Sing For Me

Chapter Twenty-Five: There's a Possibility...

I think about Tim's offer as I get dressed. I think about it again as I throw some water over my face, and I think about it even more as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror while I brush my teeth.

But no matter how long I think about it, I still don't understand why.

What was it that Tim saw in me? Me, of all people?

How could a guy who could have anyone—legitimately any person in world he wanted—want someone who works in a shady coffeeshop and has generally poor oral hygiene?

I spit out my toothpaste and rinse my toothbrush. I mean, I don't even remember the last time I saw a dentist, whereas Tim probably had a whole set of hundred-thousand-dollar veneers.

And aside from my obviously reasonable hesitations about the legitimacy of Tim's affections was the problem of the actual logistics of our... relationship... attachment... thing.

I mean, most of the celebrities I follow on Instagram only date people who would increase their clout or their follower count. In fact, I don't think I know of a single example of a couple the music world where their partnership wasn't somehow underlined by some kind of "business relationship".

It was always tit for tat; this for that. And as the age-old saying went: The rich and the famous can't afford to marry for love – at least not the first three times.

And members of boybands? Well, even a medium-term relationship could be a death sentence for their ratings, if reading into The Goss was to be believed—because so much of their popularity was based on them being the perfect mix of potentially dateable characters. Strike out one with a committed relationship, and you could count on strike out one-fifth of their fanbase, as well. And knowing Red, she'd probably slipped some kind of relationship clause into Tim's contract, anyway.

Why would I, of all people, be an exception to any of those rules?

And even if I could get my head around the idea of being that one-in-a-billion, was I really willing to be out there, featuring in the same gossip pages of the magazines I so loved to hate?

Suddenly, a vision popped into my head—this moving image of a pre-meeting-Tim me flicking through gossip magazines on a break at work, only to come across an image of someone who looked a whole lot like me clinging to the arm of "Eric" in public.

Gross, Pre-meeting-Tim me would think. She's obviously only with him for the money and the insta-fame. What a slag.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. Did post-meeting-Tim me really have the grit to deal with that kind of constant judgement? It was one thing being able to dole it out, but another thing entirely being the kind of person who was able to take it—or at least shake it off. I mean, real-life me had enough of a problem trying to resist the lure of Rob's strategically placed countertop cookie jar for eight hours a day... so what hope did I have against a constant barrage of unrelenting, gossip-magazine fuelled vitriol?

It was all too complicated to think about; and too massively life-changing for me to make a decision on while smoothing down the frizz in my hair in the bathroom mirror.

Only one thing was for certain right now: I was going to have to book in Abbey for some serious one-on-one life coaching. And pronto.

I finished fixing my hair and the nerves started to build in my stomach again. But if I avoided going out into the lounge any longer, it would surely cause suspicion.

I pointed at myself in the bathroom mirror.

"Pull yourself together!" I hissed at myself, scowling. "Now is not the time to melt into an anxiety puddle. You can do that later. When he's gone, and you have nothing but stale coffee left to live for."