Between You and Me (16 page)

A woman starts to talk with a thick French accent, telling a
fantastique
story about a
fantastique
mascara commercial and its
fantastique
filming. I jump to the desk in search of a pen to scribble notes about booking time for sit-downs in Paris with the brand’s executives, and, most important, how Kelsey cannot be seen in public using any brand other than this one or someone will be shot. Seriously. And this is why I am on this call.

“Great!” I hear Andy clap his all-done clap.

“Oh, this is just going to be wonderful, right, Logan?” Michelle gushes. “We’re going to grab a good night’s sleep on it, and we’ll get back to you,” she says as if I’m beside her on a couch.

“Sure, yes, of course.” Where? Where’s the couch?!

“Y’all have a good night, then,” Michelle says.

“Night,” Andy adds, along with an overlapping round of the same sentiment in a couple of other languages, and the line goes dead.

I sit heavily in the desk chair. What. The hell. I stay like this for a while, waiting for them to call back. Waiting for explanation, direction, context, contact. But nothing.

Hoping Dax and Duane are dragging out their postshow nightcap, I pull on my jeans and let myself into the darkened suite and then out to the hall, where the illumination of a hotel’s public spaces in the early
AM
hours always gives me the oddly infantilizing sense that the parents are still awake.

In the grand lobby the massive circular Aubusson is being team-vacuumed by maids. But the bar has closed. Ugh. I don’t really want to be out. I don’t want to be alone.

Not that I begrudge Kelsey one second of what she’s having with Aaron, but I do miss the nights before he came, when I’d hear her rattling around too post-show wired to sleep, and we’d curl up to co-narrate whatever crappy movie was on demand, just like we once did with Michelle’s soaps.

I press the heavy brass lever of the French doors to the veranda. The sea air feels as if I’ve stepped into a sheet of refrigerated aluminum foil. I weave the teetering bases of cinched umbrellas to the railing overlooking the surf—as if Finn might be waiting there among the pebbles. The icy wind permeates my jeans. I turn back, gripping my hair off my face as I take in the Belle Époque hotel.

I see the light to our top-floor suite go on and realize I forgot to draw the drapes. Kelsey walks into the living room in a T-shirt of Aaron’s, coming up behind him with a bottle of Evian. Wearing only a towel, he takes a swig as she leans her face into his chest and he wraps his arms around her.

I slide my phone out of my back pocket and, not wanting to be tempered by the sanity of the heated lobby, tuck next to the shuttered bar to block the wind.

“Yaaloo.”

“Finn?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Travis?”

“Yes.”

“Is Finn there? This is, uh, Logan.”

“Finn is here, but he is procuring me dos primo tacos s’il vous plait.”

“Then I should hold?”

“The sun is so choice today. My man is standing in line at the best taqueria cart this side of the border. They cook the meat up in this trash can. Stew it for days. Ooo-eee! It’s gonna be good. Tell me about where you are. Is this sun gracing your life?”

Oy.
“Is it a long line?”

“It’s all in how you look at it, señorita.”

“Could you maybe give him a message for me?”

“Shoot.”

Sensing that I can’t risk the translation, I keep it succinct. “Tell him I said I’m an asshole.”

“Got it.”

“Do you maybe want to say it back to me?”

“You got to love yourself, Logan.”

“Okay.”

“You got to eat dos supremo tacos.”

“Okay. Thanks. Enjoy the sun.”

Photos of Kelsey embraced by
Aaron in his towel hit TMZ before we’ve had our coffee. Shredding her cuticle, Kelsey stands over my shoulder at the suite’s desk, looking at the shots of her hotel window,
our
hotel window, on my laptop.

“It’s so creepy,” I say, angling the screen to cut down the glare. “I mean, I know I’m a neophyte, but it is, right?”

“It could’ve been some bellboy out for a smoke,” Aaron says.

“These weren’t taken with a smartphone. That’s a serious telephoto lens.” Kelsey shudders. “I don’t know why I felt covered facing the ocean.”

“Because it’s off-season.” I back her up. “And the town is closed up.”

“Maybe we’re dealing with the world’s first paparazzi seagull?” Aaron suggests as Kelsey scrolls from TMZ to Perez to PopSugar.

“I guess I have a boyfriend,” she says tentatively.

“Yeah, you do!” Aaron tickles her, and she squeals. They fall over the back of the couch.

“Get a room,” I say. “With a drawn curtain. Dax and Binky’ll be up at three—we leave for Monaco at four.”

“What
is
it?” Aaron puts
away his book and takes the crystal award from Kelsey as she and I get back in the limo after the ceremony.

“It’s the Monaco something.” I hold up what looks like a fetus in a paperweight. “The Princess Grace something. It’s very prestigious.” I hedge. “Jack Nicholson got one.”

“We have no fucking idea.” Kelsey cuts to it. “But I had to listen
and react to
speeches in French, and watch people dressed up like lamé cats dance to zen-flute covers of my songs.” She drops against him as I check my phone, hoping my message didn’t take the same route out of Travis as those truck tacos.

Aaron snuggles her close. “Sounds like you could use a chance to let loose.”

An hour later, surrounded by dancers on the hallway floor, Aaron has dislodged the alien globe from its marble base and lined up empty bottles as pins for strip bowling. Kelsey’s lost both earrings, both shoes, and is about to take her next turn in her bra.

“It’s Perez Hilton’s soul!” Duane calls out his latest guess as Kelsey stops laughing long enough to put down her beer and wind up. Everyone whoops as the bottles scatter, and when the elevator door opens, I’m glad we’ve fully booked the floors above and below.

“What the fuck?” I know Andy’s voice without turning around.

Kelsey scrambles to throw on her shirt.

“We drove down from Paris as soon as we saw those pictures of you and that boy. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Kelsey Anne, in the elevator!”

“Thanks, guys, for the awesome game,” Kelsey says with a slight tremor. “I’m gonna turn in. Don’t have too much fun without me.”
She swipes her shoes from the floor and walks past everyone, who instinctively stand with dropped heads, as if for inspection.

“Logan, you, too,” Andy barks.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Aaron extends his hand to Andy as the door shuts.

“Daddy, Momma, this is Aaron Watts,” Kelsey says.

Andy does not return the gesture.

Kelsey surreptitiously reaches out her pinkie finger and loops it with Aaron’s. The same way she used to loop mine when we’d hear Andy’s Chevy pull into the darkened driveway.

“First things first, we need to find you a room,” Michelle says to Aaron as we get off at the top floor.

“Sure, ma’am,” Aaron says. “I can leave now if that’s—”

“No!” Kelsey rushes. “No, you don’t have to leave—unless you want to?”

“I didn’t mean—no.” Aaron looks helplessly from Kelsey’s stricken expression to Andy’s radiating ire.

“We have to take account for appearances,” Michelle says to Andy. “She and Eric never shared a room.”

Kelsey’s stiffens. “Baby, would you go run my bath?”

“Nice to meet y’all.”

“
What
are you doing?” Michelle hisses as their door shuts.

“He flew all the way out here to keep me company.”

Andy snorts.

“What?” Kelsey says.

“Well, you’re a very rich little girl.”

“He
loves
me.”

Andy rolls his eyes as if he can’t even believe they’re having this conversation. “Go to bed, we’ll discuss this in the morning.”

Her chest rises with a breath she can’t release, and she slams the door behind her. Andy opens the one opposite, and Michelle gestures. “Logan?”

I reluctantly follow inside, where the small overnight bags sit, still unpacked. “Okay, give it to us straight,” Michelle asks simply, sitting down on the bed.

“How did you let this happen?”

“They met back home,” I answer him. “She flew him out. And he hasn’t taken a thing. Hasn’t let her buy him a thing.”

Andy snorts again.

“This is big, Logan,” Michelle says. “Unless someone huge dies this week—and I hate to admit I’ve caught myself praying—those pics are the cover of every magazine stateside come Monday.”

“We’re just going on sale for our American dates,” Andy adds emphatically, sitting.

“This’ll seem like a rebound—”

“Create drama.” Andy drops his elbows to his knees.

“It seems slutty.”

“She sings about love every day,” I say. “Her fans will be happy she’s—”

“Love?” Michelle does a double take. “That girl doesn’t know—Logan. She’s not like you. She’s never been out on her own. She’s a creative spirit, that’s her fortune, but you have to treat her . . . Kelsey has lived a
really
sheltered life. She doesn’t know what things really cost. Or what her limits are. She wanted to eat pizza before her first dance recital. ‘I can do it, Momma!’ And there she was in the wings, puking it all up. She doesn’t think like you or me. Look how these pictures got taken—”

“Because I didn’t close the drapes.”

“Because
she
didn’t close the drapes. I know you know what I’m talking about.”

I don’t nod or shake my head.

“You’ve only been here for a few months—out of how many years. Are you an expert, can you say that?” She abruptly switches tacks.

I cringe . . . I’m not. “Okay, but you two left. And honestly, I don’t really know why.”

Michelle blinks. “The road is so hectic. We needed to catch our breath. We’ve had to be vigilant every single second since the breakup—”

“Since she stopped wearing her purity ring.”

“To make sure she doesn’t end up seeming—available.” From the woman who beads her thongs. “So much more than you can wrap your head around, Logan—is riding on this. Every person on those buses depends on us to make good decisions for their livelihood to feed their families.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I sense that’s required, but truly not sure for what. “What do you want me to do?” They search the other’s face, and it seems the experts don’t know, either. “I mean, he’s here. She’s working hard, hasn’t missed a single commitment.”

“We’re gonna call Terrance,” Michelle says, standing and swiping at the back of her slacks. “We’re stuck with this for a bit anyhow—to make it seem legitimate. She can end it when we get back to the States. What time are we departing?”

“Six
AM
,” I hear myself say. “Rolling straight to Paris for Kelsey’s first interview at nine.”

“With who?” Andy asks.

“Karl Lagerfeld in front of the tents for Fashion Week.”

“Oh, that’ll be a hoot—I’ve always wanted to meet him.” Michelle brightens as she walks me out. “Okay, well, then let’s get some sleep.”

“If you left because of the room thing—I really don’t care where I sleep. I was just trying to help Kelsey.”

“Oh, honey.” She touches the gumball-size emerald pendant Kelsey gave her for her fortieth. “Don’t try to help so hard.” The door swings shut.

The night of the mascara
shoot, Kelsey, after keeping Wembley Stadium on the brink of hysteria for two hours, has asked for the first-ever five-minute deviation from the schedule so she can entertain Gwen Stefani in her dressing room.

Michelle paces the hall just outside. “Andy’s waiting,” she says to me again, her wool coat already buttoned. “London traffic is a nightmare.”

“Her call time’s not for another hour.”

“A cosmetics endorsement makes her a classic.”

“I know.”

She pauses her gait. “Logan, please just go in and get her. She won’t listen to me.”

Taking a breath, I knock.

“How?”
Kelsey is asking.

“What do you mean, how?” Gwen counters, pulling her tartan camisole away from her sweaty torso.

“I have press all day every day—every city.”

“You’re shitting me.” Her red mouth hangs open. Kelsey shakes her head. “That’s
crazy
. I do four days of press for the whole tour. What does your manager say?”

“He answers to my dad.”

“Baby, you need more days off between shows.”

“How do you do it?”

“Being Mommy comes first, and everyone else just has to deal.”

Just then GM passes his cell phone over my head. “Kel, it’s Andy. He sounds pissed.”

And so kicked off our
night—from pissed-off Andy to the lighting guy who is doing, in the director’s estimation, a piss-poor job, to the account executive running the shoot who is, since lunch, piss-drunk, to the rain, the pissing, pissing rain. Yet I remind myself, as I run from the all-night drug store in my sodden sneakers back to St. Paul’s Cathedral, I am experiencing all of this from the privileged position of the ground. While overhead, a crane currently suspends Kelsey hundreds of heart-stopping feet above an ever-growing crowd.

The security guard nods me through to the nave, which has been transformed into a maze of can lights and wire spools. Passing Aaron, camped on one of the benches, hat down, iPod on, I dodge between the smoke machines to hand off the first-aid cotton to a crew guy. “On its way,” I type.

“Dont want blood 2 show,” Michelle texts back.

“Break!” the director’s voice booms. On the monitors the crane moves Kelsey off-screen, presumably in to the hands of Michelle, who’s been waiting to cushion the straps of the harness.

Andy walks alongside the unshaven director, who has propositioned me no fewer than four times. Um, what about my dirty hair, baggy sweater, and general scowl says I want to suck you off in the chapel? He is no longer acknowledging me. As he continues to his fancy canvas chair with the cup holder Andy leans into my ear. “Tell Michelle enough.”