Chapter 2 Joanie
Joanie
Ollie would know how to handle this. My brother never did anything he didn’t want to do.
If there was a way out of this commercial, he’d help me figure it out.
I planted my heavy cardboard box next to a messy pile of sheet music.
I hadn’t visited the recording studio since the refurbishment.
The new mixing desk looked more complex than a dashboard in an airplane cockpit.
A faint synthetic odor from the acoustic foam in the vocal booth lingered in the air.
“What’s all this?” Ollie peered into the cardboard box.
A high-necked electric-blue cape with silver shoulder embellishments wrapped around my brother’s slim frame.
His white-blond hair had an edgy, asymmetric design, with a dramatic side parting, like he’d got bored and walked out of the barber shop mid-haircut.
Knowing Ollie, that was a possibility. It was the kind of look that only my brother could pull off.
I hung back by the door. I never dared touch any of the expensive equipment in the studio. “It’s just a few things for the tour. I asked Dad what stuff he missed most from home when he toured Australia.”
A puzzled smile lit Ollie’s face. “A care package?”
He would probably find it twee and overly sentimental, but this was his first tour so far from home.
It would be tough. He needed to know that we were thinking of him.
Fame of my dad and Ollie’s magnitude had its pitfalls.
Ollie would need family support more than ever now to keep him feeling grounded.
I shrugged. “It’s nothing much. I can’t stand the thought of you on the other side of the world without a proper cup of tea and some decent snacks. Listen, I really need to talk to you about something.”
Ollie sifted through the box, pulling out jars of Marmite, packs of pickled onion crisps, and chocolate bars.
His confusion shifted to surprise when he found the framed photograph from the night Dad won his most recent Grammy.
It was one of the few photos I could find where we’d got the whole family together.
He peered at it with an inscrutable expression.
“Too much?” I asked.
“No. This is . . . I love it.” He tilted his head, and his gaze softened. “This is thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
He grabbed his guitar, perched on the edge of the mixing desk, and strummed a chord progression, lightly. “You wanted to talk about something?”
“Fizzz with three z’s.’ I don’t know how many z’s they need to add before it’s palatable. A commercial, Ollie.” I threw my hands up. “Me. On camera.”
A faint smile pulled at his lips. “This again. I thought we’d moved through the stages of grief to acceptance.”
“No. I’m still very much cycling through denial, anger, and bargaining. I need an out. Please.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them at the meeting that you don’t want to do it?”
“I couldn’t.” My guts had been churning, and words had failed me. “They want to send Kieran Earnshaw from the men’s team. He was even more obnoxious than you could imagine. He walked out, and Rob didn’t even stop him.”
I’d watched Kieran Earnshaw on the TV all the time as a teenager when he’d played for Real Madrid.
He’d had the most beautiful hair—long and effortlessly mussed, like a nineties heartthrob.
Kieran had looked cute and wholesome when he was young, in that nonthreatening boy-band way that young girls crushed on.
My heart had been pounding out of my chest when he’d walked through the door of that PR office.
Some stupid teenage part of me had flipped out, being in close contact with a football legend.
There was nothing cute about him now. This Kieran was scowling and gruff.
His close-cropped hair emphasized his sharp cheekbones and the tattoos snaking up his neck.
I’d admired his skill in the old days. Not anymore.
Now, he was a dirty player—more famous for his aggressive tackles and explosive temper than his talent.
“You know his brother, don’t you? Jack?” I asked.
“A little.” A frown pulled at Ollie’s brow. He adjusted his grip on the guitar, and his eyes slipped to the rows of framed gold discs that cluttered the wall. “I don’t understand who thought putting you in a commercial would be a good idea. Who did you piss off to get this gig?”
“It’s the injury. Claire would rather send a bench-warmer than an active player.”
Ollie plucked a soft melody. “It won’t be that bad.”
“No. This is legitimately bad.”
Ollie took a swig from the bottle of champagne on the mixing desk.
“Isn’t it late to be drinking?”
“It’s fine. I’m going out tonight.”
“Tonight? You’ll be shattered tomorrow.”
He strummed an energetic riff. “The night is still young.”
It definitely wasn’t. Pointless to argue with him.
Ollie was as stubborn as Dad. But I couldn’t help worry.
He’d had so many late nights this past month.
Dad had introduced him to some of the Calverdale United guys and they were a bad influence.
At least this tour would be a break from all that.
With any luck, he’d be too busy to party.
“Could you talk to management? Tell them you don’t like being on camera?”
My heart pounded. “It’s not that easy.”
“Nobody can make you do something you don’t want to do. If you can come back from an ACL tear, you can do anything. Nine months, Joanie. You’ve worked your butt off with that hot physio for nine months. You’re stronger than any of us. You can speak up for yourself on this.”
“You think Josh is hot?”
He let out a small laugh. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating toast.”
I could never find a physiotherapist attractive. They were all secretly sadists. Josh had caused me no end of pain with his rehab program.
Ollie offered me the bottle of champagne. “This is a mindset thing. Plead your case with your manager. Go in there with positive self-talk and manifest what you want to come out of the meeting.”
I waved the bottle away. My bloodstream was already part painkillers and anti-inflammatories. No need to add booze to the mix. “Don’t. Please. You sound like Dad.”
“Dad’s right. Even a broken clock is accurate twice a day. A positive mindset will take you wherever you want to go.”
Maybe, if you didn’t have Claire for a manager. Goodness only knew how to deal with this woman. A sinking feeling made my body heavy.
I looked up to find Ollie watching me with a shrewd expression. “Look, if you’re really that bothered, tell them Dad forbids you to do it. Throw his name around. They won’t argue with that.”
I bristled with indignation. He couldn’t be serious?
No way I’d get Dad involved. He was already too interested in everything I did.
I’d never play up to the role of Mortimer Fox’s spoiled daughter.
How could Ollie even suggest something so absurd?
A surge of heat and determination made my heart race.
“Dad? Seriously? Forget it. I’ll handle it. You’re right. This is nothing compared to the past nine months. I’ll march right into Claire’s office and tell her that I’m not the right choice for this. If I put across a good case, she’ll see sense.”
“Good idea. You do that.” Smugness invaded his smile. “March right in there and do your thing. I’m rooting for you. Team Joanie all the way.”
I frowned. Wait a minute. My brother had played me like a fiddle. He wasn’t serious. “Did you just use Dad to trigger me?”
He chuckled. “It worked, didn’t it? I know it’s hard for you to speak up, but you’ve got this. You’re stronger than you think.”
A pang pulled at my heart. The past nine months had been the loneliest of my life. I hadn’t set foot on a pitch. My sisters were never around. Ollie wasn’t around much either, but when he was, he was great company. Ollie was the only person who understood me. My safe person.
“I’m going to miss you.” I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t stay out too late tonight. Try to be good.”
“I tried being good once. It wasn’t for me.” His eyes sparkled with humor. “I don’t know how you do it.”
Claire lounged in her chair and arched a skeptical eyebrow. “What can I do for you, Joanie?”
I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t find the words.
What had I been thinking, knocking on Claire’s door?
I absolutely could not handle this. Maybe when I was all revved up in the recording studio last night, but not with my real-life manager sitting in front of me.
How could I speak up for myself without coming across as too demanding?
I could be articulate and funny and eloquent, just not when I felt my heart racing like this.
I swallowed past the lump of nerves in my throat. “It’s about the commercial.”
She let out a deep sigh. “What this time?”
Don’t look too pushy. “I’m not the best choice.”
Claire’s lips thinned. “You don’t think I know how to make a good choice?”
I gripped my clammy hands together and pinned them on my lap to stop them from fluttering. “Gosh . . . No . . . I would never . . . That’s not what I meant . . . I just think someone else would do it better.”
“We’ve discussed this. It makes sense to send an injured player.”
I took a breath and tried to calm my racing pulse. “I understand. It’s a rational decision, but there are others who would appreciate this opportunity.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t appreciate the opportunity?”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s just . . . this isn’t really my thing.”
Her scrutinizing gaze made my cheeks grow hot.
Now she took me for ungrateful. I couldn’t win.
I turned my face to the window. The idea of performing on camera made my teeth itch, and a commercial wouldn’t do me any favors.
Everyone would assume that Dad had leaned on his connections to make it happen.
They probably already thought that’s how I’d got my spot on the team.
Special treatment would only add fuel to the fire.