behalf. But it was Christopher who sealed it for me, telling me about how she’d apologized for how everything went down in June, which was something Paul never would have done.
“Alexander, Goodness here from Spotify. You’re up for four nominations tonight and buzz is going round that you may make a clean sweep.” The reporter holds her microphone out toward me as other reporters push closer with their mics to hear my response.
Does she know something I don’t know?
Is it true?
I’ve not even properly prepared a speech for if I win.
My mind races and I try to remind myself of what Lee said. Don’t attach yourself to the outcome.
“I’m just grateful to be here at the Grammys, to be honest. It’s an honor to be picking up my first nominations after ten years in this business.”
“Thank you,” Connie says, and then quickly ushers me on to the next reporter.
By the time we make our way to the end of the red carpet, I feel exhausted. My family leaves me once we get a group picture to make their way to their seats on the lower tier. They show me their row and seat numbers so I can keep an eye out for them.
“You okay?” Christopher asks, dusting something off my blazer.
His suit is the same one he wore the day of his sister’s wedding.
Rob hovers behind us, protecting us from the people passing who try to get my attention.
“Yeah, just a little faint. That’s all.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead as Christopher hands over his Red Bull.
“Here take this. I can’t have my sugar daddy lose all his sugar now can I?”
Christopher laughs and I hug him.
“What would I do without you?”
“Five minutes until the show commences,” a voice over a speaker above us announces. People start to flood the door and onto the floor of the arena.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit next to me? John doesn’t mind swapping.”
Christopher takes my hand in his.
“This is your night. Maybe next year.” He quickly pulls his hand away as Rob turns, and slides it into his trousers to retrieve something. “I nearly forgot. I got this for you tonight for good luck.”
He hands over a black guitar pic.
The words Betty x Sk8er Boi are written in white on both sides.
“You’re gonna make me cry.”
I look up to stop the tears from coming out. I don’t want my makeup to run just before the broadcast starts. No one needs to see me as a hot blubbering mess.
“Go knock ’em dead,” Christopher says, and gives me one last hug before heading off to join my family.
I don’t know if it’s the Red Bull, the three cups of coffee I’ve had, or my nerves, but the palpitations in my chest right now make me feel like I’m about to keel over. The cameraman is locked onto a shot of me, giving me no space to hide.
Of the four nominations, I know this category is the best shot I have of winning a Grammy. The other three, for album, song, and record of the year, are all pretty much guaranteed to go to one of the other nominations. But this category feels like I could get my hands on the golden gramophone.
“And the winner for best pop solo performance goes to…” Mariah Carey slowly opens up the envelope onstage. “Alexander Morgan, My Anchor.”
John grabs my arms and shakes me, then pulls me in for a hug.
My mind goes blank as I stand up. The room bursts into applause. Other artists and industry people hug and pat me on the back as I make my way up to the stage, eager to get my hands on the award I’ve dreamed of for nearly twenty years, from the hands of an artist I’ve admired from even before then.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I start as the audience starts to settle down.
I instantly forget all my ideas from ten minutes ago. I look up to see Christopher standing next to my parents, who wave vigorously. Harrison is filming away on his phone.
“I want to thank Avril Lavigne for this award. I’m just a skater boy who got lucky. Who had a dream and pursued it, despite all the odds. Despite all the obstacles I’ve faced over the years. And let me tell you, there’s been a few this past year.”
The crowd thankfully laughs with me, and not at me, like in my nightmares.
“When I wrote this song, I knew it was special. But never in a million years did I expect it to go on to give me my first-ever Grammy.”
There’s a pant in my heart as the thought of Samuel creeps into my head. The song may have taken on many meanings since I wrote it three years ago, but I can’t forget that this song was about him, even if no one else knows that.
I look upward, let out a smile, and wonder if Samuel is looking down on me right now. If he’d be happy that this little song about him won an award. That although I would never want to replace him, I’ve managed to find another anchor to hold me down.
I lower my head slightly and catch the teleprompter telling me to wrap up.
Fuck.
“There are so many people to thank, far too many to name, and I promise I’ll thank you all in person later.
But before they usher me off, there is one person I’d like to thank tonight other than Avril Lavigne.
Betty. For reminding me that even though this world I find myself in may be crazy, even though it may steal away my freedom and invade my privacy, through it all you’ll always be my anchor. This Grammy is for you.”
I quickly turn, my eyes welling up, and catch another glimpse of Christopher as I do. My mom stands there, wiping a tear from her eye, as the actual Mariah Carey links arms with me.
“Dahling, who’s Betty?” she whispers in my ear as we leave the stage.
Freddy shakes my shoulders as he stares directly into my eyes.
“You’ve got this. You’re a mother-fucking Grammy Award winner.”
“We are,” I say, grabbing his black jacket and jumping up and down with him, like a fish out of water.
The tech crew has already rolled out the stage setup, and I pace frantically, waiting for our cue to emerge from the back of the stage.
This is my chance to reclaim my narrative, to get back on the horse.
To not have what happened five months ago happen again.
“Right, they’re ready for you.” The stage manager motions us forward.
“Let’s knock this out the park,” I say and I stick my hand into the center of our group. Each band member puts their hands on top.
“One, two, three, Fanny flaps!” Freddy says and laughs out loud as he fulfills our tradition of saying the most random thing after three. We walk out to the four black boxes, with white rimmed lights around the edges.
“Fresh from his first Grammy win, next up we have Alexander Morgan, with My Anchor.”
Deep breath.
Deep breath.
I make my way through the song and allow myself to soak every moment in. I look out to the crowd and see my team, my label, and artists I know and admire all singing back at me. Even my brother is mouthing along to the words as he films it on his phone.
As I get to the final chorus, I catch Christopher moving frantically out of the corner of my eye. My parents look concerned as they hug him before he dashes up the stairs.
What the hell?
The performance ends and I stay in position, painstakingly counting down every second as the audience claps for far longer than I’d like. That’s something I’d never thought I’d think. The screen comes down and I’m finally able to run off stage.
“That was amazing!” Lucy says, standing by the monitors.
“Do you have my phone?” I ask, ignoring her comment.
I need to find out what’s going on with Christopher.
“Yeah, of course. What’s wrong?” Lucy pulls it from her purse and hands it over.
“You smashed it, bro,” Andy says, slapping my back as the rest of the band joins me.
“Thanks.” I nod at him and dial Christopher.
He answers on the fourth ring.
“What’s wrong? I saw you leaving.” Terror strangles my heart.
“It’s Kelly, she’s gone into labor.” His voice is barely audible over the sound of traffic.
I start running down the backstage corridor, past the dressing rooms. Rob follows me, trying in vain to keep up.
“Where are you?”
“I’m outside trying to hail a cab. If I can make it to the airport now, I might still be able to get a flight back to London tonight.”
“Wait there. I’m coming with you.”
My mind races as I weave through the cluster of people blocking a clear path through the maze of corridors, thinking through the logistics of the situation.
“You can’t. The show hasn’t finished yet.”
“There’s no chance I’m going to win those awards.”
I hit the end of the corridor, unsure of where I’m heading. A security guard sits on a stool underneath a printout of the various passes needed to gain backstage entry.
“Which way to the main entrance?”
The guard points to the left and sends me through another set of doors, down another long corridor. Why must these damn arenas be like a maze?
“LAX please,” Christopher’s voice comes over the phone and stops me in my tracks. My chest pounds, and I struggle in vain to catch my breath.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I’m already on my way. I promise I’ll keep you updated.”
Rob finally catches up with me, looking pissed as hell.
“We need to get you back on the floor. They’re just about to announce the nominees for Song of the Year,” he says in between breaths, his hands on his knees. Sweat drips from his forehead.
“Alright,” I say to them both. I make one last offer to Christopher. “If you miss the flight, I’ll hire us a private jet to get us there, okay?”
“Okay, I love you.”
“I love you too.”