Chapter 25
It’s a mistake that managers often make, thinking all of us artists are stupid, when often we are in fact filed with pent-up rage at being controlled.
And Paul seems to think he can still control me in these post-management negotiations.
He pushes back on every term. Higher sunset clause percentages.
Access to future royalties on my records, merchandise, and tours. The list has been endless.
When Christopher broke the news to me at the party, it all became bleakly real.
Like I’d been shoved out of a plane from thirty thousand feet, free falling with no parachute.
I was completely caught off guard. I’d racked my brains trying to figure out how Paul knew, how the right to tell him he was fired had been taken from me.
Telling him was a dream I’d had nearly as frequently as kicking him down the stairs and watching him tumble to his death.
The sad reality wasn’t that he was tracking me, or that he’d heard from one of the new managers I was looking to get rid of him, but that Freddy had sent him one of the tracks we’d been working on. Paul put two and two together, knowing everything was normally scheduled through him.
I’d been pissed at Freddy for a couple of days, but then I channeled the anger into my music and got two great songs out of it, so I took the win.
John advised me that it’s best to stay away from Paul while the negotiations take place and let all communication flow through him, which thankfully hasn’t been an issue.
Partly because my schedule is clear until the Grammy rehearsals late January, and also because I can’t hide how infuriating I’d come to find Paul during this whole process.
“They’re asking for seven years rather than five, and upping the percentage decrease each year,” John says, grabbing the marked-up termination agreement from the glass table, flicking to the pages with revisions and passing it to me.
The ticking of the clock on his wall matches my heartbeat, sounding like a bomb ready to explode at any second.
“This is extortion. That ungrateful son of a bitch.”
I chuck the agreement down, not even willing to look at it. The swirling rage inside me wants to launch the chair beside me through the glass window and onto the sidewalk below.
John grabs his legal pad, unfazed by my anger.
“It’s your decision on what you want to do.”
I get up and head over to the glass cabinet where all the legal books are, trying to relieve the burning in my stomach.
“Tell them no. We’ve already given him everything he previously asked for. Even cutting him in on the next two albums and the world tour that he shouldn’t be able to commission on post-term.”
John swivels on his chair to look at me. There’s trepidation in his eyes.
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“In fact, tell them no to the sunset clause extension, and remove the tour and two new albums from the agreement too.”
My stomach grumbles and I head back to the table to grab another bite of my salmon and cream cheese bagel. Anger sure does have a way of working up an appetite.
“We won’t be able to remove the albums from the agreement, as you’d already renewed your record deal in the summer. Paul would argue he helped negotiate the deal and therefore should be entitled to commission from those.”
“But I haven’t even properly started recording the album yet, just the demos.”
The thought of Paul getting his grubby hands on future earnings he’ll have no involvement in ignites my fury once more, and my fist slams down on the table, startling not only John but also myself. John’s face returns to a blank mask of professionalism as he waits for me to continue.
“Well, fine,” I say. “But he’s not getting his hands on my touring. That I haven’t discussed at all, not with Kirk or the team at WME.”
“And if he pushes back on either point. Or tries to disclose stuff?”
“We sue him for defamation of character.”
I grab my phone from my pocket and quickly fire up ChatGPT to look up the punishment for aiding and abetting a crime. The results reassure me.
“If he even attempts to bring up what happened with Samuel, and how he helped me escape the scene, he’d be subject to criminal charges too.”
When the negotiations started, I’d questioned whether I’d made the right decision. Whether it would be easier just to carry on with Paul managing me rather than go through the drawn-out process of not only reaching an agreement on his post-term commission, but also finding a new manager.
I even started to wobble this morning when I got this week’s singles chart report. It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year dropped from number one to number eight on the Billboard Hot 100.
Had my career already started to decline, now that Paul was no longer my manager?
Will I fade into obscurity like so many teen stars before me?
I’ve been able to hold on to my career for ten years now.
Maybe this is the beginning of the end.
Thankfully, Christopher was able to reassure me before he left for work.
He highlighted that the drop was most likely due to the decrease in physical sales this week compared to the last. He shared the report on his phone he’d had from Brewed.
Fifty thousand units had been sold across Brewed stores this week, down from nearly two hundred thousand the week before.
But all this pushback from Paul has cemented my decision. I’ve been more than fair. This is just greed on his part. And I’m done talking about Paul. I want to move past this whole situation and move onto a new chapter.
“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed on Friday, now that you’ve had the weekend to think things over?” I ask, looking over at John.
“Are you sure none of the other managers are right for you? A better fit?” John adjusts his navy tie.
The shortlist I’d met with all seemed good enough, but I wasn’t sure how much of a priority I would be on their roster of clients. None of them did enough to push me over the line to sign with them.
Yet I’ve already had John as my lawyer for ten years, and he’s pretty much been acting as my proxy business manager.
He’s negotiated all the big deals, and even helped to procure some.
Paul was more responsible for the talent management side of things.
It makes sense for me to go with John and it would solve the issue of trust too.
John knows almost everything. From Samuel to my sexuality, my struggle with addiction, and more.
“The others weren’t right. You make the most sense.” My tone softens as I lower my gaze to meet his and push for an answer, hoping he’ll agree.
“It’ll be a lot for me to give up my legal practice to focus solely on your career.” John tears his gaze from me to doodle on his legal notepad, as if weighing the decision in real time.
“So, you are open to it.” I pick up on the optimism in his tone.
“It’s not a no.” A smile rises on his face. “Can you give me a couple of days to talk it through with my wife properly, and then I’ll come back to you?”
“Sure,” I say and get up to leave, reaching for my bag.
I don’t want to say or do anything else that might sway him from saying yes.
But I have one last card to play. I reach into my bag and retrieve John’s Christmas present.
“Oh, I got this for you.”
John takes the present and unwraps it.
It’s a white-gold Cosmograph Daytona Rolex watch that I know he’ll appreciate, given the collection of watches I’ve seen adorn his wrists over the years. It might help push him across the line. Money and gifts often do the talking for me, so I don’t have to.
“You shouldn’t have,” he says, taking off his brown leather Rolex to put the new watch on.
The sparkle in his eyes as he holds his wrist up tells me he’s within my grasp.
Tuesday
A waft of stale ale hits my nose as I enter the Fox & Hounds pub.
Two guys throw darts at the dartboard. A few sit on bar stools around the bar holding their pints, watching the highlights of a soccer match on one of the TV screens on the walls.
A dozen framed and signed football jerseys hang on the walls around the pub.
I work my way through the tables over to Christopher on the far side.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it to be.” I hug him as I sit down at one of the high-rise tables.
“What can I get ya, lads,” asks a short woman with a Scottish accent. She pulls a pen from the pocket of her black polo shirt.
“I’ll take a lime soda, please.” I chuck my green bomber jacket on the stool next to me and roll up the sleeves of my cream sweater before looking toward Christopher, who is eyeing the pints.
“I’ll take the same,” he says, nodding his head.
A pang of guilt, that my sobriety prevents him from having what he wants, hits my chest.
“You can have a beer. Don’t not have a drink because of me.”
“Are you sure?” His attention goes back to the beer pumps along the bar.
“Of course.”
I move my chair round, so I can sit next to him and face the TV screens.
“I’ll take a Foster’s top then. And a basket of sausage rolls, a chip buttie, and a cottage pie.” Christopher smiles at the bartender, handing her the menus before turning back to me. “Did you manage to drop off all of your Christmas presents?”
“Almost. I just need to stop off tomorrow at the label in Santa Monica to give the last of the presents to the team there.” The traffic was so bad along the PCH down to Santa Monica from the recording studio that I’d decided to give up and drive through the Malibu hills and along the 101 freeway inside, not wanting to be later than I already was for dinner.
“Maybe I can pick you up from the office and take you to the airport?”
“If that isn’t too much of a problem. My flight is at nine forty.”
My heart melts as his cheeks push up into his hazel eyes with his smile.
Nothing feels like a problem these days when it comes to Christopher.