"Girl, you are on fire!" The manager has appeared at our table. "We're so honored to have you here. Here's a bottle of champagne, on the house."
I stand up and shake his hand, thanking him. Henderson stands up too, also extending his gratitude.
I lean in and say to the manager, "I'm having a great time here with my friend. I'd love to continue this low-key night, if you don't mind. I'll be happy to give your place a shout out on my social media later, but I'd like to keep some privacy, if you don't mind." What's with all the "if you don't mind" crap? I sound like a bumbling idiot.
He nods profusely. "Of course. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
"I'd love some water. Flat. Cool, but no ice."
"Right away." The manager turns and is gone. I hope he comes back soon. I really need that water.
"Did you order your water cool, but with no ice?" Henderson raises an eyebrow at me as we slide back into our chairs.
I grin sheepishly. "It's how I like it, especially after singing. Plus it'll give him a story to tell of how demanding I was. It makes for better press that way."
And just like that, I'm falling back into my old ways.
Immediately, guilt washes over me. For a minute, up on that stage, I forgot myself. I forgot that I'm no longer Tabby Cat. I forgot that I'm just someone's mother.
Crap. Paisley.
I haven't heard from them all day. Not since our handoff at the Central Park Zoo, right before I was attacked by the goat. I should call her. Paisley. Not the goat. Or at the very least I should text Maria.
What kind of mother turns her child over to someone and walks away without looking back?
The bad kind.
Me.
"Hey, you okay? Your face changed there. You can't be nervous about having performed, can you? You're such a natural up there."
I want to hide my face in my hands, the shame overwhelming me. I can't, though, because all eyes—and cell phones—are on me. I straighten my shoulders, putting on my bravest performance face. I put my hand on his. "It's not that. I … I can't say right now. I need to check my phone, but I don't want to do that right now." I glance around, and Henderson follows my gaze.
"Right. Got it. Hang on."
He waves to the manager, who is on his way back with my water. Henderson stands up, says something in his ear, and the manager waves me over. "You can use my office. It's a bit quieter in there."
Henderson walks me to the door, but stops before entering. "I'll wait for you here, unless you need me."
"Can you go sit at our table so we don't lose it? I'm not ready to go. I just … I need to do this."
"No worries. I'll be holding your seat and trying not to judge the other singers who pale in comparison to you. You really were bloody brilliant up there." He gives my cheek a quick kiss.
My hands are shaking by the time I step into the office. It must be soundproofed in here because I only hear muffled thumps of the beat from the speakers. I text Maria, but when she doesn't respond immediately, I start to freak out. I call her. It goes to voicemail.
I am the worst mother in the world.
In a panic, I call Jonathan Spencer Maxwell.
"What?"
That's how this prince among men answers the phone. If his adoring fans only knew what he was really like in private. He gives Ellen DeGeneres a run for worst dark secrets.
I mean, obviously. He has a love child with me. He's certainly not the man he leads the media to think he is. No way, no how.
"I … I couldn't get a hold of Maria. I wanted to know how Paisley is doing."
"Maria was giving her a bath last I know. I think. I dunno. They're in their apartment."
