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Vegard is used to being seen. Stared at. Approached, even -- with requests to sign this or that, take a picture, even give a hug. He’s generally OK with it. People in Norway are usually respectful, and often fond. He and Bård have grown up in the public eye, more or less.
So it’s strange that in this frenzied, cavernous space, he feels the rare comfort that true anonymity brings. Here, he can slouch against a wall and observe, without anyone taking note of anything beyond the letter and number on the plastic badge slung around his neck. The badge says he is allowed to be here; his featureless gray jacket, t-shirt and jeans say he is nobody to be concerned about.
Besides, there is so much else to stare at: Racks of glittering costumes. Big set pieces on rollers, designed to be moved off- and on-stage. And so many famous faces: The off-again boy band that’s apparently back on (though pointedly ignoring each other). The glossy young starlet with a habit of sticking her tongue out. The hiphop impresario sweating -- and strutting -- in an ankle-length leather coat.
His assigned dressing room isn’t far, but he’s been told he has a good 30 minutes or so before makeup and hair shows up. So while Bård (predictably) naps, Vegard decides to wander. When will he ever see something like this again?
But being anonymous is not the same as being invisible. His body is still slim, compact, muscular. His hair, as yet untamed by product, is a dusky halo of soft curls. And his face is still … his face: Sculpted mouth solemn, pale skin dusted with freckles, fathomless sable eyes wide and wondering,
And so he catches her eye. And so she leans into the shoulder of the closest of her entourage, close enough to be heard above the cacophony.
“Bring me,” she breathes. “That beautiful boy.”
Vegard is startled by a light tap on his shoulder. The young woman standing next to him isn’t the same one who showed him to their dressing room, but she has a badge. And she’s talking, clearly to him -- though the noise from the stage, and the backstage babble, make it it impossible to hear what she’s saying. She wants him to go. Somewhere. Now. Surely it’s not been 30 minutes, but … now. OK. He goes.
But wait, at that last turn -- surely they were meant to turn left. They pass two hulking guards, then duck into another hall -- a long one, with no doors, except at the very end. Clear of the crowds, the young woman is moving now at a brisk clip, muttering instructions over her shoulder. Vegard catches not a word.
The door opens. The woman gives him a little pat-shove, then trots off.
And Vegard steps into another world -- a lush cavern defined by swagged velvet of soft pink and cream, several low-slung plush chairs with footstools and one ornate chaise, a beautiful table bearing two towering arrangements of deep-cupped ivory roses, blushing peonies and sprays of tiny, perfect orchids. Bård would go crazy over those flowers. A half-dozen heads swivel to look at him, then behind him.
“Give us the room, please,” a fluting voice commands. The space, eerily quiet except for a low, vaguely Arabic instrumental track, empties with surprising speed, a few pushing past him and others disappearing through the draperies to a room beyond. And then, with a faint hint of girlish laughter, “Can you turn around for me, honey?”
Well, of course. And there she is.
Instantly recognizable, she’s taller than he expected -- almost exactly Helene’s height, which is to say, almost exactly his own. Waist impossibly tiny, nipped in by the wide, jeweled belt of her costume. Breasts …. impressive, to be sure. Oval face perfectly, lavishly made up; raven hair brushing her shoulders, swooping over one arched brow. And of course, that fabled sapphire gaze, surrounded by thick, sooty lashes.
He stares. She preens, meets his eyes, then slowly, hotly, surveys him head to toe. “Well,” she purrs. “What have we here?”
He almost laughs at the cliche, the feverish theatricality of the moment.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” she says, and it’s clear she has no idea -- or interest in -- the answer. And still, he doesn't quite get it. “Um, Vegard.”
She takes a step forward, then another. “That’s nice.” Another step, and now she’s close enough to trail one slim finger -- is that a bow glued to her fingernail? -- across the arch of his collar bone.
“Oh.” Then …. oh.
To Vegard’s credit, he doesn't think about it for a moment. Well, not really -- he does think about it, to the extent of, Bård would probably actually consider this. But his mouth is already spilling excuses.
“I am very hairy,” he blurts out. “I sweat a lot.” She’s not listening to me. She’s taking another step. Toward me. “I am not empathetic.” And then, desperately, “IammarriedI’msorryIlovemywifesorrywehavekids ….”
“Ssshhhh,” she trails her thumb over his lips, then meets his gaze and smiles, and now there’s a faint gloss of bitterness, threaded with … desolation? … on those rose-pink lips. “It’s OK.” And then she takes the final step, leans in, turns her head so those gleaming lips almost brush his ear, and slides one hand down his chest until it’s resting just below his belt. “But it’s a real shame, honey. Because you are just … the prettiest damn thing.”
Despite the bravado in her voice, he can see, through the skillfully applied maquillage, that her cheeks are flaming. For one of the biggest stars in the world, rejection is foreign and she’s struggling to handle it with grace.
And suddenly, he is on familiar ground: He’s said no before, to other lovely young women who see, want and reach out to take that which they feel is their beauty’s due. For all her glittering charisma, there is, as always, uncertainty lurking behind the facade.
Vegard gives her one of those smiles -- the slow, sweet one, not the manic stage grin. “I am sorry,” he says, sincerely and kindly, and turns to leave. At the door, he turns around.
“Just one question?” he says. Just a little something to restore the balance.
She looks at him, then shrugs with weary, rueful humor. “Sure.”
“Are those,” he pauses, searching for the English word, then brushes his finger against his own lashes. “Are those … made of minks?”
“What?” Not much surprises her, but this does.
“Your … lashes!” he finds the word, and his innate geekery slips the leash. “I hear that some of them are made of minks. Don’t worry, I’m not judging, but I was curious, because some of them are … well, I heard. Did you know that minks are actually rather unpleasant animals?”
The glossy lips are slightly agape. He has no idea what to say, so of course, he keeps talking.
“We thought about minks, but they just kind of squeak. And people care more about seals, so …” He can almost hear Bård’s voice in his head. SHUT UP, idiot. It is time to leave.
“Ah, nice meeting you, Miss…” he smiles at her again. “It was a real pleasure.” Though of course, it wasn’t.
Out the door. Down the long halls and into the loud babble of voices, undercut by what sounds like shrieks of real pain from the stage. Minks. What an idiotic thing to say. Past the giant, muscled guards. It’s not like anyone even got that joke, anyway. Grabbed by yet another young woman, this one looking faintly frantic.
He’s marched straight to the correct dressing room, where Bård is moodily enduring the attentions of a hairdresser. He’s perfected the art of fiddling with his phone while keeping his head perfectly still.
Three young women in venue t-shirts are bustling about, wielding powder brushes, blowdryers, safety pins. Vegard steps into the smelly squirrel costume, has his head doused in water and sprayed with … hair stuff before he’s crowned with the equally odiferous fox headpiece. He can finally let himself think about what just happened. I can’t believe she … did she really mean to ... ?
Whoa.
Close eyes for makeup. Open eyes for makeup. Look up, down as the stiff little brush prods at his lashes. Minks. The faintest ghost of a chuckle escapes his lips and Bård finally looks up from his phone and meets his brother’s eyes, unleashing his own sunny smile.
“Can you believe this?” Bård says, gesturing expansively. “Just a few weeks ago….”
“No,” says Vegard, with heartfelt sincerity. “No. I cannot."
In an overheated dressing room, a slim TV flickers on, and a young woman -- her face now scrubbed, the predatory pop goddess replaced with someone purely pretty and altogether more human -- settles into the embrace of a plush brocade armchair. It’s a closed circuit, giving her a view of the stage; she longs to watch from the wings but those days are long since past.
“It’s been racking up millions of hits on YouTube,” the florid announcer proclaims. “Attempting to answer the question we all struggle with….” She runs one finger across her lips and curses as glued-on beads detach from her nail and clatter to the floor. An electronica-influenced tempo whines, and she realizes she’s heard this before. It was funny. She leans forward.
The man’s costume is cheesy, and with a performer’s keen eye she can tell he’s deeply unprepared for this, unused to lip-syncing and ill at ease on the broad stage -- but he’s giving it all he’s got, especially as the chorus kicks in and the crowd is digging it. Another, shorter man joins him, and together they both seem more confident -- they’re doing much better, really, than she’d expect of people thrust into the limelight just a few short weeks ago.
Then a closeup of the smaller one’s face. And ...
Oh, my God.
Epilogue
She is rarely rude, but the tour has been going on forever, and Herself – as her staff all mentally designate her – has been increasingly tired and cranky in those hours before she hits the stage. That’s why they’re perfectly willing to see her curled up with her fancy laptop and a bowl of berries, headphones firmly in place, until it’s time to get ready. Something she’s watching is making her smile, and then grin as she starts tapping at her keyboard. But … go time. And she pouts a bit as she sets the computer down on a footstool..
As the distant sound of her amplified voice echoes through the confines of the room, the assistant charged with tidying up realizes Herself has left her laptop open.
It’s too much to resist. The young woman – and aren’t they all? – banishes the kitten screensaver with one swipe over the touchpad, revealing a Facebook page. The name at the top is not Herself’s, but the half-finished post is clearly the one she was typing before she was abruptly called into makeup, because the comment field’s blown up to cover the entire screen. Herself has lost her glasses again.
Trust me, she’s typed. I get the Yoghurt love. And Intolerant? Absolutely. But you have to admit it: Mr. Toot is better. Because V.
The assistant’s eyes crinkle in puzzlement. Is this some kind of page for gastrointestinal problems? Herself never showed any symptoms and Lord bless her, she has no secrets.
The assistant decides – probably wisely – that she doesn’t need to know any more. And closes the laptop.