Chapter 23
23
The halls of Steps on Broadway are alive with the sound of music. I am slinking down one of them toward Fatima’s auditions in studio three, as Tchaikovsky, Gershwin, and Timbaland each take their turn enveloping me with their signature vibrant cadences. This glorious sound bath is almost transportive enough to help me forget I’ve just said goodbye to Miles without knowing when I’ll see him again.
I have spent most of the hour that’s passed since we parted ways at the hotel replaying moments of our stolen night together. And I can still feel the fiery imprints of every touch, like phantom pangs of longing I can’t quite shake. Like a song on loop in my mind, I repeat the sounding pleasure and release. I feel it all, just as clearly as the heavy bass that rocks the walls of the dance studio.
A buzz at my hip jolts me out of this waking dream, and glancing at my phone, I find a text from Jamie: Pinch hitting for Rod today. Be there in five. I smile at her text but roll my eyes too. Since my mini meltdown before the video shoot and last night’s four-way heart-to-heart ahead of the gala, Rod and Jamie seem convinced I’m in need of near-constant emotional support. And while they’re not wrong, I don’t want them to feel like they have to babysit me. Even if it’s cute seeing them tag team like this.
Rodney called fifteen minutes ago to tell me he got tied up and wouldn’t be able to make it to the auditions. Apparently, he’d received a last-minute invitation to Kleinfeld’s for Angelo’s sister’s bridal appointment and saw it as a perfect opportunity to put his skills to use in order to win over his new love’s family. I could only agree that it would be a much better use of his time. I stop in my tracks, though, when I realize the sudden switch just made today a bit more complex. Rodney may be my best and oldest friend, but where he might need a thing or two spelled out for him, nothing gets past Jamie. Now, I’ll have to find a way to keep what Miles and I did last night under wraps from my very nosy and very observant girlfriend. And, frankly, I may not be cut out for this.
As I get closer to studio three, Fatima’s voice calls out the steps to the audition routine, and the energy of the moment sends my heartbeats into overdrive. It sinks in that this may be my last tour as an artist signed with Onyx Records. And if Janet can’t find a way to get me out of the predatory noncompete terms in my current contract, this could very well be the last album I tour with for a long time—possibly ever. The very notion is sharp and unrelenting, and all the more reason for me to savor every moment of today’s audition.
“And one, and two, and three, and four. Five, six, seven, eight.” I hear Fatima count out the choreography, along with the swishes and swoops of bodies moving through the air and heels turning on marley flooring. “And boom and crack, and shake, shake, shake. Drop it low. Knees to the floor. And swoop. And swish. And crawl, crawl, crawl. Now toss the hair, toss the hair. Then roll it to the top. And pump it once. Pump it twice. Now move it to the center and melt…”
I reach the window to the studio for the final eight-count of Fatima’s combination, just in time to notice the interesting , for lack of a better word, direction she seems to have taken with the choreography. She’s selected a deep cut from my sophomore album called “Just One More Night” as the audition piece—it’s an upbeat track with instrumentation that screams of Elliot’s heavy disco influence. The lyrics are pure desperation, like soul cries from one lover to another who went away too soon. But the dancing seems to communicate something else entirely. Something that, dare I say, you might find in a TikTok challenge?
“Yes! Dancers! I need you to bring it just like that when Ella Simone comes in. Now one more time from the top, let’s go!” Fatima’s voice filters out into the hall to where I’m standing, or hiding, more precisely. I like to get my first look at the dancers from the shadows, before they know I’m watching. My presence almost always alters the vibe at an audition. Sometimes for better, but usually for worse. Some dancers thrive under the pressure of seeing the artist in the room, while others stiffen or wilt under the raised stakes. But in those few moments before I enter, after the muscle memory sets in and the true artistry starts to take flight—those are the moments I feast on.
But this time, something here feels very off.
“Fancy meeting you here.” The words, spoken from behind, make me jump and flail and nearly bang my head against the studio door. “Gosh, I know you’re happy it’s me and not Rod, but no need to damage property,” Jamie says flatly but with a twinkle in her eye that gives away what an unserious person she is.
Rolling my own eyes, I pull her into a hug. “Nice of you to finally show up,” I tease.
“Given that I learned of this less than an hour ago, I’d say my response time is on point,” she volleys back.
“Touché,” I concede. “Shall we?” I reach for the door handle, and we enter just as Fatima’s given everyone a five-minute water break.
When my choreographer spots us, she bounds our way. And Fatima is a sight to behold, practically floating across the studio in billowing sarouel pants and a loose-fitting halter top. As she draws closer, I notice her familiar mahogany skin glowing with the slightest sheen of sweat and am once again struck by her sage green eyes, which match the charm that dangles from her gold septum piercing. We greet with a tight hug.
“You made it!” she exclaims. Then in a hushed tone as her eyes dart around us, she says, “I’m so glad, you have no idea.”
I glance at Jamie to see if she’s catching the same off vibes that are pinging my radar. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I lie, because I can think of one thing I’d miss this for, and he’s on his way to the airport right about now. “How’s everything going?” I ask.
As if searching for a hidden camera, Fatima’s eyes scan the studio before landing back on mine, and my suspicions from a moment ago double in intensity. “So, listen, I’ve received some…‘direction’ we’ll call it, from marketing at the label that’s…” She pauses, and I can sense emotion welling behind her eyes. “Look, if I thought for a second that this was your call, I wouldn’t be bringing this up to you at all. But when I saw the email, it didn’t sit well with my spirit. That’s all I can say,” she eventually gets out.
“Can you…can you show us this email?” Jamie asks. And thank goodness for her, because I’ve apparently lost the ability to speak due to the steam spewing from my ears.
Fatima brandishes a phone from her pants pocket and swipes open the email in question. Jamie and I crowd in on either side of her so we can all read it together.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Ella Simone—Tour 2024
Fatima—we’re so excited to learn you’ve signed on as dance director for another tour with Ms. Simone. I know you’re working with the promoters on all the logistics, but as you prep for auditions, I wanted to pass on some of the feedback that marketing has for Ella ahead of this tour. Full disclosure, the dept is concerned the music this time around may need a boost from the visuals. That’s where we think you’ll be clutch! We’re really hoping for a punchy new look/vibe for these shows, which as you know, go hand in hand with album sales.
To put it plainly, we’d love to see viral dance challenges come out of this tour. We’re talking kids in the audience recording the show and posting clips in real time. We’re talking kids in their high school hallways shouting “hit that,” then Ella’s song comes on. Can you imagine how major that could be? The worry is, we won’t get there if we don’t change things up—sexify things a bit. Bring a little shock to the system. Think of Miley’s Bangerz era. I think this is clear but feel free to give me a ring if you need some clarification.
Lydia Caplin
Marketing, Talent & Publicity
Onyx Records
“Gah! Could that have been any longer? Talk about saying a lot and nothing at the same time.” Jamie scoffs. “At least this explains the ‘pump it once, pump it twice’ I heard out in the hallway.”
Fatima looks at me with tears streaking her cheeks, and this is when I realize how deeply troubled she is by this. And damn, I was not prepared to walk into such an emotionally charged environment today.
“I’m just trying to give them what they want,” she says, voice wobbly, “but, girl, my heart isn’t in it. I can’t create like this.” She whispers the last part as her shoulders begin to shake.
“Oh, honey, no!” I tell her, placing a hand on one of her quivering shoulders as I glance over at Jamie, panicked. My emotionally stunted, “no help” friend simply shrugs and turns her face to the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, I didn’t want to have to show you that email. But how else could I unburden myself of this load?” she asks, and Jamie’s eyes lock with mine and go wide. If I could shush her facial expressions, I would. Fatima presses on. “I just, felt so in tune with this album. I mean, I pressed play and I instantly saw the movement and the timing in my head. Then they throw this curveball…I repeat, I cannot create like this, my love.”
After drawing in one slow, deep breath and exhaling steadily, I say, “So, here’s what we do…absolutely nothing.”
Both Fatima and Jamie stare at me like I’ve sprouted antlers. Undeterred, I continue, “We stick to your original plan for the choreography and we say fuck ’em!”
“Okay, great!” she says, without skipping a beat. “But there’s one issue with that…I don’t want to get fired.” Understandably, her voice drops to a more serious tone.
“Well, technically, Onyx Records didn’t hire you,” I tell her. “The tour promoters did. So, if the label has an issue with this, they can talk to me.”
At the sudden reassurance of her job, and the reinstitution of her creative license, Fatima perks up real quick. After blowing me a kiss, she turns back to the room.
“All right, dancers! Shoes off. Let’s feel the floor under our feet. We’re going to change things up a bit after I introduce you all to some special folks who’ve just joined us!”
And now, it’s time to have some fun.
All in all, we spent two hours at the audition. By the end, four women and two men were selected to join us on tour later this summer. Apart from how things started, it was a productive day. So after we left Steps, Jamie and I decided to indulge in a little retail therapy.
“Hello, ladies, welcome to Gucci,” the salesman greets us upon entry at the flagship Fifth Avenue store.
“You had a birthday last week,” I say, with the intention of offering to purchase her anything her heart desires. But I’m stalled from making the offer when Jamie cuts her eyes at me as if I’ve just accused her of high crimes.
“Shhh!!” Her eyes dart around the store. “That’s nobody’s business,” she hisses at me.
I roll mine. “Jamie, you’re thirty-five, not a hundred.”
At my mention of her age, Jamie’s face goes blank. Then she turns and stalks toward the exit. I skip to catch up with her and gently tug her sleeve, all the while clocking the salesperson whose eyes haven’t left our spot. “Hey,” I say softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…mean to strike a nerve.”
Jamie slowly turns with her face in an exaggerated pout. She shrugs me off. “It’s fine,” she says unconvincingly, “nothing that a Marmont mini in white can’t fix.” Her eyes cut to the left, where a stack of chevron leather cross-body bags with golden-chained straps strike a bold presence.
Sighing I say, “I was going to say,” then I drop my voice to a whisper. “Because you had a birthday, today’s haul is on me.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” At this, she perks up, and I look forward to finally enjoying some shopping.
“This green would look better on you,” I tell Jamie through the shared wall of our changing room. I open the curtain slightly to ask the salesperson to pass the garment over to my friend. A few moments later, we both emerge from our stalls looking somewhat ridiculous in items from Gucci’s spring ready-to-wear line.
“My legs are too short for pants like these,” Jamie laments.
“And I don’t have the shoulders to pull off this neckline,” I surmise by scrutinizing myself in the mirror. When my eyes flit about two feet over, I find Jamie also scrutinizing my reflection. “What’s up? Something in my teeth?”
“Oh no,” she says. “Nothing like that. I’m just…wondering how you’re doing. Divorce is hard, you know?”
And this is the part where I remember that of all the people close to me, Jamie’s the one who’s experienced what I’m going through. Only she did it with a kid—something I can’t imagine. Her question makes me jumpy all of a sudden, like answering it will expose me to the elements. I mean sure, I had sex last night and it completely rocked my world. But I also nearly fell apart this morning out of fear of abandonment, which is far too much responsibility to rest on Miles’s shoulders at this point. So, these conflicting emotions are clearly the explosive residue of the battle that was my failed marriage.
“It’s fine,” I say, shocked to find myself on the brink of tears. “It’s just…here I am dealing with all these broken pieces, of me, of my life. All these questions I’ll never get the answers to. And the one thing I want, that I never got and probably never will…is just an apology. How can a marriage end and no one say sorry? If it’s going to hurt this bad, then someone ought to be sorry.” I’m full-on crying now. By the looks of it, the salesperson is silently wishing they could kick us out. But I think they may recognize me, and therefore they’ve decided better of it.
Jamie doesn’t hug me, and that’s okay. It’s not her thing. But she does step closer, her arm within a few inches of mine—and still, we’re seeing each other in the mirror. “You can’t wait for sorry, girl,” she says, her voice soft and low. “If he was sorry, he would have changed.”
At this, a full sob breaks free. And then she does put her arm around me, albeit awkwardly. “I know it sounds like I’m being harsh, but I’m only speaking from experience,” she says. “I spent years accepting ‘sorries’ from Milo’s dad only for him to turn right back around and make a fool out of me over and over again. Eventually, I realized that when someone is truly remorseful about the way they’ve treated you, their actions change. Saying ‘sorry’ is like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound and expecting it to heal without any other interventions.”
The imagery of what she’s just said quells the tears. I’m about to thank Jamie for her sage, if harsh, wisdom when—
“Excuse me, ladies,” the salesperson interrupts our overly emotional shopping experience. “Could I interest you both in a glass of champagne? Seems like it might…help.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Simone, your account at the store has been closed as of two weeks ago. We can’t process these purchases without a credit card,” the sales associate at the register, whose name is Kevin, according to the gold plate that’s fixed to his lapel, chirps at a volume too loud for my liking.
“I’m sorry, there must be some mistake,” I say, trying to keep my voice low and my tone neutral. “Can you check again?”
Kevin hesitates, opening his mouth, possibly to object when—
“At least help us out and tell her who authorized the closure,” Jamie cuts in, with enough sass to send Kevin’s dubious eyeballs back to his computer screen.
His mounting unease with our situation is evident. But, ever the professional, Kevin proceeds to dutifully tap on his keyboard in search of the answer. After a few seconds, his eyes flit up to mine with an emotion that resembles nothing short of pity—and I want to evaporate. He clears his throat, eyes darting about the store, before speaking in a low whisper. “It appears that the request was made on behalf of Mr. Elliot Majors, ma’am.”
Next to me, there’s a barely audible gasp. It’s Jamie. I turn to see her mouth wide open.
“That petty little bitch,” Jamie hisses. “Honestly, I’m impressed. Pissed. But impressed, no less.”
It’s a good thing my friend can talk, because I am internally seething—alarm bells sounding in my mind. If ditching me at the Grammys was a declaration of war, then this? This is the launching of a thousand ships. You don’t leave a woman stranded at a cash register with a rack of clothes and no way to pay. This is Gucci, not Burlington. There is no layaway.
“So, um.” Kevin proceeds with caution, likely out of deference to our waning dignity. “As mentioned, we will need a credit card to complete your purchase today.” He clears his throat.
I stand motionless. Speechless too. Likely with steam emanating from my ears. All I have is cash, and not nearly enough to cover our total. At my rescue, Jamie leaps into action, digging in her purse to retrieve her credit card.
“Here,” she says, handing the plastic rectangle over to Kevin. “No, wait.” She abruptly snatches it back from him before digging in her wallet to brandish another one. “Better if we use this one.” She offers him a tight grin before turning to me with a shrug. I could implode.
And just before Kevin is about to swipe…“Wait!” Jamie exclaims. And the poor man looks like he’s about to cry. “My bad, it’s just…I get better rewards through Chase,” she explains. “Here you go.” She hands him her third and final card. He holds it in the air with his eyebrows raised as if to say, You sure this time?
“Swipe it, dude,” Jamie sharply demands, and Kevin almost jumps.
We burst through Gucci’s double door exit onto the pavement of Fifth Avenue, where a strong gust of wind nearly blows our bags away. Scrambling to collect ourselves and our things, Jamie and I end up standing face-to-face and eye to eye. With anyone else, I might cry right now—out of humiliation, disgust, or just pure incandescent anger. But with Jamie, it seems the only right response to this moment is laughter. I crack first when a chuckle bubbles up from my chest, splitting my lips apart until my cheeks hurt from the stretch. She follows almost instantly, and then we’re both doubled over on the sidewalk, probably giving passersby cause for alarm.
“Bitch! Did you see his face when you asked him to check again?” Jamie guffaws. “He was this close to waving over security,” she sputters, attempting to catch her breath. “Elliot almost got us bounced out of Gucci!”
“ We almost got us bounced out of Gucci before Elliot did,” I say, “Remind me we can’t shop together. We’re a liability.”
“And to think, you’re even on a Gucci billboard!” Jamie shouts.
She’s right. I’d forgotten about that. In fact, it’s probably why Elliot did this in the first place. He always resented being upstaged. When we regain our composure, we straighten our bags and link arms as we saunter down Fifth Avenue into the sunset.
“Happy belated birthday, by the way,” I tell Jamie. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get to my hotel.”
“Oh, no rush,” she replies. “I know you’re good for it. And if not, I know where you live.”
At that, I chuckle. “So about those credit cards…How many do you have, exactly?”
“Enough to make it work,” she says. And then after a beat, she repeats, “Enough to make it work.”