Misleading the Choir

I felt like a dick.
I also felt like an asshole, but in a different way. I felt like an asshole because I was putting my own neck above someone else’s when I knew I shouldn’t.
I felt like a dick because Ashley had dragged me to the salon, had my hair and nails done for me and picked me out a new dress. Alan had calmed down enough before we left that the company credit card had made an appearance, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I wasn’t a dressed-to-the-nines kind of girl, and yet here I was. My hair had been pinned up, with my fringe allowed to hang down and frame my face. I currently had on an off-shoulder burgundy dress, which hugged tightly at my upper body before flaring into a circular skirt. Essentially, I had on a fancy ass skater skirt and heels, because I wasn’t willing to go full-length as Ashley had tried to convince me to. This was an alternative music scene awards show, not the Oscars. In addition to my usual eyeliner, mascara and concealer, Ashley had loaded me with foundation, smoky charcoal eyeshadow and red lipstick, insisting I had to look the part. I didn’t know what ‘part’ I was supposed to look, but she seemed way more comfortable with this entire scenario than I would have guessed. Maybe she just liked the chance to play dress up with me? I’m not even sure anymore.
“Hey, Gab,” Tim, my friend who helped organise the event, smiled at me in greeting. I greeted him in return, giving him a small hug and asking how things had been. It hadn’t been long since I’d last seen him, given that he was part of my group of non-work friends that I hung out with on a regular basis. He was a godsend today, having been instrumental in the guest list for the event, slipping my name on at the end of the list with only hours to spare. “It’s going alright. What about you? You seem super stressed.” I snorted at the understatement, rolling my eyes.
“Bad day at work doesn’t seem to cover, but that’s about it.” He gave me a sympathetic look, leading me further into the venue. I didn’t know where I was supposed to start with this god damn task I’d been handed. You don’t go straight up to a guy you don’t know, especially someone as famous as he, and start asking personal questions. Hell, you don’t go straight up to a guy like that full stop.
“Well, if it helps, you look fuckin’ gorgeous tonight, so whatever your plan is, I’m sure you’ll ace it.” Tim grinned and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Anyway, cutie, I gotta go. Busy night. It’s an open bar, so drink as much as you like. I’ll meet you after?” I nodded, agreeing and he left me to my own devices. I didn’t have a plan, so it made little difference how I looked, because my looks only got me far if the damn man actually noticed me. It seemed unlikely.
I scanned the room, my heels putting me to a nice height that meant I wasn’t craning my neck to see over everyone’s heads. I was still dwarfed by the vast majority of people here, but I could see around the room much better than I could see without them. I, of course, didn’t manage to locate him in the sea of similarly coloured heads and decided to see if I had the remotest shot of mingling. 90% of the people here were big on the alternative scene, so I made a point of avoiding them. It’s not like I couldn’t confidently strike up conversation with them just because they were successful, more that I didn’t want to out myself as a journalist immediately. I had to keep a fairly low profile.
How did normal people do this? Those with no ill intent? I had no idea. All I knew was that I had to be both conspicuous enough to get him to talk to me, while being inconspicuous enough not to raise any suspicion. Ugh. I needed a drink.
I raised myself back onto my tip toes, looking out for the bar. Having spotted it (across the room, of course), I put my clutch under my arm and began weaving my way through the crowd. I bumped into more people on my way across the room than I had wanted to, but I fucking needed vodka. This was a piss take of a day and, honestly, I deserved it. Either I was going to gain enough confidence to approach the man my job depended on, or I was getting fired in the morning. Either way, I think I earned this.
“Vodka and orange,” I requested, putting my purse on the bar and leaning forward to take the weight off my feet a little. The heels looked good, but my feet hurt. Again, this was another problem I was hoping alcohol would solve. I had strong feelings about this open bar. Some were apprehensive, but mostly it was joy. I let out a groan, putting my head in my hands momentarily. This was a shit scenario.
“Bad day?” The bartender asked. I looked up, seeing him with my drink and letting a small smile pull at my lips.
“Definitely.” I took a sip of my drink and felt the relief I’d been waiting for all day. “But, hey, it’s an open bar and that just puts a smile on my face.” He chuckled along with me, before moving away to serve another person. I looked into the mirror behind the bar, making sure I hadn’t smudged any of the make up Ashley had painstakingly applied, grateful for her having set it with something. She knew way better than me, but I rarely needed to know what I was doing with makeup. If I fucked it up tonight, I had no way of knowing how to fix it and I would end up looking like a panda for the entire night.
“Wow, you look loads better without coffee down your shirt,” a voice behind me laughed. I turned briefly, not expecting anyone to be speaking to me, but checking anyway. I was pleasantly surprised to see the man I had been fucking searching for, standing there, looking at me, with a small smile on his face. I furrowed my brows, not sure what he meant. “I was going to offer you another drink again, but it seems like you beat me.” He nodded toward the vodka in my hand.
Shit. Asshole from Starbucks.
“That was you?” I asked stupidly. Of course it was him. Who the fuck else would approach me with the story of the man who had put my day off to its bad start? I could have thanked him for approaching me and relieving me of the most pain in the ass of tonight’s tasks, which was starting the conversation in the first place.
“Asshole with the coffee, yep,” he grinned. “But most people call me Billie.”
“Actually, I’ve been calling you Asshole from Starbucks to all my friends,” I half-joked. I’d informed Ashley of what had happened while scowling about Alan’s task and had indeed called him an asshole, but that was irrelevant. “But those friends call me Gabby.”
“Damn, and I thought you were called Morning Victim.” I snorted softly as he flashed me another grin. I suppose my morning hadn’t gotten off to such a bad start, in the end. If this was the result, I was going to praise all the fucking gods, because this was exactly what I needed. Did it seem too good to be true? Almost definitely, but I had to luck out occasionally. He ordered himself a beer, leaning against the bar next to me. “So, are you here as a prospective awardee or something else?”
“Neither, technically,” I shrugged. “I’ve had a shit day and I have friends in helpful places. Who doesn’t love a night of free booze with musicians everywhere?”
I was so nonchalant I hated myself. I wasn’t going to shout my task from the rooftops or anything, but I expected to be less smooth. I expected to stutter, to trip myself up. I didn’t often work the field, mostly sitting at my desk and sending emails to people I thought could help me. I wasn’t a liar, I never had been, so I was surprised at how easy this was.
“Oh, so you’re one of those girls. You know, the kind who like guys in bands.” I choked as I took a sip of my drink. He looked like he was joking, and I really hoped he was, because I most definitely wasn’t one of those girls.
“Oh, God, no,” I spluttered, slapping my chest lightly to move the drink to its correct tract. “I’m a girl who appreciates free booze and likeminded people.”
“Good,” he responded, nodding, a small smile on his face. I couldn’t help but wonder why that was a cause for happiness. I mean, surely he of all people would be happier that a girl was easy, with a pre-disposition to allow guys in bands into their beds? I mean, sure, maybe he liked to work for it, but that didn’t explain it. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m pretty. Not like drop dead gorgeous, but a little above average looking, so I knew if I tried I could make him marginally attracted to me, but that didn’t explain why he was smiling now. I’d done the bare minimum in our conversation thus far to class it as mildly flirtatious. It wasn’t oozing with flirtation or sexual tension or anything of the sort, there was no way he had any interest in me right now. “You smoke?” He ran his hands through his hair, making a face I knew well. He was desperate for a smoke but didn’t want to detach himself or face that anti-smoking backlash people tended to give.
“After the day I’ve had, my great aunt Mabel would be smoking.” I shook my head, realising that wouldn’t make any sense to him. The woman hated it. Both her husband and her son had died from lung cancer and she’d promptly boycotted the tobacco industry. She’d been giving me shit ever since. “That actually means yes, in my own longwinded sort of way.” I could feel his palpable relief as he asked me to join him for a smoke before the awards started proper. I finished my drink quickly before following him. This still felt too easy, but I was determined not to question my own luck. I doubted I would get an opening tonight to ask him about his divorce in any way that would lead to him actually telling me, but surely the way the night was progressing would be enough to appease Alan in the meantime. If I left tonight without Billie’s phone number, that would be on nobody but me. My job meant more to me than laying down and letting someone take it from me. I know I said I hated it, but those weeks when something worthwhile came out of it made it worth it.
“So, what do you do?” Billie asked, taking a large drag from his cigarette while I attempted to light my own. I felt easy, buying myself time before answering by continuing what I had been doing in the first place. On the one hand, I could lie and say fucking anything about what I did, but I knew jack shit about other career paths, having decided to dive headfirst into writing since the moment I was able to. If I told him the god’s honest truth, I would scare him away immediately. It was a choice of balance.
“I’m a writer,” I told him easily as I took my own drag.
“You’re maxing out on your stereotypes tonight,” he chuckled dryly. “Heavy drinking, smoking and writing. You’re basically Hemmingway.” I snorted, having never thought of it like that. At home, you would find me huddled over my laptop, a cigarette to hand and a vodka not too far from my other hand. I oozed cliché. “So, have you written anything I might have read?”
“Doubtful,” I told him, shaking my head. “I tend to write things people don’t want to read.” I tried not to scoff as I repeated Alan’s words all but word for word. He wasn’t a nice guy once he got started. If the drivel I had to write regularly wasn’t bad enough, his mood swings made life all but unbearable.
“That’s not what you wanna hear,” he frowned. “I’m sure it’s not true.”
“Tell that to my editor,” I let out a bitter laugh this time, realising how shit he was on a regular basis. “Sorry, the asshole gets to me sometimes.”
“I know the feeling,” he told me. The pair of us relaxed into an idle chat about nothing, laughing easily with each other while we finished our cigarettes. It felt like no time at all before Tre ducked his head around the corner we were huddled in, telling Billie the awards were about to start. “We’re nominated for something or other,” Billie explained to me. “So I have to actually sit through this.” I nodded, seeing Tre glancing at me briefly before Billie ushered him away.
“It was nice meeting you,” I told him. “You know, without it ending in some sort of stain.” He chuckled lightly and I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I liked it when he laughed. I took another drag, hiding my small smile behind my hand.
“We should do it again.” I raised my eyebrow, letting the smoke leave my mouth slowly, so as not to blow it straight into his face. “Here.” He handed me a small slip of paper, glancing it over to see some digits scribbled on it. “Call me?” I felt a small fluttering in my stomach, allowing him to see my smile this time.
“Okay,” I nodded, folding the paper neatly and putting it in my purse.
“Tomorrow.”
“Pushy,” I laughed. He smiled his heart stopping smile at me, showing his adorably less-than-perfect teeth and I felt my quiet attempt at hard to get melting away. “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Great. Talk to you then.” He stubbed out what remained of his cigarette, flashing me one last smile before he returned to the building.