Chapter 7 #2
“Can I get you anything?” he asks as he sets the platter down. The top of his hair flattens slightly as it brushes the roof of the jet when he stands.
“A glass of Moet, please,” Connie says, busying herself with her laptop.
Paul coughs and draws Connie’s attention upward.
Unspoken words are shared between them.
“Sorry, make that a Coke Zero.” Connie’s mouth is drawn into a frown.
Great. They’re monitoring me too.
My rib catches on the arm rest and I wince as I retrieve my phone.
“Anyone else?” The steward adjusts his waistcoat.
“No thanks.” I shake my head as I keep my focus locked on my phone, and I instantly regret it. A sharp shooting pain forms in my temple. The pain drops into my chest at the sight of my empty notification menu. No new messages from Christopher.
Paul covers my phone with his hand. “How’s filming been?”
Great. Small talk. My favorite.
“It’s been a long slog. I’m so exhausted.” A yawn escapes me. “I’m looking forward to wrapping in two weeks.” I stretch out, my legs nearly hitting Paul’s and my hands almost touching the light above me, before I lean forward to grab a strawberry.
“You’ve done great.” Paul’s voice is sickly sweet, the way it always sounds just before a request comes. “Before we get to Manhattan, I just want to run through a couple of things in the schedule with you.”
Paul hands me his iPad. My muscles tense as I see the first item on the page.
“Why are we going to Electric Lady Studios when we land?”
“Nathan, from the record label, put forward a great idea. He suggested that you record Andy Williams’s It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year instead of using the original version for the Brewed commercial. We all think it’s genius.”
“We? This is the first I’m hearing about it.” Anger rises in my chest as I scroll through the itinerary, trying to locate any windows where Christopher and I will be together.
“Do you know how much money Mariah rakes in each year from All I Want for Christmas Is You? Nearly three million dollars.” Paul’s jubilance does nothing to stop the frustration rising inside.
“She cowrote the song. This is a cover.” I chuck the iPad back at him. “And why am I not doing a rehearsal for tomorrow’s shoot?”
“Even as a cover, the song will become an evergreen hit, generating a nice sum for you each year when Christmas comes round.” Paul places his iPad down and grabs one of the bottles of water left on the side.
“The rehearsal!” I slam my fists on the table in anger.
Connie jumps in her seat, and Paul’s water spills down his navy jumper.
“You don’t need to concern yourself with that.” Paul wipes the water off with his hand. “We’ll get the footage first thing tomorrow for you to review. That way you can record the song tonight, familiarize yourself with the shoot in the morning, then film tomorrow night.”
I debate slapping the righteous look off his face before thinking better of it.
“What did Christopher say when you saw him?” Paul can’t avoid my question now that we’re face-to-face.
Paul shifts his weight in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left.
Connie looks back up from her laptop toward Paul.
My heart sinks when Paul clasps his hands together, and I prepare myself for the inevitable disappointment.
“We didn’t get much chance to talk other than logistics, but he seemed happy to be reconnected.” Paul smiles at me, his brows raised.
I look at Connie. Bewilderment is written across her face.
Both wait for me to respond.
“Reconnected?” My tone is flat and steady.
“You’ll see him soon enough. Don’t let tomorrow’s problems rob you of today’s peace.” Eagerness underlies Paul’s words as he grabs the iPad.
Easy for him to say.
“And I can’t write my own Christmas song for this advert?”
I’ve been adamantly against recording a Christmas song. I didn’t want to be stuck with one of those cheesy Christmas records that’ll follow me round for the rest of my career. But if I’m going to be forced to sing one, I’d rather it be something I’ve had input on.
“There won’t be enough time. Freddy’s jumped out of band rehearsals to work on the production along with an engineer Nathan pulled in to work on the track.”
Clearly, this is all a lie. A ruse. Paul intentionally waits to have conversations with me until the last minute, knowing it will be too late to say no, to pull out.
“Fine.”
I slump back into the seat, resigned to the decision.
“Here’s your Coke Zero, ma’am.” The steward passes the drink to Connie. The ice clinks and bubbles fizz as she takes a sip.
“Have you had a chance to listen through the medley for Tuesday’s performance at the VMAs?’ Paul changes the subject, loading the mix on the iPad.
“I had a quick listen on the drive here. The segue into Stolen Moments from My Anchor needs work. It’s too abrupt a transition. Plus, it’s only three minutes forty-two seconds. I thought we’d been allocated four and a half minutes for the performance?”
Paul picks at the label on the water bottle.
“They cut the timing of all performances, to allow more performers on the lineup.”
Great. I wonder what else Paul isn’t telling me.
Disappointment, that old familiar friend, comes back as quickly as it had disappeared.
Now I’m tired and annoyed.
“But I’ve got the number one song in the country for the tenth week in a row. Why must I be the one making compromises here?”
“I know.” Paul shakes his head. “We pushed back, but MTV won’t budge.”
“Well either way, the segue still needs fixing.” The sight of the terminal distracts me as the plane heads toward the runway.
“But…” Paul goes to speak, but I stop him.
“No, Paul. There are no buts. Get Freddy to fix it. In fact, you know what, I’ll text him myself, seeing as you’re clearly incapable of getting things sorted.” I grab my phone and fire up the message app. “Where are we staying?”
I keep typing while I lock eyes with Paul.
“Brewed has gotten us all rooms at the Essex hotel by Central Park. It’s just down the road from the shoot. The label agreed to put us up there for the remainder of the trip, so we’ll just have one base while in town.”
“Will Christopher be staying there too?”
Paul lets out a sigh and fastens his seatbelt.
“I’m not sure.” His gaze drifts to the window.
Something’s wrong and he’s clearly trying to hide it. Christopher has got to be staying there too, surely.
The G-force pushes against me as the plane takes off from the runway, and I attempt to quell the niggling doubt rising in my mind.
“Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks it’s crazy to be recording a Christmas song when it’s eighty degrees outside,” Freddy says from the mix desk while I dig into a second slice of the pepperoni pizza that Rob brought in.
“I can’t believe I’m even doing this.” I shake my head in disapproval, making myself comfortable on the green couch behind Freddy. A playback of the twelfth take of the second verse blasts out of the speakers built into the wooden wall on either side of the mixing desk.
“What do you think?” Freddy slides down the volume knob and swivels round on his chair to face me.
“Honestly?” I ask, picking at the cheese in my teeth.
Like Freddy doesn’t already know what I think.
“Of course.” A wry smile appears on his face.
“It’s fucking awful,” I laugh. “But if that’s what the label wants, then so be it.”
“But you’re okay with the recording?” he asks. His shoulders tense.
“Oh yeah. You’ve done a solid on the track,” I say. “It’s just not my cup of tequila if you know what I mean.”
Freddy’s shoulders drop and he rolls toward me on the chair, grabbing a slice of pizza.
“And anyway, I’d rather be focusing on sorting that segue issue for Tuesday’s performance.” I stop and ponder a thought. “Did Paul ever email about it, before my message earlier?”
“Not that I recall.” Freddy takes a bite of his slice.
That fucker. I knew Freddy would have worked on it if he’d been asked.
I begin to see red and it has nothing to do with the color of these walls.
“Can we take five?” I ask, already getting up. I grab a third slice of pizza and walk to the door.
If I don’t get outside right now for some fresh air, I’ll end up killing someone.
“Oh, actually, I keep forgetting to say. How come your dialect coach is in town?”
“Dialect coach?” Freddy’s words stop me as I bite into the pizza slice. I’m way too tired, too angry, to be thinking straight right now.
“The one you brought in to listen to Stolen Moments when we recorded it back in London. He’s staying down the hall from me at the Civilian. What was his name? Christopher?”
I almost choke.
“He’s staying at your hotel?” I ask, once I swallow down the food.
“Yeah. Didn’t you know? I thought he might be in town with you because of the film or something.”
My legs nearly give way underneath me and I steady myself with my hand up against the wall. After nearly eleven weeks of being apart, Christopher’s less than two miles away. Every part of me wants to run out of the studio and straight to his hotel room.
“What did you want me to fix in the segue?” Freddy pulls up the stems for the track on the screen behind him.
But none of that matters right now.
The only thing that matters is seeing Christopher.