Hudson nodded. “Yeah, pretty much,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“I want to live down here one day. It’s on my list of things I need to do before I’m thirty. Because that’s when you have to get married, and after that, your life isn’t fun anymore. Until you get divorced and you get to start over and be single again,” Hillary said, pensive. “Or at least that’s what my mom’s life coach says. So, you ready to go in?”
Hudson looked through the window of Resurrection. Just past the shiny aluminum mannequins decked out in shift dresses from the sixties Hudson could see a saleswoman with ice blond hair. She was already eyeing Hillary with distaste. “Sure,” Hudson said tentatively, and rang the doorbell.
The door buzzed and they entered the quiet, dimly lit boutique. Racks of vintage clothing lined the cherry red walls, while long tables laid with scarves and purses and sunglasses filled the interior space. Hudson stood very still and breathed in the scent of old leather and carefully preserved silk. Jenny had brought her here for the very first time, and she’d treated it more as a museum than a store. “Not that I can afford anything in here,” Jenny had said good-naturedly as they walked in. “But I use this place for inspiration.” Hudson knew exactly what she meant.
“So, I need something for my cousin’s bar mitzvah,” Hillary said loudly, unzipping her puffy coat to reveal a chunky purple turtleneck. “It’s gonna be up in Westchester, at this really fancy hotel. So it sorta needs to be dressy.” She darted over to the rack and pulled out a Pucci print dress. “What about this?”
The swirling print in aqua blue and yellow made Hudson squint. “That might be a little too much,” she said gently. “You’re really into color, huh?”
“I don’t know.” Hillary shrugged as she put the dress back. “I mean, I may as well stand out in the crowd.”
“What about something understated like this?” Hudson said, pulling an ivory silk slip dress with a black ribbon belt off the rack.
Hillary wrinkled her nose. “Ehh. Boring. So what happened at the Silver Snowflake Ball?” Hillary asked, moving back to the racks. “Give me the scoop.”
Startled, Hudson hung the slip dress back on its rack. “The scoop?”
“I think you can tell me the real story,” Hillary said, rifling through some Bill Blass suits. “After everything I said to those girls in the bathroom.”
Hudson picked up a yellow satin clutch purse. “It wasn’t food poisoning. It was stage fright,” she admitted.
“But how?” Hillary asked.
“What do you mean, how?” Hudson asked, putting down the bag.
“How could someone like you get stage fright? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know,” Hudson said, examining a rhinestone-encrusted lipstick case. “It just happens to people.”
“But you’re not just people,” Hillary said, inspecting a thin alligator belt she’d picked up off the table.
“What do you mean?”
Hillary put down the belt and pointed at the window. “Look.”
Hudson looked over. Three photographers stood across the street, half-hiding behind a parked Datsun. They were taking pictures of the store with their zoom lenses.
“They’re taking pictures of you, right?” Hillary asked.
“Oh, God,” Hudson whispered.
“Do you want me to go out there?” asked the saleswoman.
“No, that’s okay,” Hudson said. “I got it.” She would just give them a few shots and then maybe they’d go away. Her mom wouldn’t be thrilled, but Holla knew this happened to Hudson every once in a while.
She walked over to the window and pretended to look at a silk scarf for almost ten seconds, giving them plenty of opportunity to get their shot. It was always a little embarrassing to see photos of herself in the tabloids. Even when they praised her fashion sense as “trailblazing” and “avant-garde.” Once one of them had written, “Move over, Kate Moss! Hudson Jones is the real style icon for teenage girls in the know.” When she’d read that, Hudson had been flattered, but it had also made her anxious. Being a “style icon” was way too much pressure for anyone, especially her.
After she’d given the paparazzi at least several good shots, she opened the door to the store. “Okay, guys, thanks so much,” she called out. “I don’t want the store to freak out or anything.”
“Hudson!” they yelled, still shooting. “Step outside!”
“You guys know how my mom feels about this,” Hudson said. “Don’t make me call her right now.”
At that they lowered their cameras and edged away down the street.
When she walked back into the store Hillary was waiting with a smirk on her face and her hand on her hip. “I think we can stop pretending that you’re just like everyone else now,” she said.
“I was just saying that of course I get nervous being onstage,” Hudson said. “Anyone would.”
“So why did you say it was food poisoning?” Hillary asked.
Hudson fiddled with the belt of her coat. “That was my mom’s idea.”
“And you let her do that?”
“Well… she was just trying to be helpful.”
“Did you think that was helpful?” Hillary inquired.
Hudson gave Hillary an annoyed look. “Should we try the place down the street? I think they have better stuff for what you need.”
“Sure.” Hillary zipped up her coat and they walked outside. Hudson tried to think of a way to permanently change the subject. All this talk about stage fright and her mom was starting to get embarrassing.
Suddenly the SUV swung over to the curb. “Where to?” Fernald yelled through the lowered passenger-side window. He’d been waiting for them to emerge from the store.
“Who’s this?” Hillary asked.
“Uh, my driver,” Hudson said, blushing again. “That’s okay, Fernald!” she yelled. “We’re going to walk. We’re just going down there.” She gestured down the street. “I’ll call you, okay?”
Fernald gave her a thumbs-up and then drove down the street, leaving them mercifully alone.
“Wow,” Hillary said as they watched the hulking vehicle drive off. “Now I get it. No wonder you freaked out up there.”
“What do you mean?” Hudson asked.
“You’re so… watched.”
Hudson thought about this as they passed a woman pushing a baby stroller draped with plastic to keep out the cold. “Well, it’s just the way things are,” she explained. “There’s nothing I can do about it. My mom is really scared about kidnappers and stuff like that.”
“But it seems like she’s everywhere.”
“She’s not everywhere,” Hudson argued.
They turned into another store, which was a large, airy space, painted an industrial white and hung with full-length mirrors. Over the sound system came a familiar pounding song. One of Holla’s first hits.
“Uh, right,” Hillary said, pointing to the speakers.
“Look, I can’t help it if my mom’s music is everywhere.”
“It has nothing to do with that,” Hillary said, unwrapping her pink scarf from around her neck. “I just think your mom kind of rules your life.”
Hillary’s words stung. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” Hudson said.
“My mom’s single,” Hillary said. “So I get it. What’s she going to open on Christmas, you know? Who’s she going to hang out with on Saturday night?”
“My mom doesn’t need me to hang out with her on Saturday night,” Hudson said.
“I’m just saying, having only one parent around is hard,” Hillary said. “But it’s your life, too. And you need someone to step in and show you how to make it your best life.”
“Who are you, Oprah?” Hudson asked. “This is my life. There’s nothing I can do about it. And up until now, you kind of thought it was cool.”
“I still think it’s cool,” Hillary said, following Hudson deeper into the store. “I think you?
??re cool. But you don’t think you’re cool. I know you’re an amazing singer. I can just tell. So why would you let one dumb night ruin everything?”
Hudson stared at Hillary. It was a good question.
“I read about you dropping your album on PopSugar. That’s a really bad idea, by the way. Just so you know.” Hillary pulled a black strapless bustier dress with a tulle skirt off the rack. “What do you think of this?”
“Uh, no. And let’s please stop the self-help session, okay?” Hudson pulled out a simple black velvet dress with cap sleeves. “Try this.”
Hillary examined the dress. “Really?”
“Look, if there’s one thing about myself I do believe in, it’s my taste in clothes,” Hudson said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “Trust me. Try it on.”
“Fine,” Hillary said, trudging into a fitting room.
Hudson stood there, relieved to be alone for a moment. She listened to Holla’s song playing over the speakers, about to end. It had been a huge hit when Hudson had just been born. As with most of her mom’s songs, she’d never paid much attention to the lyrics. But now the words jumped out at her.
Oh, baby, you know how much it hurts to let you go
But one day I swear, you’re gonna know
That I will love you ’til the end of time…
She’d never thought that not having a father around was weird—lots of kids she knew had divorced parents and lived with their moms. But maybe she and Holla were a little too close. Maybe she did need to break away a little bit. Maybe she’d never noticed how much space her mom took up in her life, even when they weren’t together.
Hillary walked out of the fitting room. “What do you think?” she asked, twirling around in the dress. It fit her perfectly. Hillary almost looked like Audrey Hepburn.
“I love it,” Hudson said.
Hillary stopped twirling and beamed. “Good. I’m gonna take it. But first, I have something to say.”
“Oh, God,” Hudson said with a smile. “You do?”
“I think you need a life coach.”
“What?” Hudson blurted out.
“My mom got one, and it’s really helped,” Hillary said. “She was a total mess after she and my dad got divorced. Sitting on the couch, eating Rice Krispies treats all the time, watching Animal Planet—”
“I don’t need a life coach, Hillary,” Hudson interrupted.
“No, but I think you need some help. I think you need to learn how to be Hudson. Not Holla Jones’s kid. Just Hudson. And I’m happy to do it.”
“Hillary?” Hudson said firmly. “No.”
Hillary put up her tiny hand. “Fine, fine. Don’t freak out. It was just a suggestion.” She headed back into the fitting room, leaving Hudson feeling a little shaken. Life coach? She glanced around the store, wondering if anyone had heard them. They definitely weren’t having lunch.
She waited as Hillary paid for her dress, and then they walked back outside. “I love it,” Hillary said, almost giddy. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Hudson said as they came to a stop at the corner of Prince Street. “Well, um, I think I have to go do some errands now.”
“Okay.” Hillary fixed her with a stare. “Are you offended by what I said?”
“Not at all,” Hudson said, almost truthfully.
“Okay,” she said. She turned this way and that. “Which way is uptown?”
“That way,” Hudson said, pointing to Houston.
“Got it,” Hillary said, and then she walked up the street. Hudson watched her pink hat disappear up the block. Hillary may have meant well, but she was definitely rude. Hudson still couldn’t believe some of the things she’d said. Things that she didn’t even want to tell Lizzie and Carina. Your mom kind of rules your life. You need to learn how to be Hudson. Who said things like that?
Just then she saw the SUV glide down Mott Street. It was Fernald, circling the block, waiting to pick her up. For a moment she thought about turning the other way and ducking down Prince Street. Suddenly she didn’t feel like being under the watchful eye of Holla’s staff. But then the feeling passed, and she stepped out into the street and flagged him down, just like she was supposed to.
chapter 8
By late afternoon it had started to rain. Hudson watched people hurry down the street under bobbing umbrellas as they drove along Washington Street, the tires of the SUV making a whooshing sound on the wet asphalt. It was just before four o’clock, so she didn’t have to worry about being late. Fernald had taken her up to Carina’s apartment, where she’d spent the rest of the day watching Across the Universe. She hadn’t told Carina any details about her shopping trip with Hillary, except that nothing had been stolen for a voodoo doll.
They finally reached their corner. The rain had cleared out all but the most hard-core photographers, who stood across the street looking miserable in their hooded nylon jackets. She gave them a slight wave as they turned into the garage.
“Hellooo? Anyone here?” Hudson called out as she walked into the brightly lit kitchen. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re in the prayer room,” said Lorraine, stirring something sludgy and green in a mixing bowl. “Your mom and your record producer.”
“My record producer?” Hudson asked.
Lorraine nodded. “The one with the gorgeous blue eyes,” she said, winking.
Hudson dropped her bag on the kitchen table. Chris Brompton was here. She hadn’t been in touch with him since that horrible night at the Pierre, except for one e-mail over Christmas break, when she’d given him a slightly pathetic excuse for stopping work on her album. Something about needing to take a break, to take time to be a kid. She wondered if he’d even believed her. He’d written back, saying that he was disappointed but that he completely understood. The nice, completely mysterious kind of response. But he was there, in her house, right that second. Maybe he wanted to her to reconsider. Or maybe he just wanted to see her again.
She climbed the stairs two at a time. Up on the third floor, tucked into various niches along the wall and protected by alarmed glass, were Holla’s numerous awards: Billboard Artist of the Year, Grammy for Record of the Year, People’s Choice Award, the NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Female Artist. On the opposite wall hung her framed gold and platinum records. When she was younger, Hudson loved to gaze at these statues and plaques and records, or even ask her mom if she could hold them every once in a while. Now she felt the need to just walk past them as quickly as possible.
Back when she’d bought the house, Holla had been a practicing Buddhist who needed a room for her chanting and meditation. But then Holla had abandoned Buddhism for something she called “nonspecific spirituality,” and now the prayer room was just another office. Hudson pushed open the door.
“Are you kidding me?” her mom was saying. Holla sat perched on the edge of a white chaise in a snug fuchsia warm-up suit, and she was so absorbed in what she was saying, or who she was saying it to, that she didn’t even notice Hudson’s entrance. Sitting just a few inches away, at the desk, smiling at her mom in a way that made her heart stop, was Chris Brompton. He looked exactly the same as he had all those days they’d spent together in the studio: shaggy strawberry blond hair, kind but sexy blue eyes, weathered Levi’s and short-sleeved T-shirt. Neither of them noticed her for a moment, until Chris glanced over at the door.
“Hey, Hudson,” Chris said, getting up from the chair in his easy, laid-back way. “How’s it going? Happy New Year!”
“Hi, Chris,” Hudson said. Her heart beat rapidly as they hugged. Behind him, on the computer screen, Hudson glimpsed a list of tracks. But she couldn’t tell whose songs they were. “What are you doing here?”
“Chris is going to do some work on my album,” Holla announced. Her eyes were still glued to Chris’s face, and she hadn’t moved from her spot on the couch. “I was just so impressed with the work he did on your album, honey, that I asked him to put the finishing touches on mine.”
/> Hudson stood perfectly still. She looked from Holla to Chris and back again. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. It was as if a golf ball covered in spikes had suddenly lodged itself in her throat. “On yours?” she asked.
“Well, since you’d decided to put yours on the shelf, and he’s so good,” Holla said, reaching out to give Chris a playful swat on the arm as he sat back down, “I couldn’t help myself.”
“You couldn’t?” Chris asked, laughing. “I’m flattered.”
Hudson watched them grinning at each other, trying to absorb this. Chris Brompton had believed in her. He’d been her producer. Now, just like that, he was gone. The unfairness of it sliced through her. Her mom had thousands of fans—did she really need another one?
“So, Chris just had a brilliant idea,” Holla said to Hudson. “You want to tell her?”
Chris swiveled around to the computer. “Okay, listen to this.” He clicked on one of the tracks.
From the first sped-up, over-synthesized beat, Hudson knew exactly what it was: her song “Heartbeat.” The song she’d tried to sing at the Silver Snowflake Ball. “What about it?” she asked, fighting off a sense of panic.
Chris paused it and turned back around. “It’s a really good song, Hudson. I always thought it was your best. And, well”—he looked at Holla—“I think it would be perfect for your mom.”
Hudson blinked.
“Only if you’re okay with that, of course,” Holla said, still smiling at Chris. She padded over to the desk. “I don’t want you to feel weird about it.”
“But… don’t you have songs already?” Hudson asked.
“Chris doesn’t think I have a single. Do you?” she asked him, with mock seriousness.
“Not like this one,” Chris confessed, running a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he said, turning to Hudson, “if you’re not cool with it, it’s no big deal.”
Hudson couldn’t move. Of course she wasn’t cool with it. Did he even have to ask? Why didn’t he know that already? It was her song. One of her favorites. Even though her mom had ruined it. And now he wanted to give it to someone who’d never liked it that much in the first place? “I thought you didn’t like my music,” Hudson managed to say.