Between You and Me (15 page)

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If any woman can make a booty call, Kelsey Wade”—I slap her clutch into her lap—it’s you.”

“Bienvenido a Barcelona.” This time two days ago, I was full of panini and trying on a gold dress/shirt. Now I’m in yet another country, navigating yet another language, back to the airport to ferry Kelsey’s transatlantic booty call directly to the stage door. Because, after exhaustive supposition, it was decided not to depend on her driver, Diego, for the full report of “exactly” what Aaron seems like when he arrives or, more precisely, “really, really how he seems, like, if he’s happy or put out or psyched or what.”

The luggage carousel spins in hypnotic loops as I shift my weight, adjusting my stance in the middle of waiting family, friends, and drivers. Being none of the above, I stare attentively at the steady trickle of arriving passengers. Information filters through the airport speakers and then through some reactivated seventh-grade section of my brain that is annoyingly compelled to translate but ill equipped to identify.
Please
. . .
take
—no.
Take back
—no.
Give
—no.
El carrito? De equipaje.
Baggage? Baggage.
Salidas
—stop. I have to stop. This does not matter. I’m not getting on or off a plane.

I focus on the bubble-gum-and-banana-colored cover of a magazine protruding from the bag of a woman in front of me until it registers that I’m looking at a photo of my own gold arm clenched around Kelsey’s dripping shoulder.
Oh, my God.

“Sorry, um,
por favor,
may I look?” I tap the woman, and she spins around. I point to the magazine. Her hand protectively clenches her bag. “No! Oh, no, not your bag. Just the magazine.” I put my hands together and peel them open, pantomiming a book. “Just to see for a second?” I point to my sunglasses, then back at the magazine, then at my watch. She hands it off and then beetles away to wait unaccosted.

Tucking Aaron’s sign under my arm, I hastily unbend the cover to
see Kelsey, her wet dress flash-bulbed transparent, and the headline says something about Eric, about her being made . . .
wild
. . . with something . . .
celos.
Sorry?
Celos
. . .
jealousy?
Jealousy of Eric.

And no mention of Travis. So she just leaped in of her own accord like a crazy person?

I frantically flip the glossy pictures of celebrities mid-stride on beaches, parking lots, and the occasional red carpet. And there’s Travis with his hair slicked back, his wet shirt clinging. The shot is cropped so he’s laughing, with the fountain in the background, not up to his knees. His chiseled pecs make the looming Neptune’s look girly. It’s one photo of many capturing Travis’s European jaunt, which features an inordinate amount of shirtless jogging, you know, for March. The collective impression is of a carefree bachelor enjoying the sites.
How?
How is the story not, smelly nutball let loose on unsuspecting pop star and four-hundred-year-old monument?

I call Finn.

“Logan Wade,” he answers.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, let me just find a quiet spot . . . Okay. So, hi! You made it to Spain.”

“Barely,” I say.

“Travis loves that fountain.”

“You knew he was going to do that?”

“If I’d’ve known, I’d’ve brought along a towel and a flu shot,” he offers as if that’s that. “I’m glad you called.”

“But you’re going to have his publicist tell people he dumped Kelsey in there, right? That she wasn’t crazed or something.”

“What?”

“You’re going to fix this. I mean, you kind of have to, Finn.”

“You’re serious,” he says uncertainly. “That’s . . . not really how it’s done. The news cycle turns on the hour, Logan. I’m sorry, but—”

“Great.” I allow my annoyance to surge through the phone as I catch sight of Aaron parting the waiting clusters with his outstretched duffle. “Whatever. I have to go.”

“Logan—”

“No. I get it, Finn. Thanks for your words of industry wisdom.” I hang up, and Aaron’s eyebrows rise in recognition as I lift my sign. “Aaron, hi, I’m—”

“Kelsey’s cousin from the club. I remember. What’s up?” he greets me as he tugs his hood off. He’s shaved his head since we met in L.A., but his allure is undiminished by having flown so far so fast. “No need for a sign.” He tugs his ear buds out.

“Oh! Well, it was a while ago that we—we weren’t sure if—Okay!” I quickly fold it. “Welcome to Barcelona!”

“Thanks.” He grins. “You didn’t have to . . . ” He nods at Diego, who insistently takes his Adidas duffle. “Thanks, man.”

“I don’t have a car here. Of course, I don’t. But this was the only way to pick you up.” He purses his lips, the fact that I’ve been assigned to tail him that obvious.

“I appreciate it, but I could’ve taken a cab or the Metro.” He slips his hands into the pockets of his coat as we walk. “I mean, that would’ve been fine. I wasn’t expecting—”

“I was running around anyway, so it’s not a big deal,” I say, as if I was picking up one of the crew. Who would have taken a cab or the Metro.

“Well, thanks,” he says. “It’s cool of you. You guys having a good time?” Diego hurriedly beats us to the car and opens the trunk. Aaron continues his steady gait, with its touch of Terrance-like performance swagger.

“Yes, thanks. It’s cold here, right?” I say, opening the front passenger door of the Mercedes for myself. “You hear ‘Barcelona,’ and you think espadrilles and linen, but it’s so not that.” I huddle in my down puffer.

Aaron folds himself in behind me.

“Oh, I should come back there. Keep you company.” I twist in my seat.

“Nah, I’m good.” He clicks his seatbelt and pulls at his jeans. I shift my chair forward off his knees. “Ah, thanks.”

“Sure!” We smile stupidly at each other.

“So, you’re managing?” he asks.

“I am.” I let out a breath. “I mean, the schedule is like some sixties
psych experiment to induce mania, but yeah, I’m hanging in there, thanks.”

He cracks up, his blue eyes twinkling. “I meant the tour, but good to know.”

“Oh.” I smile sheepishly. “That.”

“This shit can be tiring.” He gives my shoulder a good-natured pat.

“Thanks,” I say, disarmed.

“I’m guessing you don’t mind if I?” He lifts his ear buds.

“Not at all.”

He drops his head back on the seat as Diego starts the car and I peek in my side-view mirror to gather adjectives for my report. Aaron’s eyes meet mine, and then he stares out his window, his gaze at a studious half-mast. I watch the Gaudi buildings pass as I gird myself to be fired.

“You put him in the
best section?” Kelsey gleefully inquires as she all but pirouettes to the base of the rigging.

“Check.” I hand her the tutu.

“And he seems psyched?”

“Like I said, he’s kind of a cool customer, but yes, I think he is.”

“Okay, Michelle.” She rolls her eyes. “Cool customer.”

“I’m saying, for someone who was flown in overnight to, what did you call it?”

“Catch up.” She giggles.

“Right. I’m just saying he’s infinitely more under control than I would be if I was waiting in a VIP seat to ‘catch up’ with Bono.”

“Ew, Logan, gross. He’s old enough to be our dad.”

“But did you see how excited he was to play the inauguration?” I pat my sternum. “It touched me deep.”

“Nerd.” The house lights dim.

“Kel, real quick, I just wanted you to know I called Finn and told him Travis needs to fix this.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she protests.

“Everyone thinks you jumped in!”

She snorts. “It doesn’t matter—they make shit up every week. Nobody
cares.” She tilts her forehead back for me to kiss before ascending to commence the world’s most overattended foreplay.

Feeling burgeoning pangs of mortification
, I retreat to the dressing room to set up camp in Kelsey’s makeup chair.

My mailbox has filled since I tucked my phone away an hour ago. I roll my neck and dig in, reminding myself that in one month as Kelsey’s assistant, with my sole overhead being a single box of tampons and five packs of gum, I’ve almost paid off my MBA student loans. Okay, here goes . . . three messages from her deliriously excited publicist, two from Kelsey’s over-the-moon manager, one from her licensing agent, one from the senior VP of marketing at Maybelline wanting me to convey her adoration directly. One from the senior VP of marketing at L’Oréal wanting me to convey
her
adoration directly. One from pretty much every company that makes a waterproof mascara in search of celebrity endorsement for which they are “already seeing a fountain spread, it’s going to be killer/fantastic/gorgeous!”

Okay, upside: the worst fuckup on my watch may result in an endorsement. And downside: replying to any of these messages requires authorization from the two people who are still MIA. Oh, and I made a total fool of myself.

A roar above signifies a
stadium of fans pointlessly trying to entice a third curtain call. None choreographed, none coming.

A man and a woman dressed identically in fitted hot-pink Kelsey T-shirts walk in.

“Hello?” I say, unsure why they’re here. “Can I help you?”

They raise the badges. “We’re Garcia and Garcia!” they announce. “We make building designs. We love Kelsey!”

I stick my head out to GM. “What’s going on?” I ask as the line of people proceeds inside, instead of being escorted by security one at a time.

“Kelsey’s orders,” he says. “She wanted a crowd.”

The local notables mingle around the makeup table, waiting to
congratulate her. Aaron arrives, scanning the room. He forgoes the couch and armchairs to take an unassuming metal folding seat against the back wall.

After a good twenty minutes people are getting restless to the point of annoyed. But as I turn, there she is in the doorway in the lace-up leather pants and bra from the finale, freshened so she looks as if she’s ready to start the show. Everyone claps, and she smiles graciously, but her gaze, that of the rebel doll, is locked on Aaron. For once, the sensuous dominance that infuses her onstage persona has not melted as she steps off.

“Hey.” She tugs off her earrings as she struts through the parting crowd to her chair. “Glad you could make it,” she says to him.

“Great show.” He lifts his arms over the back of his seat and settles into an open slouch.

“Thanks.” She langorously stretches to unzip her boots.

“Kel,” I interrupt before he lunges to unlace her pants. “If I could just introduce you to some of your guests?”

She rolls up, flipping her hair over her bare back before turning a melting grin to her fans. “Where are my manners?” She hops down, switching energies with an alacrity that recalls our basement dress-up days, where the doffing of Michelle’s black scarf would transform Kelsey from the Queen to Snow White in a breath. “Thank you all so much for coming! Did you have fun?” she leans in to ask Pedro Almódovar.

Aaron’s eyes follow as she charms them all, his hand resting on the plastic Aquarel bottle between his jittery legs. I pack up my bag, feeling an acute pang of jealousy at the palpable anticipation between them. I pray that the seemingly endless learning curve of this job hasn’t cost me my chance at that.

The next few days feel
different from the usual blur of load-ins, load-outs, interviews, and appearances. While I phrase and rephrase and translate into Spanish an apology to Finn, Kelsey has stopped asking if I’ve heard from her parents. And I find her grinning to herself. I would be too, if I were having mad, hot, passionate everything, everywhere. Cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, she all but gives off a shock if
you shuffle past her. Needless to say, Binky and Dax are on permanent standby to freshen gloss and flatten hair. I, meanwhile, am having mad, hot, passionate with my binder, and it’s frankly not bringing it the way I need it to be brung.

In the freed time that Kelsey’s distraction has rewarded me, I indulgingly replay the beats of my Rome date with Finn as if it will reveal the secret to a wrinkle-free life. This loop becomes particularly unsparing at about three
AM
, after I’ve gotten everyone settled for the night. With Aaron taking over drawing Kelsey’s bath so he can join her in it, I’m in bed minutes sooner. Where, acutely conscious of the pressure to use these few hours to recharge, I twist in the ironed linens.

Somewhere along the Riviera my phone buzzes on the night table with an 800 number.

“Hello?”

“There she is.”

“Andy?” I sit up.

“Alrighty, that’s all of us,” he says.

“Sorry?” I turn on the lamp. “We’ve been hoping you’d—”

“Logan’s on the line.” Michelle cuts me off. “Now all three of us are here, so yes, please go right on ahead.”

“Isn’t Kelsey joining?” I recognize the gruff voice of Kelsey’s agent.

“Oh, no. We’re letting her sleep,” Michelle says. “Logan’ll fill Kel in, won’t you, Lo.”

“Sure?”
What?

“Y’all go ahead,” Andy says. “Logan’ll take notes for us.”