Page 7 of AMS.TER.strum

Not that she’s deterred. ‘I don’t, but all those bras speak for themselves.’

She does blush, slightly, despite her expression of a hungry shark searching for blood. It’s beginning to become old, this obsession with my sex life for years already. I don’t deny that I’ve had my fair share of fun, and my partners in crime were never left wanting, but since that visit at Corrie’s, since sitting at the table with her and the kids and playing with them, I felt like this was what the craving gap in my life was all about. And now fun is less fun. What only happened after that visit was for the embers of my need for her to be stoked again, and it’s like poking at a bruise, to see whether it’s healed. Well, it fucking hasn’t, and I just jabbed the same sore spot—like the sucker for punishment I am.

‘The bras will be auctioned,’ I tell Gwen. ‘Proceeds will be donated to music programs for children and young adults. Although…’ I pause for effect, because two can play this game. ‘Weren’t we going to talk about the tour?’

But she isn’t done with stirring shit yet. ‘Have you seen the… art going round on the internet, inspired by you?’

My innocent smile is as fake as the previous one. ‘Have you?’

This time, the blushing is another level of crimson. Of course she has. So have I. But if I admit to it, I’m terrified of the question about whether it’s accurate, meaning whether my dick is depicted big enough.

‘I have not.’ She pretends to be caught off guard, and I have to give it to her perfectly executed, well-rehearsed attitude. Then she shuffles a couple of flashcards in her hands to earn some time, before finally getting to the point. ‘Let’s talk about your European tour.’

Instead of clamoring Thank fuck! I use my “inside voice” Mom told me about when my filter was far worse than Gwen’s, and my volume seemed to have only one setting: deafening. So for the remainder of the interview, I tell her and her thousands of viewers about our European tour and the cities we’ll play in.

‘Are you going to use the time off between concerts to do some touristy things? Or are you going to visit family?’

My teeth clench, but in all fairness, this one isn’t her fault. There’s not much family left to visit in the Netherlands, but I am looking forward to visiting Amsterdam, the first stop of the tour, before zigzagging through the continent, making a pass through Rotterdam to play at C2C festival, then continuing for a few weeks before flying back to the US and drifting out of the orbit of my three favorite people. But let’s arrive there first. Above all, let’s have this interview over and done with.

‘I will visit friends.’

Gwen nods solemnly, as if I’ve given her the names and addresses of the people I’m planning to see. ‘That’s lovely. Have you kept in contact with your old friends from your time in the Netherlands?’

‘Some. It’s not always easy, with life taking us all towards different directions.’

In reality, there’s one friend from school I’m still in contact with: Mark. And there’s Corrie. And Otto. And Ada. But mentioning a single mum and her twins during an interview isn’t the wisest of ideas, although my interviewer would beg to disagree, for this is exactly the kind of information she’s striving to unearth, dying to air dirty secrets. Not that there’s anything to air, sadly.

‘Of course, of course.’ Gwen has worn her life-coach hat, disappointed at the lack of juicy details. ‘And you’re leaving in a bit more than a week?’

‘Yep.’

I let my lips hold onto the p to stop my giddy mood from surfacing. Actually, I’m leaving sooner, a few days ahead of my team, for I want to have a bit more time in Amsterdam and surprise Corrie and the kids. It’s been forever since the last time I saw them, and video calls rarely make up for actual presence. Plus, I need a short breather in my hometown.

‘We wish you all the success, although we know you’ll take Europe by storm!’ Gwen gushes, before bidding me farewell, while I slowly release a deep breath of relief.

‘Great promotion for the tour!’ Aaron, my manager, says a bit later, when I drop by his office in Downtown Nashville.

‘I hope so.’

My tone is clipped, but I’m still pissed off at the way he ambushed me to do this interview. He knows I don’t like Gwen’s style, that weasel-like smile, always sniffing for shit that will bring her numbers, inventing it when there’s none, asking the “right” questions to pique the audience’s interest, pretending she meant no harm when her guests clam up, claiming it’s her job to inform. Inform, my ass!

I was lucky she had to move on to her next guest, a pop singer this time, who sent me an almost pleading look to save her as our eyes met while she went into the slaughterhouse.

Aaron gives me a fake companionable slap on the back, meant to show camaraderie. ‘Cheer up, your trip is coming up! Lucky you, having more time in Amsterdam!’

I bite my tongue to not remind him of how he bitched and moaned about me leaving earlier and not being available for some more interviews here in Nashville, or an in-between stop somewhere for more promotion. It’s not that I’m a diva or play difficult, but through the years, I’ve learnt to stand up to Aaron, when the only reason for an interview is that he can’t say no.

‘Why don’t you look for another manager?’ our fiddler Gordon asked one day when I was fuming about a similar issue—courtesy of Aaron.

Other than it not being so simple, there’s a part of me that wants to be loyal to Aaron. Besides the fact that he trusted me when I was just a starting artist, looking for any gig available, he was one of the people who was there by offering his support when my world collapsed. And even if it wasn’t unconditional, it was the nearest presence, when the one I needed was a few thousand miles away. That’s why seeing a guy I considered to be on my side getting greedy brings a bitter taste to my mouth.

‘See you tomorrow for Martin’s program?’ Aaron reminds me.

‘Sure.’ Martin is a pretty cool guy and a good professional, no complaints here.

I pat my pocket for my phone, only to come face-to-face with a black screen when I try to wake it up. Damn, I forgot to charge it before the interview. As I look for a cab to go home and check whether Corrie sent a reply to my text, I think I hear my name. I ignore the voice, usually belonging to some impromptu reporter who point their phone at you and then send the photos to any takers, as well as uploading it on their personal account for some name-dropping. But now, the voice, slightly panting, approaches, and I turn around.

‘Luuk!’ Celina’s face is a bit flushed from running, but her smile is broad. ‘I thought it was you!’