Chapter 43
Becka laughed as I slumped into the chair opposite her.
“You look fresh.”
I groaned, pushing my sunglasses further up my nose.
“I don’t know what happened. I followed the rules of jet lag! I went to bed at the proper time!”
She clucked sympathetically and pushed my mug of coffee across the glass-top table. I gratefully grabbed for it, and took a gulp, not minding the way it was still slightly too hot.
“Could it possibly also have something to do with the fact that you messaged me just before two?”
Becka’s expression may have been hidden behind her own mug, but it did nothing to hide the way her eyes twinkled as she looked me over.
“Oh hell, did I? Sorry.” I croaked.
“Mmm. Something like ‘they have no good goddamn right to be that good’?”
She did a very good job of pretending she wasn’t laughing at me, but she was absolutely laughing at me.
I lifted a hand to my forehead, and sighed.
“Ah, for fu–” I sighed again. “Never mind. It’s true, anyway.”
I’d followed my plan to not prematurely sleep and had eventually crawled into the soft sheets of my bed well into the small hours. I’d slept like a rock until nearly midday.
Admittedly, the several empty miniature bottles on the desk might have contributed to that.
“So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” She asked, picking up her toasted cheese croissant, and taking a bite.
“I’ve got to write about the concert, and then, honestly, I think I’m just going to crash.”
Originally, I was meant to write a review of the concert, but I’d already told my editor that I wasn’t professionally comfortable reviewing the performance of a group I’d previously worked alongside while at ENT. It wasn’t the real reason, but she had accepted it.
Becka hummed as she chewed, her brow furrowing in the way it always did when she was thinking something through.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” She asked, eventually.
“Not nervous,” I said, holding the mug close so the warm steam misted my face, doing more to wake me up than the actual caffeine. “I think I just wish I could be excited to interview them. I wish this was the feather in my cap that it would be without…” I bit my lip.
“Without all the emotional baggage wearing the cap?” Becka offered, and I snorted.
“Yeah. That. I know it’s going to be weird. I can’t do anything about that.”
“Do they know you’re coming? I mean, do they get told in advance?”
I thought about this for a moment.
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “I mean, my name will have been submitted, it’s normal for management to cross check attendees at these kinds of things, y’know, make sure no persona non grata get on the list accidentally.
But I don’t think they would inform the group that I’d be attending, because as far as anyone knows, the only connection between us is that I worked at ENT three years ago for a few months.
“Well,” Becka exhaled, leaning back in her chair, “they’re professionals. You’re a professional. You’ll be fine.”
She said it with conviction, but I saw the way her lips pinched. Her expression said more than her words, and I appreciated her restraint in not voicing her doubts. I’d had enough of them for the both of us.
Later, once Becka had gone back to work, I’d gone back to the hotel to write up the concert piece.
Since I refused to write a critique of the group, given my obvious bias, I opted for a middle ground, and wrote about the experience – going into detail about the emotion so clearly on display from both sides of the stage, briefly describing the reciprocal relationships fostered in the K-Pop industry.
Mid-way through writing, I got the idea to write about the parasocial relationships often encouraged by the industry.
I saved it in the folder I put aside for all my writing side quests, and promised myself I’d get back to it at a later date.
It was late by the time I finished the write up. It was one of my better articles; probably because it felt so personal that I had no trouble writing an emotive piece. Ahead of the deadline, I sent it to my editor in London, and spent a couple hours pretending to relax before going to bed.
Saturday Morning
Daylight streamed in through the curtains, and I blinked rapidly, wondering if I’d actually slept, or just imagined it.
I rolled over onto my side to face away from the bright morning light.
My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow, but the thought of trying to drink even water made me feel queasy.
This morning was the press junket.
A round-robin set of interviews with the group and then a photo call. No large conference hall packed with press photographers, where I’d be able to hide somewhere at the back.
No. I would be sitting directly across from them. No hiding.
I bolted from the bed to the bathroom and leaned over the toilet, heaving despite having nothing in my stomach to throw up.
Afterwards, I leaned against the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. Red, puffy eyes stared back at me, but worse than that was the look in my eyes. Somewhere between panic and resolution.
I brushed my teeth – twice– before getting into the shower.
I stood under the spray for longer than necessary.
The hot water pelted my skin with an almost trance like affect on my ragged nerves.
Once the nervous tremors in my hands settled, I became aware of a different, wholly unexpected feeling deep in my chest. A tiny starburst of warmth that was so unfamiliar, I had to really concentrate on the feeling to understand what it was.
And when I was able to put a name to it, I almost extinguished it with fear.
Because it was there, buried deep but there. A fizzy little bubble of hope that felt as jagged as a piece of broken glass, and with far more potential to hurt.
Freshly showered, and dressed, I stood in the middle of the room and ran my eyes over the briefing sheet that had been emailed over to me before I’d left London.
It included the timings of the junket, stating which publications would be involved, and in what order.
Frequency, meaning me, was about half-way down the list, which was about as good as it could get.
It would mean I’d be waiting around an hour or two, before my turn, and then another hour or more before the photo call.
The briefing also contained a list of topics that we were politely encouraged to ask – things like what fans could expect of the new album, which countries they hoped to visit, what foods they’d missed during their time in the military – safe, inoffensive questions that could be asked by anyone, to anyone, and never mean a damn thing.
Predictably, there was also a list of questions that would swiftly result in you being politely being asked to leave.
Any questions relating to romantic partners and/or sexuality.
Questions about their opinions on military service/political affiliations.
Any questions relating to religion and/or spirituality.
Any question relating to a scandal either directly or indirectly related to GVibes.
Questions about their families.
It seemed like a lot, but none of it surprised me, given the propensity of some publications to frame K-Pop artists in certain, defamatory, or embarrassing ways.
It was an ongoing struggle, in Western media in particular, to still present K-Pop as ‘other’, not caring that the way they spoke to the artists over-stepped their boundaries, provided they got that all important sound bite.
Frankly, I applauded their team for setting such firm rules right from the start, and I had no doubt it could, and would, be policed.
Putting the heavily creased briefing back into my bag, I took a breath, stepped away from the bed and critically assessed what I’d laid out to be taken with me.
My lanyard and ID card that identified me as an invited member of the press.
Digital recorder.
A compact notepad. One brand new pen, one old, ‘lucky’ pen.
Press kit folder. Mainly full of PR fluff about the group. Nothing I didn’t already know.
Phone. Silenced.
Honey lip balm and compact mirror. Not for vanity’s sake. More to check my makeup wasn’t running down my face from anxious sweating.
Keycard to my room, and a bottle of mineral water.
Good to go.
I carefully put everything into my backpack, before moving over to the mirror to look over my outfit. For the tenth time.
My normal work outfits leaned towards casual, but given the formality of this event – and yes, if I was very honest, I wanted to look good – I’d gone shopping with Becka before the concert. She was the most fashionable person I knew. Left to my own devices, it would have been jeans and a nice top.
Today, I was wearing wide-leg, black trousers and a cream blouse that was possibly made out of either silk, or clouds, but either way it was incredibly soft. It made me nervous. I had a coffee habit and this was a high-stress situation.
Becka had tried very, very hard to convince me to buy a pair of black, pointy toed heels, but I’d fought back. I’d argued that if I was going to be standing around for hours, I’d be damned if I was wearing in a new pair of shoes.
I’d told her I would be wearing my black Converses.
“They’re new.” I’d pointed out, when she’d put her head in her hands. “Ish.”
Clad in my new outfit and new-ish Converse, I made my way downstairs, only slightly early for the event.
I’d already scoped out the rooms yesterday, wanting to be familiar with the battle ground, because if I was going to be confronting emotional devastation, then I was damned if I was going to be lost at the same time.
People with lanyards milled about. Some were clustered in pockets, clearly knowing each other, but most were sat, or standing, on their own, looking at their phones and not paying attention to anything.