Two
Ashley sat in Simon’s plush office in Soho, pulling the cuffs of her faded, oversized navy sweatshirt down over her knuckles.
It was a room full of glass desks, heavy awards, and framed platinum discs, making her baggy corduroy trousers and worn-out trainers look entirely out of place.
Simon sat opposite her in a leather ergonomic chair, his expensive suit trousers perfectly pressed.
‘Meth?’ Ashley asked.
‘Meth.’
Ashley shook her head. ‘Meth?!’
‘What I don’t get is how you didn’t notice your girlfriend was on meth,’ Simon mused tiredly.
‘Her teeth looked normal,’ Ashley shrugged.
‘Then I guess she was snorting it,’ Simon explained.
Ashley gave Simon a look. ‘How do you know so much about it?’
‘My uncle Jimmy loves that shit. Well, loved it.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘He’s not dead. He just quit. Got addicted to Nordic walking instead.’ He looked into the distance. ‘I guess it’s better.’
‘Good for him. But all my relatives are bog-standard alcoholics,’ Ashley explained lightly. ‘So, Reva’s meth use went over my head.’
‘You didn’t pick up on anything at all? Fidgetiness? Overactivity?’
‘She was very productive. She’d call me at 3 a.m., insisting we rework a mix until it sounded perfect. I thought she was just a massive control freak. I was glad of it. I thought it would pay off.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Yeah, well, sorry to have to tell you but your innocence of class A’s—which, by the way, is weird for a pop star—has cost you.’
Ashley groaned. ‘I’ve heard they can interact badly with SSRIs. And I don’t want to know.’
‘Okay. I won’t tell you that Grown-up Shoes is down nearly twenty percent on streaming compared to the last one in its first two weeks.’
Ashley covered her face.
‘I definitely won’t tell you that the merchandising numbers are soft.’
‘Please stop talking.’
‘And I certainly won’t tell you that your label had a meeting about whether your next album should get the same marketing budget.’
Ashley slowly lowered her hands. ‘They did what?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Look, it’s not a total disaster.’
‘That’s not reassuring.’
‘No, come on. The album is making money.’
‘A lot less money.’
‘A lot less money,’ he agreed.
Ashley sank deeper into her chair.
Simon softened slightly. ‘It’s not a flop, Ash. Flops lose money. Your album still turned a decent profit. The tour is selling reasonably well. The label made its investment back and then some.’
‘But?’
‘But your first album was a monster. That’s the problem.’
Ashley looked away. ‘That doesn’t sound like a problem.’
‘It is when every executive starts expecting those numbers forever.’ He leaned back. ‘You went platinum in under a year. You had three massive singles. Every playlist on Earth shoved your songs in people’s faces twenty-four hours a day.’
Ashley grimaced.
‘Compared to that, this album looks weak.’
‘Because it is weak,’ Ashley said honestly.
She knew it wasn’t as good as Suburban Starlet. Most of that album had been written while she was still unknown and relatively expectation-less. Trying to write when you were already a pop star had turned out to be a hell of a lot harder.
‘It took a PR hit.’
‘Yeah, it’s all Reva’s fault. Not mine for putting out mediocre work.’
‘Look,’ Simon sighed. ‘Most careers are normal. Up a bit. Down a bit. One big hit. A quieter release. Another hit later. That’s how it usually works.’
‘And?’
‘And labels hate normal.’
Ashley laughed despite herself.
‘Seriously. They spend years looking for the next superstar, then the second someone starts behaving like a regular successful musician, they panic.’
‘So they’re panicking.’
‘A little.’
‘How little?’
Simon considered. ‘Enough that people have started asking whether you’re worth half their marketing budget investment on number three. Whether you might suit a gentler push, while newer acts are promoted.’
Ashley’s stomach dropped. ‘Fuck.’
‘Again, the album made money. If you were some indie act, everyone would be thrilled. And if your reputation as a homegrown artist hadn’t taken a hit…’
Ashley stared at the floor. ‘Are they actually considering dropping me?’
Simon hesitated. ‘No.’
That was answer enough. ‘Fuck!’
‘Nobody’s packing your things into a cardboard box.’
‘Not yet, but they’ll get there. And then I won’t get signed by anyone else because I’ve got shit on my shoe.’
Simon watched her for a moment. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I think they’re being stupid.’
‘That’s also not reassuring.’
‘No, but it’s true.’ He shrugged. ‘Half the executives talking about your decline couldn’t identify a good song if it bit them on the tits. They’re looking at spreadsheets. Not audiences.’
Ashley stared at him. ‘That doesn’t help.’
‘I’m just saying that a profitable artist with a loyal fanbase isn’t dead in the water.’
‘Then why do I feel like I’m attending my own funeral?’
‘Look, don’t panic. We just might need to… have some ideas.’
‘Ideas? I don’t know what that means. I did that interview. I said Reva was talking shit, posted all those photos of my comp notebooks. I tried to sue. It’s not my fault it got thrown out. I don’t know what more I can do.’
‘It’s okay. When I said “we”, I really only meant me. Consider this my problem.’
‘I wish I could,’ Ashley said.
Simon gave her a fatherly smile. ‘Relax. I’m sure we can work something out.’