The Mighty Storm

Page 4

She was only eighteen at the time, my dad twenty-three, with their whole future in front of them.
Dad went back to San Francisco and they had a choice to make.
They said getting rid of me was never an option for either of them, so one of them had to give something up.
It was either my dad’s music or my mum’s university degree.
Mum gave her degree up.
She told my dad that being a mother was now the only important thing to her, as she’d lost her own mama when she was very young.
She broke the news to her dad, and he went ballistic. He gave her an ultimatum. It was either me and my dad, or her family back home.
She chose us.
He disowned her. Her whole family cut her off.
So she left San Francisco and her dream behind and went on tour with my dad and the band to follow his.
They tried to make it work on the road, but a baby on tour is just not possible, so eventually my dad made the decision to leave the band. They moved back to the England, to Manchester where my dad is from and got married.
For the first two years of my life we all lived with my Gran and Granddad at their house, until mum and dad could afford their own house.
And that was when I moved next door to Jake.
Sometimes I feel like I ruined my dad’s chances of hitting the big time, and took away my mum’s chance of a career. Neither of them have ever made me feel that way, not once, and I know they would be angry if I even think it. But mostly I feel that way about my dad. I just know how much he loves music and how hard it must have been for him to give it up.
I sweep some mascara over my lashes, dust on my gold eye-shadow, it goes best with my brown eyes, and put some pale pink gloss onto my lips. Then I decide on my black maxi dress. I slip my feet into my silver kitten heels, and pick up my chainmail handbag, putting my money and lip gloss in it.
I give myself one last look in the mirror. Not bad, Tru. Not perfect, but not bad.
I meet Simone out in the hall.
“You look gorgeous,” I say. She’s wearing a short, light blue puff ball dress.
She wiggles her hips. “Right back at ya, sexy.”
“And you call me a dork.” I shake my head, laughing at her. “You got your keys?”
She dangles them in the air.
“Right lets go then.”
Simone locks up and we walk out into the night air, heading for our local haunt, and most awesome cocktail bar, Mandarin’s.
It’s surprisingly packed for a Thursday night. We get a pitcher of margarita’s and grab a free table.
I pour drinks into both our glasses.
Lifting mine, I say, “To my gorgeous and very smart friend, may you run the company one day.”
Giggling, she chinks my glass.
I take a sip of my margarita. The alcohol runs down my throat, just the soother I needed.
“So how are things at the magazine?” Simone asks.
I snort out a laugh.
Okay, here goes …
“I’m um … interviewing Jake Wethers tomorrow.”
Her mouth opens in surprise, forming an ‘O’.
“Yep. Exactly.” I nod.
Then she screams, attracting us quite a few stares.
“Sorry,” she says embarrassed.
I’m already laughing at her.
“Okay,” she says calming down, fanning her face, “Any particular reason you’re only just telling me this now?”
“Your promotion. We’re celebrating that tonight. I didn’t want talk of Jake overrunning it.”
“Um…” She gives me a stupid look. “I’d rather be overrun by Jake Wethers than my promotion any day.” She flashes her eyes at me.
I roll mine.
“So how did the interview come about? I’m guessing you didn’t set it up.”
“Vicky did.”
“How in the hell did she manage to land an interview with Jake? Did she use your name to get it?”
Her words flitter through my mind.
I shake my head. “She wouldn’t tell me how, but no, I don’t think so. Using my name wouldn’t have gotten her an interview with Jake anyway.”
Simone pulls the face she always pulls whenever the subject of Jake comes up and I imply he has no care for me nowadays.
Not that I talk about him regularly or anything.
“I bet he’s gonna be so made up to see you. Does he know it’ll be you doing the interview?”
Does he?
“I’m not sure,” I shrug. “His people will have my name, but I highly doubt he’ll be bothered about who’s interviewing him … and he won’t be made up, Simone, we haven’t seen each other for twelve years. He’ll have forgotten all about me.”
“Yeah, sure he will,” she says taking another drink of her cocktail. “Because you always forget your first love.”
“I wasn’t his first love!” I exclaim.
“You were the beautiful girl next door,” she shrugs. “Of course you were his first love.”
I shake my head, despairingly at her.
“Come on,” she says, smiling, topping my drink up, then her own. “Looks like we’re celebrating two things tonight after all.”
Chapter Three
Oh God. What was I thinking getting drunk last night? Not my smartest plan. Not that I generally have many.
I was just so nervous at the thought of seeing Jake today. And the more I talked with Simone about it, the more I needed to drink.
When she pointed out that Jake probably won’t be expecting me if rock stars aren’t informed of who is interviewing them, and then when I walk in there it will be really uncomfortable and awkward … well, I kept on drinking more and more to dull the panic.
We practically drank Mandarin’s dry. Sang Journey (Don’t Stop Believing) on karaoke like we were auditioning for a part in Glee and then rolled home at 2am.
I’ve had six hours sleep; I’m seriously hung over and am currently travelling in on the Tube, feeling like I’m going to puke any second now.
One-part hangover … two-part nerves.
When I finally get off the Tube at Hyde Park Corner, I grab a latte from Starbucks and guzzle it down, praying for it to clear my fuzzy head, as I make my way on foot to The Dorchester, where Jake is staying.
The closer I get to the hotel, the more my nerves increase in intensity. My stomach keeps clenching in panic.
No, stop it, Tru. You are a serious journalist and it’s just an interview. You’ve done loads of them. It doesn’t matter who he is, or that you used to love him.
Still do.
No I don’t.
Great, now I’m arguing with myself.
My phone beeps a text in my bag. It’s from Simone; she’d already left for work this morning before I’d even rolled out of bed. I have no clue how she’d managed it.
I open the text up:
Breathe. It’ll be fine. You’ll be talking stories from when you were kids before you know it :) Call me when you’re done. Love you x
I drop my phone back in my bag, glancing up I see I’ve reached The Dorchester. I drop my empty cup in the nearest bin, take my thin jacket off, and shove it into my oversized bag.
I’m wearing my black skater skirt, loose fitting grey T-shirt belted at the waist, and my favourite high-heeled, grey suede ankle boots. Not too flashy, not too casual, and I feel comfortable in them. They’re me. And right now I just need to feel comfortable.
I stare up at the towering hotel.
Okay, I can do this.
I take a deep breath in and walk toward the door.
The concierge opens it for me, and I find myself in the plush foyer.
I instantly feel out of place. Maybe I should have dressed a little more conservatively.
But this is how I always dress for work, and when I interview celebrities, but then I’ve never interviewed any one as famous as Jake, or none that I used to play kiss chase with when I five either.
Oh God. I am so totally shitting myself. And so totally out of my depth here.
I run my hands nervously down my skirt.
No, I can do this.
I lift my head high and walk toward to the reception desk.
The woman on the reception is very attractive, in that groomed kind of way I’ll never be able to achieve.
She looks up at me.
“Hi,” I say trying to exude confidence I am not feeling. “My name is Trudy Bennett, I’m here to see Jake Wethers.”
She smiles. It’s not real. “Of course you are. And I imagine he’s expecting you too.”
Ahh. Right okay. She’s being a bitch. She thinks I’m a groupie.
I reach into my bag and pull out my journalist I.D. badge and slap in on the counter.
“I’m a journalist. I work for Etiquette magazine and I’m here to do an interview with Jake Wethers.”
She glances at me again, eyes narrowed, then picks the phone up and dials a number.
“Good Morning. There’s a Trudy Bennett in reception to see Mr. Wethers … right … yes, of course.”
She hangs the phone up.
“Please take the lift up to the roof suites, one of Mr. Wethers staff will meet you up there.”
I pick my badge up and walk away without thanking her. It kills my inbred manners to do so, but she was mean to me.
I just don’t understand snotty bitches like that. Do I look like a groupie?
God, I hope not. I stop and glance at myself in the mirror on the way to the lifts.
My hair’s frizzed up a bit with the humid morning air. I try to smooth it down with my hand as I run my eyes down myself in the mirror.
Well, I don’t think I look like a groupie. I look like an über professional journalist, in my … um … skater skirt, which is actually quite short – has it always been this short or has my ass got bigger?
Oh holy crap. I look exactly like a groupie.
I don’t remember looking like this in the mirror this morning. Obviously, I still had my ‘Tru looks awesome in anything’ margarita goggles still on.
Fan-fucking-tastic. I haven’t seen Jake in twelve years and I’m going to see him, looking like some groupie chick in a desperately short skirt.
Good thinking, Tru. Get hammered the night before seeing Jake, then dress like you’re here for a party.
Resigned to my groupie fate, I stand at the lifts and press the button.
In a few minutes I’m going to be face to face with him. I can’t stop my hands from trembling a little.
The lift pings open.
It’s empty, so I wander in and with my still trembling hand, press the button for the top floor to take me up to the Roof Suites.
I stand there, foot jigging on the spot, fingers knotted together, counting the floors up. My stomach’s popping, the higher the number on the counter gets.
The lift reaches the top floor, stopping smoothly and the doors part.
There on the other side, is a scarily huge guy. Closely shaved hair, and at least six and a half feet tall, and about the same wide.
“Ms. Bennett?” he says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.
“Yes.” My voice comes out in a squeak.
He smiles at me. I relax a little.
“I’m Dave, the head of Jake’s security team. Please follow me.”
Jake has a security team?
Duh! Of course he does.
I follow closely behind Dave. There doesn’t seem to be any people around. The rooms must be huge as we’ve only passed by one door on this hallway, and we’ve been walking a little while. I wonder if Jake has the full floor hired out for his people to stay in.