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  “Yazmin,” she whispered to one of the leads beside her, “look how young we were.”

  “Young is an attitude, not a number,” Yazmin replied as if it were a mantra.

  “You’re so Hollywood,” Astrid teased Yazmin, who had had a great, long career on other sci-fi shows, always the lead, with her flashing eyes and dangerous type of sex appeal.

  “Are you even actually British?” Yazmin teased back as the clip ended.

  Astrid snickered, the definitely-not-genteel noise lost under another roar of applause and screaming as their old showrunner greeted the audience and welcomed them.

  It had been a long time since Astrid had been the focus of an audience as a result of her work and not her personal life, so the part of her that would always miss this sort of atmosphere soaked it up. Anyone in the public eye knew that fans could be prickly and fickle, that loyalty might be easily swayed by an unflattering photo or a bad rumor. But after having been married to Barley Finn, one of the biggest rock stars in the world, for twelve years, drama with TV stars really paled in comparison and she found it almost charming. Condescending, a little, perhaps, but she hadn’t been the rockstar, after all.

  After the introduction from the showrunner, the moderator had a series of questions, some directed at everyone, some for specific people at the table. They discussed the creation of the show, a little about the casting, the pilot versus the rest of the episodes, the decision to end the show on a high note, and stories about their strongest and funniest moments.

  It wasn’t very often that Astrid felt safe enough in public to be relaxed, unless she was out as a music journalist, when most other press left her alone. Between being British and having dealt with public scrutiny for so long, she had developed a demeanor that kept her feeling protected and in control. She thought of it as a cool, intrinsically British facade, although she’d lived in America since she was seventeen. So she relished the opportunity to talk about her fantastic experience with the show, making the audience laugh about their antics trying to hide her pregnancy during the third season when she was twenty.

  Too soon, the evening moved on to the question and answer portion. Since she hadn’t done a convention before, Yazmin had given her the rundown on the questions they were always asked and how they redirected awkward or invasive personal questions. So she was fascinated by the questions because they were all new to her, and she felt this small wave of regret that she’d chosen not to come to conventions or do signings. Yes, she would have gotten tired of the well-trod questions, but it was marvelous that so many people still remembered the show so well and were huge, active fans. They were funny and insightful, and the questions brought back so many wonderful memories from the show.

  “My question is for Ms. Sinclair,” the next audience member said.

  Astrid’s attention zoomed in on the poor girl holding the mic, gleaming with nervous sweat under the spotlight aimed at her in the audience. She tried not to freeze up as chills ran over her skin, worried that she had opened the door to personal questions by telling anecdotes about her pregnancy earlier. She managed to smile and say, “Hello there.”

  “H-hi,” she stammered breathlessly. “Ms. Sinclair, when are you going to do a piece about the band Downbeat? They seem like they’re just your style. And so talented and hot!”

  The audience hooted good-naturedly at that.

  Her body unbent in relief and amusement. “I haven’t listened to them in a couple of years,” she told the girl, “but I did like it quite a bit.” When the girl’s smile exploded across her face, looking thrilled that Astrid was taking her seriously, Astrid tilted her head and asked, “Do you think they’ve graduated from the collegiate circuit into the big time?”

  “Yeah,” she squeaked, “you have to—I mean, I think you should check them out again.”

  More flattered than she’d like to admit by being addressed as a music journalist instead of a former actor, she winked at the girl and said, “I don’t have my cell on me up here, I'm afraid.” She glanced around at the people sitting onstage and asked them, “Have any of you got paper and a pen? I’m always accepting hot band tips.” The moderator obligingly leapt up and brought over a convention schedule and a marker, and Astrid scrawled the band name across it as though it were her signature. “Thank you for the idea.”

  “Y-you’re welcome!”

  The girl handed off the mic to one of the volunteers and the session moved on.

  The evening wrapped up pretty soon after that, ending with a long time bowing, waving, and blowing kisses to the screaming audience, making her choke up a little.

  Once everyone was in a conference room with food and drinks, Astrid went directly to the buffet, idling with a plate in one hand to give herself a moment to just absorb the experience. During her relationship with Barley, she had dealt with so many audiences and questions from fans and press, but those had felt wild and unregulated. In the beginning, it had been magical and wonderful, but it had only gotten more intense as the years went by—and then the separation and divorce had turned it nearly rabid. She was so relieved that this had been as relaxed and fun as she had hoped when she walked onstage a few hours ago.

  Exhaling, she chose some food and joined Yazmin and the showrunner Gil, who were lobbying names and projects back and forth like tennis pros.

  Yazmin broke off her zinger to slap her forehead dramatically. “How’s Kerri? I can’t believe I forgot to ask right away! Is it possible that I saw her on the studio lot last week?”

  Lighting up at the mention of her daughter, Astrid said, “It probably was. She’s studying film and got an internship with a screenwriter in L.A. for the summer.” When Yazmin looked dismayed, Astrid laughed and rubbed her back. “I told you, we’re old; she’s going to be a sophomore in college in the fall.”

  “It’s a shame she’s not studying acting,” Yazmin said with that conceitedness that coated more than a fair share of actors. “She’s got your height and skin, with Barley’s cheekbones and presence.”

  Astrid shook her head and pursed her lips against a laugh. Thank God that she had never been so obsessed with Hollywood that this was how she evaluated talent. Part of it was that she’d grown up in London and gone to a performing arts high school where she honed skills and did the classics. Contrasted by Yazmin, who had been discovered by a frankly sleazy casting director whilst dressed as a sexy alien at a Halloween party. No experience, only sex appeal and an eagerness to be famous. Not to say Yazmin hadn’t studied after being cast—she had—but her mindset had always been that of a celebrity instead of an actor.

  “Barley and I are proud of how hard she’s working to reach her goals,” Astrid replied, arching an eyebrow at Yazmin. “And she’s having a blast at the internship too.”

  “You bitch,” Yazmin laughed, nott offended in the least by Astrid’s comment.

  Gil grinned and wanted to know, “Are you going to look up that band?”

  That had Astrid chuckling and absently dipping her pointer finger into her pants pocket to stroke over the folded corner of the program she’d written on. “You know, I think I just might. I just got back from a month in London and a cousin’s little seaside getaway near Naples, and I haven’t begun scouring the news for a new project yet.”

  “It could be fun, the band might be much better than you thought they were before.”

  “They were already good,” Astrid said thoughtfully, her mind flipping through Downbeat’s song catalogue and thinking about their strengths and room for improvement, “I just sort of switched genres for a while and then never went back to them. Fickle of me.”

  “Oh, ” Yazmin exclaimed, “it’s time to go do photos.” She kissed Astrid hard, sincere in her affections even if she was shallow sometimes, and winked at Gil before she hurried off.

  Gil shook his head.

  Astrid waved Yazmin off with a flick of her fingers and refocused on Gil, settling her penetrating gaze on him. “Now tell me, how is the new show
going? You’re happy?”

  With a quick laugh, Gil commented, “I always thought you’d go to the stage when the show was done, the way you can throw your focus on whoever you’re talking to and make them feel like they’re the most fascinating thing you’ve ever known. But I’m sure it’s a very useful talent to have when you’re interviewing all those divas and musicians.”

  “Good Lord, Gil,” Astrid dismissed the compliment, “it’s time you got married again.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart, you may be ballsy, but I need actual balls,” he retorted.

  They both gave into laughter then, Gil’s a bit of a neigh.

  It was hours before Astrid was alone in her hotel room, groaning in relief as she stepped out of her shoes, shucked her blazer, shirt, and pants, and peeled off her Spanx. Once naked, she rose up nearly onto her toes, her legs bunching and quivering with the force of her stretch. Humming a classic soul song, she undid her hair and showered.

  Once she was out, she checked her emails while her hair dried into its natural ungovernable shape, pleased to have the product washed out.

  The solitude was lovely in this moment. She’d been in London, which had involved seeing family on the periphery, and then near Naples for an enlightening but incredibly intensive stint with a country duo as they worked on their fifth studio album. She had always had paradoxical feelings about solitude. The social aspects of her were nourished by interactions with people, whether they were familiar or new. But the aspects of her which were fully self-actualized knew that she was all she needed and craved time alone.

  When she was with Barley, the extreme socializing at concerts and parties had been followed by a big blow up, after which she would plunge furiously into being a hermit. But once the anger had burned itself out, she was left feeling terribly alone and abandoned. The tiring cycle was one of the many reasons she’d been unprepared for Barley. There were endless ways to imagine having chosen differently—such as, having their baby but not marrying him—but it was a fruitless mental exercise. She had indeed married him, letting his magnetism and fame sweep her up and carry her along for so many years.

  Of course, it hadn’t all been like that or she wouldn’t have stayed. For all that there had been so many moments where she’d felt like a tiny thing on a rubber raft plummeting top-speed down whitewater, really, the rest of it had been a magical journey.

  So now she didn’t want magic or plummeting or to feel unprepared. She enjoyed socializing and she enjoyed solitude, and neither were extreme now. She meditated, and she listened to heavy metal while cleaning her house. She hugged her daughter and told her that she was smart and brilliant and dedicated, and then they went skydiving together, swearing and screaming their faces off all the way down.

  Movement was still vital though, to discover new bands, rediscover old bands doing something new, or rediscovering them because she was a little bit new. Barley had spoiled plenty of things for Astrid, but he’d never taken her love of music away from her, nor her interest in how creative minds behaved and moved through the physical, emotional world around them. Truly, if Barley had spoiled music for Astrid, he would have wanted to die.

  Tipping over gracefully, she fished the folded schedule out of her trousers.

  Downbeat.

  After she padded back to her laptop, she searched for their latest album.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Astrid

  Astrid didn’t particularly love the city of Chicago, despite living less than twenty miles from it. It had all of the cultural things she could want—vibrant communities, wondrous art museums, a thriving theatre scene, and almost too many music venues. But the city always left her vaguely frustrated, as if she wanted people to be a little more this or that. She could never put her finger on it, but she felt it in the way her molars ground together lightly as soon as she got off the Metra train at Union Station downtown.

  Music Notes, the magazine that had picked up her piece on Downbeat, was putting her up at the LondonHouse Chicago hotel, which was a little bit of irony that had her smirking.

  She checked in and got her things put away. Most people never fully unpacked at hotels, but after years and years of traveling with Barley, she knew the value of trying to turn even temporary quarters into something that at least reminded her of home. It was far better than sleeping on tour buses and the shower was splendid for her neck and shoulders, which got tense now when she traveled as a stupid reminder that she was nearly forty.

  For her first introduction to Downbeat, she was meeting them at a dance club called Local Beats, a place she knew of but had never been since she wasn’t much for clubs anymore. At least one of Downbeat’s members was from Chicago, so it was an old favorite of theirs. The idea of an on-the-cusp folksy rock band wanting to meet there, and not some trendy overpriced nonsense just out of their league in a cooler part of town, charmed her.

  She didn’t have a clue what the dress code might be, but she was working, so she decided to keep it basic in black jeggings, comfortable rainbow flats, and a black and gold short-sleeved blouse.

  She sent her daughter Kerri a text letting her know she’d arrived downtown safely.

  Don’t fall in love, Kerri texted back.

  It was her standard snarky admonition whenever Astrid began a time-intensive, in-depth piece on a band, and as it did every time, Astrid snorted delicately and smiled.

  I might fall into bed, she replied cheekily.

  Get it, Mom! Kerri replied, a string of hearts and fireworks after the exclamation point.

  Astrid shook her head and went down to the street, where she hailed a taxi.

  It was a quick twenty minutes to get to the club, where she glided up to the bouncer, who was to have her name and let her in without waiting. Given that it was just before ten o’clock and the line was barely twenty people, being on the list was more of a courtesy than a necessity, but she appreciated it because everyone hated waiting in lines, didn’t they?

  The interior was nice, an old industrial space about three factory stories tall, a big flashy bar on one side and some metal stairs leading to balconies with tables, then another set of stairs which led up to the rooftop area. As that was where the band’s publicist, Kayla, had instructed her to meet the band, she ascended the stairs. There was a little extra sway in her steps as she moved in rhythm to the music, which was EDM but a little more trance, a sort of warm-up level given that it was still early on in the evening for a club like this.

  Pushing through the heavy door at the top of the stairs, she sighed as the wind buffeted against her. It didn’t have the salty taste of ocean air, but it was strong off the lake, refreshing in its own way. The rooftop had a lot of tables scattered around four square brick braziers which must keep it toasty up here on all the nights when it wasn’t warm after the sun set. Big bulbs swayed off a stylized metal trellis overhead, dark purple and blue and clear, deliberately dim so that they didn’t cast eerie colors across the people up here.

  The group she was looking for was in the far corner, not precisely hiding, but more as if they’d laid claim to a portion of the kingdom of the club and planned to rule from it. The band was four members, but the table of course had more people sitting there than that.

  An angel-faced, plus-sized woman stood up, her short black skirt flouncing around her thighs hypnotically as she strut towards Astrid. Admiring her attitude and her shrewd gaze, Astrid indulged in a little smile and sauntered to meet her a few feet from the table.

  Astrid held out her hand in an overconfident, almost stabbing movement, and took a calculated guess when she said, “Hello. You must be Kayla. I’m Astrid Sinclair.”

  “I know who you are,” Kayla said in a buttery-smooth voice, clasping Astrid’s hand firmly before pivoting on her cute little heels to click up to the table, where everyone was already watching them. “This is the Music Notes journalist I told you about, Astrid Sinclair.”

  Astrid took them in and waited patiently for them to introduce themse
lves, because when people did that, she found out so much about them just by how they did it.

  The lead singer stood up first from the chair nearest to her, skinny with a man bun that suited him, and held out his hand. His elbow was hyperextended and locked, but when she put her hand in his, instead of the aggressive pumps she’d anticipated, it was cradled. “I’m Xavier Talon,” he said, his voice muted as if he had to consciously modulate it so that it wouldn’t boom and shatter her eardrums. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Sinclair.”

  “You as well,” she said with her usual professional balance of warmth and impartiality.

  An intimidating looking man jerked his blunt chin in a classic macho what’s up nod, his arms crossed and his body still firmly seated. “I’m Trentham, the rhythm guitarist.”

  Third, a punk princess who was all giant black-lined eyes and black hair with fiery red streaks stood up and curled around Kayla to step in too close for politeness. But when it didn’t make Astrid leap backwards immediately in awkwardness, the punk princess cracked, a big crooked Elvis smile blooming. “What’s up, I’m Gin Graham. Can’t wait to tell you how I’m the brains of the operation.”

  A wiry man with buzzed dark hair stretched up his hand from his seat. “Jorge Montalvo. Glad you’re here. This is my wife, Anita,” he said, his other arm hooked around the shoulders of a no-nonsense woman in faded jeans and a Bears jersey, who nodded.

  “And that’s Olaf, our bus driver and sound guy,” Kayla finished up the introductions, “and Seth, one of the extra musicians who will be performing with Downbeat here.”

  “Ms. Sinclair, would you like something to drink?” Xavier asked her with eager politeness. “They have some great local beers on tap, if you’re a beer drinker.”