Page 10 of A World Apart
Eventually though, Becka settled. I wasn’t actually mad. I mean; to be fair, I am an absolute mess. It really does go without saying, and had Becka righteously embarrassed herself in front of, say, Liam Hemsworth, I would be equally inconsolable.
“Okay, but in all seriousness,” Becka said, clearing her throat, “are you actually alright? Those barriers are solid.” I leaned backwards in the chair and pulled aside my clothes slightly to reveal where I’d smacked the crap out of my hip. Becka hissed and winced in sympathy. It was a reddish splotch right now, but it would bruise up nicely later.
“I’m fine, just mortally embarrassed.”
Becka leaned back in her chair, lifting her steaming mug to her lips. It would be some herbal concoction that she swore didn’t taste like compost, but totally did taste like compost. She only had one cup of coffee per day. I couldn’t relate, I practically swam in coffee.
“Tell me what happened next,” she prompted, “describe the entire scene. Was TK an absolute ass?” We abbreviated names when we were in semi-public like this, although there were only two other people in the vicinity and honestly, they’d probably agree that Trevor Kyle was an absolute ass.
I recounted the entire interaction, including Celine’s face.
“That woman badly needs to get laid,” Becka interrupted. I continued and ended with how sweethehad been to help me with the box into studio 2.
“We stan a respectful king,” she said approvingly, and I nodded.
“So,” Becka leaned forward conspiratorially, prompting me to copy her. Together we were basically leaning over the desk. I could smell her hot drink. Peppermint. Vile.
“How did he smell?” She leered at me, but I could only blink in confusion.
“I-I have no idea,” I confessed sheepishly.
“You mean to tell me that you were that close − nay − you touched the idol you’ve been crushing on for decades-” I rolled my eyes at her gross exaggeration, “and you didn’t take the opportunity to smell the guy?”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “Just what, exactly, did you guys talk about in those Savage Garden fan groups?”
Becka waved my question away. “Pssh, the 90s were a lawless time. Don’t change the subject.”
“You are the oldest young person I’ve ever met,” I accused. She blew me a kiss.
“Oh, heads up,” she said and nodded her head in the direction of the corridor behind us. Turning quickly in my seat, I saw Jeremy emerge from the Ops corridor and head towards the elevators.
“Oops, better dash,” I hissed, getting up and out of the chair as discreetly as I could.
“Come back up here at lunch, I may have a job for you,” Becka said, winking at me in such a way that my heart lurched uncomfortably. My mind couldn’t help immediately wondering what Becka would ‘need’ me to do, but given the look on her face, it didn’t take a huge leap to assume it was something to do with ‘the idol’. But I couldn’t allow myself the leisure of speculation, given the current urgency of beating Jeremy downstairs.
“I both love and hate you,” I hissed, throwing a look over my shoulder.
“Quite right.” She laughed quietly as I slipped out of the room and army-ran towards the stairs.
I managed to beat the lift down the stairs, nearly breaking my neck in the process, and met Jeremy in the lobby. He’d come to check up on me and point out some more tasks for me. It was mindless work, but I figured it counted towards my step goal for the day and so I didn’t mind it too much.
I especially didn’t mind that most of my trips took me past Studio 3, which is wherehewas.
On every pass, I walked extra slow − on account of the heavy box I was carrying, of course − so I could glimpse in the porthole-style window. No sound made its way out into the corridor, except for the occasional few bars of a beat or backing track. From what I’d been able to see,hewasn’t in the booth yet. He seemed to be talking to the producer − Trevor Kyle.
Every time I walked past, I could only see the top of his head, he was sitting in a chair facing away from the window. The manager and tall man (gotta be abodyguard, the man is built like a standing-up submarine) were sitting on one of the sofas against the far-left wall.
I may or may not have walked past studio 3 a good dozen times, but I’d down-play it if ever asked.
Lunchtime
As Becka had cryptically requested, I made my way back up to her office when lunchtime rolled around. I stood in front of her desk, arms crossed, tapping my foot on the floor, but it was more to do with nerves than annoyance.
“You rang?” I sassed. Becka scoffed.
“I need you to go down to reception and get the Uber Eats delivery that should be arriving in a few minutes,” she said.
I frowned. “Can’t you get one of the reception girls to bring it up?” That’s normally what she did, when she ordered in.
