I move to the table, but he cuts me off. I’m about to ask why he’s being such a weirdo when he pulls out the chair for me. It feels like my heart is going to catapult out of my chest. I smile at him, mouthing a thank-you and sitting down. He goes to the other side of the table.
Between us are two closed dishes on black iron pans, two sets of plates with cutlery, and red wine glasses filled with water. I cock an eyebrow and take my glass. William quickly adds, “They asked me if I wanted some vinho do Porto, but I Googled it and it’s like twenty percent alcohol! So I passed on that.”
I laugh at his surprise. I’ve never had that kind of wine, but Mom loves it. I sort of want to tell him that, sort of want to tell him that he’s wonderful. I’ve never really been in a situation like this before. Not alone in a hotel room with a flustered boy who keeps looking around like he’s forgetting something.
The only thing that’s missing is the dimmed lights, but I’ll take it.
I’ll take tonight exactly as it is.
Maybe that’s something I could write about.
“Water’s perfect,” I say. “Tim tim,” I say, cheersing in Portuguese, and he clinks his glass against mine.
We don’t break eye contact as we drink our water. I forget about Bobbi’s proposition and even about Padma’s upcoming show. I forget about the problems I’ve had writing lyrics in the past months, and I forget about my public persona.
I put the glass back on the table, and tilt my head to the side, eyeing the closed dishes. “And what do we have here?”
“I don’t know, the lad assured me it was the best, but—” he starts, and I interrupt him by pulling off the lids.
The larger pan contains some delicious cataplana, and the smaller pan has white rice. It’s cataplana de marisco, essentially a stew with seafood, with lots of tomatoes, tempero verde, and onions.
“Mmmm,” I say, more to myself than him, but he laughs approvingly. “I’ve only had cataplana with pork before, so this is going to be new for me.”
He smiles. “Yeah. This is new for me, too.”
We exchange a long look, and my heart skips a beat.
It doesn’t feel like we’re talking about the Portuguese dish anymore.
But I smile politely and serve myself. I also serve him. I’m craving some migas to go with the dish, but I don’t tell him that because I don’t want him to think that this isn’t the most perfect thing anyone’s ever done. Which it probably is.
I’m so happy it feels like I could burst.
We make small talk. I ask him if he’s ever been to Portugal before, and he says Lisbon’s been on his list for forever, but Faro hadn’t been on his radar. I ask about his favorite things in London, and as he gets excited and starts talking about streets and corners and indie pubs, I start paying attention to his mannerisms instead of his words. The way he gestures widely when he’s excited. How his smile as he’s talking is slightly lopsided.
My perfect fake boyfriend.
My…
We’re on our second serving when both our phones beep loudly, mine from the purse near the door, his from the love seat. We pause, looking in their general direction.
“That was weird,” I murmur.
“At the same time, yeah,” he murmurs back.
I know nothing good can come of this. And I want to live in this moment for a little while longer. But William excuses himself and brings our phones to the table.
When he hands me my phone, our hands touch, but barely. His is a little cold.
He raises his eyebrows and looks at his phone first.
I watch the color drain out of his face, his mouth agape.
“What is it?” I ask, but my voice is just above a whisper. All I have to do is check.
I unlock my phone and see an email from Ashley to both of us. In her message, she apologizes for not having seen this coming, and says they will do everything in their power to disprove it, but doesn’t say what it is. Below her little apologetic text is a link.
Holding my breath, I click it.
It’s an article from the Sun, which reads: william ainsley’s family bankrupt: the indie actor tries to ride natalie’s fame and fortune.
I put my phone down.
“William.”
He’s still reading. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he breathes out slowly through his mouth. “This isn’t happening,” he says. I reach out for him across the table. When his eyes meet mine, he chuckles mirthlessly. “Yeah, this is new for me, definitely.”
“Ashley will fix it,” I reassure him, but his eyes are still panicked. He puts down his phone, parting his lips. My own heart is racing, so I can only imagine what he must be feeling. “This is nothing, okay? Nobody really buys that kind of thing. People speculate about stuff like this all the time. And they base these opinions on things like follower count or net worth, and—”
“It doesn’t feel like nothing.” William looks away from me, and when I try to hold his shaking hands, he pulls them away. I frown, but sit back on my chair. “This isn’t speculation. They have documents about the loans Dad took before he passed. All the debt we accumulated after he died as well.” He pauses, looks at me, face pale, voice a bit louder. “How did they even find these? Who leaks stuff like that?”
“I don’t know, and I’m so sorry, but I promise it’s going to be okay.”
I feel so weird sitting on the other side of the table, like we’re on a phone call from different sides of the world. I’m not sure he’s even listening to me. He’s looking through me, like he’s mentally taking stock of a thousand things. I want to fix this. I want it to stop.
I knew we shouldn’t have checked our phones.
“I need to call Mum,” he says, getting up suddenly. I get up, too.
“Do you want me to…” I search my brain, trying to be useful. Think, Natalia, think. “Do you want me to let you be alone for a bit?”
William nods, looking at the phone in his hands. “Yeah, maybe you can go ahead and meet your friends for the festival? I promise I’m joining you soon. I want to talk to Mum and my sister Amanda, and then I’ll take a quick shower and meet you there. Thanks.”
All I want to do is help, but I can’t—not when I’m part of the problem.
I nod. “Sure,” I say quietly. I put on my shoes and coat, and leave him.
I notice he waits until I’m out the door to make the call.
Past the Ria Formosa and the city, the stage faces the ocean. In the VIP area, my friends and I are eating pastel de nata and watching the ocean turn to neon colors as the lights of the festival spread way beyond the crowds. It’s a nice kind of calm, sitting side by side with our coats forgotten in the small six-person VIP suite that Padma got for us. To the other side, we can see the stage; right now DJ X-Perenss is mixing the summer’s biggest pop hits, creating a parallel universe, where only tonight exists.
But the mood is off. Over the music, over the excitement, over the smell of the dried ice and pot, I exchange a look with William, and even though he’s mid-shrimp bite, he smiles back at me, but it feels hollow. He just got here, maybe a full half hour after me, looking a little lost and out of place. When I asked him how the call went, he said, Well, don’t worry.
I am absolutely worried.
“You’ve been weirdly quiet,” Padma announces.
I turn around. She’s sitting on one of the black satin couches that frame our space. There are white curtains separating us from the rest of the VIP area as well, and a small island of champagne, vodka, and Red Bulls in the center.
Brenda’s mixing an energy drink with champagne. I frown at that, until I realize she’s using the champagne glass, not pouring in the champagne. Which would probably taste awful and be totally out of character for Brenda.
Dropping next to her on the couch, I say, “Just thinking
about things. I don’t know. Relationships are complicated, even if they’re…fake.”
Padma looks at William, his elbows resting on the balcony of the suite, looking past the frenetic crowd to the ocean. Brenda elbows him in the middle, and he turns to her with wide eyes. She offers him a champagne glass’s worth of energy drink. “William, my man! Tell me what you think of the festival so far.”
Their voices fade until they become background noise, along with the music. Padma chuckles and shakes her head.
“I wish I could have what you and Brenda have. You two are perfect for each other.”
I’m thinking out loud—I know these aren’t fair expectations, and to be honest, nothing makes me happier than the happiness of those I love. But Padma seems to think it’s funny. She throws a leg over the other side of the couch, taking twice as much space as me, and takes a sip of her energy drink.
“Nobody is perfect for anybody. You have to do the work.”
But it’s simpler in her case. It has to be. Because there are no contracts and it’s their choice to be with each other and the tabloids never seem to care much about Brenda. That lack of attention is probably liberating.
Being a very famous pop star and a very famous DJ comes with very different types of attention.
I don’t say any of that. I look at her, lips parted, and before I can organize my thoughts, she tells me, “Brenda’s freaking out about college because she’s afraid we might break up. If she gets into Berkeley, she’s going to have to study harder than she has all her life, and I’m going on an international tour for six months while she’ll be stressed out in a college campus.” Padma’s eyes venture toward Brenda and William, deep in conversation, and she adds, “We’re not going to break up. We love each other. But it’ll be hard.”
I’m quiet for a second, regretting my words. When did everything get so complicated?
“I’ll be there for both of you. I promise,” I say.
Padma nods, smiling. “We know that. What means the most is just being here. I don’t like to talk about everything the way Brenda does….I need you to be by my side. By our side. And you are.”
Without warning, I pull her into a hug.
It’s sudden and makes her nearly lose balance, but after the initial surprise, she hugs me back, hard. I try to transmit all my love for her into that hug. I think she gets it.
When we pull away, she touches my shoulder so I don’t go too far. “It’ll be okay with William, too. Let yourself forget all the problems tonight. Be one with the night.”
If anybody else was saying that, it would sound cliché and weird, but this is Padma, with her serious eyes and her million rings, her nearly fully pierced ear and her fixation with the dark hours and loud music. When her face breaks into a smile, I smile, too.
We’re quiet for a second, sitting side by side, watching Brenda and William talk. She looks serious, but the way he throws his head back in laughter means she’s probably telling a very elaborate joke.
His laughter is so contagious that I can’t help smiling.
“Beautiful, right?” Padma asks, her voice just above a murmur.
I blink a few times. Brenda. She’s talking about Brenda.
She is beautiful—and she’s especially cute in this loose, shimmery golden dress that flows down until it hits the middle of her thighs. But my eyes are on him. William wears a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans with holes in them. He’s barefoot, his shoes forgotten next to our coats, along with my platform high heels and Brenda’s ballerina shoes.
He catches me staring and winks at me. Like he’s saying, Everything’s going to be all right. And I feel myself letting out a breath.
I would very much like to kiss that birthmark on his cheek.
And then he’s back in conversation with Brenda, giving her his full attention.
“So beautiful,” I agree.
* * *
There’s something wonderful about burying your toes in the sand, your pants rolled up enough that you can feel the breeze tickle your ankles as you approach the seashore. I know there’s a special feeling there—something that surpasses the fireworks as the festival hits its second hour and someone with a grave voice announces that it’s time for DJ Lotus to take this festival to the next level.
William and I left Brenda at the VIP section as Padma rushed us out to get prepared for her show, but we also accidentally left our shoes and coats there. We passed through the crowd without anyone spotting us—if people care about who we are, they’re too busy dancing to stop us—and headed straight for the most secluded area, close to the shoreline, where the waves are breaking.
“Not a fantastic idea to leave our coats there,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. My white T-shirt is not enough to keep me warm.
William jogs ahead of me and lifts his shoulder. “I guess the only thing to do is dance. Either dance, or freeze.”
My eyes widen, and I shake my head. “I’m like Adele, darling. I don’t do dancing!”
“Oh, darling,” he repeats, apparently very proud that I’ve used his weapon against himself. “Watch and learn.” Then he stops in front of me and starts dancing.
Or, well, some version of dancing.
He throws his arms around to the electronic music, not making much sense, but it does make me smile. Somewhere between the VIP area and here, William has started to seem more like himself. I appreciate the effort, or maybe this is normal for him. Being present, living in the moment. Either way I want to wrap my arms around his neck and tell him that everything will be okay.
But I’m game for staying in the present and being here with him.
By the time the first song ends, he’s jumping nonstop. Padma smoothly transitions to the remix of my song.
His jaw drops, and he yells, “ ‘Together Forever’! It’s your song!”
I nod, endeared by his reaction.
“You can’t deny me this dance,” he says, offering me his hand.
The first verse starts, and Padma’s beats are a crescendo that culminate with the pre-chorus. I decide to let go. First I close my eyes, and then I let my hand find his.
In spite of the cold, his hand is so warm.
With my eyes closed, I let the beats move through me. I find the rhythm or the rhythm finds me, and either way we become one: the song and I. When I open my eyes, William is looking at me in a way he never has before. There’s a hint of a grin there, but his eyes are the darkest green they’ve ever been, and when he touches the small of my back to bring me closer, I swear that we’re the only ones in the whole entire world.
His lips brush my ear as we’re moving when he says, “I guess you do dance, darling.”
I lean back, closer to him. “I guess I do. Darling.”
He laughs at the way I mimic his accent, but we keep dancing like our bodies wouldn’t know what to do if they were apart.
When the music ends, Padma screams into the microphone, “Faro, Portugal, how’s it going?! I am DJ Lotus, and we’re here to have a good time!”
We break apart slowly.
My shirt is clinging to my chest with sweat, but there’s something magical happening that I can’t quite put my finger on. Behind the stage, the fireworks explode, coloring the sky way beyond the neon lights. The crowd cheers, and I cheer, too, just as loudly, just as intensely.
Looking up at the sky, I see that a storm is coming.
Still, I spread my arms, bathing in the energy of the night.
The songs come one after the other, Padma keeping the crowd hyped through every minute, and I register for the thousandth time why she’s so good at what she does. It’s more than her set. It’s her energy, making the whole beach pulsate as one while we all dance to her music. I dance with William and around him, and we laugh and when we stop, our sm
iles linger. It feels like dinner is a thousand miles away, and nothing can bring us down tonight.
It’s maybe an hour later when William runs by me and straight into the water. “No!” I yell, but I’m laughing, too. “You’re going to get soaked!” He kicks up the water in the shallows so that it cascades down around him.
“Look around, Natalie,” he yells back at me. The approaching storm colors the sky in the darkest hues of blue, the clouds heavy and a dark gray. “We’re all going to get soaked in seconds.”
The music starts pulsating through me, and I want to give in and dance, but he’s right. I feel the first few raindrops falling on my face, and instead of running for cover, like a few from the crowd do, I smile even bigger.
“It’s so cold!”
I only hear William’s laughter in response. I turn to him, and he’s staring up at the moon; his pale skin flushed, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. He catches me staring, and his face turns serious.
He comes closer, and I feel my heart thud inside my chest.
William’s only a foot away from me when he pauses…and kicks the water so high that I’m hit with a shower of salty water. “You jerk!” I accuse, scream-laughing, chasing after him as he runs away. “You think you’re so funny? You think you’re hilarious?”
I kick the water so it soaks him, too.
We end up farther out into the sea, so the waves lap at our shins. There’s something thrilling about being on the water in a storm, the rain merciless. I stop in front of him, ready to give him the final kick of water that will wipe that smirk off his face.
His eyes widen. I only have time to see the swear forming on his lips before a wave knocks into him and he falls backward.
I’ve seen enough novelas to know the guy always catches the girl when she’s falling.
I’m a feminist. I can do this. I clumsily reach out and grab his arms as he starts falling, but I only manage to pull his weight in my direction instead.
“Oh no.” I don’t know who says it—both of us?—but I’m still clinging to him for dear life when I fall back in the water.
Like a Love Song Page 13