Life's going pretty fucking great for Joe Alwyn. He's fresh out of drama school and the lead in a new Ang Lee movie. He's exploring the States for the first time, getting drunk with his mates when he meets her....THE girl of his dreams. Just one pro...
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"AND THAT'S THE FUNNY THING ABOUT CARDS...GOD SHUFFLES THEM, BUT THE DEVIL'S ALWAYS DEALING"
"Love you too."
He ended the call, wasn't even embarrassed about needing to phone his dad for a quick bow-tie tutorial. Because now he was ready.
He took a deep breath in, stared into the hotel mirror. He had to do a double-take, almost didn't recognize the figure reflecting back at him. It wasn't just his body that was different: the broader shoulders, the bigger arms, the buzzcut- it was everything. It was the Burberry tux he was wearing, the Met Gala ticket he had laying on the nightstand. Joe's life had changed so much in the past year, he almost couldn't process it, wished he had more time to reflect on all the good. Hell, he was in Hollywood, for God's sake, about to attend the red carpet of the year.
That realization alone was bloody terrifying for Joe. He couldn't help but feel like a fraud, like he had walked into this life by mistake. Only 18 months ago he was still in Drama School, taking shots of tequila after CSSD's production of Three Sisters.
Yesterday's appointment with the seamstress from Burberry certainly didn't help this imposter syndrome. At the final fitting, Joe was hit with a grimace and a "Well Mr. Alwyn, I certainly wasn't expecting this. You looked so much more...how do I put this politely...conventionally attractive at the show in January. I can't believe that your hair...is gone. I wish I was given a fair warning...."
Her words had hurt, yes, but there was nothing Joe could do besides shake them off. He knew his invitation was an honor, nonetheless. He had to remind himself that it would be a great networking opportunity, something he desperately needed as an industry newcomer.
Joe took another deep breath in and grimaced when he felt his bladder muscles quench. Stupid nervous tick. He always had to pee before every goddamn event: high school football games, Drama School plays, auditions...and now the Met Gala apparently.
He was two strides away from the bathroom when he heard a fist pound the hotel door. Dammit. No time to pee.
"Fuck, I could just kiss you, you look so gorgeous," the person attached to the fist exclaimed.
Joe rolled his eyes, motioning for them to come into his room. Classic Garrett. Minus the crude humor, his friend was pretty much unrecognizable. Garrett was dressed in an A-line Gucci suit, had his hair slicked back and glued down with gel. A big shift from his typical wrinkly tee and beer-stained jeans combo.
"You know I've been thinking that that's what we should do on the carpet, just make-out," Joe quipped.
This earned a furious look from the woman beside Garrett. "No! No! No! No make-outs, boys," she screeched, the bulging vein in her forehead matching the color of her maxi dress. "As your publicist, Joe, I can't be cleaning up that kind of a mess. And Garrett, Cindy asked me to babysit you while she's in LA, so you better be on your best behavior."
