Chapter 16 Christopher #2
“What happened?” I look past him into the suite, but there’s no sign of Alexander or the paramedics inside.
“You need to leave,” Rob says, his commanding tone addressing me as if I’m some kind of nuisance.
“But what’s happened? Is Alex okay?” Panic seeps into my bones. My thoughts start to race as I fear the worst.
I just need to know he’s okay.
“Don’t make me tell you again,” Rob says. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he isn’t in the mood to deal with me, but he’s also afraid. Afraid of what, though?
He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and leaves me alone in the hallway.
I stand shell-shocked for a moment before making my way back down the hallway, past my room and to the elevators.
There’s a churning discomfort in my stomach, the same feeling from four years ago when I entered the hospital looking for my father.
That time, I couldn’t stop replaying the last words I’d said to him, thinking I’d caused his accident.
I don’t think I could live with myself if the same thing happened again.
By the time I reach the pool, I’ve tried every calming technique I know.
Mindfulness. Word association. Breathwork.
But nothing pushes away the sheer state of terror gripping my body.
Each lap I make in the pool seems to pass quicker.
I keep trying to work my way through the notion that something terrible has happened to Alexander.
For each intrusive thought that comes up, I try, unsuccessfully, to counter it with an opposing viewpoint.
Surely if it was that bad, the paramedics would have come with a stretcher rather than just a medical backpack? I finally settle on a plausible reason to believe that things aren’t as dire as I fear when I lift myself out of the pool.
When I finally make it back to the fifth floor, after a quick pit stop in the atrium to pick up some fruit and a chocolate croissant from the breakfast buffet, the hallway is deadly silent. There’s no sign of Rob or anyone outside Alexander’s suite.
My knock on his door goes unanswered, and after three rings of the doorbell, I head back to my room. I go straight to the phone on the bedside table, dialing reception. But when they answer and I give them Paul’s name, I realize I don’t know his surname, or any of Alexander’s entourage’s surnames.
“I’m afraid that unless you have their full name I can’t put you through, sir.”
I hang up in defeat, sighing.
My hope rises again when I see a notification light emanating from my cell phone.
Heading across to the table, I unplug it to see a load of email notifications, a couple of messages from my family group chat, and three voice messages from Alexander. The last one was left at 2:10 a.m.
I’m sorry, Chris. Please talk to me, I need you.
His speech is slurred to the point that I almost don’t recognize that it’s him.
I immediately call him back, but it goes straight to voicemail, and I hang up. There’s no point leaving a message. I don’t want to say anything that someone might come back and use against me.
Think, Christopher, think.
I tap my fingers on the table.
That’s it.
The Live Lounge.
I lift my laptop open, pull up Radio One on my web browser, and click play on the livestream. Sabrina Carpenter’s Espresso blasts out when it finally stops buffering.
It’s 11 a.m., and I’m assuming Alex would have to be there by now if he is still going to be on the show.
That was Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter, and we’ve just had word from downstairs that Alexander Morgan has finally arrived in the building. Stay tuned for a Live Lounge you won’t want to miss.
I pull out the desk chair and collapse into it.
Thank God, he’s okay. Thank God, he’s alive.
The tension in my body finally leaves as I stretch my legs out.
I wait anxiously for the next twenty-five minutes until I hear Alexander’s voice.
My time in London so far has been great, he says to the host, his voice horse and slightly distant. I try to imagine what he looks like right now. I can’t view him on the video stream; it was disabled just before he came on air.
And you were at Abbey Road yesterday, recording a live album. Is there anything you can share with us, a little exclusive perhaps? the DJ asks.
We’re going to drop the album on Friday, and fans have been begging me to release new music, so I’ve included a new song I wrote just the other day while here in London. His voice starts to sound slightly more like the one I know.
A new track… Can you give us a title? The DJ probes for more.
I lean forward into the laptop, intrigued by what he might say.
You’ll have to wait until Friday when it goes live.
Well, you heard it here first. Alexander Morgan is releasing a new live album and a new track Friday. Now before we let you leave, it’s a tradition for artists to perform a cover, so without any further ado, take it away, Alexander.
The opening chords to Sabrina Carpenter’s Please, Please, Please play out, a tune I’ve become familiar with due to Kelly playing it nonstop over the years. As the song goes on, I wonder if he intentionally chose it after our argument last night.
Surely it’s not a coincidence.
When he gets to the second chorus, my suspicion is confirmed when he changes a line in the lyrics to Don’t bring me tears, when I’m standing here just trying to clarify. With that, I know he’s talking directly to me.
I want to run to him. To slap him for what he did.
But also, to hug him. To tell him we’ll work things out.
“Where are we at with the deck?” Pietro asks me over the Zoom call.
Given the distractions over the last forty-eight hours, I’ve barely had time to work on the slide deck for our newest client, Brewed. I’ve been tasked with outlining a creative marketing strategy for their upcoming Christmas campaign.
Pietro, my boss, was kind enough to allow me to work from London this week, so I didn’t have to take it out of my annual holiday allowance, but now I’m feeling the pressure.
“Microsoft’s been playing up on my laptop and I haven’t been able to format the slides to send it through.
” Once again, I’m being truth-adjacent, but Pietro doesn’t need to know that.
“I’ve got an appointment with the Genius Bar right after this call to fix it, and then I’ll get it straight across to you. ”
“Okay, but we need it in the next two hours,” Pietro says firmly.
I start to breathe out a sigh of relief, when Tony, another account manager at the firm, unmutes himself.
“You could always use Canva,” he says. He smirks and adjusts his Harry Potter-shaped glasses.
Not helpful Tony, not helpful.
Tony and I have never seen eye to eye. When I was initially transferred to the LA division of Elemental Creative, he was quite standoffish. Then last year, when they brought in a new assistant, Sara, he became quite possessive of her.
Turns out that possessiveness was actually him hooking up with her on the down-low. It’s a sackable offense if the powers that be find out, but I let it slide, holding on to that information for a rainy day.
I inhale deeply and adjust myself in the chair.
“Thanks, Tony. I’m not that adept with it, but maybe Sara could help teach me when I get back.” The smirk quickly disappears from his face as I fight off the one trying to rise on mine.
Touché, motherfucker, touché.
With the meeting wraps, I close Zoom, relieved I’ve bought myself another couple of hours to finish the project. But that also means I’m going to be late to the theater, with Kelly, Daniel, and my mum.
I grab my phone and quickly fire off a message to the family group chat.
Crisis at work. I’m gonna have to skip dinner.
I’ll meet you at the theater. x
Two messages appear almost simultaneously, contrasting in both tone and understanding.
Kelly
Hope it’s nothing too crazy. We’ll leave your ticket at the box office. x
Mum
Can you not prioritize your family at least once, Christopher Foster!
Water off a duck’s back. Water off a duck’s back.
I shake my head at my mum’s response, repeating the mantra to myself out loud. I won’t let her words impact me. And of course I’m going to prioritize work over her—especially if it affords me the ability to stay out in Los Angeles and far away from her.
I look at the time on my phone: 5 p.m. If I can power through the presentation now, I’ll have it done by seven and will still make it to the theater before curtain call.
And even better, that timing means I will see mum, complete my duty as a son, and won’t have to listen to her moaning.
One of the many reasons I love going to the theater.
Just as I put my phone down, Alexander comes to mind, and I lift it back up. Throwing caution to the wind, I try once more to call him, but his phone rings through to voicemail again.
I know he’s okay. I’m certain he’s okay. I heard him on the radio. But I just want to see him to make sure. To settle the discomfort in my chest that’s stayed with me since this morning.
I fire up TikTok, type in his name, and scroll down through several posts. One of them stops me in my tracks:
Alexander Morgan Found Unconscious in Hotel Suite.
My heart jumps into my throat as I click on the video.
An American woman under the handle Hollywood Exposed starts to discuss details of what happened.
Rumors are circulating that paramedics were called to the Landmark Hotel in London this morning, when pop star Alexander Morgan was found unresponsive in the bathroom of his hotel suite.
I instantly close the app, my whole body stiffening.
A nauseous feeling forms in my stomach.
That can’t be true. It can’t be.
Can it?