In the meantime, pictures surfaced showing Brit getting off her plane in LA carrying bags from Juicy Couture and Intermix. My editor called the stores at Phipps and confirmed that Britney was there on Saturday.
So again, I was coming up empty and starting to feel like I was failing.
I decided not to go to the house, and I took my husband with me back to the Four Seasons. Though he wanted to go up to the bar right away, I suggested we lurk around the hotel in the hopes of finding its spa and maybe getting an underling there to tell us whether Britney had been around.
We walked back toward the spa, and just as I was about to ask about Brit, the attendant asked if we’d like to tour the gym.
Uh, okay.
He let us in, and told us we were free to look around.
I figured there was no harm in just poking around. Maybe there would be a towel-folder who could tell me that Britney came by at some point.
I was trying to look inconspicuous but certainly failing, given that I was in normal clothes and everyone here is in workout wear.
I began to think it was time to hit the bar and call this quits when I saw someone on the treadmill.
“Wait,” I said to Steve. “Is that ... Dallas Austin?”
No, it couldn’t be. I thought he had a gym at his sprawling house (thanks, Cribs) and lived about thirty minutes from here. Why would he come to the Four Seasons to work out on a Monday night?
I hemmed and hawed and whined that I didn’t want to approach that guy. What if it wasn’t him?
“We are not leaving here until you go talk to that guy,” Steve insisted.
Finally, I bit the bullet and walked up to the mystery man while he was between reps at the free weights.
“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you, but you look so familiar to me,” I stuttered. “You’re not Dallas Austin, are you?”
