Page 7 of Caught in a Storm

Poppy leans closer to her phone. “How are you, Mum? You okay? For real?”

The rain intensifies just then—the timing speeds up—and Margot instinctively looks at her drum kit on the other side of the loft. “What do you mean?”

“I’m worried about you. You’re stressed about the documentary. That and all this stuff with Dad. I don’t want it to get in your head.”

“I’m fine, Poppy.”

“Dad’s just having a…I don’t know…a moment, that’s all.”

Her ex-husband is having more than a moment. Lawson was nominated for an Oscar for best supporting actor last year after scene-chewing his way through an ensemble murder mystery called The House on Pembrooke. He’s been everywhere since: magazines, entertainment shows, a series of gigantic billboards for Tag Heuer watches. Divorce is never easy, Margot assumes, even years later. But consistently seeing forty-foot-tall images of your ex on the sides of buildings is uniquely not easy. And, of course, he’s with someone new, like always. This time it’s the young murderess from that mystery, actress Willa Knight.

“Mum? Are you gonna talk, or should I go back to work?”

Margot imagines a solo album, thirteen tracks of her screaming herself hoarse into a microphone. The title: I’m Fine. And then the buzzer above her apartment door blasts.

“Whoa,” says Poppy. “What’s that?”

A light flashes beside the door. “It’s my doorman,” she says. “I should go.”

“Okay, fine,” says Poppy. “We will talk about this, though. No hiding out. Also, you’re not a solo bomber…or uni-whatever. You’re awesome. And I love you.”

Margot tells Poppy that she loves her, too, and disconnects. The buzzer buzzes again, like a foghorn. The volume was set years ago to cut through blaring playback speakers and drum loops. She hits the answer button. “Hello?”

“Hi there, Miss H.,” says her doorman, Jimmy. “Got a visitor down here for you.”

“Really?” Margot asks. “Who?”

Jimmy lowers his voice. “It’s a girl. Looks kinda young. Like, real young.”

“I’m not that young, dude,” says a voice. “Tell her I’m with Stage Dive Records.”

Margot hears this in the background and stares at the dusty intercom. What?

“Yeah, I assume you heard that,” says Jimmy. “Claims she’s from your record label. Want me to send her up?”

* * *

—

There’s no time to straighten up both herself and the apartment, so Margot opts for herself. She runs a brush through her hair and replaces her flannel sleeping pants with jeans. She looks at herself in the mirror. She’s barefoot, wearing a tank top with David Bowie’s face on it, and she clearly hasn’t showered today. If she were a police sketch hanging in the post office, the sign would ask, Have you seen the Rock-and-Roll Unabomber?

Three assertive little knocks at the door. Margot slides the chain lock. A girl with a dripping umbrella dangling from her wrist holds out a cup of coffee. She’s wearing Chuck Taylors and a vintage striped sweater. Jimmy was right; she looks like a child. “A gift from Stage Dive,” she says. “Hi, I’m Rebecca Yang. I’m your publicist.”

The cup is warm and familiar in Margot’s hand.

“Axl told me what you like,” the girl says, and then her eyes dart to the insides of Margot’s forearms, where a faded drumstick tattoo runs from each of her wrists to the crook of the elbow. “I was hoping maybe we could talk.”

* * *

—

Margot did a phone interview a few months ago for the documentary. Like the girl who’s just walked into Margot’s apartment, the interviewer, a research assistant from Netflix’s production company, sounded like a kid. Margot can’t remember his name.

“So, this is all just for background, really,” he said. “Most of the info we go off of is a matter of historical record, but the writers like to add a little color when they can.”

“All right,” said Margot. “Are you planning on talking to the others? Anna, Jenny, and, um…Nikki?”

She was annoyed with herself for that pause before saying Nikki’s name.