More Than Anything (10 page)

“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.

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 the 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.

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.”