The Story Continues
What do you do when you’re fighting with your housemates who also happen to be your best mates over a house that is about to be deemed unliveable?
A: You call your mumma and get her to fly down from Noosa so that you can stay in a nice hotel and get some good old fashioned life advice.
I’ve been wanting to stay at QT boutique hotel for some time so I was excited when a friend gave me a great deal on a deluxe king suite.
I love that it’s not like most hotels in fact it’s the Mick Jagger of hotels with more personality than you can poke a stick at…
“You can have those and I’ll have the martinis.” I say grabbing both glasses.
“Sweetie” she purrs – the woman is like an exact clone of Eddy from Ab Fab but with jet black hair and a sun tan.
She sits on the bed and gives me that look.
“Tell mummy what’s wrong” She says.
I explain to her in detail the situation with The Queens and how heartbroken I am about everything that has happened. During the long winded recount of unfortunate events I pour the two mini bottles of Patron into the glass and begin to sip the alcohol straight. It tastes like shit but I know that mum will insist on covering any extra charges to the room and getting drunk for free sounds like a really good idea right about now.
“It’s fucked because I feel like I’m not only losing my best friends but the blog too, what will I write about when they’re not around?” I ask her flatly.
“It is fucked” mum says – I’ve always loved her candidness.
“But it’s going to be ok. You know that you can’t go to Europe with them anyway – you’ve got this fantastic job now”
This is true however I don’t know how fantastic I’ll feel when I see pictures of them soaking up the Tuscan sun while I’m back here working a 50 hour week.
“And they will always be your friends you just have to accept that it is what it is and be happy for them.”
I know she is right but I don’t want to accept anything let alone be happy for them. Ms L and Ms B are my best bitches, my main partners in crime I don’t know what I’ll do without them.
“Yeah but what about the blog?” I say sprawling myself out beside her on the white linen sheets.
“Heaven on Bourke was your idea, it’s something that began long before they came along… sure you may have to live with other people or move somewhere else but the essence of your blog will never change.”
I must not look convinced because she continues in that soothing maternal voice…
“Sweetie you’ll find other things to write about, after all it’s your adventure and your story will continue with or without them – didn’t you see that quote mummy tagged you in on Facebook?”
I roll my eyes and get up to give her a hug. She is right, my life has never been short of things to write about so why would it change now?
And then much like that classic scene in any children’s Chirstmas movie when you first see Santa’s slay come into sight, something weird, wonderful and magical happened right before my eyes.
The QT hotel has a great central location, especially if you LOVE shopping. Although I wasn’t in the mood for shopping I told mum that I wanted to pop out quickly before dinner to check on the girls in our Maple Flagship store. While she ran a bath I grabbed my coat and headed down the elevator (which was playing some seriously cool beats) and out towards the main entrance.
By this time the double shot martini had begun to work it’s magic and I decided it would be a great idea to send a cheeky text message to Mr R.
I wanted to write “hey big boy can I move into your swanky new Bondi apartment?”
Instead I wrote “hey big boy,c ;)?”
Maybe I should have eaten lunch.
The entire time I was writing the message I could feel a bunch of people buzzing around me. Preoccupied by the battle that was taking place between myself and autocorrect I kept my head down, blocked out the noise and pushed forward heading in the direction of the boutique.
“Excuse me…” I heard a man say at one point
“Nope, sorry” I murmured still looking at my phone pushing through the crowd at a steady pace. Those damn homeless guys are always trying to unnerve me.
Well it ain’t gonna happen. I’m unnervable, I’m an unnervable city chick with the world at my feet.
Feet. I stopped suddenly and glanced past my phone at my Tony Bianco’s. The black leather looked even richer against the red. Red. Why is the ground red?
I looked up and my heart stopped. For some reason I was in the middle of a red carpet. I tried to move forward but 10 or so meters ahead I saw the exit blocked off by a dozen police men and countless members of the press.
I peered to my right, a gorgeous young journalist gave me a confused slightly irritated look. I broke eye contact with the woman and swung around to my left. Instantly I felt an overwhelming wave of nausea wash over me as I glanced across the street. 100 or so people were squished behind a long blue barricade all staring at me. Except they weren’t staring at me they were staring at something else next to me.
“Are you ready?” said the journalist
“Here he comes.” she positioned her microphone in front of her mouth and the camera crew took their stance.
Here who comes?
The crowd across the road suddenly erupted, female voices filled the air. Girls screamed and whistled wildly. In the drone of cries I made out two very distinct words.
ROBERTTTTTTT! ROBERTT PATTERSONNN!!!!!!
Fuck me dead.