The Mighty Storm

Chapter Three




Oh God. What was I thinking getting drunk last night? Not my smartest plan. Not that I generally have many.
I was just so nervous at the thought of seeing Jake today. And the more I talked with Simone about it, the more I needed to drink.
When she pointed out that Jake probably won’t be expecting me if rock stars aren’t informed of who is interviewing them, and then when I walk in there it will be really uncomfortable and awkward … well, I kept on drinking more and more to dull the panic.
We practically drank Mandarin’s dry. Sang Journey (Don’t Stop Believing) on karaoke like we were auditioning for a part in Glee and then rolled home at 2am.
I’ve had six hours sleep; I’m seriously hung over and am currently travelling in on the Tube, feeling like I’m going to puke any second now.
One-part hangover … two-part nerves.
When I finally get off the Tube at Hyde Park Corner, I grab a latte from Starbucks and guzzle it down, praying for it to clear my fuzzy head, as I make my way on foot to The Dorchester, where Jake is staying.
The closer I get to the hotel, the more my nerves increase in intensity. My stomach keeps clenching in panic.
No, stop it, Tru. You are a serious journalist and it’s just an interview. You’ve done loads of them. It doesn’t matter who he is, or that you used to love him.
Still do.
No I don’t.
Great, now I’m arguing with myself.
My phone beeps a text in my bag. It’s from Simone; she’d already left for work this morning before I’d even rolled out of bed. I have no clue how she’d managed it.
I open the text up:

Breathe. It’ll be fine. You’ll be talking stories from when you were kids before you know it :) Call me when you’re done. Love you x

I drop my phone back in my bag, glancing up I see I’ve reached The Dorchester. I drop my empty cup in the nearest bin, take my thin jacket off, and shove it into my oversized bag.
I’m wearing my black skater skirt, loose fitting grey T-shirt belted at the waist, and my favourite high-heeled, grey suede ankle boots. Not too flashy, not too casual, and I feel comfortable in them. They’re me. And right now I just need to feel comfortable.
I stare up at the towering hotel.
Okay, I can do this.
I take a deep breath in and walk toward the door.
The concierge opens it for me, and I find myself in the plush foyer.
I instantly feel out of place. Maybe I should have dressed a little more conservatively.
But this is how I always dress for work, and when I interview celebrities, but then I’ve never interviewed any one as famous as Jake, or none that I used to play kiss chase with when I five either.
Oh God. I am so totally shitting myself. And so totally out of my depth here.
I run my hands nervously down my skirt.
No, I can do this.
I lift my head high and walk toward to the reception desk.
The woman on the reception is very attractive, in that groomed kind of way I’ll never be able to achieve.
She looks up at me.
“Hi,” I say trying to exude confidence I am not feeling. “My name is Trudy Bennett, I’m here to see Jake Wethers.”
She smiles. It’s not real. “Of course you are. And I imagine he’s expecting you too.”
Ahh. Right okay. She’s being a bitch. She thinks I’m a groupie.
I reach into my bag and pull out my journalist I.D. badge and slap in on the counter.
“I’m a journalist. I work for Etiquette magazine and I’m here to do an interview with Jake Wethers.”
She glances at me again, eyes narrowed, then picks the phone up and dials a number.
“Good Morning. There’s a Trudy Bennett in reception to see Mr. Wethers … right … yes, of course.”
She hangs the phone up.
“Please take the lift up to the roof suites, one of Mr. Wethers staff will meet you up there.”
I pick my badge up and walk away without thanking her. It kills my inbred manners to do so, but she was mean to me.
I just don’t understand snotty bitches like that. Do I look like a groupie?
God, I hope not. I stop and glance at myself in the mirror on the way to the lifts.
My hair’s frizzed up a bit with the humid morning air. I try to smooth it down with my hand as I run my eyes down myself in the mirror.
Well, I don’t think I look like a groupie. I look like an über professional journalist, in my … um … skater skirt, which is actually quite short – has it always been this short or has my ass got bigger?
Oh holy crap. I look exactly like a groupie.
I don’t remember looking like this in the mirror this morning. Obviously, I still had my ‘Tru looks awesome in anything’ margarita goggles still on.
Fan-f*cking-tastic. I haven’t seen Jake in twelve years and I’m going to see him, looking like some groupie chick in a desperately short skirt.
Good thinking, Tru. Get hammered the night before seeing Jake, then dress like you’re here for a party.
Resigned to my groupie fate, I stand at the lifts and press the button.
In a few minutes I’m going to be face to face with him. I can’t stop my hands from trembling a little.
The lift pings open.
It’s empty, so I wander in and with my still trembling hand, press the button for the top floor to take me up to the Roof Suites.
I stand there, foot jigging on the spot, fingers knotted together, counting the floors up. My stomach’s popping, the higher the number on the counter gets.
The lift reaches the top floor, stopping smoothly and the doors part.
There on the other side, is a scarily huge guy. Closely shaved hair, and at least six and a half feet tall, and about the same wide.
“Ms. Bennett?” he says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.
“Yes.” My voice comes out in a squeak.
He smiles at me. I relax a little.
“I’m Dave, the head of Jake’s security team. Please follow me.”
Jake has a security team?
Duh! Of course he does.
I follow closely behind Dave. There doesn’t seem to be any people around. The rooms must be huge as we’ve only passed by one door on this hallway, and we’ve been walking a little while. I wonder if Jake has the full floor hired out for his people to stay in.
We reach the door facing us at the end of the hall. Dave knocks once, loudly on the door and moves aside, standing by the door, leaning against the wall, leaving me standing in front of it on my own.
I’m instantly self-conscious. And my face is burning up with worry and nerves.
What if Jake really doesn’t remember me and then it just becomes embarrassing and horrid.
Right here and now I’m making the decision to not say anything about our childhood or even acknowledge I remember him. I’ll just wait for him to say something first and then I’ll act all cool and nonchalant about it. And if he doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t remember me, then it’s cool as I won’t look like an idiot explaining who I am.
Or not.
Whatever.
I’m just not say anything first.
The door opens, and standing before me, is a sharply dressed man, in a designer suit and the shiniest shoes I have ever seen. And holy hell he is beautiful.
“Ms. Bennett, hello, I’m Stuart, Jake’s PA. It is so lovely to meet you.” He gives me a warm smile and reaches out his hand to shake mine.
My cheeks flush red. Gorgeous and friendly. PA’s are usually not so nice to journalists, or this good looking.
I take hold of his hand and give my most professional ‘I’m a serious journalist’ handshake. I just hope he doesn’t notice how badly my hand is shaking.
He gives me another smile, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.
Yep, he felt the shake and knows how nervous I am.
“Jake is in the living room waiting for you, please follow me,” he gestures.
I follow Stuart down the hall, the door magically closing behind me; Dave I’m guessing.
Stuart rounds the corner, I follow behind, and then I find myself in a huge living room, and standing across the room from me is Jake.
My heart lurches out of my chest, jumps across the room and whams straight into him.
I feel lost.
My eyes meet his, and I see it … the instant recognition.
He remembers me.
I feel absolute relief amongst my jittery nerves. Like little monkeys are swinging trees across my nerve endings.
He’s wearing fitted black jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, and his hair is in its trademark style.
And he just looks so painstakingly beautiful.
Stuart moves aside, and I walk a little further into the room on seriously wobbly legs. I wish I’d worn flats now.
Jake’s eyes stay trained on mine. I think he looks a little stunned, and I’m not quite sure in this moment if that is a good thing or not.
“Tru?” His voice. It sounds the same, just deeper, manly, and more American than British now of course, but still the same. I’ve heard him talk on the TV, but hearing him, here, now talking to me – it’s just Jake – the Jake I knew.
“Trudy Bennett?” he repeats. “My Trudy Bennett?”
His Trudy Bennett?
My heart goes haywire as it returns safely to my chest. Thank god he can’t hear it.
He takes a step forward. “Shit, it really is you.”
I nod. “Yes. It’s really me.” I sound like his echo, but I don’t really know what else to say.
I wasn’t exactly sure why I was so terrified and nervous about seeing him. I just figured it was because of who he is now, his stature. But looking at him here, now, I know why I was so scared.
I was afraid that seeing him again after all this time would cause my old feelings to resurface.
And seeing Jake, looking like this, I just know that I am so completely and totally f*cked.
Because I’m now fourteen year old Trudy all over again.