Chapter 7
7
Now
E! ONLINE: Miles Westbrook and Ella Simone set Grammy stage aflame in matching Versace ensembles. But was it all planned?
TMZ: Backstage crew member recalls “intimate,” “partially nude” interaction between Ella Simone and Miles Westbrook just moments before the pair took the stage!
PEOPLE: 5 Little Known Facts About Pop Music’s Latest Obsession—Baseball Bad Boy Miles Westbrook
THE SHADE ROOM: Elliot Majors spotted at Jay Z’s after-party without Miss Thing, but WITH his wedding ring!! Ella Simone was nowhere in sight!
GLITTER ’N DIRT: After Months of Speculation That Elliot Majors Stepped Out on His Marriage, Could It Have Been Ella Simone the Whole Time?
The last headline makes me lurch forward out of my plush coffin of pillows. It’s half past seven on the morning after the awards show from hell—but you can’t tell from the stringent darkness of my hotel suite.
The blackout curtains and dead bolt have done their best to keep the world at bay. But fifteen minutes ago, silly old me let it all come tumbling in by turning on my phone. That rookie move unleashed a torrential onslaught of notifications—starting with an impressive number of texts from Angelo, which coming from anyone else could pass for tame. But given how quickly I gave my team the slip last night, shortly after leaving the stage, by hightailing it out of the arena and calling up an Uber to my favorite hideaway spot in Malibu, who could blame him for the endless barrage of Where r u, El s and Seriously s?
As I kept scrolling, the guilt ratcheted higher, making my skin prick with shame. But it was the Even Miles is worried text from Angelo that stopped my thumb from swiping and made my chest flutter. And the Please. Just let me know you’re alive that got my fingers moving again to tap out a reply.
Me: I’m sorry Lo. Had to get out of there. I’m here.
I dropped a pin to my location and burrowed deep in the covers to doomscroll the apps—and there I remained until bursting forth a second ago. Seeing the worst of my fears come to pass, last night’s onstage gaffe turning into a messy media firestorm, has me upright and pressing call on Rodney’s contact.
“Oh look! She has risen.” He answers before the first ring cycles through, sounding harried—like he’s both in motion and understandably tired of my BS.
I release a long, slow, and raggedy exhale. “I know. I know better than to go dark like that on you guys. I’m sorry.”
“Mm-hmm,” he shoots back. “Lucky for you I keep a grudge the same way I keep a secret.”
Which is to say, not at all. I’d be relieved at Rodney’s easy forgiveness if I didn’t also hear an echo of his booming voice…and then a sudden knock on the door to my suite.
“You can’t be serious right now,” I mutter.
“As a stroke,” he deadpans. “Now open up before I get Malibu PD called on me for being Black in a hallway.”
I scurry out of bed, throw on a robe, and shuffle to the door. When I open it, my best friend is standing on the other side with a bottle of vodka, a tray of coffees, and a takeout bag of something that smells savory and divine.
“How did you find me?” I ask, stepping to the side to let him in.
Rodney’s eyes scan me up and down in one long, assessing swoop. He shakes his head in the most subtle sign of disapproval. “That’s for me to know and you to ponder,” he says flatly. “This is cute,” he muses, glancing around the suite as he sets down his accouterments on the counter of the kitchenette.
“So, we gonna talk about that little disappearing act you pulled last night first?” he asks. “Or would you like to address that kiss from Elliot onstage in front of five million viewers?”
I recoil at the memory. The shock that took over my body as I saw the prompter update in real time. Miles and I would not be accepting Elliot’s R&B Song of the Year Grammy on his behalf after all. Because the man decided to make a surprise last-minute appearance at the show he’d sworn off not three hours prior, and accept the award himself. Never mind the fact that it takes more than eleven hours to fly from London to LA…which means this stunt was either meticulously plotted for maximum effect or undertaken on a “fly by the seat of your pants” whim. I don’t know what’s worse.
I’d been so caught up in the emotions, and wardrobe malfunctions, of the night that I’d forgotten he was even nominated for the award. But his pop-up presence in the arena meant that not only did I have to present my philandering, soon-to-be-ex-husband with a golden gramophone while millions looked on with rampant curiosity, but I also had to relax my face and body while he wrapped his hands around my waist and kissed me on the neck—only because I had the wherewithal to turn my head before his mouth landed on mine.
And worst of all, this went down while I was wearing another man’s shirt. A beautiful, enigmatic man who happened to be standing right there radiating vibes I was far too out of step with my wits to read at the time. But now, after several hours of over-analysis, I’ve settled on anger . Miles Westbrook was positively fuming in that moment. Why? I’m willing to dedicate the next six hours to consider all the possibilities. Anything to keep from having to deal with the headlines.
“Earth to Ella,” Rodney says, waving a mocha almond latte under my nose like it’s smelling salts. “So, what’s it gonna be, pumpkin?”
But a series of swift knocks on the door saves me from having to pick my poison. Assuming it’s housekeeping, I eagerly accept the coffee while Rodney goes to answer it. But within seconds my assumption is proven wrong when what sounds like bickering in hushed tones can be heard coming from the entryway of my suite.
“You have some real nerve, Angelo. Showing up like this after—”
“Listen.” My manager cuts my stylist, and best friend, off. “Can we not do this? Not now at least? And not here ?” he begs of him.
I approach them cautiously, unsure of whether I should give them a minute to sort out whatever this is or nip it in the bud before it devolves. Figuring I could use something a little juicy and diverting to distract from my current state of crisis, I settle on the former. But just as I’m about to pad back into the bedroom and disappear beneath the covers, Angelo spots me.
“Well, would you look at that! Our vanishing princess!” he says, brushing past Rodney to make his way into the room.
He stalks toward me, not menacingly, but determined. I briefly picture him jabbing a finger in my direction and dramatically mouthing, You! and almost chuckle at the absurdity. But, shuffling backward, I hit the armrest of a plush velvet sofa and am forced to sit before I fall. Cornered, I deflate. “Look, Angelo. I’m really—”
“Spare me the apology.” He cuts me off with clipped words. Hovering above me now, he raises three fingers to my lips and slides a glance over at Rodney. “Have you told her yet?”
“Told me what?” I ask, preempting Rodney’s answer. His usually animated features sit hard and stern on his face like carved stone. My hackles immediately go up. “Okay. Somebody spit it out.”
Rodney nervously checks his watch. “We’ll have to explain in the car.” He turns to Angelo. “Did you bring her change of clothes?”
Angelo tosses him a garment bag, while I look on in complete astonishment. “What’s happening? Today’s a dead day,” I protest. “Angelo, you promised there’d be nothing on the schedule.”
“Oh, honey,” Angelo says, eyes pitying me. “That all changed when Janet Waterman called me before sunrise to request your presence at her home by nine a.m.”
Rodney heads into the en suite to turn on the steam shower. “So that means you’ve got half an hour to get it together, boo. That woman scares me, and I don’t want to be on her bad side. So come on. Chop-chop!”
Obediently, I pad across the suite toward the bathroom. And when I step into the cloud of hot steam, I hope in vain that by the time I emerge, my life will be less of a hot mess.