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Chapter Thirty-Seven
In the movies, Remy would have immediately dashed to Vivi’s side. Instead, he had to wait three long, horrible weeks, during which he doubted himself into actual nausea more than once. He called David and Michael to make arrangements, along with the new drummer—who, incidentally, was the old drummer whose elbow was now totally healed and who had sworn off skateboards forever. Remy paced. He swore. He listened to Val complain about having to play “Everything but Colleen” for a few hours each day.
And then it was the day of.
The Grammy Museum was wedged between two other buildings, though the glass front made it feel more special than the spaces on either side. Escalators climbed up several flights inside, and red and violet lights hinted at the exhibits tucked just out of sight. There were security guys at the front; he approached them with more calm than he’d have had before the Sweethearts tour. They scanned the ticket in his hand then waved him through the doors.
The scent of makeup and suit fabric hit him with just as much force as the frigid air-conditioning. The room was filled with all of the above—people who weren’t glossy enough to be celebrities yet were wealthy enough to be wearing designer clothing from head to toe. A few eyes turned toward him, and as if from nowhere, a waiter arrived with a tray of champagne glasses.
“Thanks,” Remy said, plucking one from the tray. He edged around the side of the crowd, trying to blend into the walls—something he’d always been fairly good at. Occasionally people gave him a friendly nod and a toothpaste-commercial-white smile, as if they recognized him, but Remy knew it was professional, not personal. Finally, a chime sounded, and everyone made their way from the lobby into the theater.
The space was tiny—a few hundred seats, maybe, all decked in red velvet, and heavy golden curtains. Remy lingered in the darkness of the back row as the rest of the room filled in; when a particularly tall man sat in front of him, he nearly sighed in relief. This wouldn’t work if she spotted him in the crowd.
And then her voice—her voicethere, not in a recording or on a video, but coming from the stage, greeting the audience. The room erupted in applause as Vivi appeared in a fitted black turtleneck. Every hair in place, lipstick drawn on by skilled hands, high-heeled boots that made her tower over the musicians filing into place behind her—David, Michael, and Jason on the drums.
Remy had prepared plenty about this day but not about what it would feel like to watch her play music with someone else. It twisted at him, not quite jealousy, but some relative. Longing, maybe. Nostalgia. It occurred to him that he’d never seen her perform from this direction, and as she launched into her first song, he found his lips curled into a smile. She was wonderful.
They played through a collection of her old and new hits, most of which Remy had performed on the tour. As they started to edge toward the end of the set, Remy rose and quietly slipped back into the lobby. Museum staff lifted their eyebrows—why would anyone leave so close to the finish? But he just nodded and started in the direction of the bathrooms before diverting down the hallway, down another. He used the sound of the music to guide him—it was on his left now, so the door to the backstage area had to be just ahead somewhere. He shouldered through an EMPLOYEES ONLY door, kept an eye on the signs, then saw what he needed—TO STAGE RIGHT.
The song Vivi was playing ended; she was talking to the crowd now, her words muffled by walls but still bell-like, a cadence he knew by heart. He put his hand on the door, pulled it open, and darkness flooded over him as he stepped through—
“Close it, close it!” someone hissed. He pulled it shut quickly, unsure who the speaker was. He saw the sides of the curtains ahead, Vivi in profile, the band members arranging themselves for the next song, and the silhouettes of people watching, like him, from the dark.
“I need to see your pass,” the hissing person—a woman with her hair in a perfectly sleek bun—whispered.
“Sorry—” Remy said and pulled out his ticket.
The woman shook her head. “This area is for press only. If you’ve got a ticket, you should be—”
“Hey!” a new voice whisper-called. Even in the dim of backstage, Remy recognized the silhouette coming toward him. It was Celeste, wearing a black jumpsuit that gave her the presence of a Disney villain with the shine of a princess. Celeste smiled at the bun-haired woman. “He’s with my site, sorry.” Celeste held up her neon-green press pass with the breezy confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted.
The woman shook her head. “Do you have his badge?”
Celeste didn’t miss a beat. “No—wait, did you not bring yours?”
“Nope,” Remy answered, having to speak up—Vivi had just begun a new song, which, if memory of the set list David sent him ahead of time was to be believed, was the second to last.
Celeste rolled her eyes then looked at the bun-woman. “He’s the new photographer, sorry.”
“He needs a pass to be back here, unfortunately,” the woman said unflinchingly. “It’s policy.”
Remy swallowed, mind racing for a solution. What would Val do? That was a stupid question, actually—no one ever stopped Val. If David or Michael saw him, they’d probably get him through, but they were mid-set.
“Sir, if you don’t have a press pass—”
“Here,” Celeste said, yanking the lanyard off her neck. She pushed the pass into Remy’s hands. “That’s fine, right?” Celeste asked, looking at the bun-woman. “He can just take mine if I go?”
The woman shrugged. “As long as everyone in here has a pass, sure.”
“Celeste—” Remy started.
“Don’t worry about it. I did my job, now do yours,” Celeste said with a meaningful look.
“Right. I’ll get lots of…great pictures,” Remy answered and smiled at her.
“No flash, please—do you even have a camera?” the woman asked, shaking her head at them, but Celeste was already gone, and Remy was headed toward the back of the press mob, to the curtain’s edge. Vivi was right there, closer than she’d been in months.
The song ended; the tiny audience applauded. Vivi began to speak again, to introduce the next piece.Thepiece. Remy tried to collect his thoughts and failed.
