Generation Next (2 page)

Beverly Hills, California, August

It's just after 11:30 a.m. by the time the limo drops us off outside the Four Seasons Hotel. I feel tired—kind of—but somehow wide awake at the same time. It's like there's a weird buzzing in my head, but I'm trying my best to ignore it and stay calm, just so I can retain a tiny sliver of cool in what feels like a totally mad situation. It's not easy, you know? I bet you couldn't do it. In fact, I bet most seventeen-year-olds in my shoes right now would be all over the place, just like I am. But then again, how are you supposed to behave when you're only a couple of hours away from the most important moment of your life and everything is falling apart? How are you meant to stay calm when the stakes are so high? What do you even tell yourself at a time like this? Just keep it simple, I guess. My name is Jack Penman, and I've just arrived at
The Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles, California. It's as easy as that. The rest can wait.

We follow a talkative porter through the impressive hotel lobby toward the reception desk, where our manager, AJ, checks us in before suggesting we head upstairs while he finalizes a few last-minute details in preparation for this morning's event. Once we're inside the room, my traveling companion, who's been unusually quiet during the taxi ride to the hotel, finally speaks. Actually, he shouts.

“Oh what? This hotel room is insane. It's mental. Can you seriously believe all this is for us, J? I mean, just look at it, it's awesome.”

I get the feeling that Austin is pleased with the room, although technically it's not a room. It's a suite of rooms, about the square footage of a football pitch, I'd say at a guess. Not that I play much football, but that would be about right. I let my eyes sweep across the floor and up the walls, scanning every corner. Taking in the L-shaped black sofa opposite the sixty-five-inch curved-screen ultra-high-def TV; the three steps leading up to the bed, which is twice the size of my entire bedroom back home, and the smooth dark wood and gray metal of the industrial-style dining table in the far corner. Yeah, of course there's a dining table and eight chairs in my hotel room—why wouldn't there be? I nod my approval but I don't speak because I'm not sure I'm quite ready yet. Right now I'm trying to process the events that led me to
be standing here in this football pitch of a hotel suite. I'm trying to compress those events into a single thought, but it's impossible. It's just . . .

“J! Oi, Jack! Are you listening to me?”

Austin is my best friend and business partner. Yeah, that second part still sounds weird, but that's what we are these days. I guess that was the plan all along only we didn't expect it to happen quite this fast and for things to be this . . . full on. Austin likes to talk. A lot. He's usually not a fan of peace and quiet, and of course I can hear him, but I'm not sure how to answer because . . . well, to be honest, I'm just as blown away by all this as he is. I'm just trying to keep my excitement on a low one.

“So here we are, then,” I offer eventually.

“Yeah, I definitely think we've arrived,” Austin says.

“One hundred percent.”

I drop my bag on the carpet by my feet, which is so thick there's barely a soft thud when the bag hits it. Austin cocks his head to one side and glances through the big white double doors on the far side of the room.

“There's another massive bedroom through there. I think that one must be mine 'cause, you know, the TV's bigger.”

We look at one another, our grins widening in unison until we both fall about laughing. We laugh until our sides hurt, until our faces ache. And why not? It's pretty hilarious, all this—funny and stupid and terrifying all at once—and to be honest, if I don't laugh right now, I'm
probably going to lose it, and now is definitely not a good time for that to happen.

Once we stop laughing, Austin strides over to the big glass coffee table in front of the sofa and picks up one of about six white boxes.

“What's all that?” I ask, falling backward on to a ridiculously soft bed.

He pulls a pair of blue and white Converse All Stars from the box. Then he pulls a pair of gray and white ones out of a second box.

“Nice,” he says.

“What size are they?” I ask.

“Austin and Jack size.” He smiles.

He picks up the little white card that is sitting on the table next to the boxes and starts waving it around like an idiot, talking in a silly posh voice as he reads it. “‘Gents, we believe these are to your taste. We'd be very happy if you'd like to wear a pair each at the interview tonight. Good luck and all the best from Andy Smart, head of press and promotions, Converse US.'” He drops the card back down on the table. “Mate, people are giving us flippin' shoes. Why are people giving us shoes? And six pairs; I've only got two feet.”

“They want us to wear their trainers tonight because the interview is going to be watched online by, like, millions of people or something,” I tell him. “So the idea is that other kids watching will say, ‘Yeah, I want to wear All Stars just like Austin Slade and Jack Penman.'”

“Why?”

“Because they'll want to be like us is why.”

I watch Austin trying to process this information, his eyes narrowing, his floppy blond hair hiding a scrunched-up forehead. “Yeah, I get that,” he finally says, “but will they even be able to see our feet?”

This makes me crack up all over again. Austin has got a point. A stupid point but a point nonetheless.

Twelve p.m. I'm showered and dressed now but I'm feeling even more tense. The old tummy's doing a few gymnastics under my T-shirt and the dry throat is creeping upward until my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. AJ is sitting at the dining table, poking at his phone and sending emails. He doesn't look all that relaxed either, but when I glance over in his direction, he smiles. “Everything's cool,” he says.

He's a man of few words is AJ, but he's a good manager: smart and very competent, even though he doesn't look much older than us most days. He's overseen this sort of event before and he knows the drill. I just nod back at him and chew my lip nervously. Meanwhile, I can hear Austin on the phone to his new girlfriend, Jess, in the next room; I recognize that lovey-dovey tone he adopts when he talks to her. Suddenly I feel quite envious; it just kind of sweeps over me. It would be nice to have a girlfriend to wish me luck right now, wouldn't it? Someone other than my mum and dad to reassure me and say, “Don't worry, Jack, you're going to smash this interview.” I feel like I need that today.

When the knock on the door comes, I don't feel ready. AJ jumps up and darts across the room to answer it. Austin looks over at me. “Are you all right, J? You look a bit pale, man.”

I notice he's wearing the blue and white Converse. “Yeah, I'm all good.”

“Here we go,” he says.

“Here we go.”

A plaid-shirted hipster greets us as the door swings open. He has an excessive amount of facial hair but I can just about tell that he's grinning under the bushy red of his beard.

“Hey, Jack, Austin, AJ. Duke Hamilton. I'm one of the producers of tonight's event. How y'all doing?”

Surely his name can't be Duke. That's a dog's name, isn't it?

“Are you ready for your big moment, guys? The world's waiting.”

“Is it?”

“It sure is, Jack. OK, guys, I'm going to take you down to the room where it's all happening and we'll get you a drink, say a few hellos, then set you up with mics and give you a little sound and camera check. We go live at one. We'll do a quick warm-up chat with you guys first, just in case there's anyone out there who still doesn't know who you are and what you do, and then we'll get to the main event. Exciting, huh? Does that sound OK?”

“Sounds good,” I tell him, but I'm bricking it.

“Don't worry, boys. I'll be with you every step of the way,” AJ assures us. “Just chill and enjoy it.”

Austin puts his hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle shove toward the door, but I feel like I'm in a kind of semi-daze; like I'm about to be jolted awake at any moment and I'll find myself sitting in my bedroom back in Hertfordshire in my boxers and a T-shirt and not in some stupidly swanky hotel in Beverly Hills at all.

Halfway down the hall, my phone rings and makes me jump.

“Guys, you should turn off your phones before we go live to the universe,” Duke says.

Instinctively I pull my iPhone out of my side pocket, slide my thumb across the screen and answer it, even though the caller's number is blocked. I wish I hadn't. The sound of the voice on the other end hits me like a train. I feel like all the blood has run out of my face and I'm numb. Crap. Not this, not now. I listen to the voice for a while, and then I speak.

“Yes, I hear you. Yes, I understand.”

I've stopped walking now, halfway down the hall leading to the elevator. I can feel the sweat on my neck, my dry mouth returning with a vengeance. “Look, I can't do this now, man. You couldn't have picked a worse . . .”

Austin and AJ are walking back down the hall toward me now, both wide-eyed. Duke is standing by the elevator, beckoning impatiently. “Let's go, guys!”

“I need to hang up,” I say. “Don't threaten me . . . Look, I don't even believe you have what you say you have, so back off, all right?”

Shaken, I shove my phone back into my pocket and look up at Austin, who is now facing me. “Is everything cool, J?”

“Yeah, mate, everything's totally cool,” I say, lying through my teeth.

“What was all that about?” AJ asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Let's go.”

I follow Austin and AJ further along the hall to the elevator and we head downstairs. We cross the shiny lobby toward a noisy room packed with people: some drinking low-fat decaf soya lattes, or whatever they drink in LA, and others gulping down mini-burgers, all standing under a stupidly large chandelier. Just outside the room is a big unoccupied sofa. It looks inviting, so I sit down.

Poor Duke looks flustered. “What's happening, Jack? Why are you sitting down? There's no sitting down now.”

“I just need a minute,” I tell him.

“But . . .”

“Take Austin through,” AJ tells Duke. “We'll follow you in a minute.”

“No. All of you go in,” I snap back. “I just need to be on my own.”

Austin looks concerned. He leans over me, studying my face for a telltale sign of what the hell might be going on.

“Are you positive everything is all right, J? Who was that on the phone?”

“It's all good, mate. One hundred percent.”

The corner of Austin's mouth is doing the involuntary twitching thing. It's something that happens when he's nervous or he knows something isn't right. He's had it since the day I met him.

“Go and get us a drink. I just want to get my head straight, that's all.” I try to sound as calm as I can. “This is a massive thing we're doing; I need to gather my thoughts. I told you, I just need a minute.”

Once they've gone, my mind races. How can this be happening, right at this particular moment? And how can I do anything about it when we're about to do something so important? I sit back, enjoying the softness of the sofa, and I suddenly feel shot; so tired. If only I could just shut my eyes and sleep. Just for . . .

“Jack, we need to move. Now, please.”

AJ is standing over me. He's holding a glass of what looks like champagne, even though it's only noon, with Austin hovering behind him. “Have this, Jack. Dutch courage.”

“He's not Dutch,” Austin says, grinning, but I can tell now that he's as scared as I am.

Maybe not quite as scared.

I decline the champagne—the last thing I need is for my thoughts to feel any more scrambled than they already are. I virtually catapult myself off the sofa and
move into the crowded room, smiling and nodding at people I don't know but who clearly seem to know me. A young woman jumps in front of me, walking backward while trying to pin a mic on me as I move through the crowd. There's a lot of noise, a massive buzz, and I know what it's all for but it sort of doesn't compute, and as I get closer to the small stage that has been set up at the far end of the room, I feel like the whole scene is going a bit fuzzy around me and the sound of the chattering crowd is getting louder and louder.

Before I can catch my breath, my phone beeps again and I grab it because I really need to turn it off now, but there's a text from the same blocked number—someone has sent a video. My heart sinks like a stone, but I know I have to look, just to be sure. I turn my back on the stage and hit play and . . . there it is. It does exist, and I'm screwed. We're all screwed.

Before I know what's happening, I'm ushered on to the stage and find myself sitting on a stool next to Austin, looking into a huge camera lens. A guy in a denim shirt comes over and shakes our hands in turn and then sits on the third stool, on the other side of Austin. Duke jumps on to the stage and hushes the crowd before glancing at his watch. Have I missed something? Has somebody been talking to me while I've been walking and I've not been listening, because I can't really remember a single thing since . . . since the phone call.