Page 112 of Love on the Main Stage
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“What?” Barry asked.
“Norway would never do that,” Clarice said. “Betty, this isn’t on you. Accidents happen.”
“That is what they want you to think,” Mary insisted, almost catatonic.
I couldn’t understand what she meant. I gathered she was accusing someone of interference, but who? Again I worried she blamed us—and me, by proxy. If that was true, I would find out who did this and end their career if I had to. Alicia clarified the conspiracy theory.
“Max,” Alicia whispered. “He did something—or his goons did. Either way, he tried to sabotage us.”
“Oh, that’s… would he do that?” I asked.
I understood Mary was upset and traumatized, but that seemed far-fetched.
“There have been so many sabotage attempts at UniVox over the years,” Mary whispered in conspiracy. “For fuck’s sake, he paid people off to push out my song last year! It’s like the Olympics of singing. Except instead of doping, your performance enhancers are illegal corticosteroids and fucking with people’s mics. The thing is, though… no one has ever attempted to kill a band member.”
“Well, no one has been as threatened as Max is right now,” Alicia noted.
I was confused. “Is this just because you all are the favorites? Alia did well. No offense, but it’s still open.”
“It’s not about talent. I got into it with him. I told him I was about to call up all the other women he burned and would go to the press.”
“She did go off. Finally!” Clarice said. “What did you really say to him?”
Mary looked at us for the first time. But instead of rage, there was vulnerability. Her big brown eyes were wide open and the crying stopped. She was resolute.
“I told him I wasn’t scared anymore. He did somethingabout it. I saw Jason backstage. I know it sounds mad, but… something is wrong.”
“Can you bring me a tissue?” I asked. “And some water?”
A member of Giftehode approached with tissues and a branded bottle of water.
“Tusen takk,” I pulled a tissue and dabbed Mary’s eyes gently. “The good news is your eyeliner is holding. What the hell do you wear?”
“I don’t know,” Mary sniffled. “Whatever Alicia put on me.”
“You don’t have a makeup artist, Mary?” I scoffed.
“No. Do you?”
“Bitch, please, ofcourseI do!” I laughed, trying to get her to smile. “Damn, Alicia, you could hang out your own shingle.”
“Thanks, darling,” Alicia said. “It’s a passion.”
“By passion, she means she scrolls videos of makeup tutorials endlessly,” Clarice joked.
“I think it’s excessive to hire someone,” Mary said, “but you look really pretty.”
I smiled and dabbed the tears that ran to her chin. All the while, I debated her words. Mary wasn’t one to lean into hyperbole. Yes, she’d been traumatized by Max. Yes, she could lose it when she felt a sense of loss or rejection, but she wasn’t delusional or one to move to hysterics for sympathy or to throw a competition. I’d seen Max and Jason hauling Alia all over—laying out her every move and controlling each thing she did. I didn’t put this past him. If there was even a single chance Mary’s conspiracy had legs, the evidence wouldn’t be preserved forever. With Mary slowly returning to earth, it was time to act.
The director approached, looking at me, then Mary. If he was confused, he said nothing.
He said to the band, “We’re cleaning up the stage. The judges do not want to see you out there again until you’reready. I suggested we pick back up with Germany and then slot you in at the end if that is alright?”
The band turned to Mary, who said, “I don’t know if I feel safe.”
“We are vetting everything,” the director assured. “A C-Clamp failed that was checked over just this morning. We are so very sorry this happened, but I can assure you we are doing everything we can, Miss Jensson.”
