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Chapter Twenty-Two
“Maybe It’s Me” wasn’t really finished—not even close—but it was loosely recorded, which was something. Remy played around with the files, adding effects, increasing echoes, adding beats and breaks and the sound of camera shutters clicking wildly. Vivi had been right—there was something that didn’t work in the vocals, but he hadn’t figured out yet if it was the lyrics or something more. He was working on it in a Cologne hotel lobby when Celeste called.
“Hey,” Remy said, smashing the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“You recorded the song?” Celeste asked excitedly.
“Yes. It’s not done, but we have a scratch demo,” Remy said. He tried to sound nonchalant, but there was a part of him buzzing over the entire thing. It was exciting to be recording again and exciting to be recording something that had a part of him in it.
“What is it about? It’s the Noel breakup song, right?” Celeste asked eagerly.
“Nondisclosure,” Remy reminded her.
“This totally doesn’t count. I mean, the songs are half yours, right? She can’t sue you for talking about something you own,” Celeste said matter-of-factly.
Remy sat back from his laptop. “Look, it’s not about if she can sue me or not. It’s about…trust. We’re working on that songtogether.”We’re together. Or something.I mean, obviously they were at leastsomething, given what “Maybe It’s Me” was about.
“Give me a hint. Is it an angry song? Sad song? Revenge song? Fuck Noel Reid song? Come on, Remy,” Celeste whined.
“I’ll try to come up with something you can use,” Remy said, with no intention of actually doing that—since telling her that it was a love letter, thatallVivi’s songs were love letters at heart, would definitely blow up on him. “I need to keep working. Tell Val to call me, okay?”
“Fine, fine. He’s being weird about you. Or, actually, weird about Vivi Swan. He wants to see everything I write about her tour.”
“Maybe he’s a secret Vivi Swan fan,” Remy suggested, forcing a fairly convincing laugh from his throat.
“Yeah, maybe Burrito Armageddon is a great band name,” Celeste said, no doubt with an eye roll so hard, Remy could basically hear it over the phone. “I’ll tell him to call you. Now go. Find something I can use on the site.”
“On it,” Remy lied.
***
Vivi Swan: ok Im done
It was the message Remy had been waiting about thirty minutes for—a heads-up that it was fine for him to dart to Vivi’s hotel across the street. She’d had interviews with ItalianVogueand then a meeting with some sort of shoe person for some sort of shoe reason, but now they had a whole hour to themselves before sound check. Remy packed up his laptop and started across the street. There were a half dozen photographers at the entrance to Vivi’s hotel. They looked bored, lolling against walls, talking to one another, talking on cell phones with their backs turned.
Remy walked to the front doors casually, pocketing his cell phone and glancing down Cologne’s brown-and-green-tinted streets as he neared the hotel—
“Remy! Remy, hey, man!” someone shouted. Remy whirled around, certain he’d see someone he knew from the tour. No—it was one of the paps. That man’s voice was like a signal cry to the others; they leapt off walls, shoved phones in pockets, jumped around him with their cameras clicking wildly.
Remy laughed aloud—seriously? He blinked at the handful of flashbulbs that popped then lowered his head when blinking didn’t disperse the stars in his eyes.
“Remy, what’s the new song like?” one of them asked.
“It’s…it’s great,” Remy said. “Great.” The paps danced around him, not exactly blocking his path, rather circling him like some sort of force field that moved when he did.
“You going upstairs to work on some new pieces with Vivi?” a pap said in a thick Italian accent.
“This for a new record or just playing around right now?” another asked.
“Just working on a song, keeping it simple,” Remy said. The paps split as he reached the door, allowing him through. They all told him to have a great day, that they’d see him later, wished him luck on the music—the more stars liked you, the more likely you were to get exclusives on photos or scoops.
Stars, Remy thought, almost snorting in the hotel lobby. He wasnota star. This was ridiculous.
Vivi had to buzz him access to the penthouse floor before the elevator would budge. She did, and a few moments later, the elevator doors opened to a room with a view of downtown Cologne—notably, a massive church with two spires and something that vaguely resembled the Seattle Space Needle. Between those were dozens of gray and green and brown and mustard buildings with dozens and dozens of windows stretched across their sides.
“Hey,” Vivi said. Remy’s eyes jumped from the view to her—she was coming around the corner, wearing a blouse and fitted jeans, the stretchy sort that seemed to be dance wear and denim all in one.
“Hi,” Remy said. Vivi slowed as she neared him, a smile spread across her face. Her shoulders relaxed, her posture slouched the smallest amount, and her eyes brightened. The tension melted from him; it felt like he might become water and flow toward her, and the sensation locked a stupid, wide smile on his face.
