Original Work: You'll Always Find Your Way Back Home, Chapter 5, Part 1

thefinalgirl (62)in #writing • 8 years ago

Chapter 5, Part 1

In the end, Emilia was fighting a losing battle and when we left Madison’s, the shirt and jeans ensemble was successfully and safely on my person, though I had to admit I was a little worried that Emilia might start an attack at any moment. Unfortunately, we also left the store without that pretty pink dress that had so easily caught my eye and I left, casting one longing look after it, which luckily nobody noticed.

Unfortunately, with the haircut and fashion jump-start out of way, there was nothing left to keep me from the press conference. As we drove away from Madison’s, joining the flow of traffic once more, Linda suggested stopping somewhere for brunch (though I wasn’t entirely sure how that would work out) but my stomach was slowly becoming more and more twisted into knots, making the thought of actually eating very unappealing.

But there was still an hour until the press conference was scheduled to start, an hour I would have been more than happy to spend figuring out exactly what I was going to say to all the people that would soon be gathered just to listen to me. It seemed that Linda was reading my mind, because when we finally arrived at the Plaza Hotel, Linda instructed Garth to take Emilia home and keep her under house arrest while we would meet with Schapelle in hopes of grooming me for this very important meeting.

Inside the Plaza Hotel everything seemed to be, if not made of gold, than at least trimmed in it or made to look like it. The railings, the sides of the doors and windows, the trim of the desks, even the tables and the plush arm chairs and ottomans that accompanied them, glittered and gleamed and I was sure that there was a whole secondary staff in charge of polishing everything. Instead of looking trashy and overly hopeful, the décor of the Plaza Hotel looked elegant, tasteful and completely natural. The lighting was soft and muted, aside from the few chandeliers that were scattered throughout the room, all of which shone brightly; because of the muted lighting, I wasn’t blinded as soon as I walked through the door, which I considered a plus. Even the marble tile laid out on the floor was polished and gleaming and when I looked down, I could see my reflection peering back up at me. Or, I assumed it was my reflection, because I looked less like myself and more like Emilia, or someone completely different.

“Hello Ms. Thompson.” Greeted a smooth, cool male voice as soon as we stepped through the door that had been so courteously held open for us by a doorman who didn’t look anywhere but straight in front of him. I glanced to my immediate left to see a sharply dressed, slightly balding man standing there expectantly, a stack of papers folded against his chest and a smile on his face. “Good to see you again.” He looked at me and his smile became a little more forced. “Emilia.” It was clear that my sister had been anything but cordial to him in the past.

I smiled at him in return. “Good morning.” I replied in the same tone I would use for a neighbor, teacher or sales associate, though the man gaped at me as though I was the queen of some foreign country who had greeted him personally. The man quickly gained control of his facial expression however and smiled once more, this time the gesture was a little more genuine.

Brief greetings were exchanged and the man, who I now knew as Charles Meyers, lead us through the gleaming lobby and toward a set of conference rooms. As we walked, I was acutely aware of heads turning, watching my progress and I felt my cheeks grow red, unaccustomed to all the staring. Call it a typical teenage mindset but I couldn’t help but feel as though the staring was a bad thing, a sign that there was something off with my appearance; I had to remind myself that they were staring because they thought they were looking at Emilia Thompson, pop starlet extraordinaire.

Most of the older people, especially those in business attire, seemed to think it would be classless to stare, acting as though a celebrity strolling among them was old news but one little girl, standing beside her mother stared openly as I walked past her, her eyes turning to follow me as I crossed the lobby. I smiled at her and waved and she smiled back, before embarrassment over took her and she pressed her face against her mother’s legs, a reaction that caused me to smile all over again. As we followed Meyers into the conference room, I glanced over my shoulder to find the little girl was peeking out from behind her mother’s legs, watching me with a shy but revenant expression on her face. She didn’t seem to have any problem believing that I was Emilia.
Once Meyers had showed us into the conference room and shut the door behind him, Schapelle made herself comfortable in her wheeled leather chair and pulled out her Blackberry, studying the small screen. “So far so good.” She informed me in a frank tone of voice, glancing up at me over the top of her phone with a faint smile on her face. Suddenly had the feeling that whatever had just transpired in the hotel lobby was just another sort of test, though luckily I had passed.

Unfortunately for me, the meeting didn’t last nearly long enough. In fact, it wasn’t really a meeting at all, just me listening with rapt attention to everything that Schapelle was saying, trying to absorb the important points and some of her confidence. I was supposed to be on my best behavior, but nothing but polite and courteous to anyone who wanted to take my picture or ask me a question, or get my autograph because there were sure to be fans mixed in with the reporters and journalists. I was supposed to answer their questions to the best of my abilities (which made me realize that I didn’t really know much personal information about Emilia, so my abilities might not be all that fantastic) and, of course, be polite. Maybe Schapelle had become so used to repeating things to Emilia over and over again that it was just a habit for her, hoping that the concept would get drilled into my, or her, brain.

After listening to Schapelle say over and over again that I was supposed to be polite, be myself, be nothing like Emilia and start repairing her mistakes, suddenly I was listening to her say that it was time to go, that everything was assembled out front and everyone was waiting for me. Or Emilia. I might be able to substitute for Emilia but unfortunately there was no one here to substitute for me.

As I got to my feet, figuring there was no point in dragging my heels, I glanced over at Linda, who gave me a reassuring smile. “What would Emilia being doing in this situation?” I questioned.

Linda gave me a wry smile. “Refusing to go outside. Providing the photographers with some interesting, hardly family friendly pictures to print in their magazines.” She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Anything you do at this point is going to be a step up from that.”

Even faint? Because it was seeming like a possibility at the moment.

Schapelle opened the conference room doors and I was immediately blinded by several flashes popping in my face, momentarily blinding me. I had been under the assumption that all the reporters would be waiting patiently outside, but it seemed that a few pictures of me trying not to stumble into a wall or holding my hands in front of my face were a necessity in any magazine.

Linda and Schapelle both reached out a hand to catch me as I tried to back away from the door and turn around to hide in the corner. I’m sure the gesture looked supportive to the outside world, but I knew they were informing me that there was no turning back now and definitely no running for cover. “Emilia is used to this.” Linda hissed into my ear so that no one else would hear her.

Not that there would be any chance of that regardless of how loud she had spoken, because the handful of photographers gathered outside the door were all shouting questions for me, trying to catch my attention. Their voices were mixed with the sounds of the rapidly clicking cameras, creating a decent clamor.

Schapelle shouldered her way out of the room, pushing the photographers aside and pulling me along with her. “Guys, guys, you know she’s not going to answer any questions until she gets outside.” She flashed them a pleasant, but this-means-business smile. “Be patient.”

The photographers stepped away from the door but that didn’t stop them from following us as we moved away from the conference room and toward the hotel doors once more. I wondered what the hotel staff thought about this chaos we were creating in their lobby and wondered if this was a frequent happening for them.

Somehow, we managed to get out of the Plaza and onto the steps, where a podium had all ready been set up, positioned in the center of the stairs so I would be visible from all angles. There were even more reporters and journalists out here than I had imagined possible; it was as though every writer and cameraman on the West Coast and then some had camped out just for this moment. I knew they were all eagerly anticipating a typical, Emilia Thompson diva freak-out moment, but today they weren’t going to get it. Again, a picture of me fainting, they might get; me assaulting the nearest journalist with a microphone, not today. I wondered if the journalists would be disappointed when they didn’t get much fo a story and if they would like Bad Emilia more than the Good Emilia that Linda and Schapelle were trying to sell. Maybe the fans and the families would like me better but my sister was probably better at selling papers.

As soon as I stepped up to the microphones, the world exploded into nothing but flashing lights and the sound of people shouting out questions, all trying to be heard over one another. I didn’t know what direction to look in first, everyone was shouting out for my attention, yelling out Emilia’s name, requesting I look in their direction. I felt over-whelmed, almost on the urge of panic, I had no idea what to do or what to say and was suddenly, one hundred percent sure, that everyone standing in front of me would know that I wasn’t Emilia.

Schapelle gave me a far from gentle poke in the side, a not so subtle reminder to do what I’d been brought here to do. I looked down at the microphones and cleared my throat. “Uh…hello.” Great, I was off to a great start. My career as an orator was sealed in stone now. I was starting to wish that I had paid more attention to the interviews Emilia did, so I would at least know where to start.

The flashing died down momentarily and I could see the confused and amused faces of the journalists gathered down below me. I was sure they were all ready mentally writing their stories: “You Had Us At Hello.” At least I could go down in pop culture history.

Again, I cleared my throat and leaned closer into the microphones. “Um…so…” Linda surreptitiously pulled me back a little and I realized I was leaning in too close. “I guess…are there any questions?”