Chapter 14 Christopher
Monday
“Can I help you, sir?”
The bellman turns to face me after he returns a luggage trolley to the concierge desk. Which happens to be right next to the chair I’ve resorted to sitting in while waiting for Alexander to come down for the last ten minutes.
“I’m actually waiting for—” I pause, unsure of what I should say. I sort through my options and their consequences.
The lobby area bustles with people checking in and out.
A Middle Eastern family has so much luggage it looks like they’re moving in.
A few people are loitering for no apparent reason.
And a couple of twenty-something scantily clad women, seemingly more dressed for a night out than a late-Monday morning, hang out near the flowers, probably hoping for a glimpse of Alexander.
“I’m good, thank you,” I finally say. The bellman nods and turns his attention to the laptop on the counter.
I’ve been trying to calm myself down since coming down. I opted to sit and take deep breaths after pacing the lobby attracted too much attention. Every part of me wants to run back to my hotel room.
I mean it’s weird, right? Going to someone else’s place of work when you have no reason to be there? It almost feels like the “bring your child to work day” that we have once a year at the office back in LA. Inevitably, the kids always get in the way, and I don’t want to do the same.
A sudden flurry of activity starts in the reception area, the number of staff almost doubling in a matter of seconds, and I take it as my cue that Alexander must be coming. I lift myself out of the seat, throw on my backpack, and head toward the door.
The sound of the screaming fans increases dramatically as one of the doormen opens the doors to the main entrance, clearing a path to the three cars waiting outside.
My heart starts beating out of my chest as I see Rob turn around the corner. The sweat patches under my armpits almost double in size and my back suddenly feels like it has become Niagara Falls.
Alexander emerges behind Rob, looking effortlessly cool.
His hair is slicked back and his sunglasses sit perfectly on his cheekbones.
The fitted white T-shirt he’s wearing showcases his enviable physique, and the look is topped off with a silver chain, black ripped jeans, and a pair of black biker boots.
He looks like a painting from the Tate Modern come to life.
Before I know it, they’re at the entrance, and the two scantily clad women briefly stop Alexander to get a picture. Paul comes toward me, a disapproving look on his face.
“You’re in the second car with them,” he says, pointing back to three women behind him. He doesn’t bother to stop as he follows Alexander, Rob, and a short red-haired woman dressed head to toe in black, out into the first car.
I catch another glimpse of Alexander as I pass the first of three state-of-the-art Mercedes people carriers, but he doesn’t seem to notice me, so I slide inside the second car after the other three women sit down.
Fuji-brand water bottles line the cupholders in the sides of the doors, and there’s a light aromatherapy scent.
The air conditioning is a welcome relief as I remove my backpack, placing it between my feet.
“Who’s this?” a tall blond woman asks. She lowers her sunglasses to take a better look at me.
I momentarily freeze.
I was expecting to be in the car with Alexander and Paul, not in one with three women I barely know and have only seen in the elevator. I look at the door, wondering if I should make a dash for it, but the door begins closing, leaving me trapped inside.
Guess I’m stuck now.
“He’s the dialect coach we’ve brought in to help Alex prepare for the upcoming film,” another blond woman sitting diagonally across from me says as she reaches for a Diet Coke from her bag.
It seems like this woman wants to control the narrative, and I’m more than happy to play along. The less I say, the less reason there is for the story Alexander texted me to be questioned.
Dialect coach. Film. New Mexico accent.
I shake my head at the excuse. The closest I get to American accents is my poor attempt at LA Valley girl, an even worse Southern drawl, or a slightly above average New Jersey accent.
I’m just hoping no one asks me to demonstrate.
“Oh cool, so everything’s moving ahead?” a brunette woman next to me asks.
“Paul got the revised script this morning, so looks like it.”
“What accent are you teaching him?” the first blond woman asks, removing her sunglasses. “No. Wait. Let me guess.” She puts the tip of the glasses arm into her mouth as she studies me.
“Russian,” she says, pointing her glasses at me.
“No, it’s not Russian.” The pitch of my voice elevates to a level it hasn’t been at since my balls dropped over a decade ago.
“Leave him alone,” the brunette woman beside me says, reaching over and whacking her on the leg. She turns back to me, stretching out her hand. “I’m Erica. Nice to meet you.”
“Christopher. Nice to meet you,” I say, meeting her smile with my own.
My stomach settles slightly, grateful for the conversational pivot.
“You’re English too,” the woman opposite says. “Laurie, by the way. I’m Alexander’s stylist. Erica there,” she points at the brunette, “is hair and makeup. and I guess you already know Alexander’s publicist, Connie.” Laurie’s hand meets mine as I pull it away from Erica’s.
I nod, though I didn’t have a clue who Connie was, and quickly try to remember their names.
Connie. Erica. Laurie.
“Where you from?” I ask, trying to make small talk, although I’m certain she’s from Birmingham based on her Brummie accent. I may not be an actual dialect coach, but I can at least decipher where people are from.
“I’m from Birmingham originally, moved out to LA a decade ago. You?”
Looking at her tanned skin, green eyes, black crop top, and black jean shorts, I’d never have placed her as someone from this side of the pond. I guess that’s what LA does to you. Her accent is the only giveaway. There’s not a hint of America laced in it.
My accent, on the other hand, started to slip as soon as I moved there.
The constant need to change the pronunciation of words like water and mum, or replace words completely, like changing over from lift to elevator and toilet to restroom, slowly eroded my North London accent into a more mid-Atlantic one.
Now I’m stuck somewhere between the two.
“I’m from North London originally. Moved to LA three years ago for work.”
Keep your answers short. Concise.
No need to give them a monologue.
“Have you ever thought of Botox?” Laurie asks, deadpan.
Jesus. Talk about forthright. I know I looked rough this morning, but what a way to knock a guy down when he’s already feeling uncomfortable and insecure.
“For your armpits, I mean.” She points her sunglasses at my pits. “It does wonders. Stops sweat stains from forming.”
Oh. Oh.
My instant relief turns to discomfort as everyone turns to look.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll have to look into it,” I say. Heat rises across my face.
“Are you also staying at the hotel?” Erica asks.
Connie removes her glasses to look at me with a pointed stare. Clearly, she’s not one to be crossed. I feel a lump come up into my throat.
“Err, yeah. It was easier than staying with my family, while I’m here. My sister’s—” I stop myself just before I reveal the true reason I’m in town. Connie’s eyes widen.
“Why don’t we leave the poor man alone,” she breaks in. “He’s got enough to contend with. Plus, we’re nearly there.” I smile a Thank you at her for saving me, but she doesn’t respond in kind. She turns her attention out the window instead.
An unnerving feeling rises inside once more.
Did I do or say something wrong? Did Paul tell her something that’s causing her to act this way?
Thankfully, we’re at Abbey Road Studios mere moments later, and I’m startled as a hoard of fans surrounds our car, banging on the sides. They press their hands against the windows, trying to peer inside.
As we pass through the gates and onto the gravel drive, the banging stops, but the loud sound doesn’t seem to abate. Instead, it gets louder as the car door slides open. The three women get out and I grab my bag and exit the vehicle.
There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of people beyond the gated wall. Alexander stops at the top of the stairs, turning briefly to wave at the crowd before heading in. The rest of us follow him inside into the reception area, where everyone seems to congregate.
I take in the record plaques scattered across the walls.
They feature an array of artists, including the Beatles, Oasis, Amy Winehouse, and nearly a hundred others.
Alexander’s attention finally drifts toward me after he hugs and high-fives a bunch of guys and a woman, who I assume must be his band.
“Guys, this is my dialect coach, Christopher,” he says, reaching his arm across to drape over my shoulder.
The mere mention of the word dialect brings up a nauseous feeling in my stomach and I shudder. Alexander removes his arm.
I wish he had picked something, anything, other than a dialect coach.
A nutritionist. A personal trainer perhaps. But a coach?
“Nice to meet you,” I say, plastering a smile on my face. I shake their hands as Alexander introduces them and what they do. I try in vain, once more, to commit their names to memory.
Andy, Aidan, Lola.
“And this is my musical director, Freddy. He’s the one who’s been helping me with that new song I mentioned earlier.” He arches his eyebrows.
“You convince Paul to let you record it yet?” Freddy asks. His tall, broad frame and shaggy dark-brown hair differentiates him from the clean-shaven and straight-haired look of the rest of the band. But they all wear the same outfit. Black T-shirt. Black jeans. Black sneakers.
“Yeah. As long as we nail the other tracks. No pressure, guys.” Alexander lets out a different kind of laugh than the one I’ve become familiar with.