Page 142 of Stolen Hearts
He answers on the fourth ring.
“What’s wrong? I saw you leaving.” Terror strangles my heart.
“It’s Kelly, she’s gone into labor.” His voice is barely audible over the sound of traffic.
I start running down the backstage corridor, past the dressing rooms. Rob follows me, trying in vain to keep up.
“Where are you?”
“I’m outside trying to hail a cab. If I can make it to the airport now, I might still be able to get a flight back to London tonight.”
“Wait there. I’m coming with you.”
My mind races as I weave through the cluster of people blocking a clear path through the maze of corridors, thinking through the logistics of the situation.
“You can’t. The show hasn’t finished yet.”
“There’s no chance I’m going to win those awards.”
I hit the end of the corridor, unsure of where I’m heading. A security guard sits on a stool underneath a printout of the various passes needed to gain backstage entry.
“Which way to the main entrance?”
The guard points to the left and sends me through another set of doors, down another long corridor. Why must these damn arenas be like a maze?
“LAX please,” Christopher’s voice comes over the phone and stops me in my tracks. My chest pounds, and I struggle in vain to catch my breath.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I’m already on my way. I promise I’ll keep you updated.”
Rob finally catches up with me, looking pissed as hell.
“We need to get you back on the floor. They’re just about to announce the nominees for Song of the Year,” he says in between breaths, his hands on his knees. Sweat drips from his forehead.
“Alright,” I say to them both. I make one last offer to Christopher. “If you miss the flight, I’ll hire us a private jet to get us there, okay?”
“Okay, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
30.Christopher
Sunday
Check-in agents and their goddamn power trips.
I tap away on the counter as I stay locked in a stare out with the British Airways representative. He’s the third person I’ve now seen in five minutes. If I wasn’t so desperate to get on a flight, I’d take off one of these uncomfortable shoes that have given me blisters and whack the smugness right out of him.
“You’ve got to help me, please. My wife’s just gone into labor.”
I lower my voice an octave to make my story more believable. But my presence seems to be a mere inconvenience to his existence.
I feel bad for lying. But having already been shafted by the other check-in clerks, who told me they don’t sell tickets at airports, my last hope is here at the customer service desk, with this aging bitter queen.
Lord, don’t let me become like him.
“Okay, bear with me,” he says, his face now a blank mask of professionalism.
