Red (Ted Sweeran Romance)

11- K is for Kiss

My hotel room is a welcome change from the business of talking to fans outside. Almost as soon as I get in the door, I feel free. The tension in my shoulders disappears and I sink into the lush duvet like a fish flopping back into the water.

Artwork decorates the walls, splattering colour all around the white room. There is a basket full of soap and chocolate wrapped in cellophane on the sofa, and I can even see a bottle of wine inside it. I probably won't drink it, but perhaps I can save it for a special occasion. Wine isn't quite as awful as beer.

I remember my promise to go clubbing with Caitlin, and wonder if Mom knows about it. She obviously didn't hear us discussing it in the elevator. But she gets on with Paul quite well, so he might have told her. It's not that I don't trust Paul, or that I'm scared I won't be allowed to go clubbing if Mom knows. I'm an adult now; I can do what I like openly. I just wonder how she feels about it. She never was one for dubstep.

In the wall, there is literally a fish tank, physically embedded in the wall above my bed. I hear the filter whirring above my head and sit up, pressing my nose to the glass. If I angle myself right I can see the pipe that must feed them, coming down through the top of the tank. I always found it strangely dangerous to have a lidless fish tank, even though the fish weren't exactly going to jump out. I used to think fish could fly, though. I suppose the idea never really did wear off. It crosses my mind that somebody could be looking into the tank from the other side right now; I peer through to check, but I can only see my own face reflected. The tank must be made of mirror glass.

The melted clock propped up on the wall across from me ticks loudly to warn me it's just struck five. On tour, we eat at six, and hang out in our rooms or buses after that. But I guess tonight will probably be different if Caitlin follows through with our plans. I don't know if I can follow through myself.

I understand it's my choice and I can do what I want to do, I can club and drink and smoke if I feel like it, because I'm twenty-three, a legal adult. But sometimes it feels like I'm still a teenager. Still under lock and key with an impossibly stupid curfew. I should let myself do what I like, but I've seen so many celebrities fall apart that way. They did what they wanted and ended up twerking, drunk and high and lip-syncing at every concert. I believe every famous person is a role model whether they like it or not. It's their choice to step up to the plate. And I've already made my choice, but going to a club kind of changes that.

"Knock, knock!"

Speak of the devil. Caitlin bursts into the hotel suite with the grace of a beauty queen, her arms out wide like in the Titanic. I can't help laughing a little.

"It's five'o'clock," she announces in a sing-song voice. Her eyes flit around the room quickly, but my room must be the same as the one she is sharing with Melanie, from the Starlights, because she seems only vaguely interested. "We go out at half past six."

"But don't most clubs open at seven? That's kind of early." I shouldn't be so nervous, but I'm beginning to regret my decision.

"Oh my God, we have to pick up McDonalds first. Obviously. And find a club. That's kind of important."

Oh, yeah. I forget we didn't actually know where the clubs were around here. "Won't we eat here first? I was gonna take advantage of this hotel's room service menu."

"Not my problem," Caitlin shrugs. "You can crave hotel food another time. I just want a Big Mac."

I laugh. This is all it takes to remember why Caitlin and I are friends. I am the dorky, artsy blonde one who falls in love too easily and can't hear you half the time because her earphones are in. She is the goofy, crazy nutter who'll do anything for a laugh. We just click, and I can't keep mentally dissing her because of her personality. She's playful and free. That's just Caitlin; I can't force her to change. Why would I ever want to?