Page 11 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sloane

The rest of the interview goes shockingly well.

After a full minute of gaping at me, Vittoria manages to pick her jaw up off the floor and apologize.

Once everything settles back down, she even manages to ask some fairly interesting questions.

Including my personal favorite: You’ve been very open about your support for up-and-coming artists, but who are the musicians who made you fall in love with music?

I name Pauline, obviously, along with a few other faves.

It’s always a treat when I get to answer music questions. It’s the rest of the shit I can’t stand. Unfortunately, the rest of the shit is what most people want to hear.

So even though hints of derision creep into Vittoria’s questions from time to time, I have no problem spending the next hour and a half talking about the tour and the album and what I think comes next.

Of course, that’s not all she asks, but I manage to dodge her other questions about any current romantic prospects, whether I watch football (hint, hint), and how being back in Austin last week made me feel.

Bryan starts to step in again on that last one—she’s clearly referencing Jarrod’s death—but I evade it with a very long, very drawn-out answer about Austin’s incredible Tex-Mex and how much I miss it when I’m not there.

I talk about tacos long enough that Vittoria finally gives up and ends with a question about the only person in this industry I really, truly trust.

“So, I can’t help but notice that your itinerary has you staying in Vegas a couple of extra days.” She looks surprisingly interested in my schedule. “Is that so you can spend some extra time with Pau—?”

As if on cue, an effervescent laugh interrupts us from outside the suite, followed by the low, rumbling voice of my head of security. Seconds later, the door opens and the one and only Pauline Vargus saunters in.

After fifty years onstage, her timing is absolutely impeccable—and so is her presence. She commandeers the room, a general with stilettos for sabers and a smile that slices through egos like gossip through a greenroom.

Dressed in her signature monochromatic style, Pauline looks exactly like the superstar she is. Today’s color: hot pink.

Her lips and lashes are tinted a shade of fuchsia that flawlessly complements her deep brown skin, while her raspberry sherbet Gucci suit is tailored to perfection.

Bright-pink flamingoes dangle from her ears, and she wears even brighter pink stilettos with gold heels, because even at seventy, “platforms are for lazy women, Sloane, and we aren’t lazy. ”

Per usual, Pauline’s wig is the absolute showstopper of the ensemble.

Long, rosy pink spirals curl down almost to her waist and are tied back from her face with a sparkly floral scarf perfectly in line with the boho-disco style she’s known for.

The fact that it also shows off her million-dollar cheekbones to their best advantage doesn’t hurt, either.

But that’s Pauline for you—everything about her is weighted, measured, and calculated to work triple time.

Her presence has an immediate impact on the room.

We all shoot to attention, including Vittoria, who jumps to her feet so fast she catches her heel on the back of the chair.

For a second, it looks like she’s going ass over teakettle, and I think fleetingly about saving her. But then I remember karma’s a bitch.

And you can’t save everyone.

In the end, she saves herself, gasping out “Ms. Vargus!” like an infatuated fangirl, even as she grips the back of her chair to stay upright. I don’t miss the fact that she uses Ms. when addressing my mentor.

Pauline, for her part, takes one look at my face, sees that I didn’t move a muscle to help Vittoria, and turns her ever-so-slightly narrowed gaze on the reporter.

After so many years in the limelight, she can sniff out a shark in seconds.

“Well, look at you,” she says in the warm, rich voice that has charmed at least four generations. “Aren’t you just adorable?”

Pauline isn’t a southern woman—she was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, in Motown’s heyday—but she’s mastered the art of cutting a person down to size without ever saying a nasty word.

And adorable is one of her most vicious insults.

“Adorable doesn’t get the job done, Sloane.

It doesn’t make women want to be you or men want to fuck you.

And without those two things, you won’t get anywhere in this business. ” It’s too bad she’s right.

Vittoria doesn’t pick up on the insult, appropriately dazzled at being in Pauline’s presence. To be fair, she still dazzles me, and we’ve been friends ever since we shared a greenroom on a late-night show a decade ago.

“You look gorgeous!” Vittoria blurts out, her carefully cultivated disdain for me completely gone. In fact, she looks like she wants to take a bow at my mentor’s feet.

Unfortunately for her, I’m not in the mood to share. “I guess this answers your question about whether or not I plan to see Pauline this trip,” I say with a laugh that’s as false as my reputation. “Do you have any others?”

“No, I think that’s everything,” she replies as she quickly gathers up her phone. “Thank you for your time.”

“Of course. It was fun,” I lie through my teeth.

“Before we leave, do you mind if I get a couple of photos of you two together?” the photographer asks.

“Of course,” Pauline answers, tossing her spectacular curls over her shoulder before holding an arm out to me. “Come on over here, baby.”

Oh, yeah, she’s gone full Mama Bear. She never calls me “baby” unless she’s feeling way overprotective. I move toward her, then turn to Vittoria at the last second. “Would you like to join us?”

Pauline doesn’t object, but I feel her side-eye in my bones.

Vittoria looks between us. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Pauline is obviously her hero, and—even if she was a total ass to me—I can understand that sentiment. “Come on over.”

Pauline shoots me another look, but the pics get taken. Then Bryan escorts the Vanity Fair team out the door while I make my way over to the coffee cart, feeling like I’ve run a marathon or four.

“You can’t reward bad behavior,” Pauline tells me as she elegantly perches on the other end of the couch.

“Maybe not, but leading with kindness is never a bad thing,” I toss back. “I learned that from you.”

“Sure, that’s the lesson you choose to glom on to,” she says with a sniff. But I can see the approval in her eyes.

I hold up a cup. “Want some coffee?”

“Only if you have real cream. That half-and-half stuff gives me hives.”

“Half-and-half is perfectly fine.”

“Nothing done halfway is fine,” Pauline expands, crossing her billion-dollar legs. “You give either your all or nothing. Anything in between is for whiners and weaklings. We are neither, Sloane.”

She was totally looking for a chance to drop some wisdom.

“You know, everything doesn’t have to be a teachable moment,” I tell her as I pour a three-second dollop of cream into her cup, just the way she likes it. “Some people just have regular conversations.”

“Some people don’t have the number one tour in America right now, either.” She raises a single, shapely brow as high as decades of L.A.’s finest Botox injections will allow. “You want to be one of those people?”

“Absolutely.” I bat my eyes at her as I cross the room to give her the coffee. And it’s only half a lie.

But that just makes her words sting more. Because I’ve been camped in that halfway place for a while now. Not moving forward but not letting go. Just stuck, pretending that I’m safe. And happy.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” she sniffs as I hand her the cup before curling up on the other side of the couch with my own.

“I would never.”

For a second, it looks like she’s about to roast me for my insouciance. But she must decide to let it go, because she takes a long, slow sip of coffee instead. “What time do we need to leave for the venue tonight?”

“I did sound check this morning, so not for an hour and a half or so.”

“Oh, good.” Her dark eyes gleam. “That gives you plenty of time to tell me about the guy.”

For the second time today, my drink goes down the wrong pipe. Only this time I don’t bother to hide it. When I finally finish coughing, it’s to find Pauline tucked into her corner of the couch with a spill it expression on her face—and she’s definitely not talking about the coffee.

“What guy?” I ask, even though I know it’s way too late for that.

“Oh, please.” She uses her eyes to call me out.

“That reporter clearly rubbed you the wrong way, which usually means that one ”—she holds up a single, stiletto-adorned nail—“they asked you about romance. And two ”—a second graceful finger joins the first, and Pauline leans forward, mischief sparkling in her onyx-colored eyes—“they’re actually onto something. ”

“That’s not true!” My voice comes out an octave too high, which only stokes the flames of her glee, before I sigh in defeat. “Did Bryan message you?”

“Bryan? As if.” This time, her laugh is derisive. “You think I need him to tell me something’s going on with you?”

“Nothing’s going on. I swear. There’s nothing to tell.”

“And yet you were upset when I got here,” she murmurs.

“By the time you got here, I was over being upset. I’d already handled the situation.”

“So you admit there was a situation.” She breathes deeply, and I can tell she’s going to impart some more motherly advice.

“You control the narrative of your life, Sloane. You don’t let anyone else control it for you.

You know that. If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.

Then they’ll use that mile to drive over you with a dump truck full of trash.

No one wants trash in their drawers, Sloane. No one.”