*
The whole interview thing seems a lot less glamorous than I imagined it. We’re offered coffee in white, Styrofoam cups and saltine crackers in tiny, plastic packs of two. Griffin’s fussed over to a ridiculous extent, but all of this takes place in a dressing room that looks as if it was sent forward in time from 1987, complete with a pair of neon-yellow leggings strewn over the back of a chair.
Devon insists that Griffin eats some of the crackers, and then he lingers at my side as the lights and cameras are set up and Griffin’s introduced to the interviewer.
Griffin’s fully prepared for every question, barely waiting until the interviewer finishes speaking before he jumps into his answer.
“I love music! I love my fans! I want to thank the Academy!” he says at one point, which makes me laugh and seems to confuse Devon. But Griffin turns rather earnest when the interviewer asks about his hopes and plans for his career. “Well, of course, I, like everyone else, would love to become a member of a few secret organizations of powerful individuals who control the very fabrics of society. Go to loads of great parties. Be Karl Lagerfeld’s muse for a fashion show. Meet David Bowie. Appear in an episode or two of Doctor Who.”
“Wow! Nothing big, then,” the interviewer says, and everyone chuckles politely except for Griffin, who is completely earnest, and me, since I’m somewhere between shocked and impressed. In a world of people who hide everything, Griffin’s certainly changing the dialogue with his blunt aspirations.
Of course, the bit about secret organizations makes me curious with that whole aforementioned ‘taking over our planet and harvesting our livers’ thing. I’ll have to ask him to expound on that later.
“We love your song,” the interviewer says. “Can’t wait for another one!”
Griffin grins. “Of course you can’t. It’s the best song of all time.”
“Noel Gallagher might disagree with you about that, but I’m pretty much in agreement.”
“Who’s Noel Gallagher?”
Everyone laughs again, me included. Actually, I’m laughing harder than anyone in the room, because I know Griffin’s not joking, and I know Noel Gallagher is probably having a fit somewhere without even knowing why.
“You’re hilarious!” the interviewer says.
“Yes, I really am. I’ve got a wonderful sense of humor, though it’s not quite as impressive as my taste in fashion,” Griffin says. “Wanda Kirkwood is my stylist, and she’s very good, but I always have final say.”
“And she’s your girlfriend, I hear.”
“Yeah, she’s great! We slept together last night, bonded. I didn’t even have to lie and pretend I want to marry her.”
My laughter dies away as I imagine my mother’s face.
The interviewer seems quite excited about this revelation. “Oh yeah? And how was that?”
“Great! I’m lucky to have her. She takes very, very good care of me.”
The interviewer lets out a lecherous laugh, and I start planning what exactly I’ll say to my mother next time I see her. Somehow, I can’t see her feeling too comfortable with the idea of me being some pop star’s casual fling.
Griffin finishes his interview by announcing to his fans that he wants to meet every single one of them. He leaps out of his chair, running over to ask Devon and me how he’s done.
“Why did you tell everyone you slept with me last night?” I demand, pinching the sleeve of his shirt between my fingers and leaning close so he can’t escape.
“Because I did sleep with you last night. And I want everyone else to appreciate you as much as I do, Wanda.”
“But we talked about how ‘slept together’ doesn’t mean what you think it means, remember? It means sex.”
“Does it?” Griffin smirks. “Well, then everyone thinks you’re the woman the most important and powerful man in the world wants to shag.” He stalks away from me then, head held high and swagger turned up to ten.
I’m going to strangle him with a Hermes scarf.
The interviewer eyeballs me as he walks by, which just strengthens my resolve to get Griffin back later, but for now, there’s little I can do besides allow the group of bodyguards to herd us along. Judging by their expressions, they feel nervous about something.
“You should come out tonight to Wolf Head,” the interviewer says to Griffin in an undertone. “Great place; you’ll have a lot of fun. It’s very exclusive. I’ll mention your name, so it won’t be a problem getting in.”
“Wolf Head? I haven’t heard of it.”
I grab Griffin’s arm as we leave the studio and yank him closer, leaning in until our heads are nearly touching. “We have to go to Wolf Head.”
Griffin glances sidelong at me. “Oh?”
“You’re taking me there.”
“While I like the idea of attending a real dance club, I’m not sure it’s a good use of my time.”
“No, no, this isn’t a question, Griffin. They have killer DJs, and some nights, they have live music from really good bands.” I’ve wanted to go to Wolf Head since way before I moved to the city, thanks to years of following the sorts of bands who play in a place like that. One of my best friends, Kammie, has been there and consistently raves about it. “Look, if you want to learn about music, you need to go there.”
“Well, I suppose if you think it’s important for building my reputation as a famous pop star…”
“It’s important to everything. And I want to go, so you’re going to take me.” Holding my breath, I wait to see if he’ll accept my command. Thankfully, after a very short moment of hesitation, he nods and tells Devon that we’re going out tonight.
Even if it’s not exactly in the way I had envisioned it, at least I’m about to check off a major box on my New York City wish list…
Dating an Alien Pop Star Page 8