On her way upstairs to dress she ran into Sabine.
“Yep. I made some. You looked tired.”
“Played pool with Dusty til three. There was wine.” Sabine yawned. “I think I’m gonna get a wax and mani-pedi today. Wanna come?
“No thanks. I’m going into the studio with Miguel.”
“Oh. You know what? There’s a great salon about two blocks away from there. I’ll just ride with y’all. Sure you don’t wanna come? Those feet need some attention.”
“You’ve mentioned.” They both looked down at Ronnie’s feet. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. She sighed.
“It’s bad. And I need a wax, too. Eh. I’ll do it later this week. I don’t want to spend a couple hours in a chair.”
“Isn’t that what you’d be doing in the studio?”
“That’s different.” At Sabine’s skeptical look, Ronnie continued, “I’m going to listen to whatever Miguel’s working on, hang out with him while he’s doing it. I won’t just be sitting there.”
She loved recording studios. They’d been her third home (the road was her second) since the age of thirteen. As a teenager she’d spent as much time in them as other kids spent in school. A studio was a warm, comfortable cave cut off from the outside world. Within its soundproofed walls you had nothing to think or worry about but the music, and you were surrounded (mostly) by people who loved it as much as you did. For Ronnie, making music with people you enjoyed being around was rather like having sex with someone you cared about—even when it wasn’t really good, it couldn’t truly be bad.
And, unlike bad sex with people you weren’t emotionally connected to, making bad music with people you didn’t enjoy still resulted in a paycheck.
Sabine, who understood the music industry about as well as Ronnie understood global finance, was shaking her head.
“Whatever. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
As they piled into Miguel’s convertible a half hour later, Sabine said, “You’re not wearing makeup? Not even lipstick? What if we see somebody?”
“You can pretend you don’t know me.”
“Veronica Rose, that is not what I mean, I–”
Miguel chuckled. “Leave her alone. No one’ll see her at the studio.”
“What about when we go to lunch?” asked Sabine.
“I’ll probably do take out. If we take the time to go somewhere it makes me later getting home. Just because Sharon’s letting me out on a Sunday doesn’t mean I can stay out all day.”
“Okay, then. I promise to wear makeup when I get my wax and pedi.”
“Up to you, Sasquatch,” Sabine replied. “But if we run into the man of your dreams, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”