Perry Clower, a 24 years old British singer, songwriter, musician and famous womanizer, goes on vacation in France before releasing her another album. Around the same time, Cannes Film Festival is taking a place.
At one evening, in some Irish pub in...
My leg bounces nervously as I sip slowly whiskey while my hairstylist does my hair, two French braids. I can't help, but flick my eyes from my phone to the floor. My mind goes 24 around-the-clock since that bloody kiss.
Of course, I've talked with Lizzie since then. A few times even, but when her happy face popped out on my phone in the morning, I decided to keep my mouth closed. She was so fucking pure, being excited about me coming back and all. She told me that she has something important to tell me. It made me uneasy, but she seemed cheerful about it, so it calmed me enough for the time being.
I didn't decide to keep my mouth shut forever. At least, I don't think so. I mean, I don't know. That's why I'll make a decision tonight. But first, I'll ask for some advice.
From who?
Of course the one and only, Taylor Swift.
"You're ready" My hairstylist says, snapping me from my thoughts and I look up to see myself in the mirror. "Is that what you wanted?" She asks, lifting a small mirror behind me. I hum as I watch the hairstyle.
"Hell yeah. Thanks, Abbie, you're the best" I reply and she smiles proudly, patting my shoulders as she begins to pack her things.
I stand up from the chair, downing the glass and I reach to the bottle to pour another one, but then I sigh annoyed and shut my eyes tight, groaning mentally as my conversation with Lizzie from her birthday comes to my mind. I put the bottle down, decide that I can't try to drink my problems away.
I guess it's time to be a responsible adult and make at least one smart decision in the last 48 hours.
My phone buzzes and I look at the message from Linda, my publicist who takes care of my public events. I roll my eyes when I read the text about hurrying up my movements because I'll be late if I won't leave the hotel soon.
"Whatever" I mumble to myself, going to the bathroom where my outfit hangs.
It's from the Dior collection. A thin, patterned jacket, black dress pants with narrowed, frilly down, making it not so casual. Black, patent leather shoes and a small sash wrapped around my waist, showing on my side.
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I put the clothes on, spray myself with my perfume and leave the hotel soon after that. I arrive at the red carpet after 15 minutes and the paparazzi immediately goes wild when I step out of the car.
Most of the time, I enjoy events like this, being proud that my music gets recognized so much, but tonight it's not one of these times. So, putting on my big girl panties, I force a smile on my face and wave to the people.
Unfortunately, when you do something you don't fully enjoy, the time drags on and makes you hate it. Although, I try my best the whole time, doing one interview on the way after posing for the photos. As I step into the room, my smile flatters and I breathe out in relief, finally not feeling like a fraud.
