It was strange enough to think about being in the same room with my old high school sweetheart, but it was positively surreal to have to reconcile that eighteen-year-old boy with the uberhot movie star that he’d become.
There isn’t a girl alive that doesn’t want to feel like she’s left some sort of imprint on every single one of her exes, and I was no different in that regard. But how many girls have to deal with their ex becoming a famous movie star who has since been with no less than half a million other women, most of whom were beautiful Hollywood movie stars themselves? How would I even rank in such a grouping?
I grabbed my satchel, took a cab up to the TRU Times Square and made my way into the lobby. I’d been by the hotel numerous times, but never had any reason to go inside. One look at the place, and I was sorry I never bothered to check it out before. The décor was modern-not usually my style, but incredible nonetheless-white floors, white furniture, white everything except the walls, which were painted in a deep, dark navy. The lighting was done in tones of blue and green and purple, splashed across every surface and sofa in the expansive room.
My Steve Madden heels clacked against the white marble floor as I headed toward the front desk, trying very hard not to seem impressed by the expanse of my surroundings. My brain flashed back to graduation night, standing inside the Wilmingtons’ foyer for the first time, overwhelmed by the size and beauty of the massive home.
The Wilmingtons’ hotel was infinitely more imposing.
I resisted the urge to pivot my head around the space, take it all in like some wide-eyed tourist who didn’t know how to play it cool. I lived in the city for godsakes. I didn’t need to look like a sightseer in my own backyard.
I approached the front desk where a model-thin concierge stopped tapping away at her computer to look up apathetically at me. She had a severely cut black bob which dusted her impossibly high cheekbones, and large, almond-shaped green eyes that made her look almost feline.
She gave the briefest intimation of a smile before offering stoically, “Welcome to TRU. How may I help you.”
New Yorkers always get a bad rap for being rude. The thing is, they’re not normally mean, they just don’t have time for anyone’s bullshit. This is something I inherently knew my whole life, but had just recently learned to project myself.
I flashed my press pass, laminated and hanging from my neck by a long black nylon lanyard. “Layla Warren, Now! Magazine. I’m here to meet Mr. Kelly.” It was the code name I’d been given to be granted access to The Great Trip Wiley, up-and-coming movie star, already in need of a pseudonym in order to protect his privacy.
The concierge suddenly took a genuine interest in me. Her eyes fully met mine and she gave me a quick once over before asking, “Mr. Johnny Kelly?”
I got the impression that she had not only just sized me up, but found me lacking. Either that, or she was immediately able to see right through me with my every hair in its perfect place, standing there in my borrowed suit and trying to disguise my sweaty palms.
I did a mental eyeroll. Yeah, okay, sweetheart. You caught me. Yes, I’m freaking out about my meeting with Trip Wiley. No, I’m not looking to compete with you for his hand in marriage. Clearly, you’ve got it all over me and I don’t need to be viewed as a threat, as Trip is only one “chance encounter” away from falling madly in love with YOU.
But I just raised my eyebrows and gave her a, “Yep.”
She was all business back at her keyboard, tapping away as she asked, “Junket or one-on-one?”
Now, I should mention here that my editor, Devin, was very clear on the fact that I was only scheduled to do the junket. If you’re unfamiliar with what a junket is, let me enlighten you.
A press junket is basically a lion’s den of desperation. Normally, anywhere from five to twenty writers are crammed around a table in some stuffy room eating complimentary doughnuts and drinking weak coffee for a gazillion hours. Finally, at some point, they are granted an audience with the celebrity in question for all of thirty minutes. In that short amount of time, questions are rapid-fired at said celebrity, each writer trying to get as many of theirs answered before an assistant comes in and excuses the haggard interviewee to their next appointment. Then the writer has to piece together the melee in order to come up with a cohesive story, all the while making their article look as though they’ve scored the exclusive of the century.
It was all rather uninspiring.
Seeing as I had absolutely zero experience with the competitive nature of a press junket, I wasn’t much looking forward to fighting it out with the other seasoned writers in the room.
So, even though I knew there was a good chance I’d be found out by Trip’s people anyhow and there was a definite chance I’d be reamed out by my editor, I took the shot.
“One-on-one” I managed to say.