Chapter Text
Beatrice would swear upon her death bed that meeting Ava that day was not in any way shape or form a monumental deviation in her life plans.
September
Had this moment in time been a carefully calculated move? No. This had been simple dumb luck and it horrified her.
One moment they were being ignored at dingy small gigs and the next they were performing at Lollapalooza. Beatrice couldn’t begin to fathom what 110,000 people looked like. Much less hearing them sing back their music—the songs that she had carefully written and slaved over for years.
Yet, here they were. Expected to pretend like everything is normal. Like it’s just a regular, normal, day.
She’s sure she needs therapy.
And a new manager. Definitely a new manager.
Lilith needs a haircut…do they all need haircuts? Her mind spirals.
The green room is stuffy and the air feels heavy with anxiety and pre-show jitters that shouldn’t still be happening, or at least this intensely. Beatrice’s thoughts go back to the magnitude of that festival crowd and fear begins to bubble up inside her again. She casts her eyes around to her fellow bandmates, each going through their routines. Her lips curve with a small smile that she hopes will help calm their nerves.
They’re set to appear as one of two musical guests, not something she recalls happening often, but unavoidable given a last minute scheduling conflict and countless apologies from The Graham Norton Show production team.
They are The Cruciforms, England’s biggest pop-rock band since The Beatles, or she would tell her grandmother that if she ever asked. Silly little hobby and all. Their EP had sold inexplicably well. Well enough that eyes were on them. Many interested eyes. And they had been ill prepared. The amount of attention in itself was difficult to explain, it was as if overnight everything had fallen into place, but not.
The music industry is messy, confusing and borderline psychotic.
“Do you think she’ll be nice?” Camila’s voice cuts through her thoughts.
“Who?” Beatrice asks, genuinely stumped as to who Camila is referring to, mind too caught up in a delirious maelstrom.
An unanimous groan resounds throughout the cramped room.
Right. Ava. The other musical guest.
“Do you think we’ll ever get a chance to print our vinyls at the rate she’s going?” Lilith speaks up, hair in her face. She definitely needs thera—wait, no, Lilith needs a haircut, but also…therapy.
Mary rubs at her forehead knowing full well where the topic is heading. “Don’t start, you’ll just get Beatrice going.”
Lilith sighs heavily, standing from the couch. She walks to the lit mirror in an attempt to tame her unruly hair. “I don’t know if I can sit through another of Beatrice’s musical statistics and artistic integrity rants.”
Beatrice scoffs. “I mean, honestly, out of everyone that could have possibly come today and overshadow us, it had to be her. Does she even have to do this anymore?”
“Careful, your inner brat is showing,” Mary mocks.
Camila springs up, triggered. “When you’re in the party bum-bum-bumpin’ that beat!”
“Oh God, no!” Both Mary and Lilith whine.
Beatrice moves as fast as she can manage.
“That city sewer slut’s the vibe! Internationally recognised! I set the tone, it’s my design and it’s stuck in your—” One squeal later and Camila is restrained. The couch underneath them protesting with the newly added weight. Camila stares, breathing through her flared up nostrils as Beatrice’s hand clamps her mouth shut.
“It has been a great year for pop music,” Yasmine says casually, not at all bothered by the abrupt change in energy. Too used to it. “I've gone back several months and can safely say we’re finally out of the dark ages.” She had been rather preoccupied with her phone earlier. Nose deep tracking charts or plotting to take them down. One or the other. Or both. “It’s not all Ava’s fault. Though, her tactics are a bit questionable and borderline exploitative.”
“See! Yasmine agrees. She has over-capitalised music and for what. Is it any good? Probably not. It’s just some over-produced crap that will sound outdated—aaaaahhh!” Camila bit her. “You bit me!”
Camila slithers and squeezes her way out of Beatrice’s grasp. “How dare you speak about our lord and saviour like this!”
“She’s clearly only popular because of all her features,” Beatrice continues her tirade, rubbing her hand with soothing patterns, “That and the radio won’t stop playing her.”
Mary is staring at Beatrice with a strained expression, patience clearly gone. “Okay, you’re starting to sound like a Reddit basement dweller. I’ve heard her albums, they’re great, she’s talented,” her eyes boring into Beatrice’s like an older sibling would to a misbehaving little sister, “Is it my cup of tea? No. I don’t drink tea, but I can at least admit that she works hard.”
“You said you wouldn’t.” Beatrice isn’t petulant, but they had all agreed not to listen to the top 100, which meant Ava was off limits. Or at least she thought they had all agreed. Clearly, Camila was a filthy liar and now Mary too.
Lilith shrugs indifferently. “I’m quite partial to ‘Malamente’.”
“No, Lilith, not you too.”
“What about ‘Bagdad’?” Yasmine perks up, very interested in the conversation, Beatrice slants her eyes in her direction. “The interpolation of the choir with Justin Timberlake’s ‘Cry Me A River’ is brilliant.”
The betrayal. Beatrice sits on the couch utterly defeated. They shared meals together.
As she continues to sit there, head in her hands, thoughts begin to consume her. She will make them suffer during practice. She will plan their listening schedule; Bob Dylan, Bowie, good ol’ Simon & Garfunkel…and she was boring herself. Bananarama…what? Too much. They were listening only to the greats from now on or so help her God. They can’t squander this. This type of opportunity only comes once in a lifetime and they are going to focus.
Knock-knock, knock-knock.
Lilith turns from the mirror, having constructed her hair into a braid. Who thought she had it in her? “That’s probably Vincent.”
“Useless,” Beatrice mutters, standing to put some distance between herself and the door. She knows whatever news he’s bringing is going to age her within seconds.
Camila is the one who answers.
“Hi.”
The door slams shut. The Earth spins just a little faster.
They all stare as Camila stands ramrod straight and perfectly still, back against the door, in a state of complete panic. “It’s…it’s…” she stutters out in full blown disbelief and realisation.
Mary rolls her eyes. “Is it Vincent?”
“No.”
“Graham?”
“No.”
“Ava?”
Camila raises a hand to cover her mouth and nose, nodding slowly, “…Yes.”
Mary stands from her chair and pries Camila off the door. “Woman, for crying out loud let your fellow countryperson in!”
The door opens and there she is. Hands behind her back, with a smile that could probably make someone trip on a busy city street.
And they were all gawking.
Thud.
Yasmine’s phone hits the floor and all eyes follow her movements as she scrambles to pick it up. All except for Beatrice who has for a brief second forgotten herself.
An indescribable force.
Ava looks younger than she expected. Wearing an oversized white t-shirt that is tucked messily into her jeans, hair in an untidy bun and no makeup to speak of. Beatrice breathes in once and looks away as if struck, but she finds that she can’t resist the second glance.
Ava’s curious brown eyes find hers. “Hi guys…what’s up?” she says, awkwardly while doing a small wave.
“The ceiling usually, I mean, if there is one. Sometimes it could be sky, but I guess…that can also depend on the weather because there’s rain and clouds and pollen and…and solar wind patterns that can disrupt the Earth’s magnetosphere in a phenomenon we refer to as an Aurora.”
Oh no, Yasmine.
Mary nods along slowly. “Ava, right? I’m Mary.”
“Hello.” Ava smiles brightly again, stretching out her hand for Mary to shake.
Camila’s mouth moves, “I once had a weird dream after listening to ‘Reniego.’”
“Oh?” Ava chuckles, her voice turning raspy with mischief. “What was it about?”
“I don’t know. It involved my dead dog Mauricio and buñuelos.”
Beatrice can only hope that she has misheard.
“¿Buñuelos? Me encantan.” (Buñuelos? I love them.)
“Si, a mí también.” (Yes, me too.) Camila beams, admiration clear.
“This is Camila, she apologises for slamming the door in your face,” Mary says gently. Mary, who apparently had taken it upon herself to be the only sane person in the room. And without further prompting began to go around introducing everyone. “That’s Yasmine and her now very broken phone.” Yasmine half smiles, half winces. “The one with the sour face over there is Lilith.” A quick salute. “And this is Bea—”
Beatrice doesn’t know what possesses her to walk across the room. Finding herself in front of Ava, she outstretches a tentative hand, “Beatrice.” The indescribable force is back, negating her own free will as their eyes meet again. Kind. Brown. With cute laugh lines as she smiles. The moment lingers far longer than it should have given Mary’s exasperated look.
“Beatrice,” Ava repeats dumbly. “Ava.”
Lilith rolls her eyes, “We know!”
—
“Oh! Oh, that is lovely!” Graham Norton’s voice is bombastic over the boisterous studio audience as he makes his entrance. He waves his hands excitedly, “Hello everyone, hello! Good evening. You’re all so welcome to the show. It is Friday night and like your overbearing mother-in-law, I’m back! We’ve got a great line up to finish up the week with not just one but two musical guests. And if you look over there, singing for us later we have The Cruciforms, Europe’s latest obsession!”
The crowd erupts into delighted cheers as the girls wave back. They’re all now wearing matching form fitting black suits and high waisted pants with thin black ties adorning white button ups.
Yasmine sits behind her drums, impeccably twirling one of her sticks. Camila on keys and Mary with her funky bass. Lilith and her guitar remain perfectly still, barely acknowledging the crowd. Beatrice smiles from the center, microphone before her, doing her best to keep her nerves in check.
“They’ll be performing their latest single ‘Stuck’, but first who are we meeting on my sofa tonight!?” Graham says enthusiastically, diverting his attention to the entry leading backstage. “Well, this actress has decided to return to familiar shores, and is currently starring in the West End revival of Macbeth. Put your hands together for Academy Award winner Olivia Coleman!”
All big smiles as Olivia emerges and waves at the audience, giving Graham a warm hug.
“Next up, you may know him from this year’s box office hit Dune and upcoming Bob Dylan biopic A Complete Unknown, Mr. Timothée Chalamet!”
Timothée walks through the opening, small moustache and all. He shakes Graham's hand before joining Olivia on the sofa.
“And our final guest needs no introduction. She’s our two time Grammy award winning neighbour, back from her record breaking global tour! Ava Silva!”
The cheers get louder, increasing in intensity as the audience members begin to lose their minds.
Ava materialises from backstage wearing a black long sleeved Schiaparelli ensemble that resembles a matador chaquetilla, embroidered with gold embellishments. Her hair is loose with long draping curls that frame her face. She’s glowing under all the attention, a complete natural in front of the cameras.
Graham meets her halfway, giving her a big hug and helping her to the sofa.
The show goes through its finely structured style for a while as Graham takes several moments to discuss everyone’s upcoming projects and accomplishments. They joke and speak at length. Timothée and Ava appear to be familiar with one another, while Olivia sits back completely entranced by the overwhelming energy that has taken over the studio.
“Right! It’s time for music. This band has had a great year. They’ve already been announced as The Brit Rising Star for the upcoming year. Here performing their current single ‘Stuck’ it’s The Cruciforms!”
The audience breaks out into cheers as the house lights dim.
Lilith’s opening notes queue them in. Yasmine is quick to follow closely behind with a few kicks of her bass drum and suddenly they’re all bouncing along as the lights focus and vamp up the atmosphere around them.
Kicking her black Chucks along, Beatrice keeps to the beat of the song. Reaching out to the standing mic, she begins to sing.
We talk…talk ‘til we’re blue in face
The words…the words don’t resonate
Seasons…
They always seem to stay the same
Holding…on to things we said we would change
As Beatrice sings, she listens as her voice comes flawlessly through the studio speakers, soothing her nerves. With a quick glance at Camila she continues singing into the microphone, joining her bandmate for the chorus, Camila’s keys bouncing up and down under her fingertips as the song progresses.
I’m stuck, babe
Stuck with nowhere to go
It cuts, babe
Cause we’re just taking it slow
It’s overdue oh oh uh oh oh
Make your move oh oh uh oh oh
Stuck, babe
Stuck with nowhere to go
After a few more minutes their song comes to an end and the audience members cheer.
“There we go!” Graham joins along. “The Cruciforms, everybody!”
They wave back with bright smiles.
“Come on over girls! Leave those instruments there and join us on the sofa.” They follow his instructions, with Lilith and Mary handing over their instruments to nearby staff members. Eventually, they all walk along the curve of the stage over to the interview area where the other guests stand to greet them. “That was fantastic, thank you so so much.”
Beatrice, the stoic leader is first, shaking hands with Ava, Timothée and Olivia as Graham introduces all the members by name. The girls follow her lead and quickly everyone is acquainted.
“That is such an ear-worm, truly fantastic job ladies.” Graham takes his seat and everyone else follows suit.
Beatrice hopes her voice doesn’t crack and betray just how nervous she is feeling. “Thank you very much.”
“That single is from your EP, and it’s out now and it is a thing of beauty,” he continues the praise leaving all the members shy and bewildered. “How do you all feel after the incredible year you’ve had? ‘Stuck’ was the biggest British single.”
Beatrice takes a few seconds to look around at her band members, getting a few nods before speaking. “To be perfectly honest, I think we’re all just in a state of shock still. We couldn’t have imagined the amount of traction or how much the song has resonated with people.”
The guests nod along basking in the pure happiness each of the girls is giving off.
Having now only just realised who she’s sitting next to Beatrice side-eyes Ava, her smile is immense as she listens along then asks, eyes meeting Beatrice’s, “How did it feel listening to the song on the radio for the first time?”
“I know this is going to sound absurd because surely band members are with each other every second of every day,” Beatrice chuckles, “but we all heard it at different times.”
“It was surreal!” Camila adds, the girls nodding in agreement right away.
“You have this idea or this hope for so long,” her voice cracks, “I’m sorry I’m not used to this. I’m nervous.” Beatrice hesitates, taking a deep breath.
Ava taps Beatrice’s arm in encouragement, “No one is.”
Beatrice smiles, the unease subsiding. “When we all finally did hear it together we were in a cab on the way to get dumplings. We nearly crashed!”
Everyone giggles in complete delight.
The show continued with much more of the same atmosphere and fun banter between Graham and the guests with The Cruciforms speaking about their upcoming festival dates and promotional endeavours for the upcoming album.
As the show begins to wrap, Ava stands from her spot next to Beatrice. Briskly, she walks towards the stage where her guitarist and percussionists wait for her. She sits on the chair between them, demeanor shifting to a more sullen tone appropriate one.
The lights dim and the flamenco guitar begins.
Qué bien sé yo la fuente que mana y corre
(How well I know the fountain that flows and runs)
Aunque es de noche
(Even though it is night)
Aquella eterna fuente está escondida
(That eternal fountain is hidden)
Qué bien sé yo donde tiene su manida
(How well I know where it has it’s den)
Aunque es de noche
Music, Beatrice found, always had a way of burying itself down to her bones. She didn’t need to speak the language, she understood the emotion hidden within it. And Ava? What could she possibly be nitpicky about when Ava delivered every line with so much care and love.
En esta noche oscura de esta vida
(In this dark night of my life)
Qué bien sé yo por fe la fuente fría
(How well by faith I know the coldness of that fountain)
Aunque es de noche
Aunque es de noche
Aunque es de noche
In that instance, Beatrice couldn’t help but chastise herself. She had devalued Ava, just as much as any other popular artist.
Bien sé que suelo en ella no se halla
(I know well that the ground can’t be found within)
Y que ninguno puede vadearla
(And no one can just wade in)
Aunque es de noche
Su claridad nunca es oscurecida
(It’s clarity will never be obscured)
Y toda luz de ella es venida
(And all its light will reflect back)
Aunque es de noche
The song shifts, the tempo increasing seamlessly.
Desde el día en el que nací traigo la estrella que llevo
(Since the day I was born I carry this star within me)
Sé que a nadie se la doy y solo me protege a mí
(I know that I don’t owe it to anyone and it only protects me)
Solo me protege a mí
Solo me protege a mí
Ava stands, the studio lights reflecting the change in mood as the room mutates under her voice. Ava’s falsettos merge so perfectly that it leaves Beatrice scrambling to wrap her head around what is transpiring.
Taggea'o tu nombre en la pared, eh
(Tagged your name on the wall)
‘El Mal Querer’ en Times Square, ¿o qué?
(‘El Mal Querer’ in Time Square, and what?)
Driving speed limit DGT, eh
Quemando rue'a sin carnet, ¿o qué?
(Burning wheels without a permit, and what?)
Vas a lo suave, a lo kitty cat, eh
(You go slow like a kitty cat)
Muerdes si tienes que morder, ¿o qué?
(Bite if you’ve got to bite, and what?)
Muerdes si tienes que morder, eh
Muerdes si tienes que morder
Beatrice looks around to her bandmates, all utterly enthralled. Camila is practically levitating off the couch. Was Olivia Coleman dancing? Beatrice knew she wouldn’t hear the end of this.
Mary’s eyes meet hers, see.
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A palé
A—A—A
—
“What was that?”
Ava winces as her shoulders get pushed back, nearly making contact with the wall behind her.
Luckily the show’s staff are far enough away to not witness the altercation.
Her manager is standing in front of her, taller than Ava even in heels. “I thought we had agreed, they’re not ready to hear that. It’s not the right time.”
Ava felt incredibly small, but the rage that had been building inside her for months was beginning to eat away at her. She needed this. A change. A shift in her sound had been a long time coming and no amount of begging and hoping was going to accomplish anything anymore.
Keep your eyes up. Ava reminds herself. “The audience enjoyed it, didn’t they?” Ava bites back an angrier retort, squaring her shoulders instead.
A dry laugh fills her ears. “A decision like this can derail your entire career,” her manager ran her hands through her wavy hair in frustration, “Who encouraged you?”
Ava shook her head. “You think I needed encouragement? If you truly believe that you clearly haven't been paying attention.”
“I need to call Alice and get this sorted before it gains any traction.”
“Emilia.”
Emilia turns away, phone to her ear. “Ali—”
“We’ll call you back,” Ava's eyes are intense as she rips the phone from Emilia’s hands. “Emilia,” Ava enunciates, she’s sure the tears are imminent. Emilia knows as well.
Emilia’s eyes bore into hers. “Let me make something exceedingly clear to you, Ava Silva. You are where you are because of all the hours I’ve devoted to making it happen. Not only do you continue to act like a child every chance you get, you also make no effort to hide it,” this time the shove against the wall is physical, “Who do you think contacts the media to hide all your little ‘mistakes’. Not to mention the rampant alcoholism that everyone ignores and puts up with.” Tears begin to well at the corners of Ava's eyes. “Do you think it’s cute what you’re doing? Do you think it’s funny?” Emilia oddly enough is speaking calmly and completely stone-faced. “How fucking dare you?”
Ava can’t bear to raise her gaze to meet Emilia’s own. The truth in her words rang a lot more honestly than expected. She swallows instead, pushing the angry lump down.
“Let me predict with 100% certainty what will unfold the moment we leave this building.” Emilia lowers her mouth close to Ava’s ear, “you’re going to sneak out of your hotel room like you always do and you’re going to drink until you black out. And I’m going to find you in your bathtub tomorrow morning feeling sorry for yourself. Then, we’ll leave this God forsaken country and never speak about this—”
A quick rapid sound of clattering catches both of their attention.
Ava can feel Emilia extracting herself, giving a cautionary glance down the hall in the direction of the noise. Furious eyes meet hers again when nothing can be discerned. “I’ll let the driver know we’re ready to leave,” Emilia says before making her way into one of the green rooms, slamming the door shut.
The same noise resonates across the hall again and it scares Ava enough to wipe angrily at her face. Curiosity takes over instantly. She knows better. She should follow after Emilia and pretend like nothing happened, but she can’t find it in herself to care anymore. As she turns the corner Ava smashes herself straight into something solid. There’s a surprised yelp, followed by a series of flaying arms that stabilise her in place.
Beatrice. Vest pocket tangled on the door handle of the janitor’s closet.
Ava would laugh if the circumstance didn’t point to the fact that she was sure that Beatrice had overheard the exchange. And Ava knows that face, and has seen her assistant make it countless times after heated Ava and Emilia disputes.
“Why are you coming out of the closet?” she says when it seems like Beatrice is pretending very hard to mold herself in her surroundings. Ava is nothing without her sense of humour after all.
Beatrice hesitates. Ava can see her eyes frantically searching for a proper response. “Well…you see I was just trying to find the—”
“The?”
Beatrice makes several attempts to form words, but gives up. Then, begins to struggle with the handle again and somehow manages to make it go further into her vest pocket.
Ava chuckles. A full on throaty chuckle. “Here. Let me,” she says, placing her hand on Beatrice’s arm and gently twisting the handle enough that it’s able to slip out.
Honey brown eyes dance awkwardly from wall to wall before meeting Ava’s.
Beatrice breathes in deeply, carefully assessing the situation. Ava imagines that this is probably something Beatrice does often, especially before speaking. A learned response she too knew well. “Are you alright?” Beatrice asks a few seconds later, arms coming down to her sides nervously.
Strange. Beatrice is waiting for Ava’s response. Most people would have walked away already, careful to not come between her and whatever was happening in her life. Pretending. Always pretending.
“Do you know Claridge’s?” Ava asks instead of a reply, chances are Beatrice won’t push for an honest answer.
“Do I know Claridge’s?” Beatrice cocks an indignant eyebrow.
“Meet me outside at ten.”
“What? Like, tonight?”
“Ten. tonight.”
As she turns to leave, Beatrice shouts, “Ten?”
“Tonight!”
—
Beatrice is not in the habit of meeting up with world famous pop stars outside of bougie hotels, but she is a big fan of a mystery and that’s what Ava is. A person like Ava shouldn't exist. The raw emotion and vocal talent she had witnessed earlier could not have and should not have emerged out of a 5’2” person that looked like that.
Like what? Like sunshine? She physically shakes the thought from her head, glancing down at the watch on her wrist.
10:14 pm
Late.
This had to have been a joke. Why did she think that something like this could happen to someone like her? The doormen knew it. And she knew it. She didn’t belong and the doormen were definitely going to call the Bobbies on her.
Turning away from the late-Victorian monster in front of her Beatrice hastily swipes through her phone in an attempt to not seem suspicious. Looking at anything and everything. Unanswered text messages, the odd Animal Crossing subreddit, the half-read Pitchfork review for Ava’s second album…the train schedule.
She has time. She can still walk away without being charged for trespassing.
“Hi.” Beatrice was sure she caught some air. “I’m sorry about the wait. I had to do a bit of Mission Impossible–ling,” Ava says, smiling toothily, way too amused with her own joke.
“I see.”
Ava is observing her closely. Long enough to be noticed. “You look slick.”
It’s unusual for Beatrice to care too deeply about her own appearance, she preferred practicality above all else, but under Ava’s gaze she finds herself also looking closely. Her eyes trek down. She’s wearing houndstooth trousers, slip-on-sneakers, and a white cotton shirt with a black coat. By all means, perfectly agreeable nightwear. Then, her eyes shift to Ava who is wearing the same outfit from the green room plus an oversized coat and heels, her hair still in curls.
“Thanks,” Beatrice voices uncertainly.
Ava turns, walking away from the hotel.
Beatrice hesitates only a moment before following. “Wait—wait a second. Where are we going?”
“Looking for some nightlife.” Ava is quick on her feet, comfortable in her heels as they make their way down the cobblestone street. A feat that Beatrice herself still struggles with at times.
“A nightlife? Here? In Mayfair?” Beatrice asks but it goes unanswered. The only kind of night life in Mayfair is over expensive single-grape wine from wherever the heck in France.
As they walk they pass high end shop windows with luxury vehicles parked on the street. There’s still a healthy amount of people wandering nearby restaurants and bars as the night begins to wind down. After passing The King’s Head, Ava makes a right, showing zero signs of slowing down.
Beatrice increases her pace. “You appear to know where you’re going.”
Ava slows her steps, thankfully taking pity on her. “I come to London a lot, usually to record.”
“That makes sense.”
“Do you like it here?”
“London? I mean, I was raised here, can’t complain. Well, maybe a little about the rain, but everyone does that so it doesn’t seem fair to,” Beatrice continues, watching Ava beside her, “What about you?”
Ava half shrugs, the subject not at all interesting to her, “Can’t say I stick around long enough to form an opinion.”
“I can show you around if you’d like sometime.”
Ava minutely stops and snorts in disbelief. “Yeah? Maybe next time I’m in town,” she says dismissively.
Beatrice isn’t sure what it is about Ava that has caused her to lose all sense of self tonight. If it were any other Friday she would be in her flat reading or listening to her latest record find. Only leaving if her bandmates had plans together or to have dinners with her mum. Was it because of who she was? No. Beatrice had already met her fair share of celebrities so this wasn’t that. Plus, she was never one to be around people like Ava. People who shined easily.
They suddenly stop in front of unassuming white steps. A simple black door with the number 46 greets them.
“Are we visiting someone?” Beatrice hazards, though she has a feeling the night is about to become a lot more complicated.
Ava doesn’t answer, choosing to climb instead.“When we go in, don't accept anything from anyone. Don’t wander far from me and definitely do not speak to the staff more than required. They will know.”
“Sorry?”
Ava knocks and after a few seconds the door is opened by a man in a tailored suit and an earpiece. “Ms. Silva, good evening.”
“Good evening,” Ava answers, quickly grabbing a hold of Beatrice’s hand and leading them inside.
Past the classical Georgian entryway awaits a long hallway with a heavy set of double doors.
What was happening?
“Good evening Ms. Silva. Coats?”
Ava removes her coat, easily handing it over to one of the staff members behind the counter, then begins to help Beatrice out of hers without bothering to ask for permission.
“Thank you. Enjoy your evening ladies.”
Beatrice’s hand is grabbed once again as they pass through the solid double doors.
The building appears to expand as they pass under the immense frames. The chandeliers above them are dim and drowned out by billowing cigar smoke as it ascends towards strategically placed air vents. As they walk past Beatrice subtly glances at people sitting in chairs she is sure costs more than the average person’s university education. The brown oak coffee tables before them hold various drinks. And if she looks closely enough she can make out old water marks left behind from years of use.
As they make their way down the room there are rows and rows of people all enraptured with each other, hushed murmurs barely discernible above the jazzy music playing from the speakers.
Ava doesn’t pay much attention to their surroundings, continuing to lead them towards stairs. Beatrice’s hand felt clammy with uncertainty as a heavy bass began to vibrate down the steps leading up to the second floor. Its intensity resounding down and shake the walls around them.
Beatrice knew better than to get herself into a situation like this, so, why had a woman she had only met a few hours prior been so powerful. She was sure this was turning out to be some weird Ready or Not situation, where rich people kill for sport. And the funny thing was that Beatrice knew this is how she went. All those years of restraint and putting music first, all too be undone by a pretty girl with red lips.
Her bandmates were going to kill her for this—well, she’d be dead, but they would definitely come to the wake and roast her.
They take the steps two at a time, emerging into what is obviously a nightclub. Strobe lights bounce along to the music as the people inside dance madly—not acknowledging anything but the vibe and themselves. A bar stretches across the entire length of one of the walls with several tables intimately close by.
Without missing a beat Ava walks past several groups of dancers and heads straight to the bar, finally releasing Beatrice’s hand. This too astounds Beatrice because she can’t see much apart from the pulsating lights.
“What will you have?” Ava asks once Beatrice joins her, close enough to speak into her ear.
“Huh? Sorry, I was looking at the…architecture.”
Ava gives her a fond look before turning her attention to the bartender. “We’ll start with shots.”
“Oh, I don’t—I’m not—”
“Just try it…it’s a no pressure shot.”
Beatrice looks between the new glass additions to Ava.
This is not a good idea.
By the time Beatrice musters a semblance of courage to hold the shot glass Ava has already had her fourth and has been watching her patiently but expectantly. The indescribable force is back. Stronger than before. Without further thought the liquor goes down hard. She can feel it burning as it travels through her throat. “That was vile!”
“I bet!” Ava turns to look at the crowd, the energy feeding into her. “Dance?”
Beatrice wavers, considering her options. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.” She hopes Ava won't question it. And when she doesn’t Beatrice sends a small prayer to anyone who is listening. She watches on as Ava makes her way through the gyrating bodies, needing no time to synchronise along.
“Anything else?” The bartender asks impatiently.
“Water, please.”
This is going to be a long night.
A few minutes later she makes it through the sweaty bodies and inebriated overly touchy people to Ava, who is now sporting an endearing shade of red and perspiring, though it’s not something that looks bad on her. Ava smiles the moment she spots Beatrice, rushing to place her hands on her hips.
Oh, your gravity, your gravity
Your gravity, I will follow you
Oh, your gravity, your gravity
Your gravity, I will follow you
The bodies next to them bounce and sway along to the rhythm of the song as it continues.
Head in the stars, I see you everywhere
I could never get away, get away
In a hold, just take me anywhere
And I believe in what you say
—
Beatrice stops to adjust the limp body across her back.
This had been a terrible idea.
She had only made it down two streets and her ankles were definitely not complying. Ava was essentially dead weight. Beatrice swears she can feel a cool kind of liquid spreading on the shoulder where the assailant's head is comfortably resting.
It was now 3 AM and she was having some major life regrets.
Beatrice was afraid to acknowledge just how much alcohol Ava had consumed throughout the night, she had lost track at some point—Ava that is, not Beatrice. Beatrice had counted every single shot glass and sugary drink like she needed to recount it later to paramedics. Just in case. She had begged Ava to have some water, peanuts, anything, but Ava had been difficult and had known exactly what she was doing and how to go about it.
She bounces her butt up, catching Ava’s thighs again. At least they didn’t look out of place. Plenty of people had stumbled out. They had left a straggler a street behind who insisted he was Harry Styles. Had he offered any help then maybe Beatrice would have indulged him. He did appear scrawny—wait a minute…had that been Harry Styles? She attempts a shrug, but finds that she’s incapable of it.
Thank God for her sneakers or else this would have looked more like she was hauling a dead body. Crap. Did it look like she was carrying a dead body? Her pace increases out of pure fear. This literally could not be happening right now. She was done for. Ava’s fans would kill her. They wouldn’t bother questioning her. They would just tear her apart limb from limb in some sadistic medieval torture session while chanting along to one of their idol’s songs.
She had by some miraculous stroke of luck made it back to Claridge’s.
The two doormen from earlier watch as she struggles the last few metres to the door. Beatrice barely holds a hand up in a wave in her delirium, “Hello there!”
“Evening,” one of the doormen greets back unenthusiastically.
“Yes, hi. She—she’s a guest at this hotel and as you can—” she tries to adjust their bodies. The men exchange quick glances, but show no signs of letting her through. “As you can see, she is very much passed out.”
“What name is the room booked under?”
“Silva? Ava Silva?”
“There’s no such guest staying with us.”
Of course.
She readjusts Ava again, hoping for some kind of pity.
The doormen stare.
Ava’s hand appears in front of her face. She jiggles the keycard a few times, getting their attention.
“Oh! Well, there we go then. Excuse us.”
“Mmmhmmm…”
The door is held open long enough for Beatrice to slip inside.
“You are…weird—weirdly strong,” Ava slurs.
Beatrice’s sneakers squeak on the checkered marble flooring. The grand entryway is entirely too opulent for the amount of pain currently coursing through every part of her body.
Lift. Lift. Lift.
The night attendants watch them closely from behind the front desk.
She hears the sweet distinctive ding and scrambles to make it. Pain shooting through one of her calves as Ava jostles. They barely cover the ground towards the lift before the doors shut without much fanfare. Left without any options, Beatrice lowers her face to the console and presses the up button with her nose.
This had to be a new low for her, which is saying a lot because she NEVER does anything like this. The most she would admit to is staying up all night during Record Store Day and camping outside the vinyl store for hours.
It took a few agonising seconds before the lift doors open once more.
Beatrice slips inside leaning Ava and herself against a wall.
One beep later and the lift began to rise.
“Did you just?”
Ava nodded against her shoulder in reply.
The moment they arrive at the correct floor Beatrice musters all the strength she has left. She readjusts Ava and in one smooth motion uses the wall to propel them forward.
“Room?!” Beatrice asks, legs shaking.
Ava points down the hall, “The—the one on the left.” In front of the door she raises her hand and taps the receiver. The door clicks open and Beatrice rushes them inside, quickly finding the bed and flinging Ava onto it, who bounces and giggles as if Beatrice hadn’t just carried her through the entirety of London.
There was definitely going to be murder tonight, and she would accept her fate at the hands of Ava’s fanbase afterwards.
“How could you be laughing!” Beatrice began, eyebrows cast down, anger blooming after the night’s events, “How could you just let yourself drink to the point of passing out? What if I hadn’t been there? How would you have gotten back here? Do I need to take you to the hospital? Do you need your stomach pumped?!” She took a breath. Her face was hot and she was sure, no, she knew, she had pulled her calf muscle.
Ava sat upright, watching her closely. Her face was red with small strands of hair endearingly stuck to her forehead. Suddenly, Ava stood with yet another impressive display of heel sportsmanship, discarding her coat in one go and running to the bathroom. Managing to make it to the toilet before retching and vomiting into it.
“Oh my God—are you okay?” Beatrice says, wobbling her way into the bathroom.
Ava nods weakly, giving her a thumbs up.
While taking the jade flower hair tie from her wrist, Beatrice says, “Here, let me pull your hair back,” somewhat picking up Ava’s sticky locks off her face. Yup, that was definitely a chunk of something.
Ava’s shoulder shook with yet another peal of laughter.
“You look like a mess and you have the audacity to laugh?!” Beatrice couldn't help it, her shoulders were shaking as well.
They both cackle wholeheartedly or in this case deliriously for several seconds and in the middle of it Ava’s face went white as a sheet and she began to retch again.
“No—” Beatrice could feel it. The need to join. It was all dry, but enough for her body to gag and compulse in solidarity. She wobbles out, needing to get out of there before dry turns into not so dry. Her eyes scan the room in search of a small fridge with hopefully some water inside. It was a miracle that she hadn’t yet tripped on the amount of clothing littering the floor. She grabs the sealed bottle and hops on one foot to the bathroom. The room she had found was as chaotic as its inhabitant.
Kneeling down to where Ava’s head is—currently—in the toilet, she hands the bottle over. “Please rinse out your mouth. Stomach acid is not good for your teeth.”
Ava nods, doing as she is told. Afterwards she sits back against the bathtub, eyes closed—the events finally catching up to her.
Beatrice sighs and wanders back into the room, removing her coat and settling herself against the bed. Her bandmates were never going to believe her and Camila would kill her. This could not happen again. She wasn’t built for this. She was built for late night doom scrolling and hot cups of tea. This had filled her social quota for the century. And as leaned, enjoying a moment of peace she allowed herself a hypothetical and imagined her life in a different reality. One where she was a nun who liked to transcribe old texts and enjoyed a bit of bookkeeping. Now THAT she was made for.
There’s rustling for a few seconds and then Ava emerges after the sound of a flush. She slopes against the door frame, removing a heel at a time.“That was close,” she says casually, fiddling with the button of her jeans. There appears to be some kind of a struggle, then, the jeans come off without a warning.
Ava Silva is a terrorist.
Beatrice made no attempt to look away. What would the point have been? Ava had managed to top whatever she did with something else. Silky black underwear. Pfft. “Right. So, I’m going to go now,” she pushes off the bed and shoves her hands in her pockets, “I would like to say that it has been great, but it has not.”
Ava pulls the bed covers and slips inside blissfully, completely disregarding the room’s other occupant.
Beatrice waits, slacked jawed for any kind of reply, but when none comes concern takes over again. Why had she been raised right? Why had her parents instilled such a high sense of responsibility?
Ava laid so still that Beatrice began to think she had managed a cardiac episode without any kind of preamble. Stepping closer, Beatrice lowered her ear close enough to listen for signs of life. Ava’s breaths came out softly. Beatrice could see Ava’s chest rising and falling slowly. The person before her now felt small and fragile, without the carefully crafted mask she had wielded the whole day.
Beatrice unconsciously ran a gentle hand down Ava’s cheek, the force pulling her to do it overwhelming and difficult to fight against.
Ava is okay. Ava is asleep. Ava is safe.
Grabbing the bottle from where it was left, Beatrice brought it to the night table closest to Ava. With one final look to satisfy her worrying mind she turned to leave, carefully putting her entire weight back on her feet. Surprisingly, her calf felt much better already.
Waiting at the lift doors, a noise from down the hall alerts Beatrice. The same woman from before, Emilia, emerges from the room opposite Ava's. She scans a keycard against Ava’s door, but before stepping inside, her face turns, making direct eye contact with Beatrice. For just a moment Beatrice fears for her life. She scrambles, turning away, smashing the lift button several times as the door closes down the hall.
—
Beatrice had hoped that a Sunday morning run followed by a warm cup of coffee would bring her some kind of peace.
A chilly Autumn wind hits her cheeks, turning them pink. She’s sitting outside her favourite coffee shop, which is just a few minutes walk from her flat. The run had filled her body with endorphins and she was currently riding the ‘nothing is absolutely wrong’ train.
The last few days had been a roller coaster and dare she say a shit-fest. Vincent was not answering her calls or any of their calls and had apparently disappeared off the face of the Earth. Her emails were out of control with managers, producers, sponsors and everyone in the industry that wanted a piece of them.
So this, a simple coffee, will do for the moment. She isn’t going to think about what had happened with Ava last night. And she isn't going to think about murdering Vincent.
Several undisclosed and heavy shopping bags landed on the table in front of her, the rudeness of the action causing Beatrice to blink in quick succession.
A woman stood there observing her closely. She was wearing brown high waisted pants with a cream turtleneck and an olive coat. “Beatrice Young?”
“…Yes?” Beatrice hesitates to confirm.
The woman sat across from her. “Suzanne De Fanti.” Why did that name sound so familiar? She’s waiting for a reply, when none comes Suzanne continues, “I hear that you are in need of a manager.”
“Oh well, that’s— does everyone know that?”
“Yes.” It was direct and Beatrice liked that in a person. “I have taken it upon myself to reach out to several brands that meet the bands general aesthetic or as you young kids call it now, ‘vibes’.”
“I can see that.”
“It seems you are a difficult commodity to get a hold of and I am here to facilitate that.”
Realisation hits Beatrice. “You’re THE Suzanne De Fanti? You’re a legend. I thought you retired from management years ago.”
The woman shrugs. “If I’m being perfectly honest, the industry was stagnant.”
“And you’re back?”
“I believe so,” Suzanne answers, fingers picking at something on her nail. “I have plenty of connections and old friends. I assume everything is still exploitative and disruptive.”
Beatrice sits back against her chair, watching Suzanne closely. This was probably too good to be true. How does something like this happen? Also, how had Suzanne found her?
“Where are your bandmates? I’d like to meet them so we’re all acquainted.”
Suzanne had a way about her and Beatrice knew to keep a bit of skepticism. “That simple then?”
“It can be. I assume you don’t speak for them.”
“No, I do not,” a breath, “What’s in it for you? A return to your former glory?”
“Don’t misunderstand my offer. In my years of doing this I have rarely seen such a reaction towards a musician much less a band. You’ve done well, but that can only take you so far in this industry. You need proper connections and someone with the experience to help you navigate it all,” Suzanne says, searching her face. “You want to hear the most useful advice I can give you? Quit. Quit now before it hurts. Because it’s going to get a lot more difficult from here on out. Yes, getting attention in itself is a feat, but keeping it? That takes work, and not everyone is built for it. Trust me. I have seen it.”
Suzanne's words cause Beatrice to shift her eyes, cutting too close for comfort. “Is that all you think this is for us? Need for attention?”
“No, but the way I see it is, eventually, you forget to think about why you started in the first place and then the hurt sets in.”
Beatrice didn’t have a response, the conversation sat between them as she thought. Her bandmates were beginning to show frustrations with Vincent’s lack of initiative, they were busy and tired, so tired. Suzanne could be the person they needed. “We have practice in thirty minutes. I can give you the address to the studio we’re renting, you can come see us then.”
“Nearby?”
“Just a few streets from here. I was about to change and head over before…” Beatrice waves her hand around.
“Alright, we go now.” Suzanne stands pointing at the bags, “How fashion savvy are you?”
“I have been trying very hard not to be giddy over the Alexander McQueen logo.”
Suzanne smiles with approval. “Well, what are we waiting for?” She grabs a few bags and leaves the rest for Beatrice to help with.
Beatrice had thought she was a speedy walker on most days. Growing up in London had ingrained a mad scramble mentality to grab The Tube on busy work days, but this was on another level. Suzanne was walking with so much haste that it was as if she was running circles around Beatrice and still pulling in ahead.
“Bea! Beeeeaaaaaaa! BEATRICE!” Camila screams across the street from them, spotting them.
Suzanne stops suddenly and it takes all of Beatrice’s self control not to topple over her.
Camila crosses the avenue, catching up to them. “I can spot those little pigeon ankles from anywhere,” she says, looking from Beatrice to the stranger, before her eyes catch sight of the bags.
“Camila Delcán”
“Oh…wow that’s scary,” Camila says, placing herself directly behind Beatrice, fingers digging into the skin of her arm. “Do we know this…very well dressed woman?”
“Hi Camila,” Beatrice greets her fondly. “This is Suzanne De Fanti.”
“Of The Real Housewives of Napoli?”
“...I don’t…what?”
Suzanne laughs genuinely, extending her hand towards Camila. “Potential new manager.”
Camila eagerly shakes it with both of her hands. “I have been manifesting this!”
Suzanne hands the remaining bags to Camila, “Grab these will you, I need to make a phone call.” She pulls a phone from her purse and presses the screen exactly once. “Lead the way ladies.”
And they are off again.
Camila skips beside her, excitement oozing out of her and seeping into Beatrice, causing her to walk faster, eager to meet the rest of the band.
They turn a corner and head towards a three story building. Inside they call for the lift and turn to look at Suzanne who has hung up and is taking in the sights.
“This won't do,” Suzanne says, sourly.
“It was all we could afford and we’re still under contract,” Beatrice supplies as the lift arrives, the doors grinding and struggling to open.
Suzanne lifts her eyebrow, “Stairs?”
“To our left but the lights have been out since August and the neighborhood teens hang out in there,” Camila offers, stepping into the lift alongside Beatrice. “I once found a boobless Barbie doll in there, it was so strange.”
“Hmm.”
They cram into the tight space and the sorry excuse for lift ascends, its metal rattling and protesting as the bass from the level above amplifies aggressive sounding drums and guitar down. Beatrice and Camila exchange concerning looks as the lift’s door slowly open to reveal the saddest looking loft imaginable.
The three occupants inside continue their session. Lilith fiercely sing-screaming into the microphone while strumming her guitar. Mary casually jamming along with her bass. And Yasmine behind the drums, too distracted to notice their arrival.
Wake up, wake up, wake up
We are appalling and we need to stop just watching shit in bed
And I know it sounds boring and we like things that are funny
But we need to get this in our fucking heads
The economy's a goner, republic's a banana, ignore it if you wanna
Suzanne begins to take in the space, her blank face turning into concern with the safety of the loft as the walls shake and dust particles fall from the ceiling. There’s a small couch by the wall behind the control booth and copious amounts of carpets covering most of the floor. The studio equipment is prehistoric and if Beatrice is perfectly honest half of it didn’t work anymore.
I don't like going outside, so bring me everything here
HEY!
WOO!
YEA!
Mary is the first to notice them, she gives Beatrice and Camila a wave before walking towards the amps and shutting off their power. It takes a few seconds for Lilith and Yasmine to realise as they continue to play.
“Guys! We have a new manager!” Camila eagerly shouts on her way to her bandmates.
“No…wait Camila,” Beatrice calls out after her.
“New manager? I don’t remember having a democratic vote about this? Beatrice?” Mary questions.
“Suzanne De Fanti,” the older woman reaches out for a handshake.
“Oh shit?” Mary shakes it without hesitating. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mary.”
“I know.”
Lilith and Yasmine join them.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Beatrice raises an incredulous eyebrow towards Lilith.
“I vote ‘yes’,” Lilith presses.
“We should think about this together.”
“No, I’m done waiting around,” Lilith answers back. “I’m well aware of who she is and what she is capable of.”
“And I’m well aware of who you are and what you’re capable of,” Suzanne says, with a slight smile. “Your mother and I ran around the same circles years ago, I’m glad to see that she wasn’t wrong about you.”
Silence. Then,
“Yes”
“YES!”
“Yea…”
“I like her very much,” Yasmine says last.
“That settles it then,” Suzanne crosses her arms, looking at all them closely. “Haircuts, clothes, studio, and Levy.”
“Levy?” Beatrice asks, confused.
“Yasmine, I require information of all that has happened this year and leading up to it,” their new manager continues her instructions not bothering to answer, “I’ve been following along but I need to know what the media doesn’t know.”
“I’m on it. I’ve kept a spreadsheet of all our exploits thus far.”
Camila’s eyes bulge. “What! What exploits?”
The lift doors open just as weakly as before catching everyone's attention.
“Ugh! So I was just verbally assaulted by a very off-brand looking Billie Eilish outside,” a man says walking towards them, coat outlining his broad shoulders impeccably.
Suzanne smirks. “Girls, this is Levy.”
“Can we keep him?” Camila says, bouncing to him.
—
One Month Later
“I thought I already told you to stop biting your cuticles, you look like a sneaky little rodent,” Levy says, leaning over and whisper-yelling roughly into her ear.
Beatrice is close, so so very close to ending his life.
A model squeezes between them, scrabbling towards her fitting assistant.
Beatrice’s nails come back to her mouth.
How Suzanne figured out she used to do ballet is a mystery to her. She doesn’t recall ever referencing it in interviews, heck, her bandmates didn’t know. Well, except for Camila, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t, right? Why, Yes, Suzanne, I love fashion. Please put me in a runway show, it’ll be great for the group's image and overall reachability. And sure, Suzanne had been skeptical about her abilities, but a few contacts later and a runway coach from hell had prepared her to do one outfit.
Beatrice could do this. It’s just walking. She walks all the time. In straight and not so straight lines.
Levy swats her hand away the moment it touches her lips.
Beatrice watches on as everyone continues to run around like a bunch of headless chickens. Photographers, hair stylists, makeup artists, assistants of assistants, models in various stages of undress and Levy. The lights that surround them are so bright that she is sure there’s an impression in her corneas. Everyone yelling at nothing, at everything and to each other.
It is the weirdest dance she has ever experienced and everything was somehow going according to plan.
In the instance she finds a bit of wall to lean on, Levy pulls her off it. “You’re going to crease it! And I am not about to be impaled by Sarah Burton.”
“You try standing on these!”
“I would willingly sell my left nipple to do so.”
Beatrice is about to scream like a banshee and truly embody the dress she’s wearing. Admittedly, the dress and heels she is wearing are beautiful, but she will not give him the satisfaction of enjoying this one bit. The embroidered black lace hugged her torso perfectly, which flowed until it hit silk that further became undone with fine brushed textures.
Levy walked off to answer his phone. Beatrice was certain it was Suzanne asking how she was doing. And by the look on his face, he was not being positive about her plight.
Everyone around them burst into cheers suddenly, even the models engrossed in conversation stopped to look over. A few photographers rushed forward snapping pictures as the person walked to the enormous wall that was the entrance to the catwalk. The person must be the musical number who was meant to close the show.
There was a break in the crowd and Beatrice could only stare a little slack jawed. It was Ava.
Her hair had been cut straight across her shoulders in a clean bob. She sported fierce eye makeup just like Beatrice did and wore a dress that resembled one of the earlier looks. Cascading translucent white silk chiffon that stopped just past her bottom with beautiful sunray pleats. Ava nodded a few times to the sound assistant nearby as he handed her a microphone and put in her in-ears.
The music shifted and Ava stepped onto the runway.
“Beatrice!” Levy urgently tried to get her attention. “Beatrice!”
She watched on as the models with the closing looks began coming together.
The stage assistant ran frantically towards her. “Remember. Do it just like you did earlier during practice. Follow 41. Remember the cameras are mainly positioned at the front.” She wasn’t much younger than Beatrice. “Once you’re back, be ready to head back out to close the show.”
Ava’s voice echoed outside.
Beatrice nodded purely by instinct as she was pulled towards 41.
Me da miedo cuando sales sonriendo pa' la calle
(It frightens me when you leave smiling down the street)
Porque todos pueden ver los hoyuelitos que te salen
(Because everyone can see your dimples as they appear)
She and 41 were about to become very intimate.
41 stepped through onto the runway. The stage assistant held a hand in front of her, holding her in place. Once that hand went down it was go time. No more deliberation. No more nerves to tame. No more nail biting.
Beatrice focused on Ava’s voice.
The arm came down and she was off.
They had all practiced earlier with the lights on. She had an idea as to how intense this could be, but nothing would have prepared her for the amount of eyes that were currently on her.
On either side of the runway were rows upon rows of the fashion elite. Journalists sat taking notes, desperate to be the front page article the moment the show finished. The flash of photographers set Beatrice on edge immediately as she navigated the now very foggy catwalk. She spotted Suzanne sitting to her left, who offered a quick reassuring nod, but nothing more.
Cuando sales por la puerta
(When you leave through the door)
Pienso que no vuelves nunca
(I believe you'll never return)
Y si no te agarro fuerte
(And if I don't hold on to you tightly)
Siento que será mi culpa
(I'll feel like it's my fault)
Ava must have noticed her because she made eye contact and stumbled with her words for a second. Beatrice walked past, head forward. She was almost there, almost finished. The photographer's flashes intensified as she made it to the end of the runway giving them all a quick practiced pose.
Pienso en tu mirá, tu mirá clavá es una bala en el pecho
(I think of your gaze, your gaze, a bullet straight through my chest)
Pienso en tu mirá, tu mirá clavá es una bala en el pecho
Pienso en tu mirá, tu mirá clavá es una bala en el pecho
Ava sang into her microphone, her powerful voice echoing throughout the vast space. They made eye contact again. Beatrice’s stomach swooped. Huh. That was definitely new territory.
The walk backstage was faster. She made it, careful to stand out of the way for the final looks to go through. Levy waved wildly, smiling genuinely. The models around her began to line up for the closing parade and she followed suit.
Once they were all ready the stage assistant lowered her arm and they all set out for the runway again. The feeling was indescribable, she was riding on the world's weirdest high. She was equal parts delirious and beyond elated.
As she made her way back from the photographers she gave Suzanne an immense—probably insane looking smile and then, just as quickly as her walk had been, it was all over. Sarah Burton walked past her, eager to take her bows as the audience clapped on.
Levy crushed her into a hug. “I was rooting for you all along, didn’t doubt you for a second!”
“I feel really lightheaded right now,” Beatrice said out of breath, leaning back against a table. Dress be damned. All of that stress for maybe 5 minutes of having to actually do it.
Everyone around her was celebrating the show’s turnout. Some models didn’t appear fazed at all, already taking their makeup off and pulling at their hairs, the assistants around them helping them out of their outfits.
Without meaning to Beatrice’s eyes sought Ava in the crowd. Something that she should have been more careful about because as soon as she found Ava she saw more than she bargained for. And sure, they were backstage at a fashion show and she had spent the majority of the day seeing the human anatomy in ways she hadn’t before, but nothing could have prepared her.
Ava’s assistants helped her out of her dress and held the other within arms length. It was quick and Beatrice could have missed it if she had given herself the chance to look away. Ava’s eyes met hers and held her gaze. Her heart began to palpitate. It was seconds, but it felt like an eternity.
And then, Ava pursed her lips and winked right before the assistant slid the other dress on. Their gaze shattering.
Oh God, can you make my heart stop?
Hit me with your kill shot, baby
I mean it so serious
God, can you make my heart stop?
Honey, with your kill shot, baby
I mean it so serious