“Hey, did you get my messages? I’m in Toronto,” he added, talking to someone on the phone and closing the door behind him. Now alone with my new soul sister, we started to discuss themes, genres, solo and even duets with other singers’ ideas. Beesly might look like dark, blond Barbie but there is nothing fake about her voice, she has no problem hitting high notes, and Matt Marsh isn’t a novice either; his first solo album was a huge hit in the UK eight years ago. Forming Beesly & Matt just propelled him further in his career.
“Are the stories true?” she asked me out of the blue. Her facial expression had completely changed; she became that serious, cool person.
“I’m not sure. Which one?” I answered back.
“The one about Lucita and her Belinda,” she said with a smile.
“How do you know about that?”
“I was a backup singer before I met Matt. I have my contacts,” she said then she leaned in and whispered, “The stories are good,” before bursting out laughing. “Does Belinda really have all those autographs on her?”
“Yes. She’s almost eighteen year old and has been signed by almost all the musicians I’ve known,” I humbly said.
“Lucita the teenage musician legend, but really one of the Riddell heiresses, occasional singer and amazing dancer. It is sure nice to finally meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, B, but please call me Luce. Only the G Band members call me Lucita. Best musicians in the world those guys. And we should get them for the album and the tour,” I said. It was a brilliant idea.
“So… Did Alex Sanders really –” she started to inquire.
“Yes, ‘I-was-born-to-be-free-and-you-to-be-with-me’ Alex is a sweetheart, but we’re only friends and nothing else,” I confessed. “Would you sign her?”
“I just knew you would be my soul sister. I’ll sign Belinda,” she said giving me a hug.
Back to the present and I’m at my third croissant now; they’re just too good – fresh and buttery but not oily. Papa would have been proud. He was the chef in the family. I read Lloyd’s email again. I’m supposed to meet Lee Mickford, my now assistant producer and a master in sound-mixing editing, tomorrow. I better send him an email now and reschedule for Wednesday morning. After a whole week away from the office for a nice short Miami gateway with Noor, I’m now a bit behind schedule. Not that I’m complaining; I’m going to need all my strengths in the next coming months. As I type, I notice the paper bag from Marcus. What could it be? I open the bag and find a small box. Okay… This is a bit forward, especially from someone who hasn’t called yet. Just open the box Lucia… It’s a charm bracelet with small guitars pendants. That’s adorable. Did I mention Belinda last night? I don’t remember. He will call… Sucker!
With my new accessory nicely placed around my wrist, I go to my bedroom and get Belinda from my walk-in closet. “This one’s for you, Papa. I miss every day,” I murmur, tearing up a little. I sit on the bed and start singing:
When I see my light, she’s shining.
Her smile, her laugh, she’s beaming.
Always wonder in her eyes, a lot of faithfulness I might add.
Once upon a star, my Lucia, I wish for you. Oh oh oh.
This was my Dad’s song from me, “Lucia Upon a Star” by Accaba, his favorite band. I start playing my guitar and keep singing:
But she grew fearless and sometime Rebellious (yes she did).
Her mind always wandering always discovering (never ending).
Her voice always outspoken and her faith always unshaken.
Oh oh, once upon a star, my Lucia, I wish for you.
The mini guitar solo of that song has always been my favorite. I finish the song:
Today she’s mine (all mine). Today she’s mine.
But tomorrow I don’t know.
Her view of life has brought so much sorrow. Yeah yeah yeah.
But she’s free to love (free to love).
Free to laugh (free to laugh).
And I’m sure that once upon a star, my Lucia, I wish for you.
Yes, my Lucia, I wish for you…no-one else…but you.
Marcus - The Verse
“So what brought the great Marcus Grant here?”
Linda Hamilton asks me. She should really consider changing her name; Linda Hamilton has been taken since 1984. I’ve been telling her the same old story for nearly a decade. But I stare back at the attractive red hair wondering the same thing. Why am I here? One of Beesly’s whims or maybe just Matt’s never-ending need of networking.
“Work.” I’m avoiding the question. “What else, Linda? Now, what brings you here? The last time I saw you you were shacking up with that Brazilian actor,Ãron or something.”
Linda grabs a drink from a waiter, finishes it and gives it back. Linda! Linda! Linda! What did you get yourself into now? She once was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Now she just looks like a skinny, angry, bitter woman, a shadow of her former self.
“Please let Avery know that we will be ready for the cake in about fifteen minutes,” she tells the now-frightened waiter. “Well obviously it didn’t work out. Not that it’s any of your business. Ãron or now Patrick – at the end it’s all the same.” She blows her new love interest a kiss and gets another drink from another passing waiter. “I always end up getting screwed.” She gulps her second glass of champagne. “What’s your excuse?”
I take a deep breath before saying that silly name. “The Second Coming, Beesly & Matt album. You know I would rather be in England during spring, but Matt called me to the rescue.”
Linda actually laughs at me. Of all people at this ridiculous charade of a party, where she is once again the “close friend” of the not-quite-divorced-yet host, she’s the one picking on me.
“Beesly announced the title at a press conference last month. The fans ate it up, so we’re keeping it,” I reluctantly say. Why am I justifying myself to her? She hasn’t had a decent acting job in almost five years. If I don’t count her recurring mistresses’ roles.
“Beesly Marsh always gets what she wants and we all know that,” Linda whispers, not laughing anymore. This was one of the reason why I didn’t want to come tonight. A Beesly, Matt and Linda reunion – those never end well. I remember the last one I was involved with last year in Mexico.
They graciously asked us to leave the resort.
Uh-o! She’s observing them. They’re sitting on the couch, Beesly’s snuggling up to Matt and he’s caressing her leg while in a deep conversation with another guest, about business, I’m sure. It’s always business, but Beesly never minds; Linda once did and I think she still does. It’s got to be about her first, which would never work with him
“Did she have more surgery?” Linda asks. “How does Matt put up with that?”
“He doesn’t care, I guess. It’s Beesly,” I tell her. Beesly has completely embraced the Californian lifestyle. “But it’s not that it’s any of your business,” I purposely add.
She was about to say something when the lights of the loft went out. Two waitresses holding an enormous cake started to sing “Happy Birthday” to Patrick, our host, and Linda’s “boyfriend”. She puts her game face on and hurries next to him. This wasn’t the way I wanted to spend my Sunday evening. I’m still jetlagged and need a good night sleep before going back to the studio tomorrow. I take the card out of my pocket again. Lucia’s business card. I’ve been thinking about ringing her all day. I could ask her if she liked my gift. Right, it does sound like rubbish. I pull my phone out but Beesly and Matt are walking toward me. He’s having his “I-have-accomplished-whatever-I-wanted-to-accomplish-here” face.
“I’m so ready to leave,” Beesly announces. She looks at us. “My two favorite British men.” she hugs me and then her husband. But he’s also rewarded with a nice snog. “Marcus, you look adorable, straight out of the GQ magazine. Our limo is downstairs. Are you coming back with us?” she asks me.
“Sure, I really need to catch up on s
ome sleep anyway,” I say.
No goodbye’s necessary; we use the private exit to get to our car. I prefer avoiding a Beesly-Linda’s confrontation. There’s too much bad blood.
In the Limousine, Beesly yawns, “Too bad Lucia couldn’t make it tonight. I would have loved for you to meet her.” She puts her head on her husband’s shoulder. “It was her birthday yesterday,” she adds while closing her eyes.
Matt kisses his wife’s forehead and rolls his eyes at me. “I don’t think Marcus cares, Love. Right, mate?”
“Right,” I murmur back, staring out at the window.
And of course I can’t sleep, being still on London time. I leave my room as quietly as I can, trying not to wake John or Nella up as I pass in front of theirs. John Wilson came to Toronto three years ago to bring one of his successful musicals from the London’s stage to Toronto’s. After its incredible success, he decided to stay and bought this place, a beautiful, three-bedroom penthouse. Too big and maybe a bit too posh for a single man, I’ve always told him. I have a great view of Lake Ontario from my room and have my own en-suite. He converted his library into a recording studio. It’s very well decorated, by a professional, and has enough pictures of family and friends to make you feel at home, but it doesn’t remind anyone of John at all. He’s more pub crawl and Saturday morning football than custom-made suit. That’s more my style. One of the pictures in the living room was taken during our RAM, Royal Academy of Music, days ten years ago when we all met, John, Matt and I. Johnny and Matt were totally shit-faced and I was passed out. Who took that picture?
I casually lay on one of the sofas facing the bay window leading to the patio. This is a magnificent view of the city, very enjoyable with beer even this late in the night. Unlike John’s flat, Lucia Mpobo-Riddell’s one looks like Lucia Mpobo-Riddell. It’s exotic, charming, beautiful and very inviting. Each room has been decorated by its owner, blending both her Central African and British origins. I especially enjoyed the master bedroom and her en-suite, but for more than its quilt made with beautiful African fabrics. She was still trying to fix her hair when I left her the second time on Saturday. Not successfully, I might add, but she looked adorable in her fortune teller costume; adorable enough to dismiss any regrets for completely missing the morning football game.
I check my watch – only 4.00 a.m. – I have an early meeting with Lloyd in six hours to discuss Second Coming’s fate. I landed a week ago today and was immediately put in charge of the album by Matt – taking it away from Lucia; I’m not looking forward to that part of the meeting but at least I’ll get to see her again. Who knows? It might go better than anticipated.
I can still recall my phone conversation with Matt last month.
“Hey, did you get my messages? I’m in Toronto,” I heard him saying. He’d been ringing me for days and I’d been avoided his calls.
“Hi, Matt. I’ve seen and heard them. I don’t think I could be of any help. You know I’ll be working on Mary’s fifth album for the next few months,” I told him.
“But we’re stuck with the ‘Head to Toe’s bird – Lucia something. Beesly’s even calling her her soul sister. Lord knows what songs she’ll be writing and producing for us.” He sounded desperate.
“Noël-Sarrow Records is the best independent label in Canada. They know what they’re doing. Besides, I don’t think they can afford me, son. Not in the way you want or need me,” I said. In truth, I just didn’t want to go. I was supposed to be on holiday, spending time with my family in Manchester before heading to Dublin for my next job.
“But I can,” Matt pleaded. He’s not the quitting type. “Our second album needs to be grand, surprising and full of quality. Not fine, mate, or good, but fucking grand. Grand is Marcus Grant’s territory – Grant the Grand, I reckon.”
We were both silent for a couple of minutes. He did have a point after the incredible success of their first album, Perfect Matrimony, five year ago; they are going to need to come back with something incredible. And of course I’m the best.
“Matt, I can’t, really. Maybe if you postpone the release to next spring instead,” I finally told him. “I have a contract to fulfill. Looks like we both do.”
I then realized that I had never said no to Matt Marsh before. Not when we were in RAM and he had asked me to write his whole first solo album. Not even when he had asked me to be his witness and best man at his secret wedding ceremony in the Fiji Islands with the then-unknown backup singer, Beesly Fiori, while still very publicly dating Linda Hamilton. So, the following week, when Beesly announced the name of their new album was Second Coming during an impromptu press conference, I texted him yes. That’s a terrible name; I can’t believe Lucia actually agreed on that. Obviously my upcoming taking over of the whole project will be more than welcome by Lloyd Sarrow.
My meeting with Lloyd Sarrow didn’t go as well as I had planned and that’s the nicest way I can put it. Since the first time we met a week ago, he has been trying to send me back to London and this morning he finally made his feeling clear. Sitting in his newly renovated office, I could smell the paint from the wall and the black shiny leather from the chairs.
“She’s more than ready for this you know,” Lloyd said, probably referring to Lucia. “I’ve been personally grooming her for the past couple of years and so was Lee Mickford. She has so much talent; we only began to scratch the surface,” he told me without a trace of the smile.
That was nothing like the joyful Lloyd I had been hearing about for weeks before arriving in Toronto. This attitude didn’t even match his appearance, his average height and medium built; apparently, thanks to Lucia, he lost thirty pounds about four years ago. He had an extremely inviting and friendly face, with a face like that he’d be eaten alive in this industry. This made me wonder if Callia Noël was solely responsible for Noël-Sarrow Records’ international success. I had not met her yet.
“You can’t give a novice a job like this one, Lloyd. What if she fucks it up? Does she have any backups? Has she ever worked on pre- and post-production on her own?” I asked him. It was a tough job even for somebody with experience, so I couldn’t even imagine how difficult it would be for an amateur. And where was Lucia anyway? I thought she would have been in that meeting. It was her fate we were discussing after all.
Lloyd sat in his chair and stared at me quietly, and then he picked up his phone. “Kathie, could you ask Callia to come to my office please?”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Something was definitely up. The door opened to a tall, red-headed woman in her early forties, the same one in the large print I was looking at, the one with Lucia, Lloyd and his three children. She looked familiar but I couldn’t place her at first. Then he hit me; this lovely red-head had once been the sexy singer-dancer Charisma less than twenty year ago, the huge pop sensation. And one of my biggest teenage crushes; I almost didn’t recognize her without her famous purple hair. How did I miss that? That couldn’t be a secret.
“So this is the famous Grant the Grand. Nice to finally meet you.” She smiled and shook my hand. Still as pretty as I remembered. My older brother Patrick and I used to have her posters in our bedrooms.
I stood up, even blushed before as I shook her hand back. I couldn’t believe that I was being star-struck. “Charisma… I mean Mrs Sarrow…”
She laughed at me “Oh, looks like I have just been made. That’s precious. Call me Callia, Marcus. I haven’t been called Charisma in ages.” She sat on her husband desk. “I heard Matt called you to the rescue,” she said with a small smile; then with no smile, “What’s up with that?”
“It’s his album; he wants the best and apparently it’s me,” I answered with the best charming smile I could come up with. But they couldn’t let me have this one.
“Correction; it’s Beesly & Matt’s album not Matthew Marshes’. His choice alone doesn’t matter. And I spoke to Beesly this morning. What a surprise; she didn’t ask for you,” she smiled. They were winning and she knew it. Matt
was supposed to have told Beesly that Lucia was out and I was in, but he didn’t. No surprise there.
“He’s the driving force of the band. We all know that.” At least he is the creator, the leader, the one who makes the all decisions.
Lloyd was the next one to speak. “Bottom line: according to their contract, they only have forty percent creativity inputs and it’s twenty for each. But they have no final veto rights.”
“Okay, so what are you proposing? I’m too good of an asset to just dismiss me back to London,” I told them. I was just mad and wanted to be done with it. Pride got me to this place and it should sure get me out.
Callia was the first to speak again. “We can’t completely turn you down. You’re Grant the Grand and Matt wants you here.” She exchanges a knowing look with her husband. “He can be a real asshole when he doesn’t get his way, this one.” She gave me a file and turned to Lloyd. “I worked on it last night. I couldn’t sleep; Doris was a little feverish.” Back to me. “That’s our proposal. You’re more than welcome to stay. Lucia could learn a lot from you. But I know your price and we can’t afford you. We don’t use outsider songwriter producers; we have a whole creative department for that.”
I took the file. I didn’t need to look at it; I knew what it would say. The best way to reduce my fee was to give me a partner and hire me as a consultant only. Meaning Lucia was still in charge and I might be excused from the final recording and editing sessions. Where was she anyways and why couldn’t she fight her own battles? I knew I was being fair; she might not have even known that there was a battle to fight.
“I’ll send it to my people and they will speak to yours,” I said. I couldn’t believe we got to this. And who else to blame but Matt; however, now more than ever, I wanted to show them what I could do. The Second Comings will be Noël-Sarrow Records best album yet. “Why is Lucia not in this meeting?” I asked, standing up as I was leaving.
This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad Page 2