Chapter 9 Alexander
Saturday
I keep scanning the rows, hoping to spot Christopher. But I can’t seem to locate him. Rita Watson, yes. She waves her hand at me like a windshield wiper, having to hold on to the strap of her dress every time she does so as not to expose herself.
I even double-checked with Lucy during a costume change to ensure I have the right block, but she confirmed that’s where the seats were with a nod and a vague roll of her shoulders.
With just two songs left and one last look at that block, I admit defeat.
I call in my performance for the rest of the show.
My voice is beginning to give way again, forcing me to hold out the microphone to the crowd and encourage them to help me sing along.
The team had set up an IV drip for me before the show—I’d told them the lingering effects of the alcohol might be a virus—but it’s starting to wear off.
Nothing like a hangover to remind me I’m not invincible.
And nothing like a guy not showing up to remind me I can’t always get what I want.
I plaster on a smile for the final song, my biggest hit to date, It’s You That I Need, and hold out the microphone to the crowd, letting them and the backing vocals carry me through.
I bow out without as much as a Thank you, London!
, or Goodnight!, keeping my head down and ignoring the crew and guests loitering backstage to speedwalk down the corridors.
I just want to retreat into the dressing room.
By the time I’ve showered, changed clothes, and gotten a fresh layer of makeup from Erica, Rob is there to escort me into the backstage bar.
The red-walled room is filled with people standing by the bar or seated on felt couches scattered round the vast space.
The dim overhead lighting is thankfully turned down a notch, giving my weary eyes a rest.
“Don’t forget to smile,” Connie says, greeting us at the door. Her head tilts slightly to the side, waiting for me to put one on my face.
“Happy,” I say, giving her a fuck you smile.
Connie rolls her eyes, turns around and moves into the room, clearly expecting me to follow. At my request, Rob goes to check with the box office about Christopher.
It’s like I’m being wheeled out for another performance, this time to a bar of friends and family, though neither are present.
My parents aren’t supposed to come over till next week, and my brother Harrison avoids anything to do with my shows.
Instead, the room is filled with a bunch of music industry contacts and their friends and family.
And one disheveled Rita Watson, standing with her friend and talking to Paul.
Connie does her best to introduce me briefly to everyone, moving me on after exchanging pleasantries and posing for the obligatory selfies.
Boxes ticked.
Hoops jumped through.
Yet no badge or medal at the end of it.
“Sorry boss, looks like he never picked up the tickets,” Rob says, leaning in, just as we get to Rita and her friend.
His words wipe the fake smile from my face.
I knew Christopher coming was a long shot, but it’s a double blow when I’m confronted by Rita in her skimpy green dress.
“Why so down?” Rita says, like she’s speaking to a baby. She stretches her hand out, thumb and index finger extended, to lift the corners of my lips upward. A flicker of irritation forms in my chest when no one comes in or tells her to move her hand away.
“I’m sure I can find a way to turn that frown upside down,” she says, giving me a wink. She removes her hand once I force the smile back on my face and drops her right shoulder, letting the strap slide down and almost exposing herself once more.
The mere thought of being in bed with her sends a shudder down my spine.
Have some class.
Connie cuts me a sideward glance. Play nice, I can hear her saying.
“Glad you could make the show. I hope you enjoyed it,” I say, shaking away my disdain to once more become the consummate professional. Smile, exchange pleasantries, take the obligatory selfie, and move on.
“Oh, we definitely enjoyed it,” she responds. She briefly looks at her friend, lost in conversation with Paul, and then turns back to me. “Especially those moves in Tonight, I’m Gonna Fly.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively before letting her eyes drift down to my crotch.
“Excuse me, I just need to make a quick call,” I say, suddenly filled with such loathing that I know if I don’t remove myself right now, I will cause a scene. I nod toward the door for Rob’s benefit, so he knows to ensure no one bothers me as I leave.
Once I’m out of the room, with Rob following behind me down the hall, I let out a sharp exhale.
No longer in performative mode. Not sacrificing my needs to appease everyone else.
I reach for my phone and instantly feel my chest tighten again at its reluctance to slide out of my jeans pocket.
The frustration rises up to my throat as the facial recognition fails to recognize me.
Damn makeup.
I attempt to rub it away with the palm of my hand as I hold the phone up to my face again.
This time it opens, right as I enter my dressing room, and I slump into the white leather couch.
I open up iMessage, scrolling back past new messages from the family chat, a friend back home, and Paul, to the message I sent Christopher earlier.
Hope you have a great time at your sister’s bachelorette party. Robs left two tickets under your name if you change your mind.
A wave of fear hits me when I see there’s no “delivered” notification underneath. But I know I took down the number right. I’d checked the napkin three times when entering it in.
Maybe his phone’s dead?
Maybe he doesn’t have roaming set up, and his phone only works on Wi-Fi?
God, I wish my head would give me a break sometimes.
But I need to know the answer.
I click on his contact icon and let my thumb hover over the call button. I take in a sharp inhale, hold my breath and close my eyes, and press the call button. It goes straight to voicemail.
Hi, you’ve reached Christopher Foster. I can’t get to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you.
The sound of his voice hypnotizes me briefly before a rush of panic hits. I hadn’t thought about what I would say to him on a voicemail, let alone if he actually answered. I manage to hang up just before the beep sounds.
What would be a good reason to follow up? I tap my fingers on the arm of the couch. I don’t want to come across as desperate, and sending another message when he hasn’t even read the first one would be just that.
But I do want to see him. To hang out with him.
A thought pops into my head, and I redial, this time leaving him a voicemail.
“Hey, so a few of us are heading to Tape for a personal appearance I have to do, just in case you want to swing by. They’ve got me a table and a load of free drinks, so you, your sister, and all her friends are more than welcome to come. Let me know.”
Rob opens the door, and the flash of lightbulbs hits me.
“Wait!” I yell, over the bellowing from outside.
Rob slides the door back and I reach for my phone, checking once more, but there’s still no message from Christopher. My gaze darts around the car, traveling from Rob to Lucy to Connie, and then on to Paul.
“I need to put Christopher plus guests on the guest list.”
Paul looks at me with a concerned expression, then toward Rob.
“Who’s Christopher?” Paul asks.
I gaze at Rob, whose expression remains steadfast, then at Lucy, who shrugs, and sigh. They’re the only two who know about my interactions with Christopher. At least they’ve respected my right to privacy, but I know what this means with Paul.
I take a deep breath and say, “Just some guy from the hotel. His sister is having her bachelorette party tonight and I thought they could swing by.”
Paul shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly to study my face, just like he would a painting in a gallery.
“Do we have a nondisclosure agreement in place?” His expression is deadpan.
“Come on,” I laugh, shrugging him off. “Not everyone I interact with needs an MNDA.”
“I’m already running a background check on him,” Rob says, breaking the awkward silence. Paul stares at him as if to say, We’ll talk about this later.
“Well, we’ll still need to get an MNDA in place. We all remember the mess that Roy got us into.” He shakes his head as he looks at Rob’s hand, which is still gripping the door handle.
Memories of Roy flash through my head.
He was a gaunt Australian artist on my label.
In the months after Samuel died, he had pretended to care for me, like he knew what it was like to lose someone close.
He had enabled my drinking, helping me spiral out of control, and made a move one night.
Even though I didn’t find him attractive, I caved after months of longed to be touched by another human.
When I pulled away afterward, he didn’t take it well.
He started insinuating that I was using him when he was promoting his album during interviews.
As rumors began circulating online, Connie and Paul got my lawyer involved to silence him and pay him off.
Ever since then, MNDAs have been mandatory. But in the haze of the last three days, the thought of getting Christopher to sign one hadn’t even entered my mind.
“Alex?” Paul snaps me out of my disassociated state.
“Sure. Do what you need to. Just ensure he’s on the list,” I say, as Rob opens the door again and escorts us through the paparazzi and into the club.
The pounding music reverberates through my body, shaking the ice and empty bottles of Belvedere in the bucket on the table.
I reach for one of the mixers in carafes—it barely contains any apple juice, typical—and pour the last of it into the glass, all under the gaze of the crowd that surrounds our VIP table.