His interest perked up. “Oh, you’ve a gig? Can I come?”
I didn’t answer right away. My initial reaction was to say yes, but then when I thought on it, I decided it was a bad idea. We were growing closer by the day, and though I wasn’t unhappy about that, I wasn’t so sure him being in the audience tonight would be good for me.
“I’d rather go alone,” I answered finally and Trev’s brows drew together. “I just don’t want Jimbo following along with his camera, you know?”
Trev’s chest deflated and frustration marked his features. “Right. Bloody Jimbo.”
We didn’t get a chance to discuss it more because Isaac came over, full of excitement about being on set. He waxed lyrical about getting coffees for the crew and being sent on various menial tasks. It was like a teenager getting to be a roadie for the summer with their favourite rock band, only in this case it was their favourite group of reality TV free runners. His cheer was so infectious he was like Prozac in human form. I seriously would’ve just hung out with him all day if I could, but unfortunately there was always something that needed to be done.
I stuck around the set for as long as needed, helped Neil with a few things, then headed to the apartment to grab my keyboard for the show.
The venue was a cute little burlesque club close to the Champs-élysées. I was over the moon when they agreed to let me play, even though I suspected it was only because they needed a clean act to break up all the stripteases.
And yes, I was aware that if Trev knew the location of my show he would’ve gotten down on his hands and knees and begged me to let him come. I got a sick satisfaction out of secretly denying him. Perhaps I’d let it slip tomorrow and allow him to fester in the lost opportunity.
The décor in the club was lavish, all red velvet, black lace and gold accents. There were even gold stripper poles on either side of the stage. I actually blushed a little when I saw them, especially since one of the burlesque performers was practicing as I made my way backstage. It was definitely one of the most decadent places I’d played, and not wanting to stand out, I put extra effort into my appearance.
My black dress was knee-length and lacey. It showed an abundance of cleavage, more than I usually revealed, and unbidden, my mother’s disapproving voice flooded my mind.
Ese vestido te hace ver como una prostituta. Sube a tu habitación a cambiarte inmediatamente.
That dress makes you look like a prostitute. Go up to your room and change immediately.
I did my make-up extra sultry, with dark red lipstick, just to mentally spite her. She was still in my head when I walked onstage, and it was difficult to disregard my conflicting emotions. Sometimes I thought I did it to myself, at least subconsciously. Maybe I wanted to be upset when I performed, because it allowed me to convey emotion better.
The audience was made up of a mix of tourists and locals, so I hoped at least some of them could understand what I was singing. Although, sometimes you didn’t really need to know the language to feel the sentiment. After all, people around the world adored opera without having a word of Italian.
“This song is dedicated to my parents,” I said. The lights shone a little too brightly on the stage, rendering the audience a blurry haze. “It’s called ‘Even Now’.”
When I closed my eyes, I sang with all I had in me. I felt brave knowing there wasn’t a single person out there who knew me. I could show them all the ugliness inside and not have to fear rejection.
Even now, if you opened up your arms
I’d come running
Even now, if you told me you loved me
I’d say I loved you, too
Even now, with my heart broken and black
With my guts bloodied and bruised
I’d give everything I own in this world to have my family back
When my set ended, a peachy-boobed lady in a half corset and glittery nipple tassels followed me. It didn’t feel wrong that I’d just been singing song after song about my family and how they pushed me out. It just felt real. This was the world, every single beautiful and awful shade of it.
I knew for a fact my parents would go into cardiac arrest if they knew I was singing about them on a stage adorned with stripper poles. And with that satisfying thought, I went to gather my equipment.
I was leaving to grab a taxi back to the apartment when a short girl with a pixie haircut approached me. She had bright hazel eyes and a professional-looking photographer’s camera around her neck.
“Hi, are you Queenie?” she asked in a light French accent.
I turned to her with a smile, thinking I remembered seeing her during my set. She’d been sitting in the very front row with two other girls.
“Yes, I am,” I answered, then gestured her closer to whisper conspiratorially. “But just between you and me, that’s not really my name.”
She gave a small chuckle. “Well, just between you and me, I already knew who you were. I have no idea why I asked that. I’m just nervous.”
I warmed to her candour. “No need to be nervous, it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Reya.”
“I’m Marlene,” she replied shyly.
“Did you like the show?”
She nodded profusely. “Yes, I actually, well, I’ve been following your YouTube videos for a while now. When I saw you post that you’d be playing in Paris, I just had to come see you perform.”
Her statement took me by surprise. I often uploaded videos of my gigs to YouTube, but other than those and the odd tweet, I didn’t have much of an online presence. “Oh, really? That’s so cool.” My smile widened.
“I just wanted to let you know how much I love your songs. When I first found them it felt like . . . I can’t think of the right word in English, but it was like someone had taken all of my feelings and made them their own,” she said, gesticulating passionately.
“That’s so kind of you to say, and it means a lot to hear it.”
“When I came out to my parents, they decided they didn’t want me as their daughter anymore. When you sing about your family, it feels so vindicating to know I’m not alone,” she went on, her eyes turning glassy.
Emotion fisted my heart in a vice-like grip, and in that split second as those words tumbled out of her mouth, I strangely felt like hugging her. And now my eyes were turning glassy, too. “I’m glad,” I said in a whisper. We just stared at one another for a few moments before I asked, “Would it be weird if I hugged you?”
She shook her head, her cheeks going a little pink. “Not at all.”
So we hugged. Passers-by were probably shooting us strange looks, but I didn’t care. I was too busy feeling the moment, sharing a connection with this stranger I’d somehow touched through a few blurrily shot YouTube videos.
When we broke apart we shared a smile. Then she lifted her camera. “I, um . . . Photography is a hobby of mine and I hope you don’t mind, but I took some pictures of the show tonight. I could email them to you if you’d like? You could use them for whatever you wanted, promotional or online things.”