OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

03

03

ABEL MAKKONEN TESFAYE, BETTER known by his stage name The Weeknd, is a Canadian singer, songwriter, rapper, and record producer. Tesfaye has helped broadened R&B's musical palette to incorporate indie and electronic styles; his work has been categorized with the alternative R&B tag.

He's twenty-eight.

  Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight and that strange, melancholic look in his eyes as though he's too numb to feel, and yet, he feels. As though he'd seen too much.

As though he's much older than twenty-eight.

  She stares at his photos for a little longer than necessary. Then, she lets a tinge of excitement run through her like an electric current before shutting her phone off and leaning her neck against the plush black leather seats of her driver's car. She's wearing sunglasses — and overall, she doesn't look like herself.
 
   That was the rule. Undercover.

   She hates it that she has to wear those cat-like sunglasses and that hoodie which makes her look like a thirteen-year-old. But then again, she wouldn't like it if cameras were stuffed into her face whilst she danced to one of his songs. (She hasn't listened to any of them yet. She wants to keep the pleasure of witnessing him alive.) 

  Gigi looks at her from underneath her own round sunglasses and winks. She's also wearing a hoodie and baggy jeans which, to be honest, suit her. Bella's chosen leather.
  
  She's always liked leather. It reminded her of the pretty cars older men drove and the belts they used to tie their mistresses up with.

  So, she's chosen leather and a dark lip which makes her features more alien than angelic. She doesn't have the time to evaluate her makeup — the car comes to an abrupt halt.
 
  "I'll be at your backs," their bodyguard tells them, and then Bella's out of the car and she's feeling the electricity in the air that wasn't there before, and she sees people lining up next to an electrifying entrance to — is that a club? Ah, yes, she remembers.
   Yvonne's told her all about 24/5. It's the club she's never yet been to — in fact, she's never been to a club before, it doesn't really interest her.

  Not in the way that it does tonight.

They're walking into the club in seconds, heads low and heels high. Isabella Hadid knows enough about clubs to realize that if she's ever caught in one like 24/5, her mother's going to go through a lot of awkward interview questions.
 
  Because 24/5 can be evaluated as an elite drug den.

They're in the crowd, and she's content with the place Gigi's chosen for them — in the center, not too close, and yet, she can see the stage well enough, grateful to her height.

There's electricity everywhere. Electric lights and glass walls and — are those servers carrying shots on trays? — black doors and rose hues on neon signs which read basic phrases like I LOST MY TEDDY BEAR CAN I SLEEP WITH U XX or LIFE's A PARTY—

And then, he's walking on stage.

  She's chosen the wrong word. He's not walking. He's staggering. The crowd doesn't go silent, no, the crowd is oblivious to something being wrong tonight — it cheers and whistles and screams fanatically, and he's staring at it with eyes glossed over by the presence of intoxication.
  Gigi's cheering next to her, and Bella can't help but get her breath hitched in her throat — she's always a sucker for white shirts. The Weeknd's skin is illuminated by the icy white collar of his shirt.

"He's even more handsome in real life!" Gigi screams into her ear. "I'm going to die! Oh! My! God!"

  "I think—" Bella says to no one in particular, her words drowning in cheering—"I think he's drunk or something—"

  "Good evening," Abel Tesfaye mutters into the microphone and the crowd goes ballistic. He's wavering around like a crow caught in a storm — all unstable black feathers and ivory beaks.

  And then, the music booms from all places, and, instead of grabbing the microphone and commencing his singing, The Weeknd takes a shaking step back and almost collapses into the shadows — several back up dancers grab onto him before he can hit the stage.
  Someone's rushing out towards the front, they're grabbing the microphone and cussing—"fuck, I mean— everyone, please excuse the artist, I presume he's not—"his words are drowned in screams of excitement and horror and flashes of video-taping go off and everyone's chaotically enthralled by the fact that The Weekend's lost his conscience on stage.

  "I'm sober, I'm fucking sober," Bella can read from Abel's lips as he's screaming at the man who grabbed the microphone.

  "No you're not," the man mouths back. "Fucking fuck, PUT THE PHONES AWAY!" He barks at the crowd. He's mouthing again, and she's pushed around and she's trying to keep her focus on the two men on stage.
But she can't, because next to her, Gigi grabs her by the elbow and pulls her out from the maddening mass of people and into the thankfully empty spacious bathroom.
  She locks the door behind them before their bodyguard can take his position at the door. In fact, Bella's sure their bodyguard lost them way before that. Oops.

  "Okay, what the heck," Bella mutters, panting. Why's she panting? "Did you see?"

  "Poor baby," Gigi's excited, for there's not a note of pity in her voice. "I managed to film the part where he falls— wanna see?"

  "No!" She hisses out. "Did you— he's not just fallen on stage, this club is just one rich drug den, Gi, I really don't like this idea—"

"It's a concert, Bells. And I got those tickets as compensation for a broken heart, remember?" she's smirking. "Come on, let's get out and see what's going on back there."

  "Look, we can go to the cinema or something, this is pointless—"

   Gigi's not listening as she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

  And then, she's getting shoved away and Isabella Hadid comes face to face with a very intoxicated, very angry The Weeknd.