Page 4 of When I Picture You
When Lola was starting her singing career, she had imagined that, at some point, she’d reach a level of success and know that she was safe. She’d never gotten there—or hadn’t yet. Four albums she’d written herself, seven number ones, world tours, dozens of awards and nominations, and everything still felt like it would slip out from under her with one wrong move. As long as it felt that way, Lola couldn’t ignore calls or skip meetings or let herself relax.
Lola FaceTimed her manager. As she waited for Gloriana to answer, Lola watched the video of herself. She was wearing her tried-and-true Lola Gray smile, her eyes crinkled so it looked authentic. The smile was an old habit she’d had since her first meeting with an agent at twelve years old. He’d asked her to smile and she’d given him the enormous grin she’d learned doing pageants. He’d shaken his head and said he wanted herrealsmile. It felt unfamiliar, and a little exciting, to be asked to be herself. But her real smile hadn’t satisfied him either. He passed on representing her and recommended that she practice looking convincingly happy in a mirror.
Gloriana appeared, with the signature gray streak in her dark hair. “Hi, honey, how’s the wedding?”
Lola swallowed her annoyance that Gloriana knew exactly what she was taking Lola away from. After all, Lola had calledher.
“It’s about to start. I did ask for no calls today.”
“I know, but the world doesn’t stop for your sister’s wedding. Do you want me to tell the team that we’ve got to pause because you’re busy? I’ll do it, but I’m not sure how they’ll react.”
“No, I just mean for next time, no calls means no calls.”
Gloriana ran through a list of things Lola needed to approve, emails she’d missed, plans Gloriana needed a yes on—all of it using the pronounwe. Weneed an okay;we’reready to move ahead. Lola had to remind herself sometimes that she was part of thewe. Thewewas her team, who worked their asses off for her. The team were the spokes on a wheel that she held the center of, even when she felt more like dead weight dragging behind them.
“We’re waiting for your sign-off on the shoot schedule for the documentary,” Gloriana said. “We really need to get things moving.”
Lola’s stomach clenched, the same way it had the first moment her team had pitched the project. It was going on three years since Lola’s last album. Fans knew she was taking some time off after churning out four albums by the time she was twenty-four, but to the general public, she was slipping out of the spotlight. It was time to remind the world who Lola Gray was—with a documentary that followed the production of Album 5. Plus, they’d make good money on it. All Lola had to do was let cameras follow her around for a few months. The instant they’d suggested it, Lola’s guts had clamped down like the gate of a castle slamming shut. She was generous with her fans and obliged the paparazzi and gaveVoguea tour of her renovated place in the Hills before she’d had a chance to sleep there herself. She had almost no privacy already—not only because of her fans and the press, but also because of the vast team of people that kept Lola Gray Inc. a smoothly functioning machine.
But she’d agreed to the film anyway. That was her rule: say yes whenever you can, because you never knew when you’d stop being asked. As much as she was dreading the film, the possibility of her fans forgetting her, of her career slipping away, was worse. Of course, when she’d agreed months ago, she’d had no idea that the next album would still be looming over her as dark and troubled as a thunderhead.
“I’m sure whatever you planned is fine,” Lola said. “I don’t need to see it.”
“Fantastic,” Gloriana said.
Just then, the door to the venue swung open and a woman in ablack jumpsuit strode through. She had olive skin and a messy, overgrown pixie cut bleached platinum, but dark at the roots. Her lips were painted red and unsmiling, her jawline sharp. Lola’s eyes followed as the woman stalked into the hall, noting how the cut of the outfit showed off her strong shoulders, one marked with a collection of tattoos, and how the fabric clung to her curves.
Lola hadn’t seen her in years, but she recognized her in an instant.
Renee Feldman.
“Oh no,” Lola whispered involuntarily.
“What is it?” Gloriana said.
“Nothing,” Lola mumbled. “We’re lining up. I have to go.”
2
Sitting at table 14 beside her mom, Deborah, and her mom’s boyfriend, Dave, Renee regretted not asking for a plus-one. She had no one to invite romantically, but if she’d brought Kadijah, she wouldn’t feel like she was third-wheeling a date between people twice her age.
As it was, Renee had been reduced to repeated trips to the bar for refills of the signature cocktail—the Joshinator—to escape her mom’s tips for socializing. Deborah could not stop asking Renee: Did she recognize anyone from high school? Was she planning on dancing? Why didn’t she try being friendly for once?
Renee didn’t want to be friendly. Claudia’s friends were a few years older and they absolutely radiated the heterosexuality and basic Midwestern-ness that Renee had constructed her personality around rejecting. Plus, by avoiding them, she could avoid explaining that she was twenty-seven years old, had no money and no prospects, and had become a burden to her parents.
“There’s Lola!” Deborah pointed across the room as the entrees were being served. “Go say hi, Ree-Ree!”
Renee did not turn her head. “Mom, you don’t just point at acelebrity.”
“How else am I supposed to tell you where she is? You’re not even looking.”
“Ican’tlook now. She’ll know we’re talking about her.”
Deborah’s patience for Renee’s etiquette tips was as short as Renee’s for hers. “So what? Lola always did like you. Gosh, she looks pretty.”
Renee sipped her Joshinator. Claudia’s wedding party, including her sister as maid of honor, had been seated during the ceremony, and Renee’s spot at table 14 faced the back of the hall. Renee still hadn’t gotten a good look at Lola. She had to admit, she was a little curious.
Finally, Deborah excused herself to the ladies’, freeing Renee from direct parental supervision. Renee twisted in her chair to search the crowd.
