I grab my phone to check my voicemail for the first time in a day. I’ve already fielded several calls—from my parents in Maine, as well as my best girlfriend, Kelly, who lives here in New York. I punch in my code—the date I lost my virginity in the backseat of Kyle Sutcliffe’s maroon Chevette in eleventh grade—and reach for a pen and paper, as I drop a Ceylon black tea bag into my mug.
As I wait for the tea to steep, dunking the bag up and down, I steel myself for a mixed assortment of messages. First the well-wishers. My next-door neighbor to the right, my next-door neighbor to the left, my doorman, the Chinese deliveryman (I hate to cook, so we’re on a first-name basis, commiserate over sucky relationships, and even share cold noodles now and then). Then, Haley Mauvais, who owns the guitar shop in my hometown (When would I come back to sign a picture for his wall?); Kyle Sutcliffe (How did he get my number?); Cranberry Morris, my booking agent (Am I free for a special one-night gig at the ultra-cool club The Knitting Factory in late March because they’d be delighted to have me in the Main Space? And can I perform on Late Show with David Letterman this Friday before my gig at Roseland Ballroom that same night? Yes, and Yes!); and Jeremy, who runs my label.
I brace myself for this one. I love Jeremy like crazy, but he’s also been dropping anvil-sized hints that he’s ready for a new album. The trouble is I haven’t written many new songs, and I haven’t quite figured out how to tell him that my muse is taking an extended leave of absence for no good reason. I listen to his message.
I know I saw you just eight hours ago, but I’m so damn proud of you, and we all want you to pop into the office tomorrow to see you in person and celebrate.
Okay, I can do that. Then I hear the rest.
And, you know, talk about what we’re working on next. Because there’s this little thing known as momentum. Hey, that’d be a good name for a song. Maybe you could work on a song called “Momentum.”
I take a deep breath, reassuring myself that I can deliver what Jeremy needs. I want to write a new album, and hell, if there’s anything that can be inspiring, winning a Grammy has to be it. Maybe there’s a kernel of an idea in momentum, after all.
I listen to the others. Jonas again. (Delete.) Then a reporter from Star. I kind of like that magazine. Especially the fashion-police photos. Maybe I’ll call him back. Then In Touch Weekly. Then The Superficial. All these messages from reporters remind me that I need to hire a publicist. I’ve always handled press calls on my own or relied on Owen or Aidan to help. But things happened so quickly with Crushed and then the Grammy nomination. Natalie tracked down a few potential publicists for me last month, but no one panned out.
Then I hear the next message.
“Hi, Jane. It’s Aidan. I just wanted to say congratulations. I was pulling for you all night—we had a Grammy party.”
We. And here’s the other half of we now chiming into my voicemail. “Hi, Jane. It’s Ben. Oh my God, we’re soooo excited for you. We’re soooo happy you won.” Yes, Ben actually speaks in soooos. All his soooos have multiple o’s.
So this is my life. I get to climb the music industry’s biggest peak, but on the top of the mountain here’s what’s awaiting me: another night in an empty bed and a congratulatory message from my ex-husband and his lover, the folksy hipster with the acoustic guitar and full beard he left me for, the man who sang about unrequited love before I came on stage during our little tour of the east coast three years ago. Guess that love wasn’t so unrequited after all.
I met Aidan seven years ago when I was twenty-two and he was twenty-one. I’d just released my first album for the indie label Glass Slipper, and Jeremy sent a couple of his favorite artists on a New England tour that summer where I played at Matt Murphy’s Pub in Boston one night in August. About thirty seconds into my first song, I noticed Aidan. He’s hard to miss. He was gorgeous—movie-star gorgeous. Pinch-me-I’m-dreaming gorgeous. He looked like Chris Pine, with chiseled features, see-inside-my-soul green eyes, and golden-blond hair, slightly wavy. I never thought for a second he’d be interested in me. But I had one advantage and I planned to use it. I was the one onstage, and that’s a time-honored trick that’s worked for male rock stars.
I played six songs and I sang them all to him. The club took a five-minute break in between acts, so I maneuvered my way to the bar where he was getting a refill and chatted him up. We both had a few beers, and one thing led to another. In another time-honored rock-and-roll tradition, I took him back to my hotel room and pounced on him.
The next morning, I told him I’d call him when I was back in town, and he pulled my hand to his face and kissed my palm to say goodbye. In retrospect, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? He kissed my hand. He didn’t kiss my lips. He didn’t run his hands through my long, curly hair. He didn’t trail a tongue across my neck. Nope, he kissed my palm.
Even so, I planned to look him up again. Then I had to. Because there was one big difference between me and all those revered male singers and guitarists and drummers and bassists bedding groupies and fans and hot young things after a gig. I became pregnant that night.
He was a gentleman when I delivered the news, insisting we make it official and become a family. We tied the knot a few months later, and we went on like that, Mr. and Mrs. Aidan Stoker and Jane Black, a history teacher and struggling singer, him moonlighting as a sort-of manager for my career, until that night a year ago when both my husband and the truth of our marriage came out, thanks to the hipster who probably helped my husband figure out he liked dudes.
“And I’m proud of you. I knew you had it in you all along,” Aidan says as the phone message continues playing. “So listen, I’m calling because I wanted to see if you’d be willing to come to a meeting of Gay Men With Straight Wives, that group I still go to. To talk about your experiences when I came out and maybe help some of the other wives who are going through the same thing, because there are women who attend the meetings, too. And a lot of them are really looking for someone who understands their situation and could give them some honest and true support.”
I groan loudly, then delete the message. I don’t want to be the poster child for dumped straight wives. I don’t want the reminders of the ways I’d been fooled, the ways I was stupid. I’m not at all ashamed he’s gay. I’d be just as ashamed if he left me because he was doing it with the nanny or banging his assistant. For the record, he didn’t leave me for Ben, either. They didn’t get together, at least that I know of, until after he left me.
What I am ashamed of is this—being so goddamn blind for so many years. I’m embarrassed that I was so stupid I missed all the signs, all the way to the first night when he kissed my hand. I’m annoyed that I’ve been unwanted for so long.
Untouched, unkissed, undesired for years.
There’s one more voicemail, and it’s from Matthew Harrigan. “Remember that interview I asked for? I hope it’s not too much to request a bit of time with you for a feature article. About your music. Call me on my mobile.”
He leaves the number. I don’t remember ever giving him my cell or Jonas or Star or In Touch. Though evidently all of Manhattan and all my past lives have found it.
But Matthew is the first one who’s getting a call back.
Maybe it’s because of that review. Or perhaps it’s because of his reputation. I’ve read all his reviews since he became the lead critic at Beat three years ago. His taste is impeccable and his track record is virtually 100 percent. Even before he took the reins of the top tastemaker job, he was well known for an uncanny ability to pick indie bands poised to break out. Add the iTunes homepage placement deal to the mix, as well as Spotify and Google Play, and he’s a force of nature in the music business.
He also didn’t ask me about my personal life.
He’s a reminder of what I value most in my public life—a focus on the music, and only the music. I grab a sweatshirt, make my way through the living room, and open the sliding glass door to a tiny balcony that overlooks my quiet block.
Chapter Five
Matthew
I’ll admit I have a big thing for American accents. I blame the hottest Bond Girls—Jill St. John in Diamonds Are Forever, Halle Berry in Die Another Day. They just do it for me. Also, they don’t sound like the women I heard growing up in England, and there’s something hot-as-fuck about that.
I answer my mobile with a hello.
“Hi, Matthew,” Jane says, greeting me in that sexy, smoky voice. Oh right. Her voice is also fuck-hot because she’s a rock star.
“Good to hear from you, Jane.”
“You know, I know you were listening to Johnny Cash,” she says playfully, as I turn down the dial on “Folsom Prison Blues.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. You see, when you turn down the volume after you’ve picked up the phone, the other person can still hear what you were listening to.”
“You don’t say? I had no idea. I suppose next time I’d better be more surreptitious.” I flop down onto my couch.
“You better. You don’t want anyone to know that a music critic might actually have personal preferences. By the way, how did you get my cell? Since it’s private.”
I grin, perhaps wickedly. “The day you called me to say thanks, I took your number off caller ID and saved it.”
“That would do it,” she says with a wry laugh.
“I believe I can speak for most journalists here when I say we’re quite good at harvesting numbers. Between you and me,” I say, as if I’m about to share a tawdry secret. “I have a database of more than six thousand names because I’m completely obsessed with phone numbers. Anytime I snag one, either on my mobile, the office, or home, I record the number in my database. You never know when you might need it.”
“Well, my email is janesecretmail at gmail, in case you want that, too,” she says quickly, and that perks my interest. Perhaps she wants me to shoot her a private message.
I tap my temple. “It’s been recorded.”
“So you’re a big Cash man?”
“You have to love the man in black, don’t you?”
“I thought you didn’t play and tell?”
“Well, this is Johnny Cash we’re talking about. They’d have to take my credentials away if I didn’t listen to him on a daily basis.”
“That I can understand.”
“It’s in the international code, section five, paragraph two of the secret order of rock critics. You can check it out,” I toss back, and even though I could chat all night with her, flirt all night, I get down to business. “In any case, I’m glad you called me back.”
“I should let you know talking to the press isn’t at the top of my list of things to do right now.”
“Jonas has you a bit down, eh?”
“You might say.”
“And now you’re press shy.”
“Well, it was pretty shitty what he did, don’t you think?”
“It was completely shitty. If I were you, I wouldn’t have even returned my call. I’d have deleted it right off the voicemail and then thrown a rotten egg at my window. Simply because all journalists are horrid.”
She laughs, and I’d say I’m doing pretty damn well at scoring chuckles from her.
But then she sighs, adding darkly, “It was like reliving the humiliation all over again.”
My heart stings for her, for the way her personal life was upended in a public forum. “I’m truly sorry for what happened, Jane. For the way your private life is being trotted out in the media. But you shouldn’t retreat from the spotlight right now.” I sit up straighter to make my point.
“You wouldn’t happen to have an ulterior motive for saying that, would you?”
“Of course I have an ulterior motive. I have many ulterior motives,” I say, then I give myself a right slap upside the head. She’s far too easy to flirt with, and I can’t go there. “But seriously,” I return to a crisp reporter tone, and refocus. “This is your moment. You have worked so hard for this. And you deserve it. All of it. I’d hate to see someone in your position back down because of someone like Jonas. You should bask in the limelight right now.”
“Basking sounds heavenly,” she says, a note of longing in her voice.
“So listen. You did call me back,” I point out. “And I have a hunch, I’m only guessing here, but I bet that Jonas left you a message, too.”
“He did, as a matter of fact.”
“And correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect you’ve already deleted his message. You probably even pressed the delete button extra hard on your mobile screen to make sure it went to voicemail oblivion.”
I swear I can hear her smiling. “Fine, I admit it. I did that.”
“And since you didn’t do that to my message, that tells me that you’ll at least hear me out.”
“Fine, make your pitch, Matthew. I am all ears.”
I stand, pace around my small apartment, stopping to pet the soft head of The Doctor as she lounges on the area rug. Shameless one, she rolls to her back and pokes her furry legs in the air. “I’m not Jonas Applebaum. We like to practice journalism at Beat, not ambush. Along those lines, I have a fantastic idea for a follow-up. I’d love to do a feature on you, a sort of what’s next. But more than that. I want to do something where we can explore the creative process. Would you be able to meet in person to perhaps chat a bit more?”
Jane hums, like she’s considering this. “I’m not saying yes, but I want to ask you a question.”
“Have at it. I’m all about equal opportunity. I completely understand why you’d be concerned.”
“I admire your work and you’re obviously good at what you do,” she says, and a burst of pride fills my chest. I work hard at my job, and I’m damn grateful when those I cover notice it. “But I’ve had a bunch of calls for interviews that have nothing to do with the music. Are you only interested in doing this feature on me because of the gay ex-husband revelation?”
I slice a hand through the air for emphasis, even though she can’t see me. “Absolutely not. To make my case, I did ask you before you won—I even predicted you would win—if I could have the first sit-down interview. I already had it in mind that I wanted to do this before Jonas outed your ex.”
“True,” she concedes, perhaps remembering my question in the lobby of the Staples Center.
Fueled by determination, I continue my pitch. “Look, I understand your reticence right now. You’ve had something incredibly personal revealed in a highly public forum. And I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but for what it’s worth, you should simply be yourself. You’ve always been upfront and easy to talk to. You don’t spew a corporate line or anything. You’re just you. So be yourself with reporters and it’ll blow over.”
“It will?”
“Of course. It’s a story of the week kind of thing. It’s no racier than the latest wrinkles in Rihanna’s romantic foibles. Interesting for a bit, then it fades. I mean, it’s not like Bono said he was gay,” I add with a laugh. “And it’s not like you’re gay. I mean, you’re not coming out to Star. Or are you?”
“No!”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Of course not. But personally, I’m a big fan of men.”
“Big fan of women.”
A bark sounds through the air. I turn to the blonde beauty, now raising her snout imperiously from the floor, perhaps irritated that her personal petting session ended. “Shh. Quiet, Doctor.”
“You have a dog named Doctor?”
“Yes. But she’s not currently taking any new patients.”
“Shame, that.”
I flop down next to my girl on the floor, because of course, she deserves all the attention she begs for. I stroke her head as I chat more with Jane. “So you’re not going to be the next Melissa Etheridge or k.d. lang, we’ve established that. And the reality is no one is that interested in him long-term, regardless of whether he’s involved with Ben Hoov
er or a vacuum cleaner salesman. Besides, he’s not the first guy to marry a woman and then realize he likes guys. It happens. If anyone still wants to know how it impacted you, they could just listen to the fucking album.”
This is the longest conversation I’ve had with her and certainly the first that’s been personal. And I hope to bloody hell she says yes.
Chapter Six
Jane
I head inside, wishing the conversation didn’t have to end, but knowing it has to. I’ve enjoyed talking with Matthew. He has an unusual ability to hop from witticism, to social commentary, to a sort of very raw and very honest emotional insight. I like the way he thinks. I like that he’s straightforward. I like that he seems to enjoy chatting with me.
But that’s the problem.
“Tell you what,” I say as I close the sliding glass door behind. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting by the phone.”
I don’t know how I could trust a reporter, so I’m not ready to agree to a story. Especially when that reporter is a bit flirty, and when I’m already entertaining after-hours thoughts about him. I don’t know how to trust anyone, even my own instincts, so I desperately need a barometer. My compass is so far out of whack that I don’t know what’s up or down anymore. I need to borrow my friend Kelly’s.
I text her and let her know that by the power vested in me as her best friend, I’m declaring tomorrow an emergency sushi lunch meeting.
…
“You make me wait now that you’re a superstar?” Kelly pushes back from the chair and stands up to give me, as Ethan would say, a “ginormous” hug.
“I’ve always made you wait,” I say with a smile, because I am punctually challenged. “I had to volunteer at Ethan’s school. Read to the class, library duty, you know.”
The Break-Up Album Page 3