The never ending movie goes a month over schedule. By the time I'm on a plane back home, promo for the chick flick has already begun without me. I'm booked for eight interviews in one day. Fortunately, Val does most of the talking. She's had enough of these already to recognize most of the questions.
It's good to see her again.
I sit in the background like a potted plant. Occasionally an interviewer asks a question specifically for me, I come up with a generic answer, and I go back into foliage mode, taking care to subtly serve face the whole time. A publicist for the movie directed me to "project an appealing virile demeanor for the core 25–45 female target audience demographic," i.e., act straight, so it's possible I might be playing with my hair, checking my nails, crossing my legs, giggling, and bringing up fashion just a little extra. It keeps me entertained.
"Mitch, thanks for being here!" The final interviewer ignores Val completely and doesn't give me time for more than a quick nod. "Rumor has it you went to Venice with singer Scott Hoying. Is it true that the two of you are romantically involved after you cheated on him and left The Pentatonix in 2019?"
Wow. "Are you with TMZ or something? What's your name?"
"Rebecca Reed, reporter for L.A. Headline News."
Reporter. News. She's funny. "You want the scoop on Scott Hoying? He's secretly obsessed with Beyoncé." She's jotting down notes furiously. I've picked up a few tricks over the years. "He's spent thousands on tickets. He has a pillow with her face on it, and he knows all her songs by heart. He even named a cat after her daughter. I'm not making this up. If people only knew! He was more excited about being in an audience with Beyoncé than winning a Grammy once. I'd bet a hundred dollars she's his lock screen."
"You don't know what his lock screen is?"
Subtle. "Yes, I'm single." I didn't talk to Scott about it. That's probably a good thing. You don't just call someone up and ask if they want to go out with you. Well, you do, but you do it when you can actually go on a date, not when you're on opposite ends of the ocean. I am stopping by his place for dinner after this, though.
I ramble about what it's like in Venice long enough to use up our time and avoid more questions, then flee the scene as fast as possible. I'm running late, but I need to make a quick stop at Whole Foods to grab a hostess gift. Normally I'd bring a nice bottle of wine, but flowers are probably more appropriate in this case. What kind of flowers? He knows what they all mean. He even has tattoos of them. I mean, I could get him two dozen long-stemmed red roses, but he'd probably just think I was crazy, and I want to try a relationship, not declare undying love. Besides, there will be other people there: Tori and her hubby, Nicole, Todrick (if he's free), Scott's drummer Clive, and "whoever else I can get to show up."
I'll just get him chocolate. What if this is way too formal? Are my interview clothes okay? What if I show up and he's wearing jeans and a tee shirt, making popcorn or toast or something for dinner?
Calm down, Mitch. It's gonna be fine. It's just Scott. Ha. Just Scott. Yeah, that's not helping. It's too late to get out of this. Everyone's expecting me there. I sweep my hair into a bun—I need an appointment with Kyle ASAP—and drive over.
There's no parking anywhere on the block. The house is packed. The door is wide open, and Beyoncé's latest masterpiece is pouring out into the neighborhood. Everyone seems to be having a great time, swaying to the beat and talking over the music. Some of them are congregated around a giant chocolate fountain in the middle of the room, dipping cookies and fresh fruit into the curtains of liquid happiness. I leave the chocolates I brought by the door in a pile of presents: flowers, chocolates, candles, albums, wine, rum, vodka, vodka, and pumpkin liqueur, probably re-gifted. Scott's kept pretty quiet about his sobriety, but it can't make it easy when people show up with presents like this.
