I want to know how her day is, I want to know why she looks so troubled at the thought of going on stage. I want to know why I hear her repeating numbers in her sleep every time we’re together. I want to unpeel her, layer by layer, until I get to her heart, and then put everything back together once I know it’s in good shape.
“Drew,” I repeat, doing my best to look blankly at my mother. “Why would I have heard from her?”
“You two got along so well by the end of the trip. I just thought…” She stops, shrugging, and for a moment I find that I’m hoping for a reprieve.
I just thought something might happen with you two, she could say. I just thought that maybe if she wasn’t dating Joel, the two of you might…you know.
“I hoped she might confide in you,” my mother says instead. “I still think she and Joel will get back together. She could be like the sister you never had.”
My hands grip the steering wheel. “Mom, I can assure you, that’s not going to happen.”
I would do almost anything for my mother, but I will not give her this. I just can’t.
36
DREW
I arrive in London on no sleep. It’s the middle of the night back home but here it’s a dreary gray morning and rush hour, and I just don’t feel ready to face the day ahead.
It’s not entirely the lack of sleep. Yesterday, Josh told me Beth’s cancer is back and that it doesn’t look good, which seems like doctor speak for definitely fatal. I can’t stop going over the trip in my head now, remembering Beth’s determination to do things she wasn’t up to, her tears when Six arrived and her obsession with seeing her sons paired off. It all makes sense now, but her selflessness just makes it hurt more. At a time when anyone else would be thinking about themselves, Beth was thinking of her sons, and she had enough love left over to extend it to me.
I fish sunglasses out of my purse and put them on, doing my best to surreptitiously wipe away tears before the driver sees.
Josh wants his mom to die secure in the knowledge that he and Joel still have each other to lean on. I want to give that to her, too, but the weird thing is that Beth is the one I want to talk to about Josh. When she texts to say she saw me on TV, or to wish me luck or to send pictures of their dogs—more than anything, I want to say I’m crazy about Josh. I think he’s the best man I’ve ever known and you did such a good job with him.
In another life, inexplicably, I think she’d be thrilled.
I dry my eyes and steel myself as the car pulls up to the Mandarin Oriental. Davis and Ashleigh are the first people I see when I walk inside. I’d prefer they were the last.
“I’ve got you an appointment with a colorist,” he says. “She’s up in your room.”
I blink at him. A part of me is ready to concede, the way I always do, but a newer part shouts Who the fuck do you think you are? The news about Beth puts things in perspective a bit. It’s a reminder that there are harder things to live through than Davis’s fury.
“Then you can tell her to leave,” I reply.
His jaw locks with rage, and he’s clearly itching to threaten me, but my hair color is not in our contract. There isn’t a doubt in my mind, however, that he’ll find a way to make me pay.
He is nothing if not consistent. To punish me for the grave sin of wanting my hair to be its natural color, Davis swamps me. He squeezes in extra interviews, an extra meet and greet. My head doesn’t hit the pillow until two in the morning, and at five AM, he’s got hair and wardrobe knocking on my door to ready me for more of the same.
By the time we get to Paris on the third day, I’m so exhausted I look drunk and I’m acting like it too, stumbling over my answers.
“How is anyone supposed to think you’re not on drugs,” Davis snaps, “when you don’t recognize the name of your own goddamn album?” He takes out a tiny silver vial and puts it in my hand. “Do a line in the bathroom and pull yourself together.”
My eyes squeeze tight, so frustrated and despondent I’m on the verge of tears. My entire life seems like an endless cycle of problems Davis has created, which he then fixes in problematic ways.
But I do the line because right now I need a solution, and I do more before I go on stage that night, because—as always—nothing matters more than the appearance of having my shit together.
I’m so tired I forget what city I’m in. “Thank you…” I shout at the end of my set. I very nearly say Berlin, but it feels wrong so I leave the words hanging and somehow get myself backstage.
I blow right past the crew members and waiting fans and head for my dressing room with Ashleigh at my heels. She feels more like a minder these days than an assistant, but as long as she got a brioche from my favorite place over on the Champs-Élysées—the one thing I’ve asked of her all day long—we’re good.
I missed dinner, I missed lunch, and I’ve been running since early this morning with no break, but if I can get these shoes off my feet and a little brioche in my mouth, I’ll make it to the finish line.
I enter the room backstage, ready to collapse on the long black leather couch at the far wall, but come to a dead stop when I only see a bottle of water waiting on the table.
“Where’s my brioche?” I ask, unstrapping a heel.
“Oh,” she says, unable to meet my eye, “Davis said not to get it for you.”
It’s such a minor thing but I feel like I’m going to burst into tears. “Did he say why?” I ask between my teeth. I’m barely holding it together.
“He thinks you gained weight in Hawaii,” she says. “No pastries, no sugar until we get through this.” Her words are hesitant, but it’s clear who’s in charge here and it isn’t me.
Anger burns in my gut. I pinch my lips together, clenching my jaw. Tears threaten to fall, but I squeeze my eyes shut and push them back. I should no longer be surprised, but I am. Is there really nothing about my life I’m allowed to decide for myself?
I take off the other heel and sink onto the couch, pressing my face into my hands and trying to hold it together. I know I’m just tired, and exhaustion makes anything seem worse than it is. But I just don’t have it in me to snap out of it tonight.
Ashleigh’s gathering stuff around the room. She glances over at me as if surprised I’m still seated. “Are you ready for the party?” she asks. “The car’s outside.”
“No one ever said anything about a party.”
She sighs. She’s probably thinking I’m just too careless to have listened before and she might be right. “Someone high up at LVP is throwing it,” she says. “It’s a big deal.”
Except it’s always a big deal. And I’ll be expected to smile and pose and try to stay awake for hours just like I am every night. I’m done. And there’s only one person in the world I want to talk to right now.
I pick up my phone.
Can you talk? Are you free? I text Josh.
Josh: For you, absolutely.
Me: Give me ten minutes.
Maybe I’m leaning on him a little, but how much harm can it do? He leaves for Somalia in a day. It’s not as if I’ll suddenly decide it can be more than this.