Ideas for “7” and “The Sacrifice of Victor” were taking shape but would have to wait for his full attention. This was the way he always worked. That’s how he was able to shrug it off when something didn’t sell as well as he’d hoped or the critics trashed him; by the time that particular thing was released to the public, he was already on to the next thing creatively. He wanted me to be on call, essentially, so I’d be close by when he did have an opportunity to work on the new stuff, and to be totally honest, he wanted me to be available to hang out more often, so he asked me to come to Paisley Park and stay for a while.
I didn’t expect to stay at his house. It was semi-cool for a female friend to visit now and then, but not to camp there on an ongoing basis. At first, I stayed at the Sofitel, then they moved me to a nice little prairie house at the Country Suites, but I couldn’t even make a cup of tea there, so they got me an apartment and rented furniture.
I asked his assistant, “How long is he expecting me to stay?”
“I don’t know,” said the assistant, and handed me the key.
It was an odd arrangement, and I knew how it probably looked from the outside.
“What are you doing there?” Jan asked, and I didn’t have a solid answer.
I was determined, personally and professionally, not to miss a call from Prince, but he always seemed to hit me up when I was either in the shower or taking out the trash. I’d come back and see that I’d missed a call from a Paisley Park number and I’d scream. I felt like a prisoner, waiting for those phone calls, and I hated that, so I bought a long phone cord I could stretch all the way out the door while I dodged down the hall with the garbage. That wasn’t enough, so I dipped into my dancing money and bought a cell phone, which was not a small expense back then. The bill was insane, but essential to my sanity. Some days when I felt like I was about to lose my mind, I’d go into Minneapolis and take a ballet class or go to the mall and smell perfumes.
I pride myself on my nose, by the way. I have a knack for matching the perfect scent to the right person, and not long after this, I was buying all of Prince’s perfume (Dune, Samsara, Carolina Herrera, and Yves Saint Laurent) and cosmetics (all MAC, until he started stealing my Dior mascara). He loved the essential oils I brought from Egypt. These days my favorite is rose oil with vanilla. He would have happily stolen that.
When he called, no matter what I was doing, I acted like I was doing nothing.
But he always knew. “Where are you?”
“Ballet.”
“Cool. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
In January, he sent me to New York to do a photo shoot and press training.
“Why me?” I asked.
“You’re the princess,” he said. “I want you to be that princess.”
And he wasn’t saying it in a method acting “if you see it, you can be it” kind of way. He wanted me to tell people that I was a princess from Cairo, because he was certain that, in a previous life, I had been one, and at this moment, that version of me was more real to him than any other.
“But what if they ask—”
“Just smile,” he said. “They won’t be able to breathe.”
Something had been shifting in our relationship since I became my newly emancipated self. I was an interesting adult instead of a charming kid. Our odd little friendship deepened with every long conversation. The connection was becoming more personal. A different kind of flirtation began to go both ways. I was his muse of the moment, and he was becoming more obvious about the things he was trying to communicate to me through his music.
He realized that she was new to love, na?ve in every way, he wrote in “The Morning Papers.” That’s why he had to wait.
Speaking for myself, I was in love, but I was no fool. I was driving a rental car and living with rented furniture. After a few months, I asked him, “Am I ever going home?”
“Going home?” he said, genuinely surprised. “But… you’re in the band.”
“I need to go back,” I said uncomfortably. “I can come back if you want, but I feel weird not working and being able to buy stuff I need.”
Being part of the New Power Generation was an exciting concept, but apparently it hadn’t crossed his mind that while these things I was doing for him were fun, creative things I loved doing—other people actually paid me to dance for them. At Paisley Park, I wasn’t getting paid; I was just… I didn’t know what I was.
“I hear you talk about girls wanting money from you and agents calling and ‘getting rates,’” I said. “I’m not that person. I need to know that you know that. I was never that person with my parents. Why would I start being that person now? If that’s what it’s about, then I’d rather go back to Germany. I have my work visa, and I can get another contract in Cairo.”
“But you’re going on tour.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” he said. “We just haven’t gotten to that part of the show yet. Why do you think you’re here?”
“I honestly have no idea.”