Chapter 20
BIX
“Well, now,” says Milo, meeting me at the front door of Sterling Records. “So glad you’ve returned.” He steps back, regarding me like a painter assessing his canvas.
“Follow me to my atelier and let the maestro have his way with you.”
A stab of fear shoots through my gut. “Maestro? Atelier?” What am I getting myself into?
Milo laughs, his hands fluttering dramatically.
“Relax, darling. The atelier is simply my office, and I am the maestro who will turn you from a strident warbler to an uptown sophisticate worthy of Slayer’s attention.”
“Warbler? Strident?” I echo, offended.
Milo crosses his arms and jerks up his chin. “The word warble comes from an Old French word meaning ‘to sing with trills and quavers’. And that’s exactly what you sounded like when I heard you.”
“Is that an insult wrapped in etymology?”
“It was a diagnosis wrapped in truth, cupcake. Now come along.”
I follow Milo to his office, which adjoins Sterling’s.
Unlike Sterling’s dark power den, Milo’s space is bright white. Framed Broadway posters line the walls.
In the corner, a gold easel holds a large corkboard with images of a blonde girl who looks just like me.
“What’s all this?”
“Just some early work related to the media campaign,” he says. “Before we honed in on the exact type we wanted to use as Slayer’s girlfriend.”
“I didn’t know I was a type.”
“Of course you are. Clare—that’s our PR director—had your type pegged from the start to act as a foil to Slayer’s vibe.
She wanted someone like Meg Ryan from the eighties romcoms. Or Kate Hudson in Almost Famous.
The first girl rocked that look, but you’re a close second.
And frankly, I think you’ll do much better. ”
He gestures for me to sit on a white leather sofa. “Now, let’s begin your transformation.” He plops down beside me, tablet in hand. “First, your social media. We’ve created accounts for you.”
“I already have accounts,” I protest.
“Not these you don’t. @BBismarkMusic has three hundred forty-seven followers. Your last post was a blurry video of you singing in Central Park with a homeless man playing harmonica.”
I flush. “Mr. Jenkins is not homeless. He’s a retired jazz musician.”
“Irrelevant. Your new Instagram is @BixWithLove, already verified with twelve thousand followers. We’ve backdated posts showing your sophisticated Upper East Side lifestyle.”
He turns the tablet to show me.
There I am. Or rather, someone who vaguely resembles me, in obviously photoshopped images at gallery openings, charity luncheons, and sipping Champagne at rooftop bars.
“That’s not even me!”
“It’s a model with a similar look. We’ll replace them with real photos of you once Antoine works his magic.” Milo scrolls through the feed.
“The narrative is that you’re a classically trained vocalist from an old-money family who rebelliously fell for bad-boy Slayer after meeting him at the Save the Children Gala last month.”
“But that never happened!”
“That’s why it’s called acting, darling. This story gives us the perfect hashtags: #OppositesAttract, #UptownMeetsDowntown, #BeautyTamesBeast.”
“Slayer isn’t a beast,” I find myself saying before I can stop.
Milo’s eyebrow arches. “Defending him already. Perfect chemistry.”
“What if someone asks how we met?”
“It’s all here,” Milo says, opening a beige folder containing various documents.
“You caught his eye when you were volunteering at the gala. You spilled Champagne on his leather jacket, and instead of getting angry, he asked for your number.”
“That’s actually kind of cute,” I admit reluctantly.
“Clare has a PhD in romantic narratives,” Milo says proudly. “She understands what makes the public swoon.”
He hands me a sheet labeled TALKING POINTS in bold, red letters. “Memorize these. If asked about your relationship, stick to these phrases:
‘It was unexpected.’
‘We connected over our passion for music.’
‘He’s nothing like his public image.’”
Milo taps each line. “Never say no comment. It makes you look guilty. Always deflect with a smile and one of these approved responses.”
“This is insane,” I mutter, scanning the document. Finally, I put it down on the table before us. "I can't read all this in one sitting. Tell me one thing. Is there anything that prohibits my singing?"
Milo raises his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"
I shrug. "Just checking."
“Nothing specific in words," he says carefully. "But remember, you’re not there as a performer. You’re there as Slayer’s girlfriend. End of story.”
“But if someone finds out I’m a singer, maybe I’ll finally have a shot at a genuine audition.”
“Not part of your persona, darling.”
I look at the contract again and sigh. “How am I supposed to remember all this?”
“That’s why we have rehearsal,” he says brightly, pulling out his phone. “I’ll play an aggressive reporter. You play the adoring girlfriend.”
For the next thirty minutes, Milo fires questions at me, critiquing my responses with ruthless efficiency.
“No, no, no! Don’t mention your classes. Nobody cares about your academic pursuits.”
Then: “Stop fidgeting with your hair! It makes you look nervous.”
“Never say like more than once in a sentence. You sound like a Valley girl.”
By the time he’s done, my head is spinning. This is method acting without the method.
“One last thing,” Milo says, handing me a phone. “Your new device. All communications will be monitored by the PR team. Don’t post anything without approval.”
“You’re giving me a burner phone?”
“It’s big-budget PR campaign, honey.” He looks at a text message. “Antoine’s limousine is pulling up now. Study the material and smile pretty as you answer reporter questions, and you’ll be all set.”
I just look at him.
“If you want us to write your check,” he adds with a wink, “you’ll master it quickly.”
"Speaking of money, let's talk practicalities," I say. First I make sure the sum will be deposited before I get on the plane.
"And speaking of air travel," I say, summoning my courage. "I want an open return ticket on a commercial flight."
"Why? You're flying on a private jet! Total luxury."
"I want to know I have a way of coming home if things...get out of hand."
"They won't," says Milo. "But if it makes you feel more comfortable, I'll see what I can do. Now, let's get you to Antoine."
As I follow him to the elevator, I wonder what Hilary would say about this. Probably that I’m selling out. But then again, she’d also say cold hard cash is cold hard cash.
And at least I’ll have a great story to tell—if I’m allowed to tell it.