Page 7 of Hidden with a Rockstar
Sandy disappeared forty minutes ago, and I'm the only person left.
Her guitar is still here. Jo made her exit ten minutes after our set with her phone already in her hand and Rebecca’s name on the screen. Three months back, Jo would have remained. Now she goes home to her girlfriend, and the rest of it falls to me.
The green room feels like a basement when the band leaves. Sagging couch. Cold pizza. I open my laptop on top of a road case and start working through the inbox.
My phone rings. Jo's calling.
"Hey. Did you check the Thursday booking?" I ask.
"The studio one? Yeah, I have it noted. I was planning to?—"
"It's double-booked. The engineer apologized and offered Friday, Tuesday, or the following Monday."
Silence on her end.
"Friday works," she says. "Did you move everything?"
"I’m already on it and now it’s done.” I click send. “CC'd the engineer, CC'd the band account, didn't CC you because you'll show up expecting Thursday anyway."
She laughs. "That's fair. You know me too well."
"That's what happens when someone becomes the operations person. You develop psychic abilities."
"Do you need help?"
"No no, I'm handling it. But also, something came through for Sandy. The tabloid's running with the 'mystery woman' angle again. I'm drafting a statement for the label but we need to discuss what?—"
"Okay. Send it to me. I'll run it by the lawyer."
“Jo, it’s 2 in the morning.”
"I’ll still be up. Send it, please."
She hangs up before I can argue. This is the pattern now—Jo suggests and I execute, Jo forgets and I catch the gap.
I draw in a breath.
I wrote the statement. I drafted the Sandy response. I pack both bases into the van and do the walkthrough—merch count, setlist check, lights off, door locked.
“—are in an overbooked situation and are seeking volunteers willing to take a later flight. We will offer volunteers compensation and rebooking on the next available departure. We appreciate your flexibility and thank you for your patience.”
Some people don’t react at all. Others surge forward.
I'm wearing my face mask—a simple black one. Belladonnas aren't A-list. But we are close enough that a group of teenagers will notice and pull out a phone.
I'm heading north for a freelance session. Two hours away, a beautiful facility in the middle of nowhere, a farmhouse B&B nearby.
The agent paid for the business seat and I was looking forward to it. A wide seat, a curtain, two hours where the only person who needs anything from me is me. I’m still holding onto that idea at the counter when the agent’s face does the thing faces do right before they ruin your morning.
“Ms. Mars? So—we’ve had an aircraft swap on this route.”
“Okay?”
“It means the new plane doesn’t have a business cabin. I’ve had to move you to economy. It’s honestly the best I could do on a full flight.” She slides a new pass across the counter with an apologetic smile.
“Oh great, where am I sitting?”
“Fourteen B. Its near the middle but you’ll be very close to the bathroom.”
