Chapter 30
I’M STANDING ON the sidewalk, hands on my hips, staring at the front of the crack house I’ve been living in for the past four months. On the ground next to me is a box full of Christmas decorations—from Christmas tree lights to beaded garlands to ornaments to glass angels.
As I head indoors, there’s determination in my step.
It’s high time to make this drug den more livable, plus, at this time of year, I love walking inside to see the mood of the outdoor Christmas decorations carry through into the house.
My apartment complex in Amsterdam always had a Christmas tree in the lobby this time of year, and there would be shimmering garlands wrapped around the stairway banister.
It was such a delightful thing to come home to.
Inside, I start by looking for a socket to plug the lights into. Once I find what I’m looking for, I glance between the plug in my hand and the power source on the wall. The outlet looks like it’s as old as the dawn of electricity.
With a shrug, I lay the plug down on the floor and begin to braid the string of lights through the spindles of the railing, adding in ornaments along the way.
I keep going until I reach the top, then tape a tinsel garland to my grubby doorframe.
After a brief hesitation, I tape one around Rudy’s door, too.
There. If he wants to be in a relationship with me, he’d better get used to a Christmas decoration or two. If we ever decide to live together down the road, he should expect a doorway garland to be the bare minimum.
A few doors down, I hear the creak of hinges and a pair of dark, beady eyes appear in the crack of the door.
It’s Agnes, the old lady who lectured me about my colourful language, then ordered me to catch her four-legged white mop.
She’s watching my every move. The mop in question is lounging in her arms, purring up a storm, and glaring at me with slight disdain in her big, yellow eyes.
It’s almost evening now, but Agnes is still dressed in her long, pink robe with the plushy hemline. She’s taking drags from a long, dark cigarette holder, blowing the smoke out into the hall.
Who gave you permission to do that? she croaks as she pets Gertrude’s head. Not everyone appreciates being blinded by all that gaudy junk.
I look at her, dismayed. Was I supposed to get permission to do this? There’s not a single working smoke detector in the building, but I need to ask the landlord for approval before snazzing the place up a little? I don’t even know what the landlord’s name is.
It was a Mr. . . . Claus . . . I ultimately reply.
While Gertrude’s pupils started out as thin lines, they’re now slowly turning into full moons. She’s clearly not impressed with my lack of creativity and lying prowess.
But Agnes nods in approval. I’m glad to hear you’re being responsible.
Thank you, I say.
She obviously also has no idea who our landlord is. As I make my way back downstairs to start plugging in all the lights, Agnes’s voice stops me in my tracks.
That fella of yours sure is starting to make something of himself, isn’t he?
I look up and see a questioning look on her face. I have no idea how she knows about that. I figured she never left her apartment, except to snip at innocent tenants.
Uh . . . yes, that’s right, I nod.
I heard his band is going to be on Good Night with Jerry tonight.
You must be pretty proud of him. Her beady eyes dart across my face as she plucks at one of Gertrude’s ear fluffs.
The cat lets out a little meow, but that’s the extent of her protest—rather than subjecting her owner to the razor sharp nails hidden within her beefy paws.
I sure am, I reply with a friendly smile, before reattempting to head downstairs.
Better enjoy it while it lasts.
My hand tenses around the decorated banister.
She’s poking at an insecurity I have no interest in exploring: what would happen to us if Rudy got really famous?
What if everyone with a functional set of ovaries started throwing themselves at his feet?
What if he’s expected to record a music video with a half-naked Victoria’s Secret model draped around his neck, whispering filthy things into his ear?
What if she invites him over to see her without her workwear on?
Don’t do it. Don’t d—
What do you mean? I ask, turning back toward her.
Dammit.
Agnes looks triumphant, thrilled that I took her bait. She’s visibly eager to fling some fascinating insights at me.
Well, fame does a bit of a number on people.
It changes them. Some get addicted to drugs, others just become arrogant and come to feel like they’re superior to the people from their old life.
Beautiful women throw themselves at famous men, who get overwhelmed with options .
. . Her fingers are drawing fast swirls in Gertrude’s shiny fur, while the cat lavishly licks Agnes’s hand with her little pink tongue.
I take a deep breath. Yep. This is exactly what I was afraid of. The little seed of insecurity that I’d tucked away deep inside me, is slowly beginning to sprout. A slightly claustrophobic feeling settles in my chest.
And where did you get all this wisdom? I ask through a clamped jaw.
How nice of you to ask. Leaning against the doorframe, she studies her long nails. I used to date Mick Jagger.
Blinking, I feel my mouth drop open. You . . . Um . . . What?
Yep, right before he got famous. Just cast me aside like it was no big deal.
Although not right away. Cheated on me a few times first, of course.
He left me behind with a broken heart while he went to go snort his brains out .
. . Kind of a sad story, really. She gives me a proud look, relishing in the fact that she had someone to share her juicy trivia with.
I’m not sure I’m buying it. I mean, it’s Mick Jagger. On the other hand, why not, really? There’s a pretty high statistical probability that I’d run into one of his lovers eventually.
Just a little something to keep in mind, she says, before turning back into her smoker’s den.
It’s a miracle Gertrude’s fur isn’t yellowed with nicotine.
Oh, and keep your hands off my door frame, she warns me, pointing her cigarette in my direction. Have a good night.
She disappears into her apartment with a soft swishing sound from the plush finish on her robe.
Dragging my feet, I wander back down the stairs, stopping on each floor to plug the lights into the antique outlets. But the colourful glowing lights reflected in the gleaming ornaments mean nothing to me now. I’m too preoccupied with what Agnes just told me.
Fame does a bit of a number on people.
But not Rudy . . . right?
When I reach the ground floor, I push the final plug into the socket.
I’m barely paying attention, but when I hear a crackle, my eyes dart to the antique death box with a sense of panic.
A few white sparks zap out of the outlet, there’s the sound of a motor shutting down, and then suddenly all the lights go out.
It’s dead silent as I stare wide-eyed at the socket. And then I hear doors slamming above me, swears from my co-tenants, followed by violent curses directed at me.
Shit.
I bury my face in my hands with a deep groan.
That night, Mariana, Marcel, and I are hanging out at the bar where New Dawn used to play.
The owner put up a big screen so everyone can watch along as our local pride and joy does their big interview with Jerry.
It’s a bit like going out to watch the football—ugh, soccer—World Cup back home, but without all the orange jerseys and with an overwhelmingly female crowd of spectators instead.
Kate’s here, too—Rudy’s former hookup who I met at the Halloween party. She’s tossing envious glares my way as she whispers something to her friend.
I wonder how many people here Rudy has slept with. If there’s any truth to Lauren’s comment about Rudy being worse than Joey on the ladies’ man front, the answer is likely a lot.
Biting my lip, I shake my head in an effort to drive out my unwanted thoughts. The only reason my mind is going there is because of Agnes’s stupid story. Rudy hasn’t done anything to make me doubt him. Not a single thing.
Glass of wine? You look like you could use a drink. Marcel gives my arm a reassuring pat. It’s cute that you’re so nervous about your boyfriend’s interview. You’re probably more tense than he is.
I’m not nervous, I mumble, wringing my fingers so hard they nearly detach. And yes, that sounds delicious.
Mariana excitedly taps my thigh as she wiggles in her seat. Her shiny dark hair is in a messy bun and she’s wearing fiery red lipstick.
This is so cool. A few months ago, who would have thought you would end up snagging your hot neighbour slash up-and-coming rockstar? What an unexpected twist to your expat year, right?
I nod, looking up at the big screen that’s been linked to the TV. They’re playing an ad for a law firm, which is something I still can’t quite get used to. The legal system operates so differently here than it does in the Netherlands.
Just as Marcel returns with our drinks, the Good Night with Jerry intro starts up, and the portly hosts extends a warm welcome to his viewers.
Jerry must be about fifty years old, and he’s carefully camouflaged the hair loss on his crown by combing a few wispy blonde hairs over the balding patch.
He has pronounced laugh lines around his eyes and his laugh is deep and jovial.
We have quite the special group of guests lined up for you tonight, he says directly into the camera, like it’s being operated by his four-year-old daughter who just found out she’s going on a trip to Disneyland.
None other than the hottest band of the past few weeks is sitting here on my couch, just chillaxing.
The word chillaxing sounds odd coming out of his mouth. Like if my Oma described her first date with Opa as a good vibe before he became her bae.