Page 21 of It Happened on a Sunday
“No, but you do have me,” my abuela interjects, handing me the baby tortilla dripping with butter, because she knows exactly why I’ve taken root right next to the stove.
Mariana tries to snatch it away—it’s everyone’s favorite, not just mine—but I take a huge bite before she can reach it.
In the meantime, abuela Ximena gives me a sneaky grin that both terrifies and pulls me in at the same time. “If we put our heads together, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to figure out something Sloane can’t miss.”
I hope so. Because this is my hail mary pass, and I don’t want to overshoot.
Chapter 10
Sloane
The rest of the interview goes shockingly well.
After a full minute of gaping at me, Vittoria manages to pick her jaw up off the floor and apologize. Once everything settles back down, she even manages to ask some fairly interesting questions. Including my personal favorite:You’ve been very open about your support for up-and-coming artists, but who are the musicians who made you fall in love with music?I name Pauline, obviously, along with a few other faves.
It’s always a treat when I get to answer music questions. It’s the rest of the shit I can’t stand. Unfortunately, the rest of the shit is what most people want to hear.
So even though hints of derision creep into Vittoria’s questions from time to time, I have no problem spending the next hour and a half talking about the tour and the album and what I think comes next. Of course, that’s not all she asks, but I manage to dodge her other questions about any current romantic prospects, whether I watch football (hint, hint), and how being back in Austin last week made me feel.
Bryan starts to step in again on that last one—she’s clearly referencing Jarrod’s death—but I evade it with a very long, very drawn-out answer about Austin’s incredible Tex-Mex and how much I miss it when I’m not there. I talk about tacos long enough that Vittoria finally gives up and ends with a question about the only person in this industry I really, truly trust.
“So, I can’t help but notice that your itinerary has you staying in Vegas a couple of extra days.” She looks surprisingly interested in my schedule. “Is that so you can spend some extratime with Pau—?”
As if on cue, an effervescent laugh interrupts us from outside the suite, followed by the low, rumbling voice of my head of security. Seconds later, the door opens and the one and only Pauline Vargus saunters in.
After fifty years onstage, her timing is absolutely impeccable—and so is her presence. She commandeers the room, a general with stilettos for sabers and a smile that slices through egos like gossip through a greenroom.
Dressed in her signature monochromatic style, Pauline looks exactly like the superstar she is. Today’s color: hot pink.
Her lips and lashes are tinted a shade of fuchsia that flawlessly complements her deep brown skin, while her raspberry sherbet Gucci suit is tailored to perfection. Bright-pink flamingoes dangle from her ears, and she wears even brighter pink stilettos with gold heels, because even at seventy,“platforms are for lazy women, Sloane, and we aren’t lazy.”
Per usual, Pauline’s wig is the absolute showstopper of the ensemble. Long, rosy pink spirals curl down almost to her waist and are tied back from her face with a sparkly floral scarf perfectly in line with the boho-disco style she’s known for. The fact that it also shows off her million-dollar cheekbones to their best advantage doesn’t hurt, either.
But that’s Pauline for you—everything about her is weighted, measured, and calculated to work triple time.
Her presence has an immediate impact on the room. We all shoot to attention, including Vittoria, who jumps to her feet so fast she catches her heel on the back of the chair. For a second, it looks like she’s going ass over teakettle, and I think fleetingly about saving her. But then I remember karma’s a bitch.
And you can’t save everyone.
In the end, she saves herself, gasping out “Ms. Vargus!” like an infatuated fangirl, even as she grips the back of her chair to stayupright. I don’t miss the fact that she usesMs.when addressing my mentor.
Pauline, for her part, takes one look at my face, sees that I didn’t move a muscle to help Vittoria, and turns her ever-so-slightly narrowed gaze on the reporter. After so many years in the limelight, she can sniff out a shark in seconds. “Well, look at you,” she says in the warm, rich voice that has charmed at least four generations. “Aren’t you just adorable?”
Pauline isn’t a southern woman—she was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, in Motown’s heyday—but she’s mastered the art of cutting a person down to size without ever saying a nasty word. And adorable is one of her most vicious insults.“Adorable doesn’t get the job done, Sloane. It doesn’t make women want to be you or men want to fuck you. And without those two things, you won’t get anywhere in this business.”It’s too bad she’s right.
Vittoria doesn’t pick up on the insult, appropriately dazzled at being in Pauline’s presence. To be fair, she still dazzles me, and we’ve been friends ever since we shared a greenroom on a late-night show a decade ago.
“You look gorgeous!” Vittoria blurts out, her carefully cultivated disdain for me completely gone. In fact, she looks like she wants to take a bow at my mentor’s feet.
Unfortunately for her, I’m not in the mood to share. “I guess this answers your question about whether or not I plan to see Pauline this trip,” I say with a laugh that’s as false as my reputation. “Do you have any others?”
“No, I think that’s everything,” she replies as she quickly gathers up her phone. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course. It was fun,” I lie through my teeth.
“Before we leave, do you mind if I get a couple of photos of you two together?” the photographer asks.
“Of course,” Pauline answers, tossing her spectacular curlsover her shoulder before holding an arm out to me. “Come on over here, baby.”
