Chapter 10 Hell
Hell
Marín
I figured in the mind of this sixteen-year-old girl, a fling with her manager from the label, who’s fourteen years older, seemed viable, but I had no clue she would deploy all her “weapons of seduction” the second the tour started.
Not with her sainted mother right there and definitely not so brazenly.
The fact that she’s a spoiled child is obvious, and that I would never fall into that game is obvious too.
I’m a thirty-year-old dude. But on top of all that, to her rabid frustration, the thing is I’m a pretty professional guy.
I wouldn’t get sucked into this mess even with the love of my life because I’d never get close enough to find out that’s what she is.
Pilar touched my leg on the train while I was going over some stuff on the iPad. Her mother’s head was lolling, and she was snoring softly across from us.
Get your hand off me or I’ll rip it off.
That’s what I would’ve liked to say, but I restrained myself to politely moving it off and trying to talk to her about boundaries in professional relationships.
And I say “try” because she cut me off to say, “Men and women can sometimes let themselves get carried away by their instincts and it’s not that deep. ”
“Instincts?” I asked her. “But, Pilar…you’re still practically a child.”
I thought that brush-off would make her rethink whatever she was thinking, but all it did was encourage her. She inched closer to me and whispered, “Noa. I’m Noa to you. And, you know what, Marín? You smell so good I can’t help but wonder what you taste like.”
Welcome to hell, Marín.
Since that indecent proposal, I’ve counted twenty-six looks at my crotch, but the obvious kind, the kind a girl does when she wants you to know she’s thinking about your equipment.
Plus, she asked me if I can take photos of her outfits (after biting her lip in what she seems to think is a seductive way) and she made it clear that she doesn’t wear a bra with some of them.
I tried to beg her mother for help with my eyes, but Noa had sent her to find sparkling water.
Sparkling water, of course, because the girl can’t just drink a soda like any kid.
No, she has to drink sparkling water and pretend it’s a gin and tonic.
So…ever since the journey started, I’ve wished thirty times that she would fall off the stage. Nothing serious. A sprained ankle, a broken elbow…something that would prevent her from continuing the tour.
I thought about calling Coco and telling her all this, but I don’t want to call her just to whine.
Especially not when she didn’t let slip the whole thing with Gus to me.
Whose idea was it to tell Coco her ex was still in love with her?
Gus is my buddy, but he’s not the dude I want my best friend to be in love with, to be honest. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s all over the place, he has too many ass-kissers around him, and he’s spent the last few months…
I don’t want to tell Coco that I’ve seen him making out with women in practically every bar in Madrid since they broke up, that he even asked me explicitly not to tell anyone, I guess because he doesn’t want to hurt her.
Plus, I get the feeling he’s hung up on someone else now.
Gus is one of those guys who sleep with even more women when they start catching feelings for one.
* * *
I come out of my room and bump into Pilar in the hallway, apparently waiting for me.
“Hi,” she says in a lazy way I guess she thinks is sexy.
I bite my tongue and don’t say all the things I wish I could about what’s actually sexy, like an adult woman who’s secure in herself. But I sigh and reply, “Hi, Pilar.”
I notice how much it bugs her that I won’t call her by her stage name, but she recovers quickly because she’s probably reading it as a game. Damn.
“Can you help me with my dress?”
“Isn’t your mother around?”
“She doesn’t know how.”
“I find it hard to believe she doesn’t know how to work a zipper,” I snort. “You need to be ready in ten minutes.”
I take two big strides and knock on her door. Her mother opens it, and the half-panicked look she always has in her eye makes me almost feel bad. Her daughter drives her crazy, and I get it, but she’s her responsibility.
“Sorry…Pilar has to be ready in ten minutes”—breathe, come on, this is the moment—“and when I say ten, it has to be ten. A tour is not for amateurs, and I can guarantee the music industry has no time to waste on people who don’t take their career seriously.
We’re investing resources in your daughter that could be dedicated to someone who is more committed and serious. Please don’t waste my time.”
I give Pilar a shameless, mischievous grin as I head toward my room. Her eyes are wide.
“Ten,” I say slowly.
My boss is going to fire me.
* * *
When I close the door to my room, I have the urge to throw open the window and scream that I’m the king of the world or tear my shirt off while I howl, but instead I pick up the phone on my bedside table and dial Sardine.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” we say at the same time.
“You first,” she says to me.
“I just went full domination with Pilar. You would’ve flipped. You’re always saying I’m a pushover. Those flannel panties you wear would be on the floor!”
“First of all, they’re not flannel.”
“Whatever. They’re ugly,” I say, just to bug her, like I do every time I do the laundry and come across a pair.
“Second of all, I have my doubts that you were as tough as you think. You probably just seemed tough to yourself in a fit of macho pride.”
I lean against the outdated dresser in my room in this hotel that’s so…rural, and I smile. “Even I liked it. Tonight I’m going to fuck myself.”
“Argh, God. This whole episode of phone masturbation is pretty weird. Plus, who the hell is Pilar?”
“The artist formerly known as Noa. Pilar is her real name.”
“You shouldn’t call her Pilar if you don’t let her call you by your first name. Fair’s fair, right?”
“Nobody calls me my name, honey, and…fair my ass.”
“All this power is going to your head,” she teases. “But…what’s up? The little one is unbearable?”
“Unbearable is an understatement. You go. What’s going on with you?”
“We blew a tire on the RV.”
I almost burst out laughing, but I manage to contain myself and hope she keeps talking.
“In the middle of a country road. There was no 4G or 5G or even anyone who could find the G spot, considering how shook we all were. We were stranded there for two hours, in the sun, waiting for highway assistance to find us.”
“Did they find you or are you all going to get eaten by coyotes tonight?”
“I’d throw you to the coyotes, you jerk.
” I hear her laughing. “A car passed by, and they took Blanca, who we all know is the only responsible one in the group, to the nearest town, and from there she was able to give them directions on the phone, with the help of the man who picked her up, to our exact location. And they came to rescue us.”
“Were they burly firefighters from a calendar?”
“They were the same age as my dad, and they looked like him too.”
I picture their faces while two gentlemen with plumber cracks changed the tire… Fuck me, I have serious FOMO.
“Did you make it to Torrevieja in the end?”
“No way. We lost too much time, and then,” she whispers, “Loren lost his shit.” I hear him grumble in the background. “Yes, you did lose your shit, Loren.”
They start arguing for a few seconds, and suddenly I hear her sigh. “He lost it, believe me.”
“I believe you. How much longer do you have to go?”
“So far that we’re considering stopping anywhere we find, even a service area, and spending the night there. We’re tired, and we don’t want any more accidents.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“No worries, child.”
“Argh. Gross,” I hear her complain. “So what’re you gonna do with this newfound gift of leadership?”
“Well, I’m going to get my stuff and take that girl to sound check, like I’m a pit bull.”
“Like you’re Pitbull the singer?”
I let out a chuckle, and it spreads to her.
“You have no idea how pissed I am to be missing this trip. I would’ve known how to change a tire,” I point out, somewhere between sad and braggy.
“You don’t even believe that yourself, dude. These wheels look like Optimus Prime’s balls. But, I mean, I get it. You’re dying to be with me. With us, I mean.”
“With you all and with you.” I emphasize the last word. “I’ll let you go, Sardine.”
“Stay salty, Anchovy. Over and out.”
* * *
Noa is a little listless during sound check, but thinking back, I think it’s the best one she’s done to date.
It’s too bad she’s such a pain in the ass, because she sings like she wants it.
Someone must’ve given her bad advice and told her that if she wants to be treated like a star, to be respected as someone with the world at her feet, she has to be a tyrant, fickle and egotistical. It’s kind of tragic.
Her dress is practically nonexistent but so eye-catching that even I have to admit it looks good on her.
She looks less like a bratty teenager and more like an artist who we’ll be trying to launch internationally within a year.
I made my reservations about her shoes clear, but her mother says she’s used to walking around in even higher heels and her feet never get tired.
We have dinner in a bar nearby, with the whole team involved, in one way or another, in this tour of summer concerts.
Sound techs, project managers, road managers, artists, DJs, a few people from the radio station sponsoring this event…
a lot of people. I’m watching Noa’s act from the wings, checking out of the corner of my eye that everything’s going smoothly.
We did plenty of rehearsals, but it never hurts to be on the lookout.
The bassist is playing when he’s supposed to play, and she’s singing when she’s supposed to sing and dancing like she always does despite the heart-attack heels she’s wearing.
I fix my gaze on the audience in the front rows.
They’re admiring this girl; they want to be like her; they think her life is everything they’ve always wanted: fame, money, youth, and beauty.
They don’t know the effort and the sacrifices Noa’s career will entail if everything goes well; I don’t even think she knows.
I have to stop thinking like this. It’s the first day, and I’m already overwhelmed.
Cheers and applause alert me to the act ending.
The event presenter goes over to Noa, mic in hand, and asks her a few short questions that consist of talking about how much is left to discover on her album, the rest of her tour dates, and, most importantly, the insane number of views her latest single is getting on YouTube.
She answers; she’s nice; she laughs; she almost makes me feel tender again.
Maybe deep down my talks are having some effect and she’ll turn into a person one of these days.
When she blows a kiss to the audience, I take that to mean she’s ready to come backstage and I instinctively move toward her. I want to get her down from the stage safe and sound and get her back to the hotel with her mother. Then…
I see her wobble slightly and take another step forward.
She stepped on a wire, but she only stumbles a little before she seems to recover her balance.
I’ve been fantasizing all day about her falling off the stage, but I’m not really very clear on what would happen to me if that fantasy became a reality.
I try to mime to her to be careful, pointing sternly at her heels, but I would’ve been better off shutting my big mouth because she’s still mad at me for my attempt at a pep talk.
She does one of her hair tosses, which gets most of her hair out of her face, but one strand of hair gets stuck on her glossy, shiny lips, and to top it all off, her false eyelashes don’t help.
Everything happens in slow motion: She steps on another cable, her ankle twists, she loses her balance, and her hair swoops like an arc across the sky, colored lights darting across it.
Before the presenter can grab her arm and I start sprinting toward her, she vanishes into the pit between the stage and the audience.
Huh…now what?