Chapter 3
3
As we make the trek from WeHo to Downtown LA, a stifling sense of calm settles inside our black SUV. Tonight, there are no nominations or make-or-break performances of new singles to send me on a spiral of anxiety—only the pressure of pretending like I’m having the time of my life while enacting what are essentially the last rites of my marriage before a sea of cameras.
Traffic on the 110 is stop and go, and apart from NPR chatter droning low on the radio, everything’s quiet. Sanders and my driver Rohin are seated up front like clay statues, so stoically focused on the road ahead they might as well be set behind a partition. And with Angelo quietly returned to his emails, I’m left alone to tussle with my thoughts.
If my manager can help it, he won’t take calls for other clients when he’s out with me. It’s this kind of deference that makes me itch most when I’m all done up like this—even more than the false lashes, boob tape, and shapewear. The way people bend and contort themselves to please and placate me. Or maybe my discomfort comes from just how used to it I am at this point—how natural it feels to be accommodated without having to ask.
When Elliot and I first got together, I was mesmerized by the way he moved through the world, or better yet, how the world seemed to move because of him. How paths would automatically form when he walked into any room, how doors seamlessly opened, and how the people behind those doors made note of his presence. The man was mood music. He set the vibe for every space he occupied.
Someone with a firm grasp on pop culture or a true soundhead would likely recognize Elliot from all the cameos he’s made in his artists’ music videos, where he often plays it casually cool in the background, bobbing his head in designer shades while tucked behind the turntables and surrounded by writhing bodies. But pass him on the street, and the average person wouldn’t know that the layered snare drum beat in eighty percent of today’s hip-hop music was inspired by Elliot’s work in the early aughts—back when he was discovering artists on MySpace. They also wouldn’t know that if Prince were with us today, Elliot could hold his own onstage next to him with a rhythm guitar.
It all felt so foreign to me at first, being attached to a true musical genius. But soon, I got a contact high on the rarefied air he breathed, and before I could blink twice, his world became mine. This new land of celebrity was an adventure, and Elliot was my tour guide. As long as he was holding my hand, showing me the ropes, it was the time of my life. But somewhere along the way his grip loosened, and I learned how hard it is to keep hold of someone who’s already decided to let you go.
“Change of plans,” Angelo says, piercing through my cloud of thoughts. The unusual, frayed edge to his voice makes me sit up a little straighter. “Elliot’s not doing the carpet,” he says, aggressively rubbing his brow. “Coco just texted.”
Elliot and I had agreed to do this one last red carpet together before allowing our teams to release a joint statement about our separation. This had been part of our plan to present an amicable and united front—show the world that conscious uncoupling isn’t just for the Goop crowd. Selfishly, I hoped it could help curb the press and their rabid appetite for digging up dirt on us—despite Elliot’s many not-so-private infidelities. Both our PR teams pushed for it too. And like a fool, I assumed we were set.
“Heeeey, C! I’m here with Ella.” Angelo’s already rung up Coco on speakerphone to get to the bottom of it. “So, listen, totally cool that Majors can’t make the carpet. I’ll just play seat filler until he gets here. Sound good?”
“Oh, darling. If it wasn’t clear over text, he’s not coming at all. Carpet or show,” Elliot’s manager says in her posh London accent. “It was a game-time decision or, of course, I’d have told you sooner.”
I slump in my seat, releasing my head to let it thud against the smooth black leather.
These days, unless we’re in the studio working on music, Elliot and I rarely speak to each other without an intermediary—usually the task falls to our management teams, who have drummed up a muted but still palpable distaste for each other. And exactly two days ago, Coco had confirmed that he’d be here. With bells on! she’d said with her typical faux sweetness, like a lie dipped in honey. And stupidly, I counted on it—even if I was a bit shocked that Elliot would agree to grace the Grammys with his presence after all the public swipes he’s made toward the Recording Academy in recent years. But he’d given his word, and trusting it was another mistake on a long list of many for me.
But now, I have to wonder if his bait and switch is a form of punishment for me choosing to lawyer up. For me daring to scrutinize the prenup and then push back against it. A wad of anxiety starts to form in my chest. I’m suddenly scrambling for my phone. I don’t have to swipe through the three-digit notifications of unread messages to know that none are from him or Coco. But I do so anyway, if for no other reason than to confirm my well-earned bias.
Suddenly feeling the kind of flustered anger that makes it hard to catch your breath, I turn to Angelo. “So, what do I say? When everyone wants to know where he is?”
“Let’s think,” he says, chewing on his lip. “Presumably, Elliot never got on the plane from London so…we’ll just say he’s at Abbey Road!” Angelo’s brows shoot up like he’s just conquered the daily Wordle. “Give ’em a line or two about his new artis—” He stops short as I tense at the mention of Miss Thing, the straw that broke my marriage’s back.
A potent memory slams into me of the night I first met her at an album listening party thrown by the label. How I was eager to meet someone who reminded me so much of my younger self that I’d been casually scanning the room for a glimpse of her so I could introduce myself, maybe take her under my wing. How the moment we crossed paths, she couldn’t seem to get away from me fast enough—how her eyes seemed to burn and retreat the instant they made contact with mine. It’s only now, in retrospect, that it all makes sense.
“Oooor…we could come up with something else?” Angelo asks, snapping me back to the now.
“No. It’s fine.” I say the words the way I would if a manicurist had cut my cuticle to the quick and I was bleeding out on the table. I shrug away the sting. “I can plug their LP. With all the photos of them out now, I’m sure it’ll track.”
“You good?” he asks warily. “Because we can have Lydia issue a gag advisory to the red carpet press and squash all things Elliot.”
“No. It’s fine.” I’m repeating myself now, like a glitching robot. Giving that sort of tip-off would be nothing short of a smoking gun. Surely Angelo knows that. So him even suggesting it likely means he’s as thrown off by this curveball as I am.
“I can handle it,” I add to assure him.
But when I glance over at my manager, it’s obvious that he doesn’t believe me either. Then I see the moment he backs down from his internal protest, when the tension releases from his shoulders and he sinks back against his headrest. I sink back, too, and try to ground myself with a few rounds of meditative breathing, shoring up my energy for the game I’m about to play.
“I’ll let Lydia know we’re doing the carpet solo,” Angelo says, and the words sound like they were uttered from somewhere far away. Because I’ve already slipped back under the blanket of numbness that protects me from the sharp edges of all my swirling troubles. And after my final six-second exhale, I dive back into my clutch for my phone and tap out a text to my people. They may be close by, riding in the SUV that’s trailing us. But I need them closer.
Group Text: The Glam Squad
Me: Elliot’s not coming.
Sheryl: That negro better count his days…
Sheryl: Don’t you go covering for him either!
Jamie: What’s she gonna do, tell Ryan Seacrest her man’s across the pond swimming in a sea of
Rodney: She can tell Ryan to have five seats in a basement is what she can do.
Me: I will tell anyone who asks they’re working on the album.
Sheryl: You deserve the peace prize.
Sheryl: …and some premium side tonight.
Jamie: Yes hunty! Let’s get you tossed around gf. Elliot can’t have ALL the fun.
Jamie: He deserves to have NONE.
Rodney: I don’t usually agree with you heffas but I can get on board here.
Me: Okay. This was a mistake. See you on the carpet.
Sheryl: She didn’t say no to the side so…that means there’s a chance.
Me: There’s absolutely zero chance.
Jamie: Oh ye of little faith. Father God, forgive her for her unbelief.
Rodney: This just got real unholy up in here.
Rodney: I’m not mad at it.
Me: Fools. I’m friends with fools.
Me: Lovable. Talented. But FOOLS all the same.
Sheryl: Iss ok boo. We got you.
Jamie:
Rodney:
South Figueroa is backed up with a snakelike row of sleek black SUVs and Sprinter vans queued outside of Crypto Arena. We sit for twenty minutes, slowly inching along, before it’s finally our turn to emerge and face the music.
Sanders hops out of the passenger seat to open my door and help me step down on the pavement. This is far from my first rodeo, but still, it takes a beat for my eyes to adjust to the bright white glare of the sun and the jarring mass of bustling activity before us. Seconds later, the glam team materializes almost out of thin air. Like the magical woodland creatures who get Cinderella dressed for the ball, they waste no time flitting about, poking and prodding and tweaking me for my now solo walk down the red carpet. Within seconds, my gloss is reapplied, the flowing gossamer fabric of my skirt is smoothed out, and any flyaway strands on my wig are coaxed back into formation. Finally, with a subtle wink and purse of Rodney’s lips, I have the stamp of approval to proceed.
He turns to my manager with a smirk. “The face card never declined on this one,” he says.
Angelo winks at him before clasping my hand in his. “Ready to rock and roll?” he asks. I squeeze him back and take a deep fortifying breath, then nod and smile.
Next we’re greeted by Lydia, my publicist from the label. She’s dressed from head to toe in black business attire and wielding a clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. “Hi, Ella, you’re right on time,” she says while gesturing for us to follow as she leads us to the edge of the carpet—the mouth of the jungle.
There’s an element of structured chaos to walking a red carpet on a night like this—when an entire industry descends on a single spot, and everyone’s scrambling for attention. Rising stars are hoping to cement their status on an ever-shifting platform, while industry vets cling to their own ebbing relevance. On a night when we’re supposed to be celebrating music, we end up focusing on everything but—the clothes, the plus-ones, the parties, the beef, the drama. The “content” over the art.
Elliot once explained to me how it takes a special kind of person to opt into this lifestyle. To willingly put the most vulnerable parts of themselves out in front of the world to embrace or reject. To stand in front of three hundred high-definition lenses, not to mention the millions of eyeballs at home, with flashbulbs all wielded by skilled photographers, eager to capture your every angle—each one expecting nothing less than perfection, but still hoping that they might get lucky enough to catch something even more valuable, like a moment of novelty—a sign of weakness or distress. It’s the one reason I’m relieved Elliot’s a no-show for tonight.
After nearly a decade of doing these “perp walks” together, I’ve grown increasingly weary of the act. It’s one thing to find yourself on a “Red Carpet Mishaps” roundup because of smudged eyeliner or fabric that photographs a bit too sheer, offering everyone a peep show of your shapewear. That’s par for the course.
But when you’re a couple, the scrutiny is amplified tenfold. Any sign of tension between the two of you, whether it’s an awkward head tilt and strained smile after a curt whisper or simply an extra half inch of distance between your angled bodies, and the next morning’s headlines could read Trouble in Paradise , with a body language expert brought on to guesstimate how long you’re going to make it based on whether or not your toes are pointed in or out.
So doing this alone makes things simple for me after all. I just have to (a) look the part and (b) not stick my foot in my mouth. Easy as pie.
Ella, straight ahead!
Over your shoulder, Ella!
Miss Simone! Can you give us a smile?
Three feet from the step and repeat, and I’ve already been spotted by the press pen. Some up-and-coming artist was just getting photographed voguing with their tongue out, but now they’re not so gingerly being nudged aside by a carpet handler as another one ushers me to the very spot where they stood. I take my place in front of the flashing lights and instantly I’m on .