Page 28 of When I Picture You
Renee moved closer with the camera. “Lo, how do you like this one? We need your reaction.”
Lola’s eyes darted to her and Renee knew she was right: Lolahatedthis dress.
“I doreallylike it,” Lola said diplomatically. “But I want to try a few more. Jason brought so many pretty things.”
Finally, Lola came out in a dress that she wasn’t smiling in—at least, not the smile she’d been wearing all day. This dress was bias-cut emerald-green silk, draped from a halter neckline. The color lit her warm brown eyes so that they were almost gold. The low back showed plenty of skin, but unlike the other dresses, it would not have been at home at a nightclub. She looked sophisticated, elegant—anddefinitelysexy, Renee thought as she watched the silk dance over Lola’s curves.
As Gloriana took her pictures, Lola’s shoulders were relaxed, her fingers creating ripples through the skirt. She was calmer and more confident than she had been all day.
“You don’t look happy,” Jason said.
“I don’t? I think this one’s so pretty,” Lola said.
“This isn’t it,” Gloriana said, like she hadn’t heard Lola at all.
Veronikahmm’ed emphatically. “I agree, it’s the black one.”
The Lola Gray smile was back.
“Oh, seriously?” Renee groaned before she could stop herself.
Gloriana’s attention snapped to Renee, her mouth tight. “All right, Renee, since you insist on contributing from behind the camera, what do you think she should wear?”
Renee focused on the camera, not on returning Gloriana’s glare. “It’s clearly this one. It’s the only dress she’s looked a little bit like herself in. You feel good in this one, don’t you, Lo?”
Lola cast her eyes up at Renee. She looked a little taken aback, but a little pleased too. “I do.”
“Which you would know, if you made an effort to get her opinion, instead of telling her what to do,” Renee said.
“Renee, Lola has us here for our professional expertise.” Gloriana would have used the same tone to talk to an eight-year-old. “We don’t tell her what to do and she’s perfectly able to give us her opinions—as she often does. Now, I think we’re done. Everyone agrees it’s the black one? Cassidy, send this over to Nash’s people to confirm.”
Cassidy nodded, but her eyes were tracing a nervous triangle between Lola, Renee, and Gloriana.
“Let’s send this one too,” Lola said. “I do really like it. And it’s always good to have options.”
Gloriana opened her mouth, closed it again. “Whatever you say, Lola.”
9
That evening, Lola sat at the piano bench in her home studio. The white baby grand had been a gift to herself after her first Grammy. Lola trailed her hands over the ivory keys, experimentally pressing down on a B-flat.
The space was full of throw blankets and cushy pillows. It held her favorite acoustic guitar, as well as the one she’d learned to play on, an electric keyboard, and a few percussion instruments, along with an electronic drum pad. A desk had everything she needed to rough cut demos—unused now for months. A glass-fronted cabinet stored every journal and notebook she’d written lyrics in, from middle school to the present. Through the enormous windows overlooking Los Angeles, dusk had turned the sky deep indigo.
It had been her favorite room in the house, but the peace she’d felt here eluded her now.
Once they’d stopped rolling, Lola couldn’t wait for Jason to pack up his dresses and for Gloriana, Veronika, and the crew to clear out. She’d been annoyed at how much energy it took to be on camera in her own home and the effort to hide her dislike of the uncomfortable, revealing looks the team wanted for the premiere—though somehow, Renee had seen it anyway.
She had promised herself that once they left, she’d get to songwriting in earnest. She’d renewed that vow every time she’d looked atGloriana, who had worked so hard for Lola, who had stewarded her career, and imagined the disappointment on her face when she realized that Lola hadn’t been honest about the next album.
Lola had a session with her longtime producer scheduled for next week, to be documented by Renee’s cameras, and she couldnotshow up with nothing written. She just needed one song.
Lola played a C-minor chord, then let the melancholy sound fade.
In her phone’s notes app, she scrolled through lyrical phrases and ideas. In the past, songs would spark in her mind, a whole story kindled by the few lines she’d saved, the arc of a melody catching, until everything flared together. Now, thumbing through her notes, she felt none of that combustive creativity. She felt instead like she was stumbling through some horrible funhouse of warped mirrors.
She came to what she’d scribbled after Ava left her.
Most of it didn’t rise to the level of a lyric, just wild declarations she never got the chance to make aloud.
