Chapter 22
W HEN I GET BACK FROM THE BEACH, THE SCHEDULE HAS BEEN slipped under my door. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’ve never been happier to see a sheet of paper.
4 pm
Piano delivery
5 pm
Piano tuned
6 pm
Interview
7–8 pm
Meal break
8 pm
Piano—new song
8:30 pm
Vocals—new song
Thanks to the schedule, James was able to get plenty of shots of an old Steinway upright piano being delivered. I may have gone a little overboard. I had him capture the moment from every possible angle, even lying on the ground as it rolled by him down the hall. I wanted to capture the instrument’s elegance and build suspense. A reggaetonero having a piano brought into the studio is like Eminem requesting a harp. Well, not quite. But pretty darn close.
Knowledge may, in fact, be power because it’s such a relief to finally know what’s going on. To be on the inside. According to the schedule, René is recording a new song. One we have full access to. We’ve already got shots of the unique-to-reggaeton instrument getting delivered, and now James and I are on our way to interview René before he starts recording. We’re finally going to film the entire process of a song. Catch the flubs, the last-minute changes, the moments of inspiration. All just in time before Maureen arrives.
As we exit our cottage and hop onto the wooden path that leads to the main house, James is trailing behind.
“Sorry, I’ll meet you there.” He looks a little pale.
“Are you all right?”
He nods, waves a shaky hand in the air, and walks briskly back down the path to our cottage. I hope he isn’t getting sick. Thankfully, we’re all set up for the interview in the studio. I could even start without him if I need to.
Inside the long hall that leads to the studio, my heartbeat accelerates. After we spent the morning together, I’m not really sure what to expect from René. He was so nice . On the way back, I cracked him up by reenacting a play-by-play of the bird’s raptor-like attack on the beach. I laughed harder than I have in a really long time.
When we reached the house, he grabbed my boots off the bench and handed them to me, bowing his head as though he were my royal attendant. I yanked them from him, pretending to be annoyed. The whole interaction felt… well, flirtatious.
When I reach the studio door, I remind myself that this is a guy who flirts for a living.
Still, in seven years at the label, I’ve never spent time with an artist outside of work like that before. As I pull the studio door open, I can’t deny I’m excited to see him again.
My eyes dart around the room. The studio is filled with people, but René isn’t one of them. René’s manager, ángel, is back. He’s near the recording booth, talking to Camila, and Santiago is standing by the console, talking to someone new. From where I’m standing, all I can see are her big, beachy blond curls.
“Hey, ángel!” My voice comes out hoarse. “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”
“Hey, Dani.” He walks up to me. “We just flew in.” He motions to the woman talking with Santiago. I lean over, and when I see her, I know why he’s omitted her name. No introduction is necessary.
“Hi!” I approach her for a handshake. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
A genuine, youthful smile appears on the woman’s face. “ Hola, mucho gusto. ” Her voice is smooth and slippery. Natalia. The Colombian pop star René recorded a duet with last summer. And then dated for a while afterward. The one I read dumped him when he cheated on her.
She’s wearing the brightest red lipstick, a black strapless dress, and at least a dozen thick gold chains. “Dani, René won’t have time today,” ángel says, “but you can interview Natalia.”
“Great.” And why would I do that? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to reveal just how out of the loop I am.
“Also, I’ll be around in case you need anything.” ángel opens the studio door. “I’m here until after the showcase.”
“Amazing.” Though not as amazing as the lack of detail in Camila’s schedule. It didn’t mention Natalia or why she’s here. Or even ángel’s arrival. Though the fact that he’s here today may explain why Camila sent out a schedule in the first place.
“Have fun,” ángel tells Natalia, who blows him a kiss in response.
Santiago and Camila also leave, and I’m left alone with Natalia.
It’s disappointing getting knocked back down to “person who isn’t privy to any relevant information,” but I know enough about her to interview her on the fly. Even if I don’t know why we’re interviewing her. Her music is mostly pop with splashes of electronica, and her duet with René was her first reggaeton dance track.
“Natalia, let me have you sit in this chair.”
She obliges, walking over. Her nickname, Tranquila Mankiller, suits her perfectly. Relaxed and sensuous, her whole body seems to run on smoother gears.
I switch on each light James has set up for the interview, careful to tiptoe around them so I don’t knock anything out of place. Keep your eye on the prize. Roll with the incessant punches.
The studio door opens, and James walks in, his hair dripping wet. “Sorry I’m late.” He seems tired.
“It’s fine. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“Natalia, you can just look directly at me. Let’s start by sharing with us,” and with me , “what brings you to Puerto Rico.”
“Well”—she grins as though she has the juiciest gossip—“a little birdie called me a few nights ago, and said René had a song for me.” She juts her chin out seductively. “And when El Rico calls, you come.”
“Sure, of course.”
“I heard he had written a song that would be great as a duet and that I’d be perfect for it.”
“That’s… excellent.” A duet with Natalia is practically a guaranteed hit for René’s album. It’s a solid choice to build on the buzz of their last collaboration.
“So, I moved things around, but I only have today. We’re going to have to work really hard,” she says, equal parts sweet and erotic.
“That’s great.” I suddenly feel agitated.
René’s inability to open up even just a little about his album is upsetting. He shared so much this morning about his private life, but failed to mention that his ex, the Mankiller herself, would be gracing us today. Or that he was ready to record a new song.
Natalia takes a sip of her bottled water through a straw and crosses her legs. Her skin is flawless. Her long legs look like they’ve been airbrushed. There isn’t a single blemish or scar. Has she really never cut her legs shaving? Been bitten by a mosquito? Scraped the side of her knee on a natural waterslide?
I try to pull myself together.
“What can you tell us about the song?”
“Nothing. They haven’t shared the lyrics with me.”
“Really?” It comes out a bit blunt. “Do you normally agree to be a part of a song you don’t know anything about?”
“No. Never. I guess René wanted to keep it a secret, but I don’t see why.” She flashes a coy smile. “He knows he can trust me.”
She’s so sweet and adoring, you’d think he never cheated and they never had a tabloid-worthy breakup. “Are you excited to perform together again?”
“Of course. We always have such a great time together.”
I’ve seen their live performances. René wrote the duet they recorded together, “ Cama en Llamas ” (“Bed on Fire”), and there was actual fire on the stage for it. The two were obviously still dating at the time, because there were very real flames between them as well.
“Why do you think René wanted you for this mystery song?”
“I don’t know, I guess”—she thinks about this, shaking her shoulders friskily—“because he loves our voices together. And he sang on my album and now he wants me to repay the favor.” Why does everything this woman says sound like it’s innuendo?
“Why did you say yes to working together again?” As in, why are you here after René cheated on you?
“That”—she glances at the door—“is a good question. I absolutely love him. No matter what’s happened, I think he’s brilliant and I’ll always jump at the chance to work together again.” Her eyes radiate with affection.
Natalia reapplies a fresh coat of gloss to her lips, and my mind drifts back to the beach this morning. I can’t believe I thought we were bonding and that he didn’t tell me about any of this.
Natalia glances at me, ready for another question. The only one on the tip of my tongue, she can’t answer. Do you think I’m an idiot for believing René was actually flirting with me?