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‘Exclusive interview with rising pop star Trish Una, commemorating her first ever US performance.’ That article seemed so asinine. She made a point to lie in response to every question. Favourite food, how’d she maintain that figure, and was she possibly seeing anyone? So what if it was all pulled right out of her ass? Would anyone care? Heck, would anyone even notice? She was there to sing; the rest was a leech on her patience.
~
Trish’s head seeked the soft caress of the faithful neck pillow. She never imagined she’d get a chance to perform in Los Angeles. The entire trip had been exhilarating from beginning to end, but the unyielding demands of producers, photographers, and interviewers left her feeling like the victim of Spice Girl’s attacks, boneless and without foundation. Not to mention the jet lag. But airport harmonies of passengers pacifying excitable toddlers and engines announcing arrivals and departures prevented her from truly finding rest.
“Don’t fall asleep just yet, Trish dearie. We’re boarding any minute now. Do you have your ticket and passport ready? Do you want to use the restrooms before we take off?” said Maria from the seat beside her. Maria Marmelada was a short, portly woman in her mid-fifties and talent manager to one Trish Una.
“Don’t be such a mother hen.” Trish said exasperatedly. “I'm fine.” she wouldn’t miss this flight due to foolish carelessness, because she wouldn’t for the life of her miss the dinner the following day with her only true friends in this world. Geez, it’s been months since she’s seen them. Her hand clenched around her paperwork. She was coming home. She crinkled her nose at the sight of her hands. The horrid colour of her manicure, chosen by the imbeciles at Bluebell magazine, still clung to the tips of her digits.
“What a disaster!” she shoved her hand at her agent’s face. “My first interview in an American magazine and I'm gonna look like I have some kind of fungal infection in my nails.” she laughed. Maria’s face contorted in concern. “Oh, no, don’t say that! You looked absolutely perfect.” Trish pulled her hand back.
“It's fine.” she told the pillow. Trish tried not to judge. Maria was doing her best to be the kind of parental figure Trish was sorely lacking in her life; She worried, she fussed, and she was nothing like Donatella Una.
Mom would’ve just laughed with me, she silently lamented. She was never in the business of selling sugar coated bullshit. She cursed at herself for thinking about her mother, but the dams of reminiscence opened. The memories of performing with her mother featured only Trish herself with her mom, the world outside of them might as well not have existed. Their perfect harmonies melded into a greater whole. And when they finished mom would tell her what a good job she did, but only if it was really true. Nowadays she couldn’t notice anything but the audience. Thousands of eyes trained on her; looking at her; Seeing her seeing them seeing her. She had to guess if they really liked her singing. Perhaps they pretended to, just to sell a magazine with her face on the cover. She concealed the tears ready to march down her cheeks with a yawn. The last thing she needed was Maria interrogating her about why she was crying. focus on the positives.
~
“And you’re sure that’s okay with you?” Mista’s electronic voice came out of the phone precariously stationed between her ear and shoulder. She was home in a new hotel, preparing for their evening of fine French cuisine.
“Yeah. I'm ready. If he’s back with you guys, I need to see him.” She retouched her lipstick for the fifth time that evening and scolded her heart for beating so fast without permission.
“Well, Giogio and I’ll make sure he behaves, so you got nothing to worry about.” Mista sounded like he was trying to reassure himself as much as her.
“You won’t need to, Mista. I’m sure I can handle him. See you in forty.” she hung up on him.
She was finally back in Italy, and eager to squeeze out every detail about what her friends were up to in the seven months since they talked face to face. She stared wide-eyed at the bathroom mirror. Did her makeup look okay? Should she change her outfit? She was on the verge of washing and redoing her hair when a knock snapped her out of her spiral.
“Trish, dearie? Are you in there? The taxi arrives in a couple of minutes!”
“Just a sec!” She opened the door to her manager in a black ankle length dress and silver jewellery set definitely unbefitting of an evening lounging around one’s own hotel room.
“Where are you headed?”
“What do you mean?” She said with an infuriating look of genuine confusion “Your friends made a reservation for ‘Mort de Faim’ about thirty minutes from now, correct?” Trish considered how to broach the subject tactfully. How do you tell the manager who tries to be your surrogate mother ‘you absolutely cannot meet my mafia-leading, stand-wielding friends, for the sake of your heart’s own healthy function’?
“No. It really is more of a private dinner between friends. It wouldn’t be-”
“nonsense! I’d love to meet your friends, Trish. Any friends of yours are friends of mine. I’m sure we’ll get on swimmingly.” and without further ado she grabbed Trish by the hand and hulled her along and into their taxi.
~
Come on, Mista, pick up already . She looked furiously for a possible way to get their stories in order improvisationally and avoid spilling the kind of info that’d make even Maria drop Trish as her client like a burning potato.
“We’ve arrived, signorinas.”
Trish leaped out of the vehicle. She had approximately 10 seconds to find the rest and explain the situation before Maria finished paying for the ride and intruded on their privacy.
“Triiiish!” six cacophonous voices cried simultaneously.
“We missed you!” said no.1.
“Stay longer this time, okay?” cried no. 5.
“Hey guys-” she started saying before glancing back at the taxi. She did not want Maria to think she was becoming psychotic.
“They’re already here?” Maria stepped out and looked for said ‘guys’. Trish’s excuse for the comment died on her lips when she was tackled from the side.
“Trish, so good to finally meet again!” She instinctively leaned into Mista’s hug, but schooled her expression before she could embarrass herself.
“You know, Mista, when i said you stinked, i didn’t mean ‘put on enough aftershave to drown an elephant.’”
“You’re impossible to please.”
When the oxygen came back to her brain the horrifying realisation dawned. Is that his revolver? How in the hell am I going to hide that from Maria?
Giorno came up right behind him, much more polite in his ministrations. They kissed on both cheeks.
“You should be thankful you weren’t trapped in a car with those fumes” he remarked, ignoring Mista’s indignant “hey!”
He opened his mouth as if to speak again when his eyes fell on the woman accompanying Trish. “I’m Maria Marmelada, Trish’s agent.” She held out her hand “a pleasure to meet you.”
“Giorno Giovanna,” he followed up without hesitation, “the pleasure is mine. This is Guido Mista,” he gestured, “and this is Pannacotta Fugo.”
Trish barely knew anything about Fugo, but until that moment she couldn’t have imagined him looking like a bunny rabbit. Yet there he was; you could practically hear the triumphant squawk of a ravenous falcon in his expression. She swore he paled when they locked eyes, past even his usual complexion somewhere between snow white and printer paper. Was she supposed to wave to him? Shake his hand? He certainly didn’t make a move to do so, hands occupied with cuddling a bulging black duffel bag.
“Let’s head in, shall we?” said Maria. “Best to be punctual, isn’t it?”
Trish wasn’t sure if she didn’t notice the tension, or chose to ignore it, but either way she was grateful for an excuse to rush inside without a greeting.
~
“A reservation for a signior Giovanna…” the host of ‘Mort de Faim’ checked his guestlist. “Wasn’t your reservation for four?”
“I apologise for the inconvenience. An unexpected guest arrived. Will you be able to squeeze us in?” Giorno’s tone said they definitely will.
As the host was about to show them to the table he turned to Fugo.
“Wouldn’t you like to turn in your bag, mister?”
Trish was previously so focused on how not to completely screw up the introductions she failed to question the suspicious luggage Fugo was carrying.
“We’ll be keeping it.” He sidestepped the host and strode towards their table.
“What was that about?” Trish whispered to Mista.
“It’s Coco Jumbo.”
“Why’d you bring Coco Jumbo to a restaurant?!” she demanded, forgetting her conspiratorial tone.
“What, you didn’t think I'd come to a reunion with four people?” he said with a snicker reserved for such preposterous ideas as teaching pigs to fly. “That’s just asking for trouble. Although I guess you already thought of that. Why didn’t you tell us in advance?”
“she just kind of came on her own! Doesn’t matter, just, she’s not a stand user or anything. She doesn’t know” she scanned the room for eavesdroppers “about what happened. And I want to keep it that way.”
“we’ve got you, Trish. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She wasn’t convinced, but her only move was to sit down and order.
~
On Trish’s left Mista was flagrantly feeding his bullets. It was hard to hear through their chatter, but she was sure he was addressing them out loud. In front of her Fugo was trying to light tablecloth with his gaze alone. To her right Giorno was chatting up Maria, using the word ‘associate’ more in one conversation than most teens manage in seven years. By her legs Coco Jumbo was squirming in his cocoon. She prayed the bag was turtle-proof.
Trish pushed the coq au vin around her plate without taking a bite. Did anyone pay attention to her? They wouldn’t know if she just wasn’t hungry, or stopped eating entirely. In her industry, everyone will let it slide until she dies, and then it would be ‘who could’ve seen that coming?’ She pictured her own premature funeral. Who would come to say goodbye? Maybe if Maria weren’t there she would’ve asked.
It’s not that she didn’t want Maria to meet her friends. She just wanted to be able to speak with them candidly. Most of the things her friends were up to were not the kind you can openly write about in an email.
The placid small talk made her see red. “How is school treating you boys? What do your parents do? Where did you originally meet Trish?”
She couldn’t stand another second of Giorno talking about his “history exams.”
Trish shot up, chair loudly protesting the floor.
“Excuse me while I use the restroom.” she fled without looking any of them in the eye.
~
Trish’s reflection glared at her. She was here to meet her friends. Not the watered down personas they projected to appear more presentable. Spice Girl burst out from inside her, punching the mirror, causing it to sag, distorting its image. If she’d eaten anything, perhaps she would’ve vomited. You’d really think being a model would stop you from hating how you look. She washed her hands despite not having used the toilet.
The door slammed open, almost blasting her off balance. “Ah! This is the ladies’?”
“Fugo.” she said before he had the chance to flee. He stared at her gormlessly, waitful.
“I don’t blame you, you know.” It sounded like a demand of him. He opened and closed his mouth silently.
“Did you turn into a fucking fish, Fugo? Say something!”
“Okay. Me either.” when he said ‘either’ did he mean himself, or Trish?
“What are you even doing here?”
“i was going to take a leak but-”
“Are you being purposefully dense or are you just stupid? Why’d you even agree to meet me?” Her voice was threatening to shatter, but the last thing she would ever do is cry in front of Pannacotta Fugo.
He sighed like a leaf blower. “Truth is I wanted to see you too. I just didn't have any stage two in mind.” He passed every word between them like a kidney stone.
“So what. You three are besties again? Do they trust you now? With their lives?”
“You’ll have to ask them those questions, I'm afraid.”
“Can’t exactly contact Don Giovanna when Giogio’s playing the normal high schooler to my manager.”
“I could take her out. Of the restaurant, that is, I didn't mean, ugh, nevermind.” He made moves to leave.
“Find some excuse to get her out of here. Buy me some alone time with Giogio and Mista.”
“Fine. I'll keep her busy.”
Would he ever oblige without Giorno and Mista threatening to put his head on a stick if he upset her? It didn’t really matter. The question still slithered inside her.
~
After what seemed like a reasonable amount of time to get a woman out of a restaurant she reclaimed her seat with the remaining two.
“I was thinking maybe” the words gushed out before she had a chance to think about them “that maybe it’d be nice if I moved in with you guys. For a while. And I'd be able to see you more often. And then I'll know what you’re up to. And I won't have to wonder if you died between phone calls.” her voice dried up on the final sentence.
“Absolutely not.” Giorno immediately decreed.
“Giogio…” Mista was sending him a pleading puppydog look that did nothing to dissuade his resolve. In that instant Trish saw in him the full might of the Boss of Passione.
“It’s out of the question. We didn’t save you just so you could throw away your life here. Your career is blossoming. Your manager seems lovely. I won’t let you put it all to waste.”
For a breath she could only stare at him. His resolute authority stunning even her obstinate nature.
“I’m grateful. You know I am. But my- he’s dead. It means we get to move on.”
Giorno had a silent exchange with Mista, communication disgustingly effortless. “There are still dangers lurking at every corner. Getting too close would put you on their radar. Particularly as a public figure, now.”
“I’m not as helpless as you think.” She let out Spice Girl, as if to prove her point, but there was no ready stand fodder in their vicinity, so she just floated above them with a listless expression. “I can learn to deal with the danger. Don’t you trust me?”
Giorno’s gaze seemed distant, as if his eyes couldn’t pick up on her. “I can’t let someone like you get entangled in this life. Someone with a place in society.”
“Well, what about you, Giorno?” she leaned in closer. “I don’t know the whole story, but you were the one who asked Buccellati to join weren’t you?” Even now they still flinched slightly at the mention of his name. “I Know for a fact you attended high school before you were Don. what makes you so different, huh?”
“Trish, i think maybe-”
“Shut up Mista. I want Giogio to answer me.”
Giorno sighed deeply and carefully placed his utensils on the table to focus all his attention on her. “What are you getting at, Trish? Are you interested in joining Passione? In working as a gangster?”
“No, I'm not. I like being a singer. It’s just-” She looked every which way, as if one of the other diners would offer the answer to her plight.
“It’s not fair, Giogio.” she knew it was a childish retort yet she said it anyway. “Why does Fugo get to be next to you like that?”
“Trish,” Mista said with a nauseous twinge of pity “Fugo’s fucked in the head. You shouldn’t be jealous of him.”
“I’m not!” she protested, but her words rang hollow. What could she tell them? Say she had no one? Her manager was there for her, wasn’t she? But despite the women's attempts to be parental Maria was just a coworker to her. What kind of ‘having’ was that? Why didn’t they get that?
“How could anyone who wasn’t there ever understand?” was what she settled on.
“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Giorno tried for sympathetic, but his face ended up on ‘detective piecing together clues’.
“How could I explain to any new people that when the news reports about a mysterious death, I wonder if it’s somehow because of me? That when I zone out of a conversation, it’s cause i’m still in that goddamn elevator?” she was shouting at this point, but through the chaos of the restaurant, she was just another voice in the quire.
“You’re still young Trish. You’ll have time to find the ones who’ll get it.”
“It's not like we’ll never meet again. Besides, Giogio just wants to look out for you. ”
She couldn’t meet their eyes.
“That’s not what I'm asking of you.” Her words were drowned out before it reached them. That particular conversation died there.
~
“Bizarre group of young men, your friends.” said Maria on their way back. “That boy, Fugo. Apparently he’s quite the musical prodigy. He suggested you could play together. Would you like that?” So that’s how he got her to lay off them. He never was a genius conversationalist.
~
Trish looked at the sheet music Fugo emailed her for the seventh time, trying to imagine how the changes he made would sound on a real piano. Sharing what she wrote with him had been terrifying. She’d never thought the first person to hear her songs would be Fugo, but stranger turns of events have upstaged her life before. She found him much more bearable when he was stabbing people away in Naples and communicating with her through a computer screen. Neither dared violate the unspoken contract of their interactions. Business only.
I guess you really did rise above. Never thought you’d create something beautiful like that, she mused. It gave her hope they would actually speak next time everyone met face to face. He promised he'd at least play her accompaniment next time she came to visit.