by Lisa Lace
I sit in front of the mirror at Jane’s rustic vanity table to put on my makeup. I apply foundation and smooth it in until my skin looks flawless then apply a light pink blush that looks completely natural. It makes my cheekbones look high and very soft and feminine beneath the edges of my mask. The lipstick I chose is also soft, a pastel orange-pink. As always, I let my hair fall loose, apart from the portion I clip up.
I used to describe my look as forest-nymph-meets-sixties. I like to feel as if I’m floating in my dresses. I like it when the breeze picks up the edges of my clothes and makes them dance around me.
The floor-length dress I’m wearing, however, is skintight and restrictive. When I look in the mirror, I look like a movie star, but I don’t feel like Ivy Evans. I’m missing something a bit hippie-ish, maybe a flower in my hair. But there’s no time for anything like that now. The limousine Lucas sent for us is honking its horn on the street outside.
We cast each other wide-eyed glances and exchange excited grins. Then we grab our guitars and head out into the hall. We scurry down the apartment stairs to the street outside. Passersby are stopping to look. Nobody from Skid Row could afford a trip in a car like that. They’re staring at us like they’re trying to figure out whether we’re celebrities.
When I glance over at Jane, I can see her beaming from ear to ear, soaking up all the attention with glee. To be honest, I feel pretty gleeful myself. People are watching, and it feels good. For years and years we’ve played to dead crowds and uninterested pedestrians out on the streets. With just a change of clothes and the right ride, people are looking at us like we’re somebody.
I struggle to keep on the silver velour wrap that goes with my dress. I know it’s supposed to go around my back and hang from my inner elbows gracefully, but it keeps trying to wriggle away like a snake. My clutch purse and mask take up one hand, and I’ve got my guitar in the other. I have no hands left to pick up the hem of my gown. I trip into the limousine and am relieved when I’m sitting and we’re traveling at last.
“Lucas said there would be all kinds of people there,” Jane says, pressing different buttons in the limousine to figure out what they do. “This is our night. I can feel it in my bones. This is our big break. For sure.”
Sitting back against the soft leather on the way to an exclusive party, I relax a little. I even allow myself to smile. “It would be incredible to think so, wouldn’t it? Just imagine, The Row Girls making it big. Touring, doing interviews, hearing our own songs on the radio…” Shivers run down my spine. “My head starts to spin if I even think about it.”
“We’re so close,” Jane predicts. “Tonight is the night.”
We pull up outside Boulevard3 to find the place swarming with guests. Limousines and luxury cars line both sides of the street outside the club. Red carpets have been laid down leading to the building. I step out of the limousine straight onto the plush crimson. I feel the softness of it beneath my heel. Feels like stardom.
The front of the club is lit up with bright spotlights. It reminds me of the Oscars. As I move away from the limo, I can even see reporters buzzing around. My heart flutters in my chest with anticipation. It’s clear Lucas wasn’t just talking the talk—this is real.
Jane grips my arm as she meets me outside, staring around in wonder. “Oh my God. This is like a dream.”
I squeeze her hand, my own eyes wide. “Heaven.”
Just as we’re about to head in, a uniformed club employee comes for our guitars, promising to have them brought to us once we’re inside.
We walk down the red carpet together. Everyone around us is masked, so we quickly cover our faces. There’s something comforting about having that mask in place. The anonymity means I could be a nobody or a star. No one can tell. I find myself walking with my head held high and my stride confident. My hair bounces up and down against my shoulders. I purposefully turn my head so it swings behind me in a wave of curls. I feel like a million bucks.
Inside, it’s even more incredible. The main hall is split over two stories. People can wander around on the balcony above and look down on the guests below. The ground floor has been left open for dancing, with a series of bars and gourmet buffet tables set around the edges. Round white tables surrounded by leather chairs are arranged on the balcony for those who wish to drink and overlook the party. At the front of the ground floor is the stage. My mouth dries up and my throat squeezes close when I imagine us up there later, in front of all these watchful strangers’ eyes.
Tonight is the night.
Lucas
I can hear the music playing from the back dressing room where I’m getting ready. I’ve been here since the early morning, making sure everything runs perfectly. In the main hall, the DJ is warming up the crowd until the acts begin. I feel a tingle of anticipation. Tonight’s event is going to be huge, and I’ve organized it all. Platinum-selling artists to acts who’ve only just stepped into the spotlight will be playing at my showcase.
More than anything, I’m eager to see Ivy. I know when she sings, heads are going to turn. I can’t wait to take credit for finding her.
Shame about Jane.
I push the thought of Ivy’s not-so-talented partner to the back of my mind. This event is going to be sensational.
I turn away from the mirror as I wrestle my cuff links into place. I’m determined to win The Row Girls for the label tonight, but I’m not so sure it’s going to be as easy as usual. For some reason—something to do with my father—Ivy doesn’t trust me. I need to find out what that’s all about.
Speak of the devil! My father walks into the room. He’s a man from another era, dressed like the Godfather in a black suit and bow tie. His silver hair is slicked back. His expression is completely unreadable. He moves over to the mirror, where he straightens his tie and pats down his hair.
“The place is packed. I hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew. You’ve lured a lot of big names to this thing.”
I look at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s kind of the point.”
“You’re in the big leagues now, Lucas.”
“I thought I already was. I’ve been working for the label since I was eighteen.”
“Hanging on to my coattails,” my father says. He stands in front of the mirror, preening with obnoxious self-satisfaction. His lips curl into a pleased smile at the sight of his own reflection. He spins on his heel to face me. “This time it’s different. You’re doing something under your own steam.”
“I won’t have anyone saying I don’t have any abilities of my own.”
“If you pull this off, you might finally earn the respect of some important people.”
Life as Harvey Fox’s son has never been easy. He’s been a beacon of success lighting up Hollywood. Starving artists have fallen at his feet everywhere he’s gone for as long as I can remember. He’s larger than life. In the eyes of desperate artists looking for their big break, he’s God. The ego that kind of adulation has given him certainly carried over into his parenting style. I don’t think I’ve ever lived up to his expectations. He’s made it clear he doesn’t think I’ll ever be able to fill his shoes.
“Talking of respect,” I say, “I’ve heard some rumors about you recently.”
My father turns to look at me with an arched eyebrow, like a Bond villain. “Rumors?”
“About you and someone named Gregory Evans.”
My father laughs. It’s a dismissive bark like he’s remembering something insignificant and kind of funny. “Oh, him.”
“I heard you used to work together.”
“That would be a bit of a stretch. We threw ideas around together once.”
“Really? I heard you were business partners.”
My father narrows his eyes at me. “You’ve been hearing a lot, son. Who have you been talking to?”
“It doesn’t matter. It just got me wondering if there was any truth to it.”
He stares at me for a second, probably hoping I’ll
let it go. When I hold his gaze, he finally responds.
“We started a label together once, long before Fox Records.”
“What happened?”
“Greg was a chump. He was lazy as hell, a drunk, and burned through our initial investment like wildfire. He was driving the company into the ground through his negligence and bad decisions. I made the call to rescue what I could and started Fox Records.”
“What happened to him?”
My father shrugs. “How should I know? He probably went bust. He didn’t have it in him to work in the business. He treated the label like a charity. He couldn’t tell it like it was. He was too nice.”
I frown. Over the years, I’ve learned my father’s version of events is usually somewhere halfway between the truth and complete bullshit. Like when he tried to explain away my mom’s decision to walk out as a woman’s “hysteria” and not the result of his many, many affairs.
“You’re sure that’s all there was to it?”
He snaps, “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Lucas. What does it matter anyway? It was years ago. All you need to know is if I hadn’t made the decision I did, you wouldn’t have grown up with that silver spoon in your mouth. All those expensive vacations and nice cars? None of it would have happened without me making the choices I made. If you enjoy the lifestyle you’ve got, why do you care about how you got it?”
Stepping over to me, he puts his arm around my shoulders like we’re best friends. It makes me uneasy because my father never shows affection. I’ve seen him use the same move on clients he’s trying to schmooze, seconds before he switches tactics and bulldozes them into submission.
“Forget all that stuff anyway. Tonight’s your big night. You’d better get down there, champ.”
Champ.
I hold my tongue, sucking on my teeth to bite back any more questions. I clear my throat, straighten the lapels of my black suit, and nod. “You’re right. I’ll see you at the party.”
“If I don’t find a reason to slip away…if you know what I mean.” He winks. “There are going to be some pretty little things dancing around tonight.”
I force a smile, even though I’ve never particularly enjoyed my father’s slightly sleazy sense of humor. “If I don’t see you, we’ll catch up soon.”
“Enjoy it, son. You’re on your way.”
I leave the dressing room and step out onto the balcony. All my guests are enjoying the party. The tables on the balcony are taken up with stars, producers, talent scouts, and other big names from the industry. When I look over the railing, I see the dance floor is heaving with bodies. They’re all wearing masks. It’s an enchanting view. The sight is almost magical. I feel like I’ve stepped into some fantasy kingdom. Everybody is dressed spectacularly—the men in black suits and bow ties and the women in magnificent ball gowns.
The air is filled with the sound of music, talk, and laughter. The whole place feels alive. There’s a palpable energy and anticipation. I wonder if people are giving away their identities or reveling in the opportunity to be anybody they want for just one night.
As I look down, the emcee introduces the first act—a chart-topping male artist I discovered last year. The murmur of talk grows louder as people raise their voices to continue their conversation over the background music.
Some guests I can recognize despite their masks. There’s Helen Rosado, the eccentric radio producer who promoted one of the first artists I signed. I’d recognize her anywhere by her blue-rinse Afro perm. I can also see Benjamin Teller, the legendary music critic. He’s easy to spot by the notepad and pen forever in his hands.
Continuing to scan the crowd, there’s only one person I want to see. I look around for two women circling the room together, but my eyes can’t pick them out in the heavy throng of guests. I descend to the ground floor to continue my search, rubbing shoulders with every big name in the industry as I wander around.
My search ends when The Row Girls are announced onstage. I come to a complete stop where I am and turn to face the stage as the girls take their places in front of their audience.
Nobody really pays attention as the first few notes are played or when Jane starts to sing. However, as soon as Ivy opens her mouth, eyebrows raise and heads turn. As I’d predicted, everybody wants to know who the girl is behind the mask. I can hear them whispering, trying to figure out her identity.
“That girl with the butterfly mask,” one guest whispers, “is that Cheryl Bennet? You know, that British singer who won all the awards?”
“No, no,” her companion replies. “I’m pretty sure it’s Lola Rayne.”
“I’m positive I’d recognize Lola Rayne’s voice. She’s been all over the radio for weeks. No, this is someone else. Better, I’d say.”
Her companion nods. “You’re right. She is better.”
I bristle with glee. Ivy is my brand new discovery, my diamond in the rough, my ace up the sleeve. When the time comes, I’ll be able to unveil her to the public and maybe my father will even give me a pat on the back for finding someone so extraordinary.
You’re in the big leagues now.
I stroll around the room as the girls play, enjoying the buzz they’re creating. They’re the highlight of the evening. The best of the undiscovereds, the clear stars of the show.
I can’t get to them straightaway once they finish their set. They’re flooded by praise and people trying to figure out who they are. I smile, watching Jane and Ivy run out of the small stacks of business cards in their purses within moments.
This is only the beginning.
After thirty minutes or so, I’m finally able to push my way toward the girls. I have to raise my voice over the sound of the next band to be heard.
“You were wonderful!”
“Sorry?”
“You were wonderful!”
Even beneath their masks, I can see both girls frowning as they strain to hear me. Jane taps Ivy on the shoulder and motions that she’s going to get a drink. That leaves me alone with Ivy.
“How did it feel to be onstage?”
“Pardon?”
I raise my voice. “How did it feel to be on the stage?”
Ivy beams. “Words can’t describe.”
“Everyone wants to know who you are.”
She holds out her hand. “I’m Ivy Evans.”
It’s at that moment I realize Ivy has no idea who she’s talking to. Between my mask—a full-face white mask with silver embellishments—and raising my voice to be heard, Ivy hasn’t recognized me.
I take her hand and shake it. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And yours?”
She can’t see me smiling beneath my mask. “You know, I’d rather stay anonymous. My reputation tends to precede me.”
Ivy laughs. “Ooh. What kind of reputation?”
I wrap my arm around her waist to pull her closer under the pretense of trying to speak directly into her ear. Really, I just want to be closer to her. She looks a vision in that clinging silver dress, and her eyes are a marvel gazing out from behind her mask. She’s a mystery wrapped in crystals.
As soon as I’m near her, thoughts of making her into a star fall out my head. I just want to get to know a beautiful and enchanting woman.
“They say I’m irresistible.”
“Do they?” She smiles, entertained.
“I’m trying to find out if it’s my devilish good looks or my charming personality. The mask will help me figure it out.”
“Isn’t there a chance it could be both?”
“Every chance. I am rugged and delightful.”
Ivy tilts her head back to laugh. “No lack of confidence, either. You know, I thought I was going to pass out on that stage. I was so scared.”
“You don’t need to be. You’ve got the voice of an angel.”
“You’re kind.”
“I’m right. Trust me, I’ve been in the industry long enough to know what talent sounds like. You’re going to go far in this
business.”
A waitress in a skintight blue leotard, long peacock tail, and a turquoise, green, and purple jeweled mask walks past with a round tray of champagne balanced on one hand out in front of her. I pluck two glasses from her and hand one to Ivy. I know I have a rare opportunity to find out who she really is while her guard is down and my disguise is working. I want to get to know her. She intrigues me.
“Now your work is done, you can relax. It’s a party, after all.”
Ivy
The stranger is right. Work is over, and I can enjoy this star-studded phenomenon of an evening. I feel like Belle in the Beast’s castle when everything transforms right at the end. There’s magic in the air tonight. I think it’s the mix of wonder at the status of the people surrounding me and awe at the beauty of all the masks and gorgeous clothes.
Even behind the masks, I recognize famous faces. Evie Pix even told me how much she enjoyed our music. Evie Pix! She’s one of the biggest stars in America right now. I knew it was her because of her trademark platform stilettos and the tattoo of cherries on her inner left forearm.
I turn to the stranger beside me. “There are some incredible artists here tonight.”
“You recognize them?”
“Some, like Evie Pix. Looking around at the people here tonight lets you know there’s no question that fame is branded. I wonder what would come to mind when people thought of me if I ever made it big.”
“Not if, when,” the stranger says.
He places his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the crowd, away from the front of the stage, where people are starting to gather in an uncomfortable horde. I tingle at the small contact. I don’t know what he looks like, but the stranger’s assurance and charisma is magnetic. What’s more, he’s picked me out from everyone in the crowd and hasn’t taken his eyes off me since. I’m Cinderella.
“When you’re famous,” he continues, “I think people will recognize your magnificent hair and sensational eyes.”
“Magnificent and sensational,” I repeat, chuckling. “You’re very generous with your adjectives. Is there a thesaurus beneath that mask?”