by Lin, Harper
“I saw what you were doing. And it looked like you were enjoying it too.”
“No!”
“No?” Sandra raised her ever-arching eyebrow. “It didn’t seem that way to me.”
“We were just, uh...”
I’d never heard Sterling stutter before. Completely silent and brooding, yes, but guilty and stuttering, no.
“There’s lipstick all over your face,” I pointed out.
Sterling just blinked at me, looking stupid with all that pink gunk smeared all around his lips. Some sounds came out of his mouth, but they weren’t coherent words. I looked back at him with what was probably a hurt expression.
“I came here to tell you that I chose you,” I snapped, “but you obviously chose someone else.”
Sandra was smoothing her hair back into a neat bun and she smiled at me in her usual patronizing way. I’d never seen Sandra with makeup on before. She must’ve gotten gussied up once in a while to seduce Sterling. I wanted to smack the both of them, but I resisted.
Instead, I turned on my heel and stormed out.
Sterling didn’t even run out after me, so I figured there was nothing more he could say.
I guess I didn’t know Sterling as well as I thought I did after all. We had been high school sweethearts until we graduated. Then he broke up with me, and I was crushed.
Long story short, I moved to New York, became a singer, dated a few famous and not-so-famous men, and then finally fell in love for the second time in my life with Nick Doyle, the movie star. We even lived together for four years, but we broke up because we were both working and traveling too much. I had wanted to get married, settle down and have children, and thought that Nick didn’t.
This past Christmas, I had decided to take a break from recording and touring, the whole shebang, and just spend time with my family for awhile. Here in Hartfield, my hometown in Ontario, I reconnected with Sterling again and we started seeing each other; we were back to the passionate romance we had as teenagers.
But now I was starting to think that Sterling could have passionate romances with anyone. At least Nick only faked it with his leading ladies. Sure, he had dated his share of beauties, but he was always the monogamous type, despite what the press tried to sway him to be.
Sterling tried to get in touch with me the day after I caught him, but I was too sick to my stomach to see him and listen to his lame excuses. He even came around once, but I told my parents to tell him to scram.
While I avoided Sterling, I also managed to ignore my manager Rod and everybody else trying to book me for promotional appearances, interviews and performances for my third album release on Valentine’s Day. I had responsibilities, and this was the first time in my life that I’d actively eschewed them.
All I wanted to do was to hide. I’d spent most of my 20s in the music industry. I was only supposed to be taking a short break over the holidays, but I had extended it to February. Would this still be considered a quarter-life crisis if I was almost 30?
Mirabelle poked me in the ribs again.
“You’ve got to go outside,” she said. “Get some fresh air for God’s sake.”
“It’s freezing outside,” I said.
I knew I was being whiney, but I couldn’t help it. I thought I was over being the vulnerable girl so sensitive to failed romances. My songs were all about heartbreak and I was sick of singing those songs. For my fourth album, I would record happier songs, reinvent myself. Right now, I just didn’t feel up to it. I didn’t feel up for anything.
Being a celebrity didn’t make you immune to heartbreak. The industry was tough, love was tough, the whole world was tough and the safest I felt was inside my parents’ home in Hartfield.
“Really, Emma.” Mirabelle rolled her eyes. “It drives me crazy looking at you in that robe and those lame bunny slippers. Just get off your ass. Be one of the judges for the baking contest, get involved in something. It’ll get you out of yourself, then you can go back to writing those happy songs that you were so excited about last week.”
I grunted, then turned away from her on the couch.
“Also, do you want to throw me a baby shower?”
“A baby shower?” That got my attention. “You’re due next month and we haven’t had a shower yet, that’s right.”
“So can you plan it?”
Gingerly, I sat upright. I’d been watching trashy reality TV shows all day and my brain and body both felt like mush.
“Of course I’ll do it,” I said with some excitement. “You’re right. I have been dwelling over this whole Sterling thing too much. I definitely need to get out of this slump.”
“I thought it would be good for you,” Mirabelle said. “Since you don’t want to go back to work yet and you don’t even want to go outside, you need something to keep you busy.”
“There are loads of cheesy baby shower games we can do,” I said, the gears in my head turning. “It won’t be one of those lame baby showers. It’ll be fun and it’ll have plenty of alcohol!”
“Great,” said Mirabelle. “Except that I can’t drink.”
“It’ll have plenty of apple juice!” I said.
“Now are you going to be a judge for this contest or what?” Mirabelle asked.
Hartfield was holding its third annual baking contest this weekend. Mirabelle, the owner the Chocoholic Cafe, which was the most popular cafe in town, was a sponsor of the event. The contest was open to all Hartfield residents except for professional bakers. The other two judges was one of the bakers who worked for Mirabelle, and another who worked in the supermarket’s bakery section.
The contest lasted all weekend. The first round on Saturday required all the entrants to bring in cupcakes for a blind taste taste. The best four entrants would move on to the next round, which required them to bake a cake on site on Sunday. The cakes were judged for taste, originality and presentation.
I did want to participate. My sister knew me well. It was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to do. I would’ve been more excited about it if I hadn’t been in such a strange, hermetic mood lately. But Mirabelle was right, I had to take action to snap myself out of this depression. I couldn’t let one guy get me down. Wasn’t that what I sang about in one of my songs? I had to walk the walk.
“Right,” I said, stretching my arms out. “I will be a judge for this baking contest. Count me in. Now if you’ll excuse, I’ll be taking a long, hot shower.”
“Atta girl,” Mirabelle said. “Good idea. You were starting to develop some serious B.O.”
Before I could make it up the stairs, the doorbell rang. I froze, afraid that it might be Sterling.
CHAPTER TWO
I made silent gestures to Mirabelle for her to get the door, but she simply shook her head, insisting that I do it.
I looked through the peephole. It was a guy who looked vaguely familiar. He wore chunky black glasses and was shivering in a hooded winter coat. Tentatively, I opened the door.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Hi, I’m Aaron Sanders, writer from Rolling Stone. I’m looking for Emma Wild?”
That was how I knew him. Shoot. A journalist in my home when I was in such a dishevelled state?
“I’m Emma Wild,” I said.
Aaron gave me a quick once-over.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course.”
He flashed his own embarrassed smile. He probably had an image of me as a femme fatale, since the cover shoot for the magazine had been film noir-themed with lots of heavy shadows and sultry makeup.
“I look like crap without makeup,” I said. “Print that if you want.”
“No, you looked beautiful,” he said, mustering as much sincerity as he could.
“I don’t mind,” I said. “Maybe it’ll make it easier for young girls who look up to me to know that. I hate it when they Photoshop me in pictures. But where are my manners? Come on in.”
He stomped the snow off his boots on the Welcome mat and stepped in, still shive
ring. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I interviewed you last year.”
“Yes, of course I do. It was for that profile.”
“It was pretty quick.”
“I remember everyone who interviews me.” I did too. At least their faces. Their names were much harder to recall. “Would you like some tea? And I think we have some homemade creamy zucchini soup if you’re hungry.”
“That would be great,” Aaron said. “Sure is cozy in this town. It’s a long way from Los Angeles.”
“You’re from L.A.? I love that city. I’ve been meaning to go back.”
Aaron was so cold that it took him a while to take off his coat. What did you expect from a Californian? He was in his early thirties, with a slight bald patch. I did a quick Q&A with him was I was doing a flurry of interviews in a hotel in Los Angeles a couple of years ago to promote my second album. He seemed okay. His writeup hadn’t been so bad, but he didn’t kiss my ass either. Some journalists were nice to your face, but wrote scathing things once they were back at their desks.
“I’m sorry to intrude on you in your home,” he said. “But as you know, the issue with you on the cover is going to print in a couple of weeks and we still don’t have an interview. Your manager said the best thing to do was to catch you down here. He said you weren’t answering your phone.”
“I have been sort of M.I.A.,” I admitted. “I’m sorry about that. I’m recovering from…an illness.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”
“Yes. It was the flu.” I fake a couple of coughs. “Almost over it. Sorry that you have to come all the way down here.”
Aaron chuckled. “Canadians do apologize a lot, don’t they?”
“Yes we do,” I said. “Sorry about that. I haven’t been in the right state to talk to anyone, but I’m feeling much better now. Might be able to return to work soon too.”
“I understand,” he said. “I had the flu last year too. It was horrible. I thought I was going to die.”
We went into the kitchen, where I put the kettle on for some tea. Mirabelle came in and introduced herself.
“So, are you staying somewhere in Hartfield, Aaron?” Mirabelle asked.
“Yes, I’m staying at the Sweet Dreams Inn.”
The Sweet Dreams Inn was fit for a grandmother. It was all floral wallpaper, porcelain plates and crochet afghans. It had been taken over by new management recently, by a Japanese couple in their 50s.
“Charming place,” I said.
Except that it was rumored to be haunted, and the owner was murdered there by his son’s girlfriend on New Year’s Eve. But I didn’t tell that to Aaron.
“Yes.” Aaron chuckled. “Charm is the right word. I hope it’s okay that I’ll be following you around this weekend.”
“Sure,” I said.
I wasn’t thrilled about it, but I supposed this was my punishment for not returning my manager’s calls.
“What’s a typical day like for you here?” asked Aaron.
“Well, since I’m feeling better now, I’m going to be throwing a baby shower for Mirabelle.”
“Not just that,” Mirabelle said. “She’s judging the annual Hartfield baking contest this weekend.”
Aaron smiled. “A baking contest?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “Very quaint, I know. The first round is cupcakes.”
“I can see why you like living here. You usually live in New York, right?”
“Yes.”
“But you recently broke up with Nick Doyle. Was that why you moved?”
I laughed off his question. Part of my media training with my PR people was that whenever someone asked a personal question, you had to try to laugh it off as if it was the silliest thing ever you’ve ever heard.
“No, I still live in New York. Why wouldn’t I? Hartfield is just where my family is.”
“And what about Nick?” Aaron pressed. “How’s he doing? Is it true that he’d been in Hartfield to visit you recently?”
I fake laughed again. Aaron was a nice guy—many journalists were—but it was his job to ask the questions the readers wanted to know the answers to, so I couldn’t blame him. Not too much anyway.
“He’s on a shoot right now in Morocco is what I know.”
“We never got official word whether you were broken up or not.”
I smiled sweetly. “I really can’t talk about Nick. We have an agreement never to talk about each other to the press, to keep some semblance of privacy, you know?”
“So you are still together,” Aaron said.
He had me in cornered.
Was Nick and I together? I didn’t know. Now that Sterling and I were over, I didn’t know if Nick still wanted to be with me. Maybe there was truth in the rumors that he was cozying up with his co-star Chloe Vidal, the 22-year-old blonde bombshell who was the latest It girl in Hollywood. Their photos were splashed all over the internet. In one of them, they were having ice cream together on the streets of Morocco. I just hoped that Aaron wouldn’t want to bring that up. I was barely over Sterling with Sandra.
“Oh, Aaron.” I smiled mysteriously and shook my head in a teasing way. “You’re just going to have ask him. Anyway, you’re from Rolling Stone, not People. Shouldn’t we be talking about what really matters?”
“Politics?” He joked.
I mock rolled my eyes. “Of course not. The music.”
This got the ball rolling on talking about my third album, about the producers I worked with, my vision and my influences. But as I spoke, I thought about what a pain it was going to be to have a journalist following me around in my hometown. It was my fault for taking the battery out of my cell phone. I could’ve given a phone interview if I would’ve known.
CHAPTER THREE
After Aaron left, I breathed a sign of relief. I’ve dealt with worse, and he wasn’t so bad, but I didn’t like the feeling of being watched all the time. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
“How exciting,” Mirabelle said. “A Rolling Stone writer following you around.”
I shrugged. “I wish he wouldn’t.”
“You’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Except my personal life, which they always want to know about.”
“What is going on anyway? I’m your sister and I don’t even know. So are you going to get back together with Nick?”
I plopped back down on the couch and sighed.
“I don’t know. He wrapped his film, but he hasn’t tried to get in touch or anything. Maybe that’s over too.”
“Do you want to be with Nick?”
I shrugged again, trying to look nonchalant about it. Sure I did, but he has probably moved on. Mirabelle could tell I didn’t want to talk about it, so she changed the subject.
“Well, instead of choosing between boys, you get to choose between baked goods.”
“You’re probably right. The contest will be fun tomorrow. However, I’ve been packing on the pounds. I’ll have to get back to my intense exercise regime soon.”
