Page 38 of Before the Encore

Madison waited in the wings. Her skin tingled, heart beating fiercely. What a fucking night. Lipstick Fever’s set had gone better than she dared hope. Who’d have thought Bonnie’s Blossoms—her fanbase name—would also enjoy their music? Some of the crowd bobbing their heads had been older men, who Madison assumed had been dragged along by their daughters, but still. People engaged. Some even sang the lyrics back to her. Hearing the echo of a thousand voices was the greatest high in this universe.

And it wasn’t quite over yet.

Dancers lifted Bonnie, spinning her around the stage as she sang the first line of the chorus. The pink two-piece—Madison’s personal favourite of the night—highlighted her curves, each dangly bead and crystal shimmering under the lights. Madison drank in the fuller sweep of her hips, her rounded stomach. Bonnie had always been praised for her body confidence, the pride and celebration of her skin—even when the media and a certain outdated pop show told her she should lose weight. Madison was glad to see that confidence remained unshaken, but she wondered why it dipped in other aspects of Bonnie’s life. The woman struggling to breathe in her dressing room and the superstar tearing up the stage were polar opposites, almost as if Madison had imagined the whole thing.

But the image had burned to the back of her eyelids, the pressure of Bonnie’s hand forever imprinted against Madison’s chest. All it took was one moment alone with Bonnie to undo weeks of work. Avoiding her only amplified the stupid feelings she tried to suppress. She wasn’t sure when something shifted with the little diva, but it wasn’t ideal.

She really needed to get laid.

“When I’m with you, I feel completely alone.”

Madison’s cue was coming up. She blew out a breath, letting the adrenaline fuel her veins. They’d strategised that the encore would be the perfect time for their duet, to leave the fans on a high. The reality of performing with Bonnie in front of thousands of people carried its own thrill.

Her focus fell to Bonnie’s glittery thigh-high boots, her large thighs, the bare skin of her stomach. Madison’s fingers twitched, aching to caress every inch. God, she looked great tonight.

Not ideal at all.

She slapped her cheeks, ignoring the strange look from the stage manager. She needed to focus, to hose down her stupid libido and wash away any inappropriate thoughts.

“What happened to the person I used to know?”

A member of the crew pressed the microphone into her hand. She squeezed it, cool between her fingers, and drew in a deep breath.

“LA,” Bonnie shouted, opening her arm towards the side stage. “Give it up for Madison Moore!”

The crowd roared, and she stepped onto the stage, the first lines leaving her lips. “Your smile’s so empty…your face poised like stone.” Thankfully, Madison didn’t have any complex moves to remember. If she had choreo like Bonnie, she’d fall flat on her arse. Hers involved letting her entrance stretch, delaying their meeting in the centre until the chorus hit. “I’m lost trying to find you, do you want to be alone?”

She approached the crowd, her gaze passing over signs with Bonnie’s song lyrics and gay puns, landing on a particularly enthusiastic woman waving ‘#moom4eva’. She turned as Bonnie joined her for the pre-chorus from the other side of the stage, their voices complementing the other.

“It feels so strange ’cos we used to be so close.” They neared each other, circling the mark on the stage. “Now you’re a stranger, and you just haunt me like a ghost.” They spun, the circle closing, the audience growing louder. She locked eyes with Bonnie for the first time, the beat building with the thudding of her heart. The noise of the crowd fell away when Bonnie smiled at her. For a second, it was just the two of them, lost in each other’s orbit.

Then the final chorus kicked in, and they sang together. “I never believed in ghosts ’til I met you.” Their bodies drew closer. Bonnie’s outfit sparkled under the lights. Their hands reached out, almost touching—to the delight of the crowd—before they pulled them away.

“When I’m with you, I feel completely alone.” As Bonnie belted the penultimate line of the chorus, Madison stepped behind her. With a puff of smoke and a flash of the lights, she disappeared off stage, leaving Bonnie by herself. The band quietened.

“What happened to the person I used to know?” Bonnie’s voice carried, louder, clearer, more powerful than she’d ever heard.

Madison stood in the wings, her arms rippled with goosebumps, her heart doing a pathetic little flip. The roaring applause of the crowd vibrated the stage but failed to squash the warmth blooming in her chest.

Extremely not ideal.

* * *

“I’m just saying.” Frank held up his palms, leaning back into the sofa. “Your acting has been very good recently. It’s almost as if you like her.”

“Shut up, Frank.”

Their dressing room was less glamorous than Bonnie’s—smaller and stuffy, with a battered sofa pushed against a wall and an equally scruffy armchair Kam had claimed as her own. Kam’s snack wrappers and Madison’s empty energy drink cans littered the table. Frank’s journal sat open in his lap, already making notes about the set in his meticulously clean handwriting.

“True penmanship begins with the correct tool,” he’d recited many a time. Madison didn’t relate. She wrote ‘White Smoke’ on the back of a pizza box after a fierce bolt of inspiration. Whatever was nearby worked—though using a hook-up’s lipstick was apparently unacceptable.

Frank pointed his ridiculously expensive pen at her. “And I’ve never heard of you taking any women on a date that wasn’t to a bar or your bedroom.” He grinned wide. The smug little shit. “But a Ferris wheel at sunset? Who knew Madison Moore was such a romantic.”

Madison stretched her long leg to kick him in the thigh. She should’ve never borrowed his stupid camera. After this, she’d have to play hide and seek with his favourite pen too. Backstage after the show was supposed to be about unwinding and riding the adrenaline high, not fending off uncomfortable questions from her bandmates in relentless Nikita Dixon style.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” she said, “or Frank’s post-show stink is muddling your brainwaves, I have to pretend to like her. It’s part of this job. And the reason we’re here in the first place.”

“You might win an Oscar at this rate.” He shot Kam a look. “Performance of the year.”