by R. E. Blake
Chapter 8
I call Ruby the next morning and give her my new number, and leave a message at the boarding house for ‘Delek,’ hoping he’ll call. Ruby and I agree to meet downstairs, and as a final move, I call the management companies and make appointments for that afternoon with all three, an hour each.
Breakfast is a blueberry muffin and a cup of Starbucks, and I barely make it back in time to meet Ruby, who looks nothing like she sounds – she’s five feet tall in heels, wears a size zero, and is maybe thirty. I was expecting someone like June, and I’m reminded as I say hello how Sebastian reacted when he saw me, and understand how he must have felt.
I follow her to her Lexus sedan, and we drive to Melrose, where she seems to know most of the trendy shops. Within an hour we’re new best friends, and she’s telling me insider gossip about everyone I’m going to be seated with tonight.
“Tell me about Saul. He seems kind of scary on the phone,” I say, a little anxious about meeting my new boss at the awards ceremony.
“He’s a big teddy bear, unless you cross him. But he’s fair, if kind of gruff. He loves your act, though, so that’s a big plus. You’re all he’s been talking about lately. That’s a good sign.”
“Really?”
Ruby nods. “You want him on your side, Sage. He can make magic happen.”
She tells me all about what to expect at the dinner, and by the time she’s finished, I’m way more relaxed about it. Sounds like a few minutes on the carpet so the photographers can take pictures, and then two hours of dinner and show, maybe three.
“You’ll get used to these, Sage. In this town there’s usually one every week for something – a charity, an event, a magazine, an award. Which means a lot more shopping. You don’t want to wear the same thing twice. Which reminds me – I’ll hook you up with a friend of mine who does virtual personal assistant work.”
“I don’t need an assistant,” I say. The idea is absurd.
“You will. Just keeping track of your schedule will get overwhelming. You’ll see. And she knows all the designers, so she can get you outfits on loan for the publicity value of being seen in them. Best of all, she works cheap. I’ll see if I can talk Saul into putting her on the payroll for you for maybe ten hours a week.”
“That would be great.” I ask her about the management companies, and she frowns when she hears the first name. “They’re kind of scumbags. They’ll promise the world, but once you’re under contract, they’re late on everything. You can do better.” She’s more upbeat about the second and third. “Both quality outfits. I’d be happy with either one. It depends on how you hit it off with the person who’ll be your interface. You’re buying the person, not the company, at that point. They can both do the same things, and they’re both as good as they get. Tough choice.”
“But they’ll all take the same cut?”
“Yes. The irony is that if you are a breakout hit, there’s so much money coming in from so many different fronts it will seem like a fortune – but remember that everyone takes a bite. Your booking agent, your manager, the record company. What you’ll be left with can be either a lot or very little, depending on how you negotiate your deal. Either of the two companies we’re talking about are up on all the industry norms, so they’ll make sure you don’t get screwed, which happens a lot with new artists.” Ruby pauses. “There’s nothing to negotiate with Saul – the prize is a recording contract with the standard terms. But even in a non-negotiable deal, there’s wiggle room in the details, and frankly, these days you’ll make a lot more off live tours and merchandising than you will off your music, so think of the recording and videos as an expense to sell concert tickets and T-shirts, not as a big income source.”
I don’t understand much of what she just said, and I realize how unprepared I am for the steps I’m taking. But it’s too late now, and I’m committed.
“The management company will know all that, right?”
Ruby nods. “They will. That’s why it’s important to get a great one. They’ll want you to make money so they make money.”
“What about Sebastian? His cut, and the recording? And the videos?”
“That all comes out of your royalties, paid back as you earn income. Saul advances the money to pay for everything, and you pay him back out of your slice of the profits. Sebastian gets a piece of his own for being the producer, so you don’t have to worry about him. He’d normally get a big chunk of front money, too, but he waived it to work with you.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And frankly, you should be honored. There’s nobody hotter than Sebastian right now. He literally has his pick of artists lining up to work with him.”
“Wow.”
Ruby indicates a store with caricatures of a devil and an angel on the sign over the door. “Don’t worry too much, Sage. If you go big, which everyone’s betting you will, there’ll be more than enough to go around. If not, none of this will matter. Either way, there’s no point in sweating it. Let others do that for you. Right now your job is to look and sound awesome, which you do. The rest of it is bean counting and behind-the-scenes stuff.” She opens the door and holds it for me. “Which brings me to the looking awesome part. This is one of my favorite stores. Let’s see if we can find you some leather pants.”
“What about shoes?”
“With your figure you don’t need heels. I’d say stick with the Chucks. They’re informal enough so that you don’t look like you’re trying too hard.”
“Really? I’ve had these kind of forever.”
“Your call, but that’s what I’d do.”
We find some black leather pants that are butter soft and way too tight for my liking, but Ruby and the salesgirl think they’re the bomb. I almost choke when I see the price, but Ruby doesn’t seem concerned, and I grudgingly pay, watching my fat wad shrink as I rack up purchases. If I’d known a pair of pants would cost as much as my tablet, I would have only gotten the phone and found an Internet café instead, but it’s too late now. I swallow back the bile that’s rising in my throat and smile.
“What’s next?”
“How much time do you have?”
I look at my phone. “Two hours before the first meeting.”
“We need a top for you – something sparkly in either silver or gold, I think. And then maybe a quick hair and makeup session. We can grab lunch on the run.”
The next shop has a top Ruby’s in love with. Like the pants, it reveals too much of my figure for my taste, but Ruby reminds me that I’m now selling myself, and a little cleavage and skin never hurts. I peel off another hundred with a grimace. At this rate I’ll be back to singing on the street by the weekend.
The hair salon’s everything I expect for the area. The stylists all look like they stepped out of the French edition of Vogue, and the attitude is thick as smoke. Ruby knows the owner, a talkative lady named Sue, who dyes the tips of my hair hot pink after giving me a trim and touches up my blondish roots with black. I inspect the finished result an hour and a half later and smile. I’m starting to look a little like a rock star, I think, what with the makeup and hair.
I don’t spend the entire hour with the first company. The guy I meet with is young and pushy, and I get a bad vibe about him, like he thinks he’s way smarter than I am and is talking down to me.
The second company is better, but it’s another twenty-something guy and a woman about Ruby’s age, and it feels a little like they’re tag teaming me by the time we’re done.
At the third company I meet with a frazzled woman in her forties who’s no-nonsense and blunt. Her name’s Terry, and she’s got a voice like a buzz saw that sounds like it’s been seasoned by cigarettes and liquor. I immediately like her.
“They’re all going to try to screw you, Sage. Everyone. It’s how the business works. More for them has to come from less for you. My job is to keep them from doing it, or at least to minimize the damage. I’ve been at this for twenty-five years, and I know every
dirty trick in the book and then some.”
She doesn’t do what the other two companies did. Doesn’t try to sell me on how they’ll improve my experience, the breadth of their reach, their network of contacts. Terry’s more like a bare-knuckle brawler who’s got the scars to prove it.
“The label says the deal is non-negotiable,” I say, parroting Ruby. Terry nods and laughs humorlessly.
“I’ll bet. If we decide to work together, I’ll call Saul and get a copy and look it over. You’re going to get reamed by them no matter what, but no point making it easy. On merchandising, I wouldn’t take the deal if they want that. I can get you a better deal in a heartbeat, and that’s your livelihood. Hopefully they didn’t stick in a clause for that, because remember one thing about all of this: you don’t have to sign anything. It was the prize, but that doesn’t mean you have to accept it.”
“Really?”
“I know more lawyers than a bail bondsman. Trust me. If it’s too ugly, I’ll get you out of it. No point in you hating me a year from now once you know the ropes because I didn’t do the right thing. But hopefully Saul’s playing square on this one. He’s got a good rep, so that’s in your favor. But merchandising is yours, not his – it has nothing to do with recording an album, it has to do with using your image and name to sell stuff. And you own your name and image, nobody else does. Understand?”
I nod. The way she just explained it was way easier to grasp than the other two companies, who sort of glossed over everything.
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “When do you turn eighteen?”
“Three more months.” No, that’s not right. Two more months. Time’s flown by. I correct myself. “Two. New Year’s Day.”
“You have a parent or guardian to sign stuff for you in the meantime?”
“My dad.”
“Okay. Think about what we’ve discussed. Here’s my personal cell number if you have any questions. I’m one of the owners of the company, not some flunky, so you need something done, you call me. If you decide to go with us, I’ll need both you and your dad to sign our agreement, and then I can touch base with Saul.”
“I’m supposed to start in on preproduction tomorrow. Should I do that without a contract?”
“Ideally, no, because if we walk, they’ll sue you. But they’ll probably sue you anyway, so I’d say, why not? Like I said, I know Saul, so if he’s trying to pull any fast ones, I’ll call him on it. And I’ll have our attorney look everything over, of course.”
She walks me through the terms of the management agreement and the fees, and when we shake hands, I’m confident I’ve met my manager. I debate telling her, but it’s probably better to wait a few hours so it appears I’ve given it a lot of thought.
We shake hands, and when I return to the lobby, Ruby’s texting away on her phone. She looks up at me and smiles. “All done?”
“Yup.”
“Come on, then. I’ll drop you off at your building. You must be excited. The show’s in two hours. Steve will pick you up. You look fantastic, Sage. Just remember to breathe, and that everyone there uses the bathroom exactly the same way you do.”
“Hopefully not the guys.”
She asks about the companies on the way home, and I tell her I’m going to go with Terry. She nods. “I thought you might like her style. She’s a straight shooter. No frills. You’ll do well together.”
“I really want to thank you for today.”
“No need. I get paid to do this. It’s the best job in the world, except maybe for playing with baby penguins.”
“They pay you to do that?”
“Not enough or I’d be at the zoo right now.”
Once I’m back in the apartment, I resist the impulse to wipe the makeup off and instead slip on my new clothes. I feel like a complete fake, but when I see myself in the mirror I still look like me, only a little more glam. Hopefully nobody else will know how I feel inside. From what I’ve seen so far, the town runs on appearances, so maybe I’ll be able to pull it off if I look the part.
I spend the final half hour before Steve arrives with the chocolate basket, texting Melody and Jeremy selfies, watching Derek’s clips on YouTube, and wishing – in vain – that he’d call.
Chapter 9
The drive to the theater takes ages, and I busy myself in the car with a phone call to Terry to accept her offer and sign her on. She says she’ll email a copy of her agreement to my dad, and I’m embarrassed when I have to tell her I’ll get back to her with his address – I’m not sure he even has email.
I call him, and he’s still at work. Sure enough, he doesn’t have one, so I tell him I’ll set up an account for him when I get home and give him the password. Which is fine, but he also doesn’t have a computer. He’s relieved when I tell him that any office superstore has rental computers to access the Internet, and promises to go tomorrow during his lunch break.
“But if it’s on the computer, how do I sign it and get it back to you?” he asks. I explain he has to print it, have someone scan it, and then return it by email, mailing the original to Terry, and he seems to understand after several of my less-than-patient tries.
“Call me if you have any problems, and I’ll walk you through it,” I offer, doing my celebrity version of blind leading the blind. I remember what Ruby said about getting an assistant, and suddenly understand how this kind of thing could become a total time suck, especially if I’m in the studio all day.
“Okay, Sage.” I hear someone yelling his name in the background, and when he returns his attention to me, he sounds harried. “Gotta go. Talk soon.”
Nothing Ruby told me prepared me for the size of the crowd waiting to get a look at their favorite stars. Steve pulls into a long line of limos, and I fidget with the little gold clutch purse we picked out to go with the top, inside of which is some lip gloss, my phone, and half my remaining cash. “Are these events usually like this?” I ask anxiously. I don’t get nervous if I’m going to be singing, but the thought of having to talk to a roomful of strangers scares the crap out of me.
I remember Ruby’s comment about everyone’s bathroom habits being the same and take measured, deep breaths, forcing my heart rate down. We start and stop, start and stop, until we’re at the head of the line, where a tuxedo-clad attendant opens my door. I step out and an announcer trumpets my name to the crowd, and a cheer goes up.
Some female voices scream, “Sage!”, and then another guy in a tuxedo is waving me over to a strip of carpet, in front of which are about fifty photographers and camera crews. I wait my turn and try not to freak out that it’s only Kate Starr in front of me, waving at the crowd with the practiced ease of a beauty queen. I feel about an inch tall. She glows from within, completely larger than life, showstoppingly beautiful, whereas I’m…well, I’m just me. I know some people think I’m good looking, and I’m certainly slim, but it’s Kate Frigging Starr we’re talking, and I have to follow that.
She moves on, and a hostess guides me to the photography area. The crowd cheers some more as I wave and give the professional smile I’ve practiced about a million times now on talk shows and onstage, and then I’m herded away while the next noteworthy gets her fifteen seconds in the spotlight.
An impossibly good-looking man with a shaved head and skin the color of dark chocolate asks my name. After checking a list, he hands me off to one of his minions, who guides me into the facility’s massive ballroom.
I’m being led past people I recognize from MTV: rap stars, rockers, actors and actresses. A few of them smile at me, and I’m trying to figure out why, and I realize that maybe they’ve seen me on TV. Either that or they’re wondering how I crashed the party.
We keep going until we’re almost in the front of the place, center stage. The escort motions to a table, where a heavyset man in a tux with a white beard, white hair, and a complexion that hints at blood pressure issues is leaning over talking to…Oh. My. God. Justin Cander. He’s got the number two song in t
he country right now.
The older man spots me and breaks off his discussion as he rises to his feet.
“Sage! You made it!” he says and comes around the table with his arms spread like a well-dressed grizzly. This man I’ve never met leans down and hugs me, and I realize he must be six five and weigh three hundred if he’s an ounce.
“Saul?” I say, and my inside voice is like, Duh, no, it’s President Obama.
He stands back and appraises me. “The one and only. Come on, have a seat. I was just telling Justin that you’re going to be the next Mariah Carey, only way bigger.” I wonder if that’s better than Liza. I wasn’t even born when Mariah started packing stadiums.
Justin shakes my hand and grins, and I take the place next to Saul, which he’s patting with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. He repeats that it’s all kinds of awesome that I’m here, and then a pair of rappers from Brazil arrive, trailed by their dates, two B-level TV starlets.
An elegant woman in her early forties who looks like somebody famous, maybe an actress, strides up in a gorgeous evening gown. Saul introduces her as his wife, who I see when she sits next to me has had more plastic surgery than Mickey Rourke.
She turns out to be really sweet and makes me feel immediately at ease, joking with everyone at the table and leaning into me every now and then to make a snarky comment about a celebrity at one of the other tables. Barmer and his date arrive just before dinner’s served, and there’s only one empty seat as an army of service staff trundle out with platters of food and bottles of wine and champagne.
Everything tastes great, which probably isn’t hurt by the flute of champagne I limit myself to under Saul’s watchful eye. The legal-drinking-age thing obviously doesn’t apply to underage songstresses at his table. We get half an hour to eat, during which Saul holds a running monologue about the crummy state of the record business, that damned iTunes, piracy, greedy promoters and impossible management demands, all to a respectful audience of some of the biggest names in music.