Chapter 25
25
You’ve got to learn to leave the table when love’s no longer being served.
Nina Simone
Two years ago
Imagine you’re pushing through a bustling upscale bar. Except this one is open air with a bloodred carpet that seems to shimmer under broad daylight. You are surrounded by hundreds of people, and each one has an agenda—to either be seen, adored, or envied. Or to get a scoop, a money shot, a win, or maybe their next big break. Even you want some of these things, and you’re still figuring out what that says about you.
You are dressed in bespoke clothing and near-priceless jewels. Jewels that are insured, on your dime, and that will be removed from your person by a brand executive at the end of the night. The dress, you’ll get to keep though—if only because it’s been cut to your exact measurements. And these are measurements an executive at your label just recently told you you have begun to “fill out.” Naturally, this was said in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t a compliment.
And when you tell your husband about the off-color remark, he simply shrugs it off before suggesting that maybe you should look into hiring a nutritionist or consider taking up Pilates. You store these little digs away in the secret place where you collect the things that have pricked and jabbed you over the years, even if the tiny slices and bruises they’ve left behind remain etched into your skin.
Most things about this part of “the game” are the things you’ve come to accept in the name of going along to get along. But you’d almost always rather just be somewhere on a stage with a mic in hand, a three-part harmony backing vocal, and a six-piece band accompaniment. Or in the studio on a quiet night with the man you fell in love with because he told you you were a star, made you believe it, and then made it true. And you’re holding the hand of that man now, except you suspect he’s lying to you…again.
But the cameras are flashing now. And if you think too deeply about any of this, you’ll forget to smile.
“Joining us now are one of the most undeniable talents behind so many hits and his stunning songbird of a wife—Elliot Majors and Ella Simone!” Sherelle Fox introduces us to E!’s cameras as we ascend the stairs hand in hand. When we join her on the platform, she blows air kisses as Elliot snakes an arm, possessively, around my waist.
“Would you look at this stunning couple!” Sherelle says, cheating toward the camera. Then, beaming back at us, she asks, “So tell us, who dressed you both tonight, and who are you wearing?”
Elliot flaunts a dazzling smile, surely blinding the audience with his brand-new diamond grill. “Oh, you know me,” he says. “We had to come correct in Gucci, head to toe.”
I affectionately pat his chest, making sure the camera sees my borrowed Lorraine Schwartz diamond cuff, before proudly answering the first part of Sherelle’s question. “Our stylist, Rodney Jenkins, put these beautiful looks together.”
“Her best friend from college! Can you believe that?” Elliot adds, and I don’t miss the faint hint of condescension in his tone.
Sherelle quirks an eyebrow. “Oh? How cute!” she chirps, before quickly moving on. “Well, Elliot, I have to ask after that provocative profile of yours in Rolling Stone where you spoke so candidly about your…we’ll just call them reservations with the Recording Academy…how are you feeling going into the awards tonight?”
Elliot’s grip on my waist tightens to the point that I can feel the press of each finger through the thick fabric of my gown, and I brace with anticipation of how he’ll choose to handle this question about the (now infamous) Rolling Stone interview wherein he likened the music industry to a slave plantation. He could play the diplomat and keep things clean and simple, tell her he’s excited for the nominees and happy to be out on a night celebrating the best in music. Or he could keep it all the way real by going in on the exploitative, artificial machine we’re all a part of. Whichever way this goes, I know my role is to stand here and maintain my smile for the cameras.
“Listen,” he begins. “I’ve been in this game a long time…long enough to see a lot of folks like me come and go. And long enough to learn that the only thing with any staying power is the music. The awards and accolades and the hype…nobody remembers any of it at the end of the day.”
He pauses, and this is the moment of truth. The moment before my husband decides to either “keep it cute” or say fuck it and unleash a barrage of frustrations about this very awards show and the industry it props up. With that same fixed smile, I glance from an enthralled Sherelle Fox to my husband, who appears to be weighing his next words carefully.
“So,” he says, before looking at me and flashing a mischievous grin, “I’m happy to be here with this beautiful, talented woman at my side. And when it comes to the rest”—he gestures at the hustle and bustle surrounding us—“it is what it is. I’ll let what I said in Rolling Stone speak for itself.”
The breath I was holding seeps out of me in one slow exhale. Sherelle thanks us for our time and we exit the podium to dive back into the cluttered stream of glitz and glamour.
Back on the carpet, Elliot’s manager, Coco, greets us with her eyes sparkling. “That was fantastic ,” she says. “Just spot on! And the two of you look sensational! Four more to go, then we’ll get you to your seats.”
The show is over and Sanders is leading us through a throng of after-party hopefuls and flash photographers toward our waiting car at the curb. As we go, a clamor of voices yelling out both of our names makes for an almost deafening distraction. At one point, I lose grip of Elliot’s hand. Then turning, I find him snapping a selfie with a group of young women who appear to be the age I was when I married him.
When we get to the car, Sanders gives me a boost up into the back seat with Elliot sliding in close behind me.
“Majors, man! You comin’ in?” someone calls from the direction of the nightclub. And for a split second, I envision Elliot shutting the door to the Escalade. Somehow, in my mind, by doing so he’d be shutting down all the rumors spinning about his late-night escapades when I’m not around. But instead, he looks at me with those brown puppy dog eyes. Like denying him another chance to be the life of the party would be akin to me denying him the air.
“I’ll only be a minute, babe,” he says. Then with a pout, “Promise.”
Sucking it up, I manage to smile. “It’s fine, I’ll just come with.” It’s the last thing I want to do after the overstimulation of the last several hours. But I am intent on ending this night like we started it—together. I begin to scoot forward to exit the car when Elliot holds up his hand.
“No! No, stay here. I’ll be right out, I swear,” he says. “I’m just going in for a shot with the guys.” He winks and then disappears into the crowd.
An hour goes by…
Bzzz!
Elliot’s phone leaps back to life in the car seat that has long gone cold. It’s the third notification in as many minutes, and I glare at the little rectangular device with the most dangerous curiosity—they say it killed the cat, but I wonder how many marriages it’s brought to their untimely demise. Peering out the window, I notice Sanders outside having a smoke and chatting up the bouncer. With tinted windows, there’s no one around to witness what I’m thinking about doing. I could take a tiny peek, and no one would know. No one but me of course.
With my luck, Elliot has changed his password and this will be a nonstarter. Or worse, he could have a secret phone—one that’s reserved exclusively for hidden paramours. I shake my head, laughing without humor at how ridiculous this all feels—how foolish it feels to be reduced to snooping in my husband’s phone. But in this moment, suspicion has met opportunity. And I don’t know when I’ll have this chance again. As for Elliot, perhaps it’s the price you pay for making a woman wait.
I snatch up the phone and tap in the first six digits that come to mind—our wedding day. Then, my mouth falls open in disbelief when the home screen comes into view. With full access to Elliot’s secret world, it’s as if I’ve lost control of my body—like a marionette with some other scorned woman operating my strings. I tap on the messaging app, and when it opens, my mind scrambles to make sense of all the unread texts. There are scores of them, all names I hardly recognize or numbers he hasn’t even added to his contacts. It’s no wonder he’s got so many people on the payroll to make sense of his life. Elliot Majors does not deal in minutiae.
Overwhelmed and feeling sillier by the minute, I give up on his texts. I’m about to give up on the whole mission, too, when something intangible, intuitive even, tells me to check his Instagram DMs. I’m not sure if it’s the devil on my left shoulder or the angel on my right, but it’s irrelevant now, because I already crossed the line when I unlocked his phone. And now I’m staring at a lengthy conversation between my husband and his artist, Miss Thing. And it has nothing to do with music.
Now
Palm Desert in July has nothing on the hellscape that is the conference room of Spradlin, Waldorf, and Associates. The tension within these four walls grows thicker with each passing minute.
To avoid a drawn-out court battle, Janet succeeded, only barely, in convincing me to accept Elliot’s request for a single attempt at negotiating a settlement over the terms of our divorce.
And while I haven’t uttered a word since we walked into this holding cell of a conference room, I must be giving off why am I here and when can I leave? vibes, because Janet takes the opportunity to explain herself once more.
“Again, we’re only here to see what they’re putting on the table,” she argues. “Think of it as us peeking at the deck before we have to draw our hand. Whatever we discuss today won’t be binding. So, there’s nothing to lose.”
“Oh, nothing except for my pride, dignity, and about a gallon of water weight,” I reply dryly. “Seriously, what’s with you lawyers and your vendetta against air-conditioning?”
Janet smirks while raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? Reptiles are cold-blooded—comes with the occupation,” she deadpans.
I chuckle at this, relieved for a moment of levity before Elliot and his attorney are due to waltz in here, most likely sporting smug grins and expensive cologne—the kind that reeks of mansplaining and condescension.
Now that the prenup has been dissolved, we are essentially starting with a blank slate. All those exploitative clauses that strapped my future earnings to Elliot have been done away with—but so have the ones that mutually excluded us from ever being accountable for each other’s financial stability. In short, because California is a no-fault state, now I could end up having to pay my philandering ex in monthly spousal support. It’s solely dependent on how the earnings numbers balance out in the end.
The mere thought of things falling in his favor has me praying my anxiety hasn’t made itself known in the form of massive sweat stains on my pale silk blouse. Taking what I hope to be a discreet glance down at my top, I confirm that I am in the clear—but only for now. When a sharp click sounds at the door, my spine shoots up straight. I turn toward the sound, where Elliot and his attorney have just entered the stuffy room. As expected, they wear matching smiles, each dripping with self-satisfaction—like our showing up today means they’ve already won. I could hurl on the table.
Larry Spradlin, Elliot’s toupeed, square-jawed, and near-sighted attorney slides into the chair directly across from me while Elliot squares off with Janet. And my no-good, very bad ex sits there, cool as an organic cucumber, with his perfectly manicured hands clasped atop the expansive cherry oak–stained table.
He’s been in the room all of thirty seconds, and Elliot has yet to make eye contact with me. I know it’s a scare tactic—something he used to do during our marriage when we were privately on the outs but in the presence of others. We could be at the studio, a party, a meeting, and he’d pretend I didn’t exist. He’d have me seeking out the smallest acknowledgment, a nod, a head tilt, even a glance, for reassurance that we were okay, that we’d be okay. Invariably, by the end of the night, I’d give in first and walk back my part of whatever disagreement caused the tension. But this time he’s sorely mistaken, because he doesn’t realize that his games aren’t ones I’m willing to play anymore.
“Thank you, Ms. Simone, for joining us today,” Larry blithers across the conference room table. “Or should I say Ms. Robinson? We have yet to establish the future status of your professional name, as I believe Mr. Majors holds the copyright.”
I hope the side-eye I’m leveling Larry’s way isn’t as apparent on the outside as it feels on the inside, because I’m on the verge of a migraine. I used to love Larry. Or, at the very least, I appreciated the service he provided Elliot. But this man clearly harbors an unnatural allegiance to losers, my ex-husband being captain of the ship.
“Ms. Robinson will do just fine,” Janet chimes in. “And my client wishes to release the professional moniker of Ella Simone upon conclusion of her upcoming tour. As they say, ‘Out with the old.’?”
At this, Elliot shifts in his seat. Bet he didn’t see this coming. He and Larry likely planned to catch us off guard out of the gate with that one. But Janet and I came ready to play ball—on our terms. Besides, shedding my old persona, the one crafted and carefully curated by my ex, has been a dream of mine since the moment I realized I’d outgrown both her and him. Elliot may be under the impression that I’ll be rudderless without him. But that’s simply because in all the years he spent sizing me up, molding me into something he could tote and sell, he never truly paid attention.
Those lyrics didn’t cowrite themselves. I never used Auto-Tune in a booth. And every night I found myself on a stage, my mic was on. Every time someone catcalled, ridiculed, objectified, slandered, and yes, even groped “Ella Simone,” it was Elladee Robinson who picked up the pieces and kept it pushing…not Elliot Majors. So yes, I’m more than prepared to “release the professional moniker.” As prepared as I am to close this chapter of my life completely.
Larry clears his throat. “Noted, I’ll have the team draft that into the agreement,” he says, before directing his gaze back at me. “I trust Ms. Waterman has provided you with a list of the terms Mr. Majors and I hope to discuss today?”
At the mention of my ex, my eyes slide about two feet to the left where the culprit himself is seated, looking equal parts bored and annoyed. For a moment, our history passes before my eyes—the unvarnished joy on his face when I said I do at the chapel. The way he lit up when I told him I was finally open to the discussion of us starting a family together. The placid expression he maintained throughout every lie he told.
I made every part of me available to this man—my future, my talent, my mind, heart, and body—but most of all my trust. And he took them all, giving me only a facade in return. I used to wonder what more I could have done, who else I could have been to have had things work out differently for us. But looking at this man through weathered, wiser eyes—eyes that have seen him wreak havoc both on those deserving and not—I see now that I could have been everything and still, he’d have cheated because of who he is and what he lacks, not because of me.
“Please direct your queries to me, Mr. Spradlin,” Janet requests, and she’s so straightforward it snaps me back to the moment. “Yes, my client is aware of the terms. How would you like to proceed?”
Larry clears his throat and wipes his brow, uncharacteristically rattled—perhaps by having a woman challenge his energy. “My client is amenable to splitting the value of all community property by a ratio of sixty-forty,” he states. “We believe this to be more than fair given the relative value, and lack thereof, of each party’s assets upon entering this union.”
Janet doesn’t respond, she merely jots down a few notes, then returns Larry’s searching stare when she’s done. “Next?” she asks.
Larry, seemingly taken aback once again, this time by Janet’s minimalist approach, shuffles his pages before scanning for the next term up for discussion. “As for spousal support…upon a full accounting of all income streams for each party, my client wishes to receive a monthly twenty-five percent royalty derived from ticket and merchandising sales from Ms. Simone…ahem…Ms. Robinson’s cut of upcoming tour sales.”
Unable to stop it, my neck swivels like a bobblehead on steroids. And if I’m not mistaken, a squeak of objection just burst from my lips. Then Elliot has the nerve to… laugh .
“This is funny to you?” I demand, my voice cracking from the onslaught of shock and disgust.
Never mind the fact I’ve gone completely rogue now by speaking out of turn. The plan was for me not to utter a word once they entered the room. Let Janet do the talking. Hit this and quit this, before the gas lamp explodes. But this man…ooooh, he gets under my skin. You don’t lie, cheat, and steal the most precious parts of someone—their time and energy—and then turn around and request more . Even if, by some stretch of imagination, a case could be made for Elliot earning a portion of proceeds from my tour, has the man not already taken enough?
Janet has placed a firm palm on my right forearm, which is currently vibrating with cellular rage atop the conference table. She’s about to say something, but Elliot beats her to the punch.
“Nah,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. And the disdain I’m met with makes my stomach turn. “Not funny. Just seeking what I’m owed, baby doll.”
“Majors,” Larry emits in admonishment. And for a second, I think I notice a spark of shame flit across his face.
Elliot waves him off, the same way he dismisses all his minions. “I’m paying for this room, so I think I’ll get a few things off my chest before she goes off again with her little baseball player boyfriend,” he says. And his mention of Miles sends a chill down my spine.
“You wouldn’t have a career without me,” Elliot declares flatly, as if it were a matter of science. Like I’m the plant and he’s the sun. And it’s not the first time he’s said the words. So the fresh bite he intends to inflict lands more like a dull gnawing at old wounds.
“Everybody knows. You tried on your own and you got nowhere. And you know why too. YouTube. Reality shows. Demo tapes. Everything failed,” he states. “Because you were derivative. No one at Onyx wanted to sign you until I made you something special…something marketable. They didn’t believe in you, sweetheart. They believed in me . And that’s what got your foot in the door. So yes, a cut of the tour isn’t just what I have earned. It’s what I deserve .”
“On that note, gentlemen,” Janet interjects as she rises from the table and collects her things. “This meeting is over. My client and I will see you both in court.”
Momentarily frozen, I take a second to realize that Janet is standing by to assist me with getting up from the table. When our eyes meet, a look of contrition in hers communicates to me without words that she’s sorry for putting me through this. For playing directly into their hand. As it is now evident as ever that Elliot’s goal here was not to negotiate in good faith, but to debase me in living color.
But Janet need not apologize, because this was not a total waste of time. Something happens when faced with a bully who no longer has a hold on you. Eventually, you get the spark to fight back.