Chapter 23 Alexander
Friday
“It’s been quite the week for you here in London, hasn’t it?” Abbie McCarthy says over the phone.
Paul, Lucy, and Rob are squeezed onto one couch, Lucy on the arm rest, while my parents sit to either side of me on the other couch. Paul stares at me intensely to ensure I don’t fuck up, making me fidget with the bandage on my wrist.
As always, Abbie’s been briefed on topics she can’t discuss, including Rita Watson, but that doesn’t always stop journalists from trying to get that headline for the clickbait.
Thankfully, I’ve known Abbie for a while now, having interviewed with her a few times over the years, which makes me feel more confident that I won’t have to worry about being tripped up.
“It really has. I’m doing my sixth of seven sold-out shows at the O2 in London tonight. I got to record my live album at Abbey Road, which just dropped today. And now my single My Anchor is number one on the charts. It’s been the best week of my life.”
And I mean it. It really has been. But not for those reasons.
It’s been great because Christopher has reminded me what it feels like to love again.
And to fight for what I believe in and see it through.
All these career milestones are amazing, but I’ve felt empty for the last two and a half years. I was looking to alcohol, sex, fitness, and shopping to fill a void that seemingly could never be filled.
“Why don’t you go ahead and introduce your brand-new number one single,” Abbie says.
“Sure,” I say, wiggling forward and grabbing the phone. My mum squeezes my leg with her hand, a smile radiating out from her face. “Hi, I’m Alexander Morgan, and you are listening to my number one single My Anchor with Abbie McCarthy on Capital.”
The song begins playing and I start to hang up, but Abbie stops me.
“Alex, you gotta do something to celebrate the song going to number one, man.” She’s continuing our conversation from before we went live, when I told her I had no plans to celebrate.
It’s become so normalized that I never seem to stop and celebrate when I have a number one or reach some career milestone. In fact, this time, it feels like I am being actively stopped from celebrating. I’m being punished for drinking, for escaping the hotel, for spraining my wrist.
As if I’m some teenager that’s been grounded.
“Where’s good to go here in town?” I ask. Just like in LA, it seems like every time I come to London there’s a new spot that’s the place to be.
Paul jumps up from the couch and tries to grab the phone from me, almost knocking my wrist in the process. Fear claws at my throat at the sight of him. But I sink back into the couch, holding my phone tightly against my chest before he can grab it.
“The Box on a Friday night is the place to be,” Abbie says.
I need to get Paul off my back, his face quickly turning crimson, his glasses framing the fury in his eyes. His hand rests on the mini fridge at the end of the couch.
“Great, we’ll be there. Paul, can you speak to Abbie? Sort out the details?”
I finally pass the phone to Paul, who lets out a sigh and reluctantly takes it. He turns off speaker phone and leaves the room.
“Congratulations, baby.” My mom's arms go around me, squeezing tightly. The latch of her bracelet gets caught on the back of my T-shirt.
“Well done, son.” My dad helps detach the bracelet, then ruffles my hair.
“Thanks,” I say, slumping back into the couch.
I’m grateful for the acknowledgment and approval that I yearn for, but I’m conditioned to play it down so I don’t upset my brother. Even though Harrison isn’t here.
“What’s this club we’re going to later?” my dad says.
“I don’t think they’ll let you in like that,” I laugh.
My parents look like your typical Americans abroad.
They wear matching white T-shirts, with the word London and a British flag printed across the front, and beige shorts.
Their pink and blue crocs are the only item differentiating the two of them.
But they are convinced crocs look cool because Justin Bieber and all the hip people wear them.
“Says the guy in a T-shirt that’s more like a crop top.” My dad pulls at my black T-shirt, two sizes too tight for me, that exposes my belly button.
“It’s Christopher’s.” I bat his hand away, shaking my head at him as he raises his hands and mouths Ooooh.
I swear sometimes he acts more like a child than I’m told I do.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” The door bursts back open. Rob immediately lifts himself up before seeing it’s Paul, and sits back down.
The energy completely shifts in the room, like a dark storm rolling into town.
He throws my phone back to me, and it lands in my lap. His nostrils flare as his forehead crinkles, forcing me to clench my fists and push myself upright.
Paul has been indignant for the whole afternoon. He lashed out at Rob and Lucy for leaving me unguarded for twenty-four hours. And at me for going skateboarding while on tour. And he read me the riot act for how they’ll have to change the setlist now that I can’t play any instruments.
“You do realize I’m a human, right? Not a robot that you can control.
” My nails begin to dig into my palms, trying to temper the anger bubbling inside.
“God forbid I be a human who wants to celebrate something I’ve dreamed about as a kid, without any financial remuneration you get a commission from.
Who needs a break from all of this for twenty-four hours to cool off. ”
Paul moves toward me, looming over me like a vulture, pausing for a beat as if deciding whether I’m worth the effort.
“Do you have any idea all the work Connie and I have to do to keep this train on the tracks? To ensure your image and reputation stay intact?” He looks at me the way a cat looks at a knocked-over glass, equal parts disgust and inevitability.
My dad leans forward, but I push him back.
This is my battle; I don’t need anyone else fighting it for me.
I push myself up, using my mom and dad’s legs as leverage, and meet Paul’s glare. The table between us is the only thing keeping us apart.
“And whose fault is that? I didn’t want to do promo here, but you insisted.
You put me on that couch that Rita was on.
I didn’t want to do the club PA, but you insisted.
Even though you know being in those environments isn’t good for my sobriety.
And that led to all of this.” I pause briefly, allowing my saliva time to help stop the dryness in my throat.
“You were the one who wouldn’t let me speak out that there’s nothing going on with Rita because it’s ‘good publicity’ for Stolen Moments. ” My fingers make air quotes at him.
My ears start to burn up as the rage takes over.
God, it feels good to let this anger out.
To not swallow it down with alcohol and keep it all bottled inside.
Yes, Paul is responsible for helping build my empire, but he seems to be mistaking himself for the emperor, and it’s time to remind him of that.
“We’re handling the situation. The Sun is running a story in the morning with the blessing of her family that will address the issue and stop the speculation from continuing.
” Paul reaches for his phone as he lets out a sharp exhale.
“In fact, all the speculation led to massive exposure for Stolen Moments.” He passes me the phone, and I can see that Stolen Moments has 17,450 people simultaneously listening to the track, according to Spotify for Artists.
“That number is your biggest number ever, and you’re on track to reach the top three globally with the song tomorrow. ”
My heart jumps for joy at the thought, before I remember that Paul actively tried to prevent me from recording and releasing it. My gaze drifts back up from the phone to him. He has a cheesy grin, showing off his veneers, and I want to knock them right out of his mouth.
“The song you didn’t even want me to record,” I say flatly. “In fact, you actively tried to stall so we would run out of time in the studio.” I throw his phone back at him, and he stumbles trying to catch it.
“Look, I was wrong with that, but we don’t always get what we want, Alex,” he says. His grin has been replaced with a stern look as he slides his phone back into his pocket.
Before I can respond, I feel my dad’s hand on my shoulder as he steps up beside me. My mom gets up on the other side to join him.
“I think you need to remember who works for whom here, Paul,” my dad says. He leans over and pushes a finger into Paul’s chest, forcing him to take a step backward.
“Come on, son, let’s get you out of here and hit up catering.” My mom shakes her head at Paul and motions at Lucy and Rob to follow us, leaving Paul in the room alone.
Her tight squeeze makes me feel all warm inside.
Maybe they don’t stick up for me against Harrison, but they do defend me when it matters most. And for that, I need to be more grateful.
“Thank you,” I say, squeezing her back.
Two more shows. Two more days.
Two more shows. Two more days.
I keep repeating the mantra to myself, trying to push away the last of the anger, while my mom goes up and grabs some food from catering. She insisted that I wait at the table, while Rob, Lucy, and my dad sit at another table to give us some space.
The catering room is set up like a school cafeteria.
Tables and chairs are scattered around the room.
Servers are positioned behind the three options for dinner: grilled chicken, rice, and vegetables, vegan curry, and battered fish and chips.
There’s a whole wall dedicated to deserts I can finally eat, now that the Men’s Health shoot is in the bag, and a fridge stocked full of water and sodas.
My mom makes her way back over, two plates of fish and chips in hand.
“Mom,” I sigh, as she hands me my plate. “I asked for the chicken.”