I’d been away from post-surgery Jonathan before. I’d flown to places I’d never been to and experienced them through hollow eyes and a worn-down heart. I couldn’t say my trip to New York was any different. I was still worn out; I was still dragged home by tight-twisted strands. I was still worried. But something had changed. The worry wasn’t colored a dark grey, and my thoughts of Jonathan weren’t painful. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt alive, vibrating, humming with potential, and I missed him. I missed his company, his laugh, his touch. I missed his enfolding presence beside me. The guilt left a vacuum in its absence, and nature, in its abhorrence, filled it with hope.
I flew commercial. I wanted to be surrounded by people. I wanted to feel the hum of life in the comings and goings of people: the babies crying; the pilots and stewardesses in their neat little packs, rolling suitcases whirring behind; the bright colors of the snack stand in the artificial lights; and the carpets worn where people walked.
I didn’t make up a story when I told Jonathan I didn’t need his plane. Instead of saying something facile about scheduling, I tried to express my need, as intangible as it was, and he understood, and agreed, and asked if I was going to fly coach.
That didn’t seem necessary. Marrying a Drazen had its privileges.
He’d laughed and held me, offering his team to set up the flights. As close as we’d been in bed, or at play, or when he was rubbing my back and telling me how much he loved me, when I explained why I wanted to fly commercial and he understood, I felt truly married. He understood me. I could tell him even the worst nonsense, and he did more than agree. He became a part of me, tapped into my thoughts, a partner.
I’d thought I knew what that meant, but I didn’t.
I was so high, I chatted incessantly with the guy next to me about music and dance. He was a French choreographer, and of course he gave me a definite “I’d be happy to fuck you” vibe even after seeing my ring. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t sleeping with him. I could still enjoy the conversation. I was married to a king, after all. I didn’t have to concern myself with what other people wanted from me.
A bodybuilder in a suit waited for me at the gate with a handwritten sign that said “Mrs. O’Drassen.”
“Hi,” I said. “Are you Dean?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took my bag. “I’ll drive you to the hotel to drop your things. I’m hired out for as long as you need me, so you can call any time.”
“Great. There’s a dinner tonight. In Hell’s Kitchen. Can you take me there?”
“Absolutely.”
I’d never been to New York, and I couldn’t believe how crowded, tight, old, and yet shiny, spacious, and vibrant it was. And this was just from the window of a silver Rolls Royce.
Jonathan had set me up at the Stock New York, the sister hotel of the one I used to work at, citing the hotel he’d just sold as “too grubby.” Everything was perfect. The room was huge, slick, with precisely designed proportions and windows that let onto a little patio that I wanted to sit on with my husband.
Jonathan was in the process of transferring his hotel on the Lower East Side. Hotel D, on Avenue D. His fourth and a huge risk. He shook his head whenever he talked about it. He’d said it was too small for me. Too old, too trendy, too loud—he had a million reasons why I should stay at the Stock. After few minutes of listening to him, I knew why he was keeping me away from D. He didn’t think it was safe. Who even knew why. He’d been known for putting beautiful hotels in up-and-coming neighborhoods like canaries in a coal mine. Maybe this little bird hadn’t gotten out.
The Stock had every imaginable trend-forward trapping. Wool rugs with barely discernible patterns that looked as if they’d been through a war zone in exactly the right places. Maple and mahogany paneling. Blackened brass chandeliers with frosted glass shades that curved in ways that were surprising and yet inevitable. Good-looking staff in sharp uniforms.
I was wrung out from the flight, but I shook it off by taking a coldish shower, and I left before I missed Jonathan more.
“Ah, I know your face!” Omar said when I showed up for the pre-studio dinner.
Hartley Yallow and the Trudy Crestley were already there, and the table was huge.
“I know yours too,” I said. Everyone knew Omar’s face. He had classic South American good looks that came from an Argentinian mother and an Italian father. His voice, however, was something no genetic pairing could predictably create.
I sat down, and we ordered. More people came. I could hardly keep up with the names, because even though I knew them all, I was overwhelmed and in love with that moment. Ivan Braf showed up with his wife, and I envied her presence. I wanted Jonathan next to me, even if he didn’t say a word. It wasn’t that I wanted to steal moments before his death; I wanted this moment to be complete, and without him, it wasn’t.
But it was good. Very good.
Quentin Marshall showed up with the guys from The Breakfront. “Monica Faulkner,” Quentin said in his thick Aussie accent. “So happy you could come. Now we all have to take our game up a notch.” He wagged his finger around the table.
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“We need her on the chorus,” Omar said, pointing his fork. “Flat out.”
“You were on the chorus,” Quentin replied.
“I—” I couldn’t finish a denial.
“There’s no point having her here unless you showcase her voice,” Omar argued.
“That’s true,” Quentin replied.
“Hang on!” I said, putting my fist down. I didn’t watch for their reaction, because I knew I didn’t have a second before they’d interrupt. “Even if all this is true, it’s irrelevant. My name won’t sell the record, and the point is to sell the record. Nobody knows me, so showcasing me gets you nowhere.”
“She has a point,” Trudy said.
I nodded to her, and she nodded back.
“Fine!” Quentin proclaimed. “We rehearse tomorrow and try it out. Once Victory Spontaine gets in, whenever that is, we decide once and for all.” He clacked the ice at the bottom of his glass. “My drink is empty.” He twisted in his seat to look for a waiter.
I hadn’t realized until that moment that the rest of the restaurant found our gathering very interesting. Black rectangles hovered over heads, and little phone flashes went off. The dinner was publicity. I hadn’t thought of that. I wished I’d worn lipstick or done something with my hair.
Omar, who was next to me, leaned close. “I’m fighting for you to get the chorus.”
“Why?”
“Because you have the most unique voice I’ve ever heard.”
I swallowed. “Well, my point stands.”
“If we want to sell the record, it has to be a great record. That’s the number one priority.”
I couldn’t believe he was saying that to me. Omar D’Alessio. Holy shit. I couldn’t believe he was even talking to me.
“You’re pretty great, Omar.”
“I never said I wasn’t.” He put his arm around me. “But there’s room for another.”
He kissed my cheek, and I felt accepted as a musician and artist. Jonathan was the only thing missing from that moment. I wished he could have seen it.