Chapter Three Eleanor
Logically, I know I can’t be the first person to wake up in a Las Vegas hotel room with regrets. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a singular screwup. The moment Adam and his little smirk are out of my sight, I shuffle back over to the bed and collapse face down for a pity party.
It’s obvious I’ve entered a coma, or a parallel dimension, or maybe purgatory. Because how else do you explain going from being justifiably furious at Adam for crashing my dinner to willingly walking down the aisle and marrying the man?
I have no desire to get married. At least not anytime soon. And definitely not to anyone even remotely involved with the music industry.
I figured if it ever happened, it would be years from now, after I’d met the right guy and we’d dated for at least eighteen months followed by a long enough engagement to plan a low-maintenance but legitimate wedding.
I’d have the vintage handkerchief my mom used at her own wedding tucked discreetly in my bra—my something old, borrowed, and blue.
My sister, Iris, would be my maid of honor, because we made a pact when I was ten and I don’t take that shit lightly.
I would sip champagne but remain sober because in addition to being emetophobic and rarely having more than two drinks to avoid any chance of getting sick, I would want to be a classy bride. Elegant.
Hungover as I may be right now—and let’s be clear, I am hungover as shit—I cannot fathom drinking enough to make any of what allegedly happened last night seem like a good idea.
Intoxicated people eat too much Taco Bell and call up their exes and say cringey things they can’t take back.
They do not marry someone they haven’t even had a full conversation with in years.
Even if drunk me was trying to one-up Adam…
it just doesn’t track. This has the potential to hurt me as much as him.
More, probably. Because Adam isn’t the one who has spent the past few years trying to offset a reputation as someone who fucked their way to the top.
The kicker is, I can’t remember exactly how I left things with the band.
I have no idea if I’m supposed to call Fiona today, or if I’m supposed to do anything before the show tonight.
I remember dinner, and Adam’s limo taking us to a club across town, which apparently was actually a cannabis lounge. Everything after that point is hazy.
I roll over onto my back and pull my phone out to dial my office number. My assistant, Nora, answers after the first ring.
“Thank god,” she says. “I’ve been dying here.”
“Sounds like a super-rough morning for you,” I deadpan.
Nora huffs and the line fills with rustling, followed by the click of a door closing. I suspect she’s switched to Bluetooth and shut herself in my office for privacy. “How did it go? Did you sign them? Did you two-piece the guy from Exeter?”
I fiddle with my ring, twisting it around until abruptly I register what I’m doing, and tuck my fingers into a tight fist. “Not exactly.”
“So then what happened?”
She sounds so earnest, my hand unclenches and my body releases some of the tension I’ve been holding all morning.
It wasn’t Nora. She’s not Adam’s source.
Ever since last night I’ve wondered—with access to my calendar, she’s the most obvious suspect, after all.
But she wouldn’t do that, would have no reason to.
“They haven’t committed to anyone yet.”
“Okay. So what are the next steps? What do you need from me?”
“Nothing at the moment. Do I have any messages?”
“A few… Most can wait until you’re back, but Josie wanted an update.”
This comes as no surprise. It’s already after eleven, and she probably expected me to check in as soon as the office was open. Josie has kept me on a bit of a short leash lately, especially since learning about the times I skirted her budget cap by spending my own money to take artists out.
Josie might have lost some of her confidence in my ability to bring in new talent, but I know I can make this happen.
Just like when I first signed Maya—I wasn’t the only offer on the table then either.
But I never let Josie see me sweat. I assured her I had it covered, and I took Maya out and I sold her on what we could accomplish together.
That’s what I’m doing with Dempsey. Josie will see.
“Can you let her know I’m on top of everything, and that I’ll reach out after tonight’s show?”
“No problem.” A pause. “You’re sure you don’t want to check in now? I could transfer you over.”
“I’ve got a few things to take care of right now.
Tonight works better.” For a moment, I consider telling Nora.
Just to have someone to tell. But the fewer people who know, the better.
Besides, Josie is technically her boss too.
I won’t put Nora in a position to lie for me.
“Well, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks, Nora. ”
We hang up and I poke around on my phone some more.
I have a missed call from my sister, and I almost call her back.
Iris is a personal trainer, so it’s basically her job to motivate people.
She honestly gives the best pep talks. The problem is, I can’t lie to her, and she’s getting married in a couple weeks.
And I have a feeling telling her I drunkenly married some guy I can’t stand fourteen days before her own wedding might not evoke the sort of sisterly support I’m accustomed to receiving from her.
Especially since she’s still pissed at me for bailing on her engagement party. In my defense, I was there for the first hour. But she scheduled it on the same night as an important album launch party, and I don’t possess the ability to be in two places at once.
Instead of calling Iris, I pull up my photos again.
I spend a solid minute staring at the selfie in front of the chapel, trying to remember taking it.
Eventually, I give up and scan the half-dozen other photos I took last night, noting that the time stamps start around one in the morning, which seems to be after Adam and I split from the group.
It looks like we went from the chapel to some bar, but the rest of the photos were taken outside, the lights from the Strip blurry in the background.
As I swipe through the photo app, I notice my phone automatically created one of those custom slideshows with all the pictures I’ve taken in Vegas, set to sappy instrumental music.
I cover my face with one hand and watch it through my fingers.
In every single picture of Adam and me together, I’m wearing my biggest smile.
One that crinkles my nose and does nothing to hide the fact that my two front teeth are a bit crooked because I never wore my retainer.
It almost looks like I was enjoying Adam’s company last night.
No. That can’t be right. Drunk people grin all the time for no good reason. I once took a picture of my college roommate beaming at a broken cross-country ski she found on our walk home from a party.
I stare down at my phone until the slideshow ends and the screen locks again. I have to bite the bullet and call Fiona. I’ll go crazy otherwise, not knowing where things stand.
She answers on the first ring. “Eleanor, how’s it going?”
“Great,” I say, rubbing my throat when my voice comes out raspy. “I wanted to touch base and see if Sher and the guys had any other questions for me.”
“Yeah, I’m glad you called. I actually just got off the phone with Freddie. I know we originally told you we’d have a decision by tonight, but it’s possible they’re going to need some more time.”
My grip tightens on my phone. I imagine my fingers are wrapped around Adam’s neck instead. “Oh?”
“He says they want to think it over a bit after last night,” she says, sounding almost apologetic.
Anxiety sets in as I rack my brain, trying to think of any moment that might have tipped the scales. Swear to god, if I spouted off about being on my last leg with Josie, or gave them any sense of my own desperation, I will straight-up perish.
Of course, there’s also the distinct possibility it wasn’t anything I did. I tried my best to run interference, but it was loud and chaotic, and I couldn’t catch every word Adam said. And there is so much he could’ve said.
Aside from his ability to pitch artists, which is absolutely one of his strengths, Adam also had a front-row seat to the start of everything with Griffin.
I know the kind of gossip that was going on behind my back, especially among the interns.
I can only imagine how much worse it got when I left, and Griffin was still at Exeter to control the narrative.
Another woman we interned with reached out to me last year, when Griffin was finally fired.
Sorry we were such assholes. Glad to see you’re doing so well.
It meant a lot—the first indication I’d gotten that at least some people had come to see the situation in a different light.
Adam hasn’t shown any signs of being in that camp.
My free hand clutches the front of my blouse, even though it’s buttoned almost all the way up, because talking to Fiona while braless and on my back foot is excruciating.
I want to be wearing a crisp Hillary Clinton pantsuit.
I want to be as polished as Kate Middleton with weights sewn into the hem of her dress, skirt prevented from even shivering in the wind.
I don’t care that it’s a high of ninety degrees today in Nevada—I want to be suffocating in layers of fabric with modest Victorian necklines.
“Is Freddie free today? I’d love to help clear things up—”
“You’re still coming to the show tonight, right? We’ll talk then.”
I nod and press my free hand to my forehead. “Yeah, sounds good. Can’t wait. Thanks, Fiona.”