by R. E. Blake
That saves me from having to say anything, which is just as well, because I just about blow my dessert pastry through my nose when Sebastian arrives and takes the seat across from me, looking like a movie star in a perfectly cut Armani silk tux, his hair haphazardly gelled in what most resembles a haystack after a tornado. His ever-present dusting of stubble lends a rakish air to his matinee-idol good looks. He graces me with a beaming smile and puts his hands on the table.
“I stopped for a quarter pounder on the way. I didn’t miss anything, did I?” he says, and everyone laughs.
Then the servers are back clearing the plates, and the stewards are topping off everyone’s drinks as the lights dim and the MC takes the stage.
The awards are self-congratulatory industry puff jobs from the International Music Press, whoever that is, and I’m glad I don’t have to perform for this audience. Those that aren’t as fortunate deliver passable lip-synched versions of their latest hits for the TV audience. As the show wears on, I find myself stifling yawns, the champagne having done nothing but make me sleepy.
My cell vibrates in my purse, and I almost jump out of my seat. Maybe it’s Derek! I’m itching to see. But two legendary hip-hop performers are announcing the award for best breakthrough rap video, so it’s not exactly a great time to take a call. I consider going to the bathroom, but nobody else is moving, and I don’t want to stand out, so I ignore my phone. Last thing I want is to be on the cover of some tabloid texting from the table – the ultimate insult to the proceedings.
But for the rest of the show all I can think about is who called. It probably was Derek. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. But here I am, too busy rubbing shoulders with the famous to talk. When the last award is finally announced, and fatigued applause greets the MC’s final bad jokes and thanks to everyone for participating, I’m ready to bolt for the exit, and it’s only politeness that stops me.
I shake hands with Saul and his wife and find Sebastian standing next to me. I’m reminded of how tall he is when he leans into me and murmurs in my ear, “Want a ride home?”
Steve’s out front, so I shake my head. “No, thanks. They have a driver waiting.”
“You sure? We can get a head start on talking shop.”
“I…I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “We can stop for ice cream. I always do after one of these. Only way to get the bad taste out of my mouth.”
I squint at him. Is my totally hot producer hitting on me? I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. As if he can read my mind, he smiles again. “It’s just ice cream. Nothing else.”
“I…” I’m trying to think of a way to get out of this situation when Sebastian reaches over and shakes Saul’s hand.
“I’m taking your latest find for ice cream over at Mort’s. You wanna come?”
“God, that sounds good, but my doctor would kill me if the double chocolate didn’t. So pass.” Saul looks at me. “The chocolate’s to die for.”
It’s like waving a bottle of Scotch in front of a hobo. I can’t say no to awesome chocolate, even if it seems kind of sketchy to be going out with my insanely handsome producer after an awards show. But Saul doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with it, nor does his wife, who gives me a very clear ‘wish it was me’ smile.
“Do we need a chaperone?” I ask, trying to be fun, and wonder if the champagne hasn’t gone to my head a little.
“I don’t,” Sebastian says, his tone playful, and surprises me when he takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s blow this joint.”
“I…I have to tell Steve…”
“Call what’s her name, Saul’s assistant. She’ll call him and tell him to buzz off. No sweat.”
It gives me an excuse to look at my phone, so I ferret around in my purse and pull it out, trying not to stare at the missed call from a New York number as I call Ruby.
She answers on the second ring, and I explain that I’ve got a ride home. Her tone doesn’t change, even though I’m searching for the slightest hint of disapproval. But I don’t hear anything.
“Will do. Should I have him available tomorrow for you, or will you make your own way?”
“I’m just going to Sebastian’s studio, so I can probably get a cab.”
“It’s no problem. He’s on call all day, except for an afternoon airport run.”
“Okay, then. If you’re sure…”
“What time?”
“Eight forty-five?”
“Consider it done.” She pauses. “Have a nice night.”
“I’m just going for ice cream. With Sebastian.”
“Ah.” Nothing else. Just a single syllable, ripe for interpretation.
Sebastian lets go of my hand as we near the entrance, and he’s surrounded by famous musicians – a celeb’s celeb, it seems. We make it past the backslapping and fist pumping and handshaking, and then we’re outside, where a crowd of several hundred are still hanging around. He glances to our left and leads me back inside and then down along the front of the lobby until we reach an exit sign. “This way leads down to the garage. Normally nobody notices me, but you’re kind of famous, and I don’t want to be mobbed.”
The idea that nobody notices Sebastian is silly, and I steal a glance at his Nordic profile. He’s a ten in a town filled with tens. My thoughts return to the phone call I missed, and I feel terrible even though I’m not doing anything wrong. Ice cream with my producer. Strictly business.
I know exactly what Melody would say, and I don’t even need to wonder WWMD. But that’s Melody, not me.
We tromp down the stairwell and emerge into a cavernous parking area. He looks around and spots his vehicle. “Come on. Over here.”
I expect to see the Porsche, but am surprised when he approaches a baby blue enameled fifties-era Cadillac convertible the size of an aircraft carrier. I’ve never been in a car like it, and I stop by the overblown tail fins.
“You actually drive this?”
“Yeah. It’s easy to park and great on gas. Best of all, it doesn’t attract any attention. Nice and quiet.”
I see what he means when we get in and he starts the engine. He must have some kind of trick mufflers, because it sounds like a moon rocket on takeoff.
He backs carefully out of the slot and pulls up two levels to the attendant, pays, and then rolls onto the street. I swat at a pair of red fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, and he grins.
“So how did you like the show?”
“Kind of boring watching everyone pretend for the cameras, you know? The lip-synching thing’s so phony.”
“Yeah, but it’s a hoot when something goes wrong and the vocals suddenly go out. I’ve actually seen that happen a couple of times. Pretty embarrassing.”
“Really? At an awards show?”
He shakes his head. “Worse. A supposedly live performance at the Hollywood Bowl. This singer was doing her number and something glitched, and it was obvious that she was lip-synching. She got booed off the stage, and her career never recovered.”
“That sucks.”
“I understand the temptation. You can make anything sound good in the studio. I can bend pitch and get slightly off-key vocals to sound perfect, but I can’t fix it live, even though there are now black boxes that can do it, or claim to. But then they have their own set of problems.”
“It just seems like cheating.”
“Of course it does. But you can see how someone with a less-than-perfect voice would take the easy way out on night number fifty of their tour. The problem being that once you’re phoning it in, the temptation to do it night fifty-one, and then fifty-two, is overwhelming. Pretty soon you forget how to sing your own songs.”
“I can’t believe people do that.”
He glances over at me. “You won’t have that problem. But then again, your voice is one in a million. Most people don’t have that instrument to work with.”
“Then they shouldn’t be trying to sing for a living.”
“Hey, I don’t dis
agree. But these days, technology can trump talent in a lot of cases.”
“Do you ever do that with your projects?”
He shakes his head. “I try not to. But sometimes it’s hard when the label’s breathing down your neck, demanding results, and you’re working with singers who can’t hold a note.” He lowers his voice. “I’ll tell you a little secret if you swear not to tell anyone else.”
“I promise.”
He mentions a band that had one of the biggest records of the past year. “I wound up playing the majority of the guitars on that. The guitar player was so stoned most of the time he couldn’t get it together, and after a month of disastrous tracks, I stayed up one night and played them right.” Sebastian shakes his head. “He never even realized that it wasn’t him playing. But I brought the project in on time and on budget. Which is huge to a record company.”
“I had no idea you could run into problems like that with big names,” I say, enjoying the easy banter. This isn’t at all what I expected working with a producer to be like. This is more like…hanging out with someone really cool who knows a lot of great stories about interesting people.
“You’d be surprised. Just because somebody won the lottery and had a hit tune doesn’t mean they can actually deliver again and again. I’ve also cowritten a lot of songs for the same reason. We get into the studio, and during preproduction, it becomes obvious that the songs just aren’t there. So I’ll suggest a rearrangement, which is part of my job. But if I have to rewrite the song, all bets are off.”
“God, now you’re making me nervous. I don’t have any original songs.”
“Don’t worry. Nobody cares whether the song’s yours or not. You’re not that kind of artist. You’re more like Janis Joplin. Who wrote the material is secondary to the voice and delivery.”
“So I can just do covers?”
“You could, I suppose, but what I’d like to do is have you listen to some demo tapes from some of the best songwriters I know. If we can find one or two we think are hits, we’ll run them past the label, and if they agree, we’ll do them. If I had my way, I’d want fifty percent covers and fifty percent original material. But in the end it’s up to you and Saul.”
“More Saul than me, I bet.”
He grins and nods. “You’re a fast learner, obviously.”
I pull my phone out of my purse. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I got a call I need to return, and I’ve been waiting to do it for most of the show.”
“No problem. Fire away.”
I call the number, but there’s no answer. I stare at the phone and see there are two voice mail messages. The first one’s from Jeremy, who I texted my new number earlier.
“Hey, girlfriend. It is I. Saw you on the tube at the awards. You look fab. And that outfit – positively scandalous. Kidding. Just wanted to say hi. Call me back whenever. I’ll be out late tonight misbehaving, if I have any luck at all, but try me mañana. Ciao, darling.”
The second message is from Derek.
“Hey. Just wanted to say I was thinking about you all day. I’ll get a phone tomorrow and call. Sorry I’m such a loser with stuff like that. Priorities.” He hesitates, and I can hear him breathing heavily. I wonder if he’s been drinking, then banish the thought. Why do I always do that to myself? “Anyway, it was good to hear your voice. I guess that’s all I called to say. Be good, and nighty-night.”
My chest tightens as I imagine him holding me and saying the same words, softly, just like he did then. I try to figure out how to replay the message, but delete it by mistake instead.
“Crap,” I say, and Sebastian looks over at me.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just missed the call I was waiting all day for. Just that.”
He doesn’t say anything, and we sit listening to the rumble of the massive V8. I drop the phone in my purse and sigh.
“How important is it that I’m here for the entire record?” I ask.
“You mean, how important is it that you, whose career is riding on it, and whose name is going to be on the cover, are there to approve every bit of the thing that’s going to make you a legend? Oh, I don’t know. Probably pretty damn important.”
I don’t like the sarcasm, but I have it coming. This is a self-made man whose time is worth more than ten of me, and he’s waived his upfront fee to work with me. I feel like a complete ingrate.
“Why?” he asks. “June told me your mom’s sick, but that’s just what she read online.”
Damn Melody. I’d bet money she put something up on Facebook about hanging out with me at the hospital. She’s a good friend, but the worst secret keeper in the universe. Which I know, of course, but am constantly relearning.
“No, it’s not that. I mean, it could be. It’s just that I really thought I was going to be back in New York. This is all so sudden…it’s taking a little getting used to.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t understand, and I don’t want to explain, so I change the subject. “Let’s talk about you. You’re pretty young to be such a famous producer. How did that happen?”
He’s taken aback by the blunt honesty of my question and gives me a reappraising glance as we roll to a stop at a red light.
“Being in the right place at the right time helped a lot.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
He laughs. “It’s a little true. I got some good breaks, and I did the work to make the most of them. And I enjoy what I’m doing, so I spend a lot of time at it. For me it’s like therapy, going to church, and a career, all in one.”
“June says you spend most of your time in the studio.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to muzzle her. She makes it sound way worse than it is. Yeah, I spend a lot of time there, but I’m making a name for myself. You don’t succeed in this business by doing things part time.”
“I’d say you’ve already got a name.”
“Which I didn’t get by slacking.”
“Is that what you view not working as doing?”
He gives me an annoyed stare, and the light changes. “What are you, my shrink?”
I try to lighten the mood with a chuckle. “Do you have one?”
“Why, you angling for the job?”
“Not really. What does your girlfriend think about you being married to the studio?”
He laughs. It’s not a funny laugh. “I’m kind of between exes right now.”
I’m sorry it’s gone down this road so fast, and try to figure out how to reel it back in. “Well, that’s never easy, is it?”
“June told me all about the reports on you and what’s his name – the other singer? That must have sucked. But frankly, it’s better for your career that you went the distance solo.”
“That had nothing to do with why we split up. He hurt his hand. Playing together was a big part of the act. He’s a great singer on his own…”
“I know. I saw his stuff. He is. But you’re something really unique, really special.”
He doesn’t have to say that Derek isn’t. I know he’s thinking it. I want to defend Derek, but arguing with one of the biggest producers in the world about music probably isn’t a good idea for a teenage chick from the park. So I keep my big fat mouth shut, for once, even as I blush from the compliment, but I still feel a twinge of disloyalty. Then again, if he were here, he’d recommend that I do exactly what I’m doing, which is not pissing off the guy who has my career in his hands.
We arrive at the ice cream shop, which is a retro fifties place, and each order double scoops of black death chocolate – a new flavor, apparently, that’s even more chocolaty than double chocolate. I get mine in a cone, and when I take my first lick, it’s like all my tastebuds go ballistic, it’s so rich. Like putting a stick of butter in my mouth. Chocolate-flavored butter.
“Oh, my God. This is insane,” I manage as he pays.
“I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I have to only allow myself some after one of these shows
, or I’d have to get my stomach pumped.”
“I’ve never had anything like it.”
We move to one of the cheesy plastic tables and take seats. “You know what’s even better?”
What could possibly be better than this? Besides Derek being here, I mean. “What?”
“When you’re famous and on tour, when you get to Buenos Aires, Argentina, you have to try the Super Dulce de Leche – super caramel. It makes this taste like water. I’ve never had it anywhere else that was even close.”
“That’s kind of the other side of the world, isn’t it?”
“It’s all the same when you’re on tour. Just another plane ride. This one longer. They’ll usually take you through Buenos Aires, then to Chile, then up to Peru, then Colombia, maybe Panama, and you’ll finish up in Mexico, depending on the tour.”
That all seems impossible. He’s talking about these exotic places like they’re nothing – like he’s done it all a million times.
“You go there often?”
“I wish. Hardly ever, actually. But one of my acts insisted I spend a week on his South American tour, and it coincided with a break in my schedule, so I went for it. I’m glad I did.”
“You really must like that ice cream.”
“It’s my best memory from the tour.”
We slurp away, and then an idea strikes me. Melody would kill me if I didn’t ask.
“Hey, let’s get a picture. You and me, eating ice cream. My girlfriend will freak. She’s pretty impressed by you.” I pull my phone out and lean closer to him, noting that he smells really good.
“Sure.” He holds up his cup of half-eaten black death and smiles, and I take a selfie and then another, just in case. I look at the two shots and show him the second. He nods.
“Very impressive camera skills. And one-handed, with a cone in the other, no less.”
“I’m going to send it to her. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nah. Do your worst.”