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Unaware of my racing thoughts, Harry continues to talk, "Then you’ll know that the fact they're comparing you and Declan to these gods of the zeitgeist is huge."
"The gods of what?"
"The zeitgeist, the defining spirit of our times."
"O-k-a-y." I pull the hoodie up over my head and forward, so it cuts out his face.
"You have a good thing going here, Solene. It’s a one-in-a-million opportunity. Don’t screw it up."
* * *
Three months later
"You sure you’re going to be okay?" Abby’s worried voice cuts through the noise in my head. I take a deep breath, then another. I can do it. I can. I’m only facing a crowd of ten thousand. No problem. So what, if this is my very first live performance, ever.
"Of course I’m going to be okay. I’ve been practicing for this," I place my phone on the side of the dresser then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m in the dressing room of Staples Center, one of the leading live performance venues in Los Angeles.
I take a sip of water, and my stomach heaves. It’s probably because I took my back pain medication on an empty stomach. Not only have I lost my appetite since I started prepping for my live performances, but I've also found that being on my feet non-stop seems to strain my back in a way that has never happened before. I should probably consult a doctor, but who has the time? For now, the over-the-counter variety of ibuprofen will have to do. I place the bottle on the vanity counter, then practice my deep breathing to help calm down.
"You’ve been practicing in front of a virtual audience. Performing in front of a real one is bound to be daunting," Abby murmurs.
Y-e-p, from someone who didn’t know what social media was four months ago, I’ve turned into someone who spends every second not recording plugged into the online space. Turns out, they love me. They really do. I have close to a million fans following me on my main social feed, and they love to hear me perform. I have women swooning over my voice and my looks, and men proposing to me every day. And boy, does it soothe my ego to have my virtual friends hang onto my every word. Especially since, my so-called boyfriend has been AWOL since he walked onto the plane.
I know, I’m trying to fill the Declan-shaped void in my life with the adulation of fans, but hey… At least they want me. They love my singing. They can’t get enough of me. And if this is where I'm going to get love, then why shouldn’t I embrace it?
"A lot of my virtual fans have promised to be there in the audience to cheer me on."
"Well, that’s sweet of them. And I’m sure you’re going to do a stellar job. All I’m saying is, it’s okay to acknowledge you’re nervous."
My guts churn. Bile boils up my throat. I fix a smile on my face and swallow away the acrid taste coating my tongue. "Nervous? I’m not nervous." My stomach gurgles. My guts heave. "I’m not—" The sour taste intensifies in my mouth. "Oh, god, I’m going to be sick."
I race toward the tiny ensuite bathroom and drop to the floor in front of the commode. I empty the contents of my stomach—which wasn’t much to begin with. I was too nervous to eat breakfast or lunch today. An apple and a snack bar are about all I was able to force down. I heave the meager contents, then flush and sit back on the floor, panting. Sweat beads my forehead, and my heart is banging so hard against my ribcage, it feels like it’s having its own concert in there. A chuckle escapes me, the sound loud in the tiny space.
"Solene, are you okay? Solene?" Abby’s voice reaches me from the phone screen in the other room.
I shake my head to clear it, then rise to my feet. My knees knock together but I manage to stay up. I stagger to the sink, drink water from the tap, then glance at my flushed appearance in the mirror. My skin is pale, my eyes too bright. There are hollows under my cheeks, but really, that only adds to the ethereal look of my appearance. I’m wearing a silvery dress that comes to mid-thigh, paired with rhinestone, over-the-knee boots with heels that are, at least, eight inches. Fortunately, they're platform heels—I insisted. No way am I stumbling onto stage and then face-planting, which I still might do if I don’t get a hold of myself.
"Solene, if you don’t tell me you’re okay, I’m going to call Declan right now and—"
I turn and step out into the dressing room, then yell across the room before I grab the phone. "Don’t you dare, you—"
"There you are," she says with relief.
"Don’t mention the name of thattesta di cazzoin front of me."
She scowls. "Then don’t scare me the way you did just now."
"Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to. I just had a moment there, but I’m fine now."
She searches my features. "You don’t look better; you look a little feverish."
I roll my shoulders, then swing my arms and jump about a little. "Just trying to psych myself up, is all."
Luckily, my make-up is largely intact. It took a team of hairdressers and make-up—or glam artistes, as they liked to call themselves—to get me to look like this. It took several hours sitting in a chair, too, and by the end of it, I was ready to tear my hair out. They ignored my polite requests to stop and continued about their tasks with a grim determination. It’s only when I jumped up and yelled at them to leave the room that they complied. Apparently, you need to throw a tantrum for people to take you seriously. Maybe that’s why stars get stuck with the label of being temperamental? You're treated like an object, and people forget you have your own preferences and emotions, and the only way to get through to people is to raise your voice.
"I wish we could be there for your first performance, but with Isla’s wedding happening later today, it was too tight for us to make it."
"No, of course. You need to be there for Isla’s wedding. Please apologize to her that I couldn’t make it. I’ll be there as soon as I get a break from the tour."
