Butterfly of Venus

by Susan F. MacKay

  “Secondary markets can be very lucrative,” responded Elizabeth coolly.

  “You mean you could take any one of my songs and use it to sell tampons?”

  Elizabeth felt a slight blush. “Likely not tampons, Declan.”

  “Or soap powder or flea collars or ketchup?”

  “Well, yes, although we would confer with you before we agreed to anything.”

  “Confer? Meaning that you’d ask me but you could go ahead and do what you wanted anyway?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “That clause comes out. And this one, where you take fifteen percent of any touring merchandise? I want it reduced to twelve point five.”

  Elizabeth had worked hard to devise a contract she felt was fair to both ATM and the artist. She wasn’t used to having it questioned. In fact, plenty of clients signed without even reading it properly. She felt a flicker of irritation towards this arrogant young man who seemed to be wearing the same wrinkled shirt and torn jeans he’d worn to bed. His sneakers looked as if they’d seen better days too. He clearly wasn’t dressing to impress anyone.

  “You have a lot of demands for someone who’s playing in basement bars to a handful of teenage girls.”

  As soon as the words were spoken Elizabeth regretted them. Declan’s perfect mouth hardened into an angry line. He stood up to go.

  “In a basement bar I have control of my own life. And those teenage girls? They’re the ones who’ll download my songs and pay for them. I wouldn’t put either of them down. Thanks for your time, Ms. Harding.”

  Declan walked out. Elizabeth looked at Hunter.

  “What was that all about? Ego?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Maybe. Or integrity.”

  Elizabeth reached for the contract. “Did you get all the basic info? Birthdate etc.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he agree to the medical?”

  “Yep. No problem there. He’s insistent about owning his own songs, though, and collecting a bigger slice of pie. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Thanks, Hunter. You can go now.”

  Elizabeth looked over the contract, filled in with one crucial exception—Declan’s signature. His name was spelled out in full: Declan Julien Christophe Thomas. What a mouthful. Elizabeth glanced at his birthdate. March 28, 1988. The last four digits quickly turned to a calculation in her brain. She was instantly horrified. He was twenty-four. Just twenty-four. Practically a baby. She told herself to calm down. There was no earthly reason his age should matter. His enormous talent was the important thing, and she’d let that talent get away. His age was irrelevant. But the alarming fact that she was technically old enough to be Declan’s mother stung like a paper cut.

  Chapter Three

  The two weeks until Declan Thomas performed again passed slowly. Elizabeth refused to phone him. She found him on Facebook, listed under the band Strings. The band had thousands of friends and comments along the lines of “Wow,” “Awesome” and “I love this band.” There was no doubt Declan Thomas was developing a huge fan base in the city. Her business sense told her she must not lose him. She would not give up on developing his career. If the idlest speculation about what it might be like to kiss Declan Thomas occurred to her, she banished the thought immediately. Sixteen years gaped between them. It was a chasm that could not, must not, be crossed.

  One night Elizabeth took a good look at herself in a magnification mirror. She forced a smile, examining her eyes. Faint crow’s feet radiated from the corners. Next she examined her body in a full-length mirror. She had a couple of dimples of cellulite on her thighs, and her butt seemed to be sagging slightly. She decided she would resume workouts at the gym. Her arms were still good, no sign of flab there. She ran her hands over her breasts, feeling the nipples harden. Yes, her breasts were still firm. She placed a pencil underneath them and was gratified when it fell to the floor. How would her body appeal to a twenty-four-year-old? Aaagh! The question infuriated her. Why on earth was she even contemplating it? A phone call to Effie was in order.

  When she told Effie about the breast test, Effie roared with laughter. “For fuck’s sake, Elizabeth, my two baggy old sacks could hold up a redwood tree.”

  Effie was equally dismissive when Elizabeth brought up her shock over Declan’s age again.

  “I really don’t know why you give a shit, sweetie.”

  “Effie, he’s practically a child.”

  “Not from what I saw.”

  “Sixteen years, Eff. There’s sixteen years between us.”

  “Mmm. Just think how yummy he’d be. You could pop him on toast and have him for breakfast.”

  “I rarely eat breakfast. I don’t even have him as a client yet.”

  “Well, girl, you’d better get working on it.”

  “I’m going to go see him play this Saturday. Wanna come?”

  “Thanks, sweetie, but I got me another date.”

  “The lawyer?

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Wow. Is it getting serious?”

  “It could be, girlfriend.”

  “When do I get to meet this mysterious lover?”

  “In good time. We’re taking it slow.”

  “I’m happy for you, Eff. You deserve someone who’ll rub your feet.”

  Effie was a sensual being who adored massages. She always said she’d marry anyone who gave a good foot rub. “In this case, I’m less concerned about getting my feet rubbed than getting rubbed somewhere else.”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “So what else is up?” asked Effie. “Anything exciting coming up?”

  “I’m off to Paris soon. Another international music conference to consider the industry in the face of new technology.”

  “Ooh, Paris,” said Effie. “My favourite city.”

  Elizabeth loved the city too. “I thought I’d hang around for a couple of days afterwards. Maybe treat myself to a little retail therapy. Plus, I need to pick up a gown for the ATM charity ball. Where better to shop than Paris?”

  “Why don’t you take pretty boy with you?” said Effie. “From what I saw, he could do with a bit of a clothing makeover.”

  “He’s not mine to make over.”

  “Yet,” added Effie. “You can be very persuasive. Go for it. By the way, do you know how to tell the size of a man’s penis?”

  “With a ruler?”

  “Look at his ear.”

  “His ear?”

  “The part that dips down into the earlobe. The deeper the indent, the bigger the dick.”

  “Where do you get this stuff, Effie?”

  “I was a faithful Cosmo reader for years. Helen Gurley Brown, legendary editor and doyenne of all sexual knowledge, said it, so it must be true.”

  “Thanks for that little tidbit.”

  “I’m just saying. Before you commit, check the ear bit.”

  * * *

  A line snaked in front of Reposado, a new tequila bar on Ossington Street. It was emerging as an “in” place to see and be seen. Posters of Declan Thomas and Strings covered its windows.

  Elizabeth asked a young girl at the end of the line what she was lining up for.

  The girl, a little drunk, squinted at her as if she was deranged. “Declan Thomas,” she replied. “He’s so fine.” She slurred confidentially, “I’m going to have his baby.”

  Uh-huh.

  The small club was getting so jammed, Elizabeth knew she might not even get in if she waited in line. She decided to pull rank and pushed to the front of the queue, where she showed her card to the doorman. No name on a guest list this time. After charging her ten dollars, the doorman unhooked a velvet rope and let her in. A couple behind her muttered angrily, but Elizabeth ignored them.

  The dimly lit place was packed, but Elizabeth managed to find a single stool at the bar. She sque
ezed herself in between a very fat young man and an older guy in a suit. The girls behind the bar were dashing madly up and down filling drink orders. It was a full ten minutes before Elizabeth got her blood orange margarita. Its combination of sweet and sour was exquisite. Elizabeth could feel the tequila hit her stomach and release a glow of warmth.

  The band’s instruments were set up at the front of the bar in a very tiny space. Elizabeth wondered how they would fit, but somehow they managed. The band jammed a catchy, upbeat instrumental, then the bass player grabbed the microphone.

  “Here’s the man you’ve all been waiting for. The one, the only, the talented and good-looking—yes, ladies, you know what I’m talking about—Toronto’s own Declan Thomas!”

  The bar erupted as Declan made his way through the crowd. Elizabeth noted the number of female hands that reached out to touch him as he passed. My God, thought Elizabeth, they’re all in love with him.

  Declan’s set was masterful. He sang in an easy, relaxed way, his light tenor voice floating huskily over the crowd. He clearly enjoyed flirting, giving several young girls deeply meaningful looks. He caught sight of Elizabeth sitting at the bar. His black eye had almost completely healed. Once more, even from twenty feet across the room, Elizabeth was enthralled by the intensity of his gaze. He gave the faintest hint of a smile, looking directly at her as he sang, “I hate it when you treat me like a child.” Was it a message for her?

  Finally, the set finished. It took Declan several minutes to push through the crowd to where she was sitting.

  “Ms. Harding. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Let’s go back to Elizabeth, okay?”

  “All right, Elizabeth.”

  As he said her name, he leaned in close so that he was almost whispering in her ear. Elizabeth felt a shiver run through her. She took a deep breath. “I think we have some unfinished business.”

  His piercing blue eyes took on a slightly mocking flicker as he slipped into ghetto-speak. “True nuff, dat.”

  He was flirting again. Was the man capable of conversation without flirting?

  Elizabeth straightened up. Some of the crowd had left, and a table was available by the door. She felt she should take charge. “Let’s sit over there. I’d like to discuss something with you.”

  Declan took her bare arm as she slid from the barstool. The touch of his warm skin against hers made her feel almost faint. She could have kept sliding until she hit the floor. Her knees felt weak as she made her way to the table. Was it the tequila having such an effect, or him?

  Declan pulled out a chair for her, then returned to the bar. He came back with another margarita for her and a beer for himself. He sat opposite her. As she reached into her purse for his contract, she could feel his eyes boring into her.

  “You’ve brought along paper?”

  “The contract you wouldn’t sign.”

  “And now you’re hoping to persuade me?”

  “I’m sorry about what I said.”

  “I think I was a bit of an asshole myself.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Are you implying that I was an asshole?”

  “You’re not used to being turned down, are you, Elizabeth?”

  “Not in business, no.”

  “Nor in any other way, I should imagine.”

  Oh God. More flirting. She felt her mouth dry up. This was excruciating.

  “I’ve made some changes. You retain all the rights to your songs. No commercials unless you agree to them. And as far as the merchandising percentage, I’ll go down to thirteen.”

  “You’ll go down?”

  This was too much. He was toying with her. Making fun of her with innuendo. Two could play this game. She looked him firmly in the eye. “Yes, Declan. I’ll go down. But it happens rarely, and not just for anybody. I’m making an exception for you.”

  He gave her a big grin. “In that case, Elizabeth, where do I sign?”

  He scanned the contract before signing the papers with a flourish. Now he was hers.

  “Congratulations on joining ATM, Declan.”

  “Delighted. We’ll make beautiful music together.”

  “We’ll certainly make money.”

  “Money is good. I noticed that the contract mentioned image consulting. What’s that all about?”

  Declan ran his fingers through his shaggy mop, tucking a strand of hair behind a well-shaped ear. Elizabeth couldn’t help but examine it. The indent of cartilage extending into his earlobe was deep. She had a mad urge to touch it with her finger. Could Effie’s tidbit possibly be true?

  The words were out of Elizabeth’s mouth before she even realized what she was saying. “Paris, Declan. It’s about Paris.”

  His dark eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why Paris?”

  As she spoke, it dawned on Elizabeth she was making perfect sense. “François Renard is one of the hippest young designers in Paris. He’s a good friend of mine. We need to work on your image.”

  Declan laughed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in front of him. “You don’t mess about, do you, Elizabeth?”

  “Not when it comes to business, no.”

  Elizabeth’s heart was racing wildly. Had she just coerced Declan Thomas into accompanying her to Paris?

  “When did you have in mind?” asked Declan, checking the calendar on his iPhone.

  “The fifteenth. I’ve got a conference, so we could work in a consultation with François. All expenses paid, of course.”

  “I’m working that week.”

  “Where?”

  “I fill in sometimes at Malabar’s.”

  “The costume rental place?”

  “Yeah. Helps pay the bills. Then I’ve got a gig at the Rainbow on the fifteenth. Not cancellable, I’m afraid.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t believe her rush of dismay. “What if you flew in on the sixteenth? I’ll get the office to arrange your ticket and hotel.”

  He looked at his calendar again. “Nothing for three days.”

  “Then you’re free?”

  His brilliant blue eyes took on a flirtatious glimmer. “Yes, I’m free. I’d be delighted to meet you in Paris.”

  Elizabeth felt instantly weak. What had she done?

  “Hi, Deck.”

  They looked up. It was “Rock Chick,” the dark-haired beauty who’d kissed him fiercely at the Drake. She had almond-shaped eyes that seemed to attract light, like a cat’s. In fact, there was something feline and feral about her. Elizabeth half-expected to get scratched. The girl was wearing tight jeans that barely covered her pubic bone. A glittering stone pierced her indented navel. It was tattooed on both sides with butterfly wings.

  Declan stood up. “Hi, Natasha.”

  Natasha launched herself at him, draping her arms around his neck. Declan appeared embarrassed, pulling her arms away and turning her towards Elizabeth.

  “Elizabeth, this is a friend of mine, Natasha Khomeini.”

  Natasha shot him a sly look. “More than a friend, I’d say.”

  Declan ignored the remark.

  Natasha extended a limp hand and said, “I’ve been wondering when I’d meet Declan’s mom.”

  Declan’s jaw clenched in anger. “This is Elizabeth Harding, president of ATM. You know, music management.”

  Natasha stood swivelling her hips slowly back and forth. She looked Elizabeth up and down. She didn’t bother apologizing for her error. “So, you gonna make my Decky a big star and take him away from me?”

  “Not now, Natasha,” cut in Declan, with a warning in his voice. “We’re discussing business.”

  Natasha glanced desultorily at a huge watch strapped to her wrist. “Hmmph. Eleven thirty at night. You work long hours, Elizabeth.”

  “That’s none of your business, Natasha,” said Declan firmly.

 
Natasha sucked her index finger before running it down Declan’s cheek. “See you after the second set, Decky.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Expect that’ll be too late for you. Nice meeting ya.”

  Natasha threw Declan a smouldering look, spun around on spiked heels and sauntered casually off to the bar.

  What an extremely rude piece of work, thought Elizabeth, trying to shrug off the cruel reference to her being Declan’s mother.

  “Sorry about that,” said Declan, sitting back down. She could tell he was annoyed. “Fans. You know. Sometimes they get carried away. Goes with the territory.”

  Natasha was clearly more than a fan. Was she the girl who had answered the phone at Declan’s place? Elizabeth felt a brief stab of jealousy. Decky? Stop it, she told herself. Why shouldn’t he have a dumb nickname? Why shouldn’t he have a girlfriend? Why shouldn’t he have a hundred girlfriends?

  It was time for her to go.

  “The office will be in touch. I’ll make arrangements to have your tickets and hotel info sent to you.”

  Declan took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. Did his lips linger for a second longer than necessary? Why was she always thinking that his touch lingered more than required? Was it wishful thinking?

  “See you in Paris.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Elizabeth. She gathered her things and wished him goodnight. Just before she left, she caught sight of Natasha at the bar. Natasha was staring at her with a look that said she’d like to kill her.

  Out of Declan’s presence, the mesmerizing spell he cast was broken. Still, Elizabeth congratulated herself on blurting out the idea of Paris. Effie had planted the seed. It was inspired. François Renard was simply one of the best, hottest, most hip designers in the world. If there was one thing the French had mastered, it was image. Declan was getting a makeover. It was business, but also harmless fun. What could be more pleasant than having an attractive companion in the city of love and light? She’d wanted to see the Rodin Museum for some time. If Declan had any interest, they could go together.

  * * *

  For the next two weeks, Elizabeth’s time and energy were taken up with work. She oversaw scheduling release dates for CDs, and media appearances for various acts. She struck a deal for Franco for a doggy cologne called Killer. She licensed one of Celia’s songs to a series of television ads for an alternative burial company.