⇾ 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 | 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐈

𝚇𝚅𝙸

I don't even want to hit the publish button

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 → 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 "𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚂𝚒𝚍𝚎"

⊹ 𝟹-𝟷𝟾-𝟷𝟿𝟼𝟾 ⊹

Olympic Studios was decorated in many warm colors, inside and out. The red brick with the white trimmings, the circular roofs, the perfectly even windows, it was all so photogenic. On my way in, I snapped a few pictures just of the building itself, though I think that was partly because my nerves were buzzing as I prepared myself to sit in on this recording session. It wasn't like I hadn't met the Rolling Stones before. No, I had done that before, but those times I hadn't had the stress of a huge project on my shoulders. I had just been meeting them because they were rockstars and I was the wife of a rockstar. That being said, this time I was feeling quite stressed.

I stepped into the building, immediately taking note of how warm it was in the room where a receptionist was positioned at a desk, writing away on a sheet of paper in front of her. When the tiny bell above the door tingled, she looked up, peering over the top of her glasses at me. I wondered if I needed to dress a little more formally for this day. Maybe I could have tried harder than jeans and a long-sleeved, blue shirt.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked me inquisitively, interrupting my thoughts, and I realized that I wasn't staring directly in front of me. I was staring at the decor in the room.

"Oh, I--." I hesitated for just a moment. "I am a journalist. I'm supposed to be here." It didn't look like she was too convinced. "Or so I was told?" I laughed nervously, twiddling my thumbs in front of me.

"You're who?" she asked doubtfully. "Last I checked, reporters are supposed to stand outside. Have a nice day," and with that, she began to ignore me altogether, returning to whatever in the hell she was writing.

I narrowed my eyes and opened my mouth to bite back a smart-arse reply, but a voice coming from down a hallway interrupted me before I could utter a single syllable. "What seems to be the problem here, Michelle?" a distinct and familiar accent asked and my eyes traveled over to a doorway to see Mick Jagger standing under the doorframe, scanning the room with his eyes. The receptionist--who I now assumed was named Michelle--looked back up, her eyes going quite wide when she heard Mick's voice.

"Well, this lady says she is supposed to be here," Michelle said. "But, I don't seem to agree." The lady--who looked like she had about a pound of makeup caked onto her face and a gallon of hairspray in her raven hair--pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

"What seems to be the problem is that my four-year-old has better manners than your pretty receptionist," I said sourly, crossing my own arms. Mick's ears picked up on my voice and his eyes searched for me as if I was completely invisible and he hadn't noticed me earlier. Either that or he didn't recognize me at first. I did look starkly different than I had when he had seen me last.