Page 8 of I Knew You Were Trouble

‘Here are your keys, y’all,’ Bodhi says, returning from the reception desk and passing out access cards. ‘Your rooms are close to one another on the forty-second floor. I’ve asked for your kit to be stored overnight. Ziggy says he’ll make full intros in the morning.’

‘Ziggy is the band’s manager, correct?’ I ask.

‘Yep, that’s him. Doubling up as tour manager. Keeps everybody in check. He’s British, like you.’

‘Can be a little spiky,’ Meredith adds through gritted teeth. ‘He oversees the tour management team, basically everybody. Calls all the shots.’

‘What now?’ I ask. ‘We turn in?’

‘The boys are out at a club in Shibuya,’ Bodhi says. ‘So, I need to head out. It’s a short drive from here. If you wanna freshen up, I can take you over there.’

I look to Duncan and Meredith. ‘Well, I’m not tired,’ I shrug, trying to work out in my head the time in London.

‘I heard Japanese whisky’s not too bad, like.’ Duncan smiles. ‘Or we can stay here for a drink?’

‘I don’t know about you, I want to see the Shibuya Crossing. If they kick us out, I’m sure we can find our own entertainment.’

It isn’t at all what I’m used to, but for some reason I’m fizzing with excitement.

‘This is a club?’ I ask as we ride another high-rise elevator with floor-level lighting.

At the hotel, Bodhi sent both me and Duncan back upstairs to change our footwear. Now I’m wearing a pair of electric-blue pencil heels, skinny jeans and a tunic; Duncan is in a black shirt and washed-out jeans, having changed out of his trainers. I’ve put a lick of mascara and lipstick on. Glancing across at Meredith, it’s apparent to me that I haven’t put nearlyenoughmake-up on.

‘We didn’t talk about Aidan McArthur on the plane,’ Meredith reminds me.

‘Aidan, right. Is he the British one?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘What does he look like again?’

My stomach rolls as the lift draws to a halt. The doors open. The man who stands waiting outside the lift is six foot two with broad shoulders, hair so dark it borders on black, falling into his eyes. He wears baggy combat trousers, high-tops and a sleeveless hooded top, his sculpted arms left bare. He’s chewing gum, engrossed in his phone, his thumb swiping over the screen. All around sounds a thumping beat.

‘He looks like that,’ Meredith squeaks in surprise.

‘Wait, what?’

Bodhi grins. ‘Hey, Aidan.’

The man looks up. I take in the rest of his face. Aidan McArthur has certainly matured since the photograph I saw of him on the plane. His eyebrows are full and dark, in this light his eyes a striking shade of pale blue-grey. His jawline is well-defined, and he wears a silver chain around his neck. I can’t help but stare, the idea of standing so close to a famous person so utterly unnerving.

‘Bode, where the hell have you been?’ Aidan says, pulling up his black hood, his accent familiar and English. ‘I wanna go back to the hotel.’

As we file out of the lift I force my eyes down, my insides temporarily turning to sludge. All the members of Rebel Heart are at least five or six years younger than me, in their early to mid-twenties, and categorically not within flirting distance of twenty-nine.

‘I only just got here,’ Bodhi argues to Aidan. ‘Been on transport duty. This is your new documentary crew by the way.’

I turn back around, in time to catch Aidan’s expression as it sours. I know disdain when I see it.

‘Right,’ he murmurs, his gaze barely acknowledging our existence.

‘I’m Lexi,’ I say, holding out my hand towards him. ‘This is my cameraman, Duncan.’

He steps forward, his palm warm, his grip pleasant yet firm. He produces a tight-lipped smile. ‘Yeah, well, let’s see how long you last.’

‘Excuse me?’

He backs off again. ‘We managed to see off the last guy pretty quick. Maybe if we get rid of you too then we won’t even have to make this dumb documentary.’

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