by Becky Wicks
It's probably a good thing we couldn't. Alyssa's devising a TV show called Ghetto Greek Kitchen, whereby she cooks a bunch of Greek food on the streets. It's not exactly all ironed out; it's pretty much a dream she gets more passionate about the more cocktails she drinks. She says not enough people cook Greek food on TV. I've never noticed, personally. 'Someone like Justin could help me, right babe?' she said, pointing at the back of his head. I agreed with her. She's tough to disagree with.
People were throwing themselves on Noah all night, especially Courtney, who's apparently on the same label now. She's draped around him in roughly half the photos with that Great Catsby thing, who was doing the rounds on everyone's laps, milking it just as much as she was. I can see Jayde's slanted eyes in the background of most of the shots, Jack and his girlfriend laughing. I'm still wrapping my head around the insanity of it all some two hours later when I get the call.
'Chloe Campbell?'
'This is Chloe.'
'Hey! I'm calling from Shimmer. Marianne wants to know if you can start on Monday?'
I lunge forward in my chair, almost drop my re-fill on my keyboard. It's the redhead, the stylist, Claudia. 'Hey! What?'
'We interviewed a couple of others when you left, but out of all the applicants we've seen so far, Marianne was most impressed with you. You have the most... varied experience. We think you and Aaron would work well together.'
My heart is beating like a drum. 'Aaron?'
'He's our in-house photographer, you'll be working with him mostly,' she says. 'You would've met him today but he's out on a shoot. So, Monday?'
I struggle to hold the phone in my now-clammy hand. 'Sure. This is great, this is amazing, Claudia, thank you...'
'One more thing,' she chirps. 'Noah Lockton. Marianne's pissed that Teen Vogue got the first interview and his team say he's too booked up to talk to another teen mag for at least a week. We kind of need to get in there while it's hot, you know? While it's really hot! Not that Noah won't be always be hot, if you know what I mean,' she pauses to laugh annoyingly at herself. 'Do you think you can sort something out?'
Suddenly my words are knotting in my mouth before they can come out. Of course. They only want me because I know Noah.
'Chloe?'
Those conniving assholes!
'Are you there?'
'Yes, yes, I’m here!'
'If you don't think you can do it...' she trails off and I can feel the tension lingering on the line. The little bitch, putting me in a corner. And Marianne, I should've known.
But then again, if it's only a hook up they want, a personal phone-call, I'm pretty sure Noah won't really care. He wanted me to get this job anyway, didn't he? For some reason he wants me in New York and the more I think about it, the more I want to be here. Besides, there's no effing way I can go back to Boulder, to Cooper.
'I can do that, sure,' I hear myself replying.
'Oh that's faaaaaabulous! Marianne will be so happy, yay! And we're all really excited to have you joining us Chloe, you're going to love it at Shimmer! It's a really awesome place to work. See you Monday, nine a.m!'
She hangs up and I hold the phone to my ear for longer than I need to. What the hell did I just start?
11
Noah
Once when I was a kid, messing about on mom's piano, dad told me I had stars in my eyes. I remember staring into the bathroom mirror, squinting up close, trying to see them. I couldn't see them and I got annoyed. I actually wanted stars in my eyes. And that's the first time I remember wanting to be different.
'You're different, Lockton, mate,' my new manager Denzel is saying now, drumming his fingers on the desk and leafing through a wad of paperwork I had to take away and sign. 'You're gonna stand out in this business, kid. I can tell. If you don't fuck it up.'
Denzel isn't his real name. His last name is Washington so everyone calls him Denzel, but his real name, ironically, is Peter. He's an English guy in his late-thirties who grew up in Essex. His accent reminds me of Russell Brand's and so does his dress-sense, kind of. I haven't seen him in leather pants yet but he's always got some shirt on that's louder than his voice and his collars are always very pointy. He also uses rhyming slang a lot, which is confusing.
'Now mate, we've had the entertainment attorney check this all out, so we know it's all above board, but there's no negotiation process around this particular contract 'cause... well, as your prize from the show, it comes as it comes, are you OK with that?'
I nod my head. 'I guess so.' In actual fact I have no fucking clue how these things usually work. I've just been trusting Denzel to sort me out; he seems to know what he's doing. Jack looked over the contract too before I signed it and didn't see anything too terrible in there.
'This is a legally binding agreement that requires the artist... that's you, to sign to the label exclusively... that's HotFlush. This means you can't sod off and record for another label without permission. Also, you can't get out of the contract if you're unhappy. Not that you're gonna be unhappy, mate. That's my job, right? Making sure you're Robin Hood.'
He winks as he says this and I guess he means good, rather than a thief in green tights. I notice the thick tuft of hair poking out the back of his collar, spreading all around to the front like he's a bear disguised as a human or something. I like him. I think I like that he's so blunt when so many other people right now are sucking up to me. Just the other morning on Sunrise, the presenters kissed my ass so much I practically came away with lipstick prints on my back pockets.
'Now, you understand that the label is free to sign and promote as many artists as it wants, as well as you? Like Courtney Lentini, for example,' Denzel says, eyeing me over the pen he's now chewing.
'Yes sir,'
'Good.' He points the pen at me. 'Because you're never gonna be top dog, Lockton. The sooner you learn that, mate, the better. Don't get me wrong, you're signed to a three-sixty, meaning the label will do its damn best to push you globally... more than her to start with. You won, after all. It's a multiple rights deal, got it? They'll help you out with marketing, touring and merchandising costs, all that malarkey, but a percentage of everything you do goes back to HotFlush... that's revenue from the album, ticket sales, Noah Lockton dolls with those goggly eyes and big hair, and, I dunno, whatever shit they come up with in your name. Oh, and any books you might write, or movies you might be in. Nothing's fully yours, mate, just know that. All the songs you write from now on will remain the property of the label, too. Even unreleased recordings.'
I balk at this. I don't remember reading that and Jack never said anything either. 'Even my YouTube videos?' I say.
'Not yours,' he replies, looking back at the papers. 'So be careful what you put on there. You won't need to write all your own stuff, anyway. Our publishing arm is pretty strong and I hear the songwriters have got some proper treasures up their sleeves that should help you raise your game!'
This stuns me. I lean forwards over the desk. 'I want to write my own songs,' I say. 'I've got a bunch of...'
'We'll talk about that later. Now, signing this means you've promised to show up for interviews, preferably sober, undertake personal appearances and all other promotional duties, within reason. I'm sure that won't be a problem. Costs incurred in connection with any tours will be covered by the label, like we said, so don't abuse that with all your Brass Flutes in Vegas, blah blah blah...' he thumbs through a few more sheets without even looking up, '...oh, and remember Lockton, you've been given a considerable advance as part of your prize, but that's not always a good thing.'
'Why not?' I ask, thinking of the two million dollars set to be deposited into my pathetic bank account. And tours. He mentioned tours.
Denzel puts the pen back in his mouth. 'Artists are paid royalties based on record sales, as I'm sure you know. So you'll get fifteen percent, which is standard, but your team will have to recoup all the recording costs, the entire advance and fifty percent of all video costs before you see any
royalties. Also, the lawyer and business manger get five percent, and the producer will get a three percent royalty.'
'OK...'
'Great. Oh, you'll also have to share your advance with the taxman, but don't worry about that, mate, we'll keep an eye on all that, and your manager - that would be me - has already sorted himself out with his cut. Twenty percent as it goes.'
'Is there much left?' I ask. Jesus. My head is spinning. How does anyone make money in this business? Denzel can have his twenty percent if it means I don't have to deal with all this.
He smirks, leans back in his swivel seat and puts his white Doc Martins up on the desk. 'At least there aren't any other band members to split the rest with, so that's one good thing. What's yours is yours mate, at the end of the day. Apart from what isn't. Which is most things.'
'Right.' I'm about to ask another question about my own songs for the album (which they're also calling Play Me) and a million more things that are suddenly flying into my head, when Denzel's BlackBerry rings and he fishes it out of his top pocket, waving me away.
'I'll see you tomorrow man,' he says, already holding it to his ear. 'This is all dandy. Go have a great night. Don't talk to any press without talking to me first, OK? And don't stand on any window ledges when you've had too many Britney's, it really upsets the moms and you don't want the teeny-boppers getting told not to buy your records, do you?'
'Britneys?'
'Britney Spears. Beers?'
'Right.' I stand up, salute him, sling my guitar on my back and leave the room. I'm getting a headache.
Denzel's office is on the fifth floor of HotFlush. On the way down in the elevator, I note nine missed calls from Jayde and one from Chloe. When I get outside onto 7th and Charles I'm typing Chloe a text when I feel a hand tapping my shoulder. Faster than I can blink, a guy in a gray flat cap points a camera in my face, snaps it three or four times and goes to sprint off.
What the fuck?!
On instinct I reach out and grab him by the collar of his too-tight, hipster shirt, yanking him back towards me. 'What the hell are you doing?' I yell, knocking his camera from his hand. It falls towards the ground but the strap around his arm stops it hitting at the last second.
He glares at me. 'You could've smashed it to pieces,' he fumes, pulling it back up.
'You could've asked!' I hiss.
Another sound makes me spin. Four more paps are here now, snapping me with my fist now around the guy's arm. I drop it and he runs instantly around the block. Asshole.
I turn from the guys still clicking their cameras, lower my head, pull my hood up. I look back to the building, where the security guy outside is shaking his head at the scene. 'Gets worse every day, doesn't it?' he chuckles as I hurry back towards him. At least three flashes light me up as I go.
'Second thoughts, can you call me a car for Chelsea?' I ask.
Now I know how animals in a zoo feel.
When I get back to the apartment, Chloe's sitting on the couch with her laptop. She shuts the lid when she sees me. 'Hey stranger, Jayde just left for her shift. She was trying to get hold of you.'
Shit. I totally forgot to call her back. Mind you, there aren't enough hours in the day to answer all of Jayde's calls and messages. I rest my guitar against the wall, take off my shoes, walk straight to the fridge and grab a beer.
Chloe walks through in her bare feet. All I can think is that I need a drink, right now.
'Are you OK?' she asks and I realize my heart rate hasn't entirely slowed yet. The adrenaline is still racing through me.
'I think I just did something dumb,' I tell her, slamming the fridge shut.
'Like what?'
I crack the beer open, take a giant swig, shake my head. I walk back through to the couch and fall onto the coolness of the leather. Damn, it feels good. 'Don't worry about it. I'm sure it's probably nothing.' I hope to God it's nothing.
Chloe walks back in, stands in front of me. She's wearing long, thin pajama bottoms, a tank top and no bra. I try not to look at her nipples; the faintest outline through the light blue fabric. Her hipbones are jutting out above the waistline too, level with my eyes. She's definitely skinnier but she looks great; toned from her high-altitude mountain jogs, bronzed from the strong Colorado sun. I fight the urge to grab her tiny waist and pull her towards me. I can't believe she's here.
'Shit,' I say, suddenly remembering. 'How was your interview?'
She's twisting her long brown hair round her finger, biting her lip like she does. 'I got the job.'
I almost spit the beer I've just swigged back out. 'Seriously? They already told you?' I slam the bottle down on the glass table, reach for her hands and pull her down next to me. 'That's amazing, Pan, congrats!' But she's frowning under her bangs.
'I think they only gave it me because of who I know,' she says, reaching for Tinker-Bell.
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I got your call when I was in there.'
'Oh, shit, sorry!'
'No, it's just... they started asking questions. They put me on the spot. I ended up telling them I knew you and I think they found that pretty interesting.'
'Woah. That's...'
'I didn't want to take it because of this, Noah, believe me...'
'Fuck it Pan, you got the job!' I cut in, waving her words away. 'Who cares why? Seriously. You're in there now, you're gonna prove yourself. You're an incredible photographer and that's what matters. Talent always shines, right?' I nudge her with my shoulder and she looks down at our hands, twists the silver band I always wear around my middle finger.
'Are you sure?'
'Course I'm sure!' The truth is, I'm beyond glad she's going to be here in New York, away from that loser, Cooper. I like knowing she's OK. I like us being in the same place. I like it more than I probably should but fuck it.
'They want me to get you to talk to them, too,' she's saying now, shooting me an even more nervous look.
I breathe out heavily through my nose. 'Look, it's not your fault. I'm kinda seeing a different side to this media shit myself lately, trust me.' I sit back against the couch, think back to that fucking asshole shoving his lens in my face on the street. 'We'll do what we need to do to get you started, OK? Don't worry about anything. Now, is it shitty horror time?'
Chloe's shoulders drop like I've taken a load off and a smile lights up her face. 'Hell yeah, I thought you'd never ask. But don't you have some celeb-packed event or promo thing you need to go be a star at?'
I shake my head. 'Not tonight. I'm all yours.'
She bounces on the couch enthusiastically, claps her hands together. 'Well, in that case, I've got Poultrygeist -- Rise of the Deadly Chicken, or GingerDead Man -- Demonic Doughboy 2.'
'Obviously the first,' I say, grinning. I motion to the humongous TV. 'Plug the laptop in, we'll watch it on that!'
Chloe and I have been watching shitty horrors for years; all the worst ones we can find. We judge them out of ten. Her phone rings next to her. 'It's shitty horror time, are you coming?' she says into it and I can tell by the screech at the other end that it's Alyssa.
Alyssa hates horrors, which is why we always invited her back home, and why she never came. One time at school Chloe printed at least fifty photos of Linda Blair in The Exorcist and stuck them in her lockers, in her bag, in her books, even over the wrapper of a cereal bar. You could hear the screams from the yard.
'Let it go, let it gooooo,' she's singing now and I can hear Alyssa shouting that she never will; that horror films should be made illegal and banned.
Just as I stand up and go to sing along I almost trip over a pair of high heels by the couch. Jayde's. I'm instantly pissed again. Jayde's shit is everywhere. She kind of moved in here with me. I didn't stop her so maybe it's my fault; I mean, I'm a wuss with stuff like this. She's been irritating me for a while, if I'm honest. But then, a part of me is thinking I don't know what I'd do if I was single at the same time as Chloe, and maybe it's just best if I never am.
I realize Chloe's not singing anymore. She's looking at me now like she's already watched some horror scene.
'Pan? What's wrong?'
'Noah,' she breathes, holding the phone away from her head and pointing to the MacBook she's been setting up by the TV. 'That dumb thing you said you did. It wasn't assaulting a pap, was it?'
12
Chloe
Noah's phone rings. 'Fuck, it's Denzel,' he says and I watch his broad shoulders tense as he pads into the kitchen on bare feet to take the call. I can almost hear his manager's Cockney accent booming out around the apartment; his voice is so loud.
I turn to the page again on TMZ; the photo of Noah with his hand around some guy's arm. You can't make out the pap's face; his flat cap is pulled low and his head is pointed down, probably to highlight Noah, who they've shown looking really pissed. The headline Lockton loses his cool makes me mad all over again.
Even though people are already leaving comments about how the paparazzi hound people, writing things in his defense like 'how did you expect him to react?' it's obviously not good. One moment's instinctive reaction looks like some irrational, vicious attack on his behalf.
Eventually he pads back in and slumps on the couch with his head in his hands. I put a hand to his muscular back, rest it there and then, purely because my hand feels like a magnet when it's touching him, I rub it through his T-shirt. 'I fucked up,' he tells me.
'They were hassling you!'
'I shouldn't have grabbed him. Denzel's pissed. It's ruined my image.'
I almost snort at his words but I hold back. 'Noah, the guy had a camera in your face! You did what anyone would do, people are going to see that. These sites always blow things out of proportion.'
He sighs again, rubs his eyes and my heart breaks. His usually bright eyes are dark and tired and I suddenly realize everything around him is crazy. He's like the calm in the centre of a huge storm right now.