“Why don’t you just go up and tell the girls we’ve got someone coming.” Erin took my hand and pulled me off my stool and away from Michelle Hornsbury. “I’ll get rid of her,” Erin whispered. “Go up and warn the guys just in case.”
I left the bar and made a beeline through the lobby. There was no way Michelle Hornsbury could see Rupert P.’s body in our room, or any of the crap that Isabel and Apple looted from the boys’ room. I pressed the button for the elevator as quickly as I could. As I waited for it to come I stared at the phone booth a few feet from me. I wondered if I could step through it and go back in time somehow. I stared at it so long I didn’t even realize that I could see through the glass and into the other side of the lobby, toward the entrance. And when my eyes focused I saw him. There, in a corner of the lobby, was Griffin Holmes: stylist extraordinaire and actual significant other of Rupert P.
And he was talking to Isabel.
If you were there and saw Griffin Holmes like that, you’d probably be asking yourself the same thing that I did: How the hell did someone so good-looking end up with Rupert P.?
Griffin Holmes’s style was on point. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad, and I can confirm this is even more true in real life. His Rumpelstiltskin-spun hair was parted impeccably at the side, not a strand out of place. Beneath his tan trench coat (sleeves pushed up to the elbow) his rust-colored tie was pinned to his shirt and his tweed gray suit seemed pinned to his muscular form, which could rival any mannequin’s. Honestly, even the way he stood was mannequin-like, with all of his weight resting on one leg, a hand in his pocket, his head cocked just so. His face was made of laser-cut edges. You’d think a stylist would steer clear of a fashion disaster like Rupert P. Mayherestinpeace. You had to wonder: What did the two of them even talk about?
Also, what the hell was Isabel doing talking to Griffin?
I abandoned my post at the elevator. This was way more important than getting back to the room. Well, probably it wasn’t. Like, at all. But the curiosity was clichéing me.
I marched right up to Isabel and Griffin, and whatever they were talking about abruptly came to a halt. This told me two things: (a) this wasn’t just a regular fan encounter where Isabel spotted him and wanted a selfie or something, and (b) this was the two of them speaking about something secret, and if they had a secret that meant they knew each other.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello,” Griffin said, his eyebrows lowering, his mouth falling into a slight pout. Imagine a Marc Jacobs ad where the male model sits on a rock in the middle of a field, looking like he’d just dropped his ice-cream cone on his alligator-skin shoes.
Isabel avoided my gaze, but I squirmed into her line of sight and forced her to look at me. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry, who are you?” Griffin said.
“Lydia Deetz,” I said, sticking my hand out. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Isabel pushed my hand away, which was just as well, since Griffin stared at it like the concept of shaking hands upon meeting new people didn’t exist in the beautiful world of magazine ads from whence he came.
“It’s okay,” Isabel said. “She’s a friend of mine. But maybe we should go somewhere else to talk.”
“I don’t have time for that,” Griffin said. He seemed exasperated, not like his usual calm, magazine-photo self. Strepurs knew Griffin from all sorts of behind-the-scenes videos the band put out of them getting ready for awards shows, or going through wardrobe fittings for their tours. Griffin even sometimes uploaded his own videos, talking about fashion and the boys. He was known for ranking their outfits, which seemed kind of ridiculous since he was the one picking all of them. Also, he usually put Rupert P. on top of his best-dressed lists, even when Rupert P. was dressing himself in his everyday streetwear and you honestly couldn’t tell if it was Halloween or not. Some fans called Griffin out on it once, explicitly stating that he was ranking Rupert P. higher because the two were in a clandestine homosexual relationship. Griffin started ranking Rupert P. dead last after that.
Of course, the girls and I now knew him from the NSFW video we’d seen on Rupert P.’s phone.
“Look, Isabel, you have to help me,” Griffin said. “Rupert wouldn’t just leave the band. That’s the last thing he would do.”
I still didn’t understand how or why Griffin and Isabel knew each other, but they were letting me be privy to this conversation and I wasn’t about to screw it up by saying anything. I just watched them talk, my eyes darting back and forth between them.