Match Point

Chapter 1: Threads of Connection

As I walked off the plane and through the gangway, the jet lag hit me like a ton of bricks. My life has been a non-stop whirlwind of shows, interviews, and endless travel between stages. Touching down in London, home (close to it), under its perpetually gray skies, felt like the perfect welcome, weather that would let me get some rest.

"Fuck. Not again... not now," I muttered angrily under my breath as I stood at the conveyor belt, watching it spin around, empty, before finally being shut off. My luggage had embarked on a journey that didn't involve me.

My manager, Ian, was frantically pacing beside me, his face a mix of frustration and concern. Ian had a knack for taking care of things and ensuring there were as few hiccups as possible, but ensuring my luggage arrived with me was clearly out of his control. He grumbled about contacting a friend who would take care of this and dashed off with his phone pressed against his ear.

I sighed and made my way to the baggage claim office, trying not to think about the awards show looming on the horizon and finding a suit. My suits were in that suitcase – the custom-made ones I'd carefully chosen for the awards. I had been forced to check them; that should have been the sign.

As I sat filling out the paperwork, Ian briskly walked over. "Latte's got you covered, mate."

Latte. I'd heard Ian talk about her before. A family friend, he'd said. She's a stylist and tailor who had recently started her own business after leaving a pretty prestigious atelier. He had sent some of his other artists there for suits.

"What does that mean?" I asked, more annoyed than I wanted to come off.

"Finish this and then head over to her studio. She'll make sure you have a suit and such for the EMAs." Ian seemed more at ease, so I trusted this suggestion.

"She's not gonna dress me like you or anything, is she?" I teased, getting up and returning the form to the agent.

"You'd be so lucky, mate. I told her about your style and you, but you'll need to instruct her on what you want. You'll have a nice collection of custom suits after this year."

"If the ones in my luggage ever show up. You got an address for me?" I picked up my messenger bag and walked out of the airport with Ian.

"Just texted it to you. Be good to her and tell her how much you appreciate her and her services. She's moved a lot around to make this happen, okay?"

"Obviously, and she's expecting me right away? I can't go to my hotel first?" I was whining.

"You don't have much time for a custom suit to be made. Just go there. I'll make sure the front desk knows you're checking in late." Ian was right, but I really wanted just to take a short nap.

"Thanks. I'm gonna grab that car now, then." I hugged Ian and walked to the taxi waiting. I watched out the window as we made our way to Latte's studio.

I must have nodded off for a bit as I felt us come to a complete stop. I breathed in deeply, waking myself, and gathered my bag. The taxi popped me out in front of a quaint studio in a trendy part of East London. It had a bright blue wood door with a beautiful glass design in the middle. I rang the doorbell, and it chimed a soft melody. I could see a figure walking toward the door, and finally, a woman appeared; she was beautiful.

I was not anticipating a woman close to my age to answer the door. When Ian said she was a family friend, I assumed she was like him in her late forties or early fifties. She smiled as she opened the door for me. She had a measuring tape slung around her neck like a necklace, which I oddly found very attractive.

"You must be Alex," she said enthusiastically, eyes scanning me from head to toe.

"You must be Latte?" I greeted, feeling a bit awkward, saying her name out loud.