A/N: To those of you who have your own Kelly Prescott: do something about it now.
KICK ASS, NOT KISS ASS!
I yanked down another one of my personal Post-Its I had plastered to my mirror as Paul sat on my bed with a pile of documents on his lap. His voice may have been as smooth as the eiderdown he was strewn across, but I couldn't help tuning him out. For the past few days it had all been business, business, business.
Or, you know. Blah blah blah.
"So on Monday you have interviews with Regis and Kelly, Tyra Banks and Ellen DeGeneres…" Woah. That, I have to admit, caught my attention. As far as I knew, nobody did three interviews on one day, no way.
"And then on Tuesday you have a press conference with the rags..." He looked up. "What's that look for?" I looked away, embarrassed. And pretended I hadn't been imagining running my hands through his hair.
"Um," I said, and I started fussing absent-mindedly with the perfume bottles and hairbrushes on my dressing table. "You know, just the enormity of it all." I gulped, for extra impact. "Three interviews in one day?" Before I knew it, Paul had materialised behind me, and placed his hands on my arms in an affectionate gesture.
"Every chat show host in America is gagging for you, Suze," he said, and he was so close I could feel his low voice rumble through his whole body. "We've had to turn people down to fit everything in." I raised my eyebrows. "It's like I keep telling you, Susie, you're a-"
"I'm a star," I finished, and for the first time, I actually believed it. I was a star! I had Ellen DeGeneres and Tyra Banks fighting for my free time!
"Now," Paul continued, as I tried to stop envisioning the catfight going down inside my head. "I have a little surprise for you, try not to freak out."
I love you, Suze. I have from the moment I met you was what I had been expecting.
Oh, O.K. Hoping. In my wildest daydreams, that was what happened on a regular basis. I even started to picture Paul taking me into his arms and moulding his beautiful soft lips to my own…
"Here." Instead of taking my hands, he placed something cold, hard and shiny into it instead. I looked down to see my own, albeit slightly airbrushed, face staring back at me and nearly shrieked, jumping three feet into the air.
It was my E.P!
The last couple of weeks had been a blur of recording studio after recording studio, with the occasional blip or two in a rehearsal room ready for my live performances this week. If my life was a movie, there would have been a cute little montage to cut it down into a minute and a half of videotape, with my song M.I.A playing in the background, instead of the hours and hours it took instead. But now those days I'd spend singing my heart out actually meant something as I grasped my C.D tightly.
"Oh my God!" I cried, my voice actually cracking a little. "It's my… It's my…"
"So?" Paul asked carefully, as I stared wide-eyed at the big glossy photo of me on the front. "How does it feel?"
"It feels…" My mouth ran dry. "It feels…" I smiled. "It feels like the first time I ever saw you, that day at the Hind Leg." Paul returned my smile uneasily, though some caution shadowed his eyes.
"You aren't going to shout at me and insult me again, are you?" he proceeded, and I shook my head. I deposited my EP on the table beside me and just as haphazardly threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tight.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I whispered, my voice breathless in his ear. "This is all down to you. If you hadn't have forced your way into my dressing room that night and-"
"…and dazzled you with my overwhelming charm?" Paul finished, amusedly, and I bowed my head so he wouldn't see my blush. "Well, you're not entirely blameless, you know. You're pretty fantastic…" He placed his thumb beneath my chin, and for one magical moment I thought he was going to kiss me…
But instead he clucked me under the chin, as if I was a five year old brandishing a sticky, gluey Christmas card I'd made in kindergarten. And although the rush of pheromones I felt every time Paul tossed an icy blue glance my way made me feel like a pre-teen, I didn't exactly feel that young. And I didn't want to be treated that young either.
"Congratulations," he said, and he rubbed my arm like we were old pals. I mumbled something incoherent back ungraciously, and fiddled with my perfume bottles again. Congratulations, schmongratulations. I wanted my kiss.
"Two minutes till you're on, Suze." Paul poked his head through the curtain of my dressing room and smiled at me, his blue eyes sending my insides out. Oh, God. "Are you O.K?"
"Sure," I said, taking a large gulp of icy water and nearly sending it all over him as my throat violently rejected it. "I'm, er, fine. You know, just about to go live to millions of people. I'm peachy."
Needless to say, I was not peachy. I was somewhere between collapsing in a heap of nerves on the floor and throwing something at my door. Oh, my door! It actually read my name, albeit in smeared marker pen. But I'd had a mini spaz attack at the sight of it, squealing like the little girl I was.
Paul had found it adorable.
"You'll be great," Paul assured me, and he ruffled my hair. "You're great, you look great, your music is great. You're going to rock, I just know it." I smiled absently and straightened my hair from where he'd mussed it. "One minute thirty," he reminded me, before disappearing again.
I was good to go now. Paul had given me a boost, how he always did, filling me with some kind of white light that made me feel like I was invincible. I felt like I was floating on air as I made my way through the set and to the stage where I was to sit in a stupidly uncomfortable chair and answer questions I really didn't want to reply to about my love life.
"And we're on, in five, four, three…" The camera-man mouthed silently the rest of his countdown, and the lights dimmed to swing a spotlight on me. The chat-show host – a middle-aged crazy with purple streaks in her hair – started gabbing animatedly to me like we were instantly best friends, and it was all I could to nod.
"So is there someone special in your life?" My heart plummeted to somewhere halfway down my stomach at this question, and my eyes flickered automatically to Paul, who was stood at the side with the grin he always wore when he was trying to be polite. I knew he wasn't really listening. Which was just as well, really, considering what I said next.
"Well," I began, my lips forming words of their own accord. "I guess I do have feelings for someone…" An audible buzz ran through the audience, and the host leaned in eagerly for my next sentence. "It's been a long time coming, I suppose, since we've spent so much time together recently…"
Oh my God. I really was going to say it. I was going to declare my feelings for Paul in front of millions of people on TV. Not that that would be too embarrassing, or anything.
"I mean…" My eyes darted offstage again to find Paul. And I did find him, my eyes sliding to absorb all of him to add to my collection of mental images. But what I saw next stabbed me straight through the heart, forcing me to do a double take. I nearly fell of my chair, I was that shocked.
"Suze?" The host narrowed her eyes concernedly at me. "Are you O.K?" It was funny how this was the same question Paul had asked me only minutes ago. Only now I wasn't feeling anywhere close to peachy. I was feeling sick, like I wanted to murder every single person in the room, including Paul.
Because next to him, with her pale, painted fingers reaching out to stroke his designer wool coat, was someone I loathed with every inch of my being. Someone who, as they tossed their honey blonde curls over their shoulder with a simpering, sycophantic snigger, made my blood boil. And apparently, Paul had no problem with her being in such close vicinity.
That's right.
She was there, flirting her face off shamelessly, whilst I watched helplessly.
Kelly Prescott.