Chapter 5
I GET TO WORK FEELING LIKE I ’VE DONE SOMETHING WRONG. Something other than lying to my boss about knowing who an artist is. René’s words have haunted me all weekend. My album can’t be made in Miami.
It doesn’t help that Maureen has gone uncharacteristically silent. I managed to put something together for the press release and sent it to her last night, but I haven’t heard back.
After some digging, I tracked down an online chat room of René enthusiasts. And it felt like a small miracle when I found a couple of fans who were at the concert Friday night. They were kind enough to meet me for a drink and give me a few comments for our press release about René’s new album. To hear them talk, you’d think he was reggaeton’s answer to Bob Dylan. A poet. The voice of a generation. Sure, if Bob were into girls who wear “ nothing but thongs to the club .” A lyric from one of René’s collaborations I have problems with. Mostly to do with logistics. How are these girls getting to the club? Are they riding in a taxi in their thongs? Are they sitting down at the club? Are they leaning against a wall in line for the bathroom? It’s impractical and unhygienic.
René’s fans were a little wary of the big record deal, but they said as long as he didn’t sell out, they’d follow him anywhere.
I drop my things off at my desk and head toward the common area, past the bright Art Deco Miami furnishings, the photographs of artists and all the autographed memorabilia on the walls. Acoustic guitars, electric guitars, a surfboard.
Work has always been my safe place. For the past few years, my job has helped me feel balanced. It’s been filled with long, predictable days of coordinating and planning. Sure, back when I was an intern, I dreamed of working on the creative side of marketing. I wanted to be the one who had the vision and who collaborated directly with the artists. Over time, I slipped into the parts of the job where I was most needed. Like helping bring Maureen’s ideas to life, so she has time to work with the artists. It turns out, I am the queen of breaking down concepts and corralling them into calendars, tracking budgets and hiring designers. I feel needed and appreciated.
Not today. Today, I’m uneasy. I’ve finally been assigned an artist and it’s my vision I’m supposed to be implementing, but I may lose my job before I ever get the chance.
I reach the common area with its high ceilings and modern, rectangular blocks along one wall that form stadium seating decorated with colorful cushions on every level. I take a seat in the center of the top row and look over in the direction of Maureen’s office. I try to imagine a scenario where everything works out. There’s always a chance that René didn’t have his manager call to tell her what happened. You never know. Granted, best-case scenario, I’m still assigned to work on promoting René’s album. I wouldn’t even know where to start. How do you promote an enigma? A cocky, obnoxious, difficult enigma.
If anyone can smooth things over, it’s Mo. She’s the artist whisperer. She manages to keep them happy while still having their respect. I’ve yet to see her lose her poise, no matter how outrageous a request.
We have a band that demands everything in their dressing room be blue. Blue rug, blue furniture, blue light bulbs in all the lamps. One legendary crooner’s rider includes having someone vacuum their dressing room just before a show. Not because they’re neat-freaks, but because it relaxes them to sit there and watch.
As the stadium seats fill in with executives and staff from every department, my cell phone pings. I pull it out of my blazer and click on the unread email from the window design firm. It’s an automatic reply, letting me know they received our completed questionnaire. Too bad after today, I may not be able to afford them. I switch the phone to vibrate, set it down, and contemplate what it would be like to get fired after they’ve ripped our old windows out.
“Dani, pray for me.” Alba, my most stylish coworker, takes a seat in front of me. She’s wearing a dress with a cool sticker-like graphic of pizza slices all over it. “I’m interviewing ‘Tokyo or Paris’ after this.”
I wince in commiseration. “Good luck with that.” “Tokyo or Paris” is how we’ve been referring to one of our new artists. A young socialite-turned-singer who came across a tad snooty in her first round of media when she said, “I think I was at a nightclub in Paris when I first had the idea for this song. Or maybe it was Tokyo?”
“She was in a choir when she was little.” I lean forward.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, that’s how she started out. Have her talk about that and maybe sing one of her favorite songs from choir. That would help make her more approachable, and I think she’d enjoy it.”
“I love it.” She grabs my hands and shuts her eyes dramatically. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I feel my body unwind itself, and I exhale for what feels like the first time in two days. Too bad Mo wasn’t here for this exchange. Maureen’s the one who makes the introductions at these functions. She’s supposed to get things started, but she’s nowhere in sight.
There’s some confusion down in the front of the room. The heads of Sales and Legal seem to be in a heated debate, while our VP of Human Resources stands awkwardly a few feet away. My heart kicks into overdrive.
Mo must be somewhere putting out a fire. That’s the only thing that would keep her away. What if I’m the fire? What if she’s on the phone with ángel right now? I don’t know what else I would do. This is the only job I’ve ever had. If I’m forced to leave here without Mo’s support or reference, where will I be?
“Sorry for the delay, folks.” The head of Sales is now holding a microphone and addressing the crowd. “Thanks for coming, everyone. Unfortunately, Maureen isn’t… available at the moment.” He glances off in the direction of her office. “We want to welcome this young man from Mexico City. I’ve only just met him, but we’re really excited to have you here, Fabian.”
A lanky guy in his early twenties walks into the room holding an acoustic guitar. “Thank you for having me,” he says, adjusting another microphone on a stand.
We have presentations like this all the time. It’s a great perk getting paid to listen to live music, but I always feel bad for someone having to perform in an office on a Monday morning. The bright lighting and phones going off at reception can’t possibly set much of a mood, but they do their best to try to win us over.
No matter how much work I have, I never miss one. Even if it means I’ll have to stay late. For a new artist, having to sing your heart out on a Monday morning is bad, but doing it to a bunch of empty seats would be worse.
I love a performance day. The energy is so special. It reminds us that we are the keepers of something new. It’s ours to support, promote, and help grow. We’re a part of something being born. Sure, the artists are doing the cool part but our role is critical. We’re basically the doctors who help get the baby out into the world. The forceps, if you will.
Fabian begins with a sweet pop song. It sounds more like he’s talking than singing but I can see why we’ve signed him. He has a smooth, beautiful voice. Though the poor guy is standing still and looks visibly nervous.
Nearby, a phone begins to vibrate loudly against the wooden seats. I glance around, ready to judge the owner silently, when I realize it’s my phone, which has fallen between the cushions. Maureen’s name flashes on the screen.
The only thing more off-putting than Maureen’s absence from this performance is Maureen calling me during the performance. Before I can answer, it stops ringing and I find she’s also sent a text.
Come to The Dragon. ASAP
I rise to attention and then immediately hunch over in an attempt to make myself seem smaller. I head down the steps, ignoring the confused glares of the entire office. I make it to the front just as Fabian hits the chorus. I bob my head supportively to the beat, all while power-walking in front of him as nonchalantly as I can.
As I reach the hallway to The Dragon, my pace slows. Along the walls, there are framed platinum and gold records and an extra-long modern purple couch. All of our recording studios have been given powerful, albeit cheesy, names. There’s also El Matador and Kilimanjaro. The wide door to The Dragon has a narrow glass window so I peek inside. Maureen’s talking to someone just out of sight. These doors are professionally soundproofed, so I can’t hear a thing. Her body language isn’t reassuring. Arms crossed, shoulders slumped. Okay, I’m officially panicking.
I brace myself and open the door.
“There she is.” The man’s voice is dripping with feigned excitement. I turn to my left and find René leaning against the back wall of the studio. He steps out of the shadows and walks toward me.
It takes me a moment to react. The entire weekend, I stared at pictures of him hiding emotionless behind hats and sunglasses. At the arena, he wore dark sunglasses most of the time. Now, he’s standing here and there’s no wide-brimmed baseball hat pulled down over his eyes, no dark wraparound sunglasses covering half his face.
Looking at his bare face now, I’m somewhat taken aback. His dark eyes are so expressive, filled with bravado yet somehow vulnerable at the same time. And those lips—it’s downright criminal and counterintuitive to every marketing bone in my body that he hides this face. He’s wearing baggy gray pants and a tight iridescent shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight around the shoulders, showcasing his strong arms.
I lock eyes with Maureen and hers widen. I can’t tell what emotion she’s transmitting. Exhaustion? Concern? Shock that I had the audacity to show up to work today?
She’s like a gentle mom, but can be tough when necessary. If Maureen comes down on you, it’s because you’ve messed things up royally. I’ve only seen her get upset twice. Once with a coworker who leaked confidential information to the press accidentally and another time with a particularly difficult record producer. Both times she kept her frame compact and never raised her voice. The only way you could tell she was angry was the vein bulging out of her forehead.
“Is it true?” Her tone is brusque but there are no signs of a vein on her forehead. Unsure which part of my disastrous meeting with René she’s just heard about, I shrug slightly. “I’m just very confused.” She sounds wounded.
“I was just explaining to Maureen,” René chimes in, “how it all happened.”
“Oh yeah?” I offer noncommittally.
“I was telling her how we just got to talking, about this and that. And how”—his dark eyes sparkle at me conspiratorially—
“you know, you just knew me so well. Knew my music so well.” I don’t like his tone. It’s dripping with sarcasm and performance. I can only hope Mo isn’t picking up on any of it. “You just knew exactly what I needed. It was like you read my mind, right?” He pauses, waiting for me to agree.
Feeling like I have no other choice, I nod, though my neck no longer feels all that flexible.
“And fun. We had so much fun,” he adds for Mo’s benefit. She twitches nervously, trying to keep up. “Then”—he steps in closer, with a big announcer voice—“I told you how happy I was to have signed with a label who knew me so well, with a team so thoroughly up-to-date with me and my music. That’s when I threw out the idea and you agreed with me. You said it was the only way.” He blinks and looks right at me. “My album has to be recorded in Puerto Rico.”
A nervous chuckle escapes me. I stand there dumbfounded for a moment. Suddenly, it all clicks. René hasn’t told Maureen about any of my flubs, but he’s clearly holding them over my head.
“So you can imagine my surprise,” Maureen begins to rattle off, and when I pull my eyes away from René, I see it. It’s happening. The vein on Mo’s forehead is alive and pulsing. “Why would you even suggest that,” she says between her teeth, “without consulting me?” I open my mouth, but she continues, “Knowing full well it’s more… affordable to keep it here”—she gestures a hand around the large room—“where René’s supposed to start recording in just a few weeks, in the state-of-the-art studio we own and therefore don’t need to rent. Where we already employ a talented technical support team. Right here in Miami, where so many artists live and work and are readily accessible to collaborate with.” I’ve never seen Mo have to work this hard to keep it together.
She’s clearly distressed about having to talk about any of this in front of René. I notice, for the first time, the absence of ángel. It’s uncommon for an artist to stop by our office without at least one person from his team.
I glance at René, who’s been watching me. He rubs his neck and tilts his head. His eyes are actually pleading with me to play along. He really wants this. And I want to keep my job, but I’m not sure how to do both.
“Yes,” I respond, dragging the word. “Yes, I did because…” Each syllable fluctuates between high and low, and Mo, visibly baffled, hangs on each one, anxiously awaiting the end of my response. Looking past her, I take in the studio. It’s massive and professional but also cold and lacking in personality. Enormous soundboard, a recording booth so big, I’ve seen it house an entire jazz band with their instruments.
“Because…” With an eye on Mo’s forehead vein, I speak slowly. “I think it’s the right thing for him. I mean, this will be his first solo album ever. He’s finally putting himself out there. He has good reason to want to keep this on his turf,” I reason, officially sounding like the newly minted El Rico expert I’ve become in the last forty-eight hours. “René’s fans will follow him whether he makes the songs in his closet or here in our studio, but…” As the words sprinkle out of me, I realize I believe what I’m saying. I do know what he needs. “He should make this album in Puerto Rico. The proof is on his chest, in the tattoo he wears next to his heart.” I toss in a little more info I picked up for good measure. “I’m sorry for not consulting with you; I got caught up in the moment and knew you’d want him to be comfortable and start things on the right foot. But of course, you have the final say.”
The vein on Maureen’s forehead hasn’t retreated, but René’s features have softened. He’s clearly surprised I’ve rallied and defended his cause with such gusto. He’s squinting at me, clearly happy, and I feel a buzz all through my body.
“But no press,” René interjects, snapping me out of it. “Not until I’m done with the album. Remember?” He prods me, as though this is another thing we’ve discussed.
I’ve gone stiff again. The gall. I haven’t even gotten Mo to agree and he’s already piling on another request.
I shake my head no, but my mouth says, “Right, right. We did talk about that.” I gather myself, refusing to be rattled. Mo watches us with curiosity. “And that’s why I told you we’d be doing the in-depth ‘behind-the-scenes’ of the album.” Take that, El Rico. Two can play at this game. He flat out said he wouldn’t do this when I brought it up back at the arena. “It’s perfect, actually. The behind-the-scenes will feed the press whatever it needs, so they’ll leave you alone. You see,” I focus on Mo, inspired, “René’s main problem is, he’s in a vulnerable place at the moment.” René shifts uncomfortably, clearly wondering where I’m going with this. “He’s been hiding behind his sunglasses and whoever he’s collaborating with for too long and he needs to come out of his shell,” I say, sure of myself.
“Fourteen collaborations in eight years.” I shake my head, as though these are terrible stats. “Now, it’s just going to be him. Of course we need to keep the press away. René needs all the help he can get, so he can branch out in new directions. Because let’s face it, how many songs can one write about cheating, am I right?” I raise a shoulder at Maureen. “And you agreed”—I glare at René—“you said, ‘I repeat myself a lot and I’m stuck in a rut.’”
He lets out a patch of air. “Stuck in a rut of hit songs,” he replies as though correcting me. And holding himself back from a more biting response.
“Stuck nonetheless,” I announce, pushing on. “No more doing what’s become comfortable and second nature. You said you were done recycling the same old tired ideas and—”
“That’s not what I—”
“Recycling, upcycling, I can’t remember exactly. Something along those lines.”
René’s mouth puckers. He’s cross but also clearly impressed he’s got a worthy adversary. I match his pucker, and a zap of energy courses through me.
“Wow, well, that all does sound good.” The vein has vanished. “I hear you, Dani.” Friendly, motherly Mo is back. “And I hear you, René. Just remember this all comes from your advance. The more you spend, the more pressure we put on your album. But if we can keep the budget under control, I can get the higher-ups on board about Puerto Rico.”
René is visibly relieved. He pauses, taking both of Maureen’s hands in his. “Thank you.” He’s soft-spoken and sincere. When his hands finally release hers, I’m wholeheartedly expecting them to head over in my direction. Instead, he uses them to slip on the pair of sunglasses that have been hanging from his shirt. “I should get going.”
“Of course! We’ll walk you out.” Mo sounds more like herself.
We walk down the hall in silence, with Mo vigorously typing into her phone and the sounds of the performance still happening ahead of us in the common room. René has us stop at the end of the hall to watch while remaining just out of view.
Fabian is still standing in the same spot. This time, he’s belting out a fast-paced dance song. It’s extremely peppy. The kind of song you hear when the credits are rolling. When everything’s been resolved. Up and down the bleachers, torsos sway to the music. René is moving to the beat, too. Not a care in the world.
Meanwhile, I feel tense and frustrated. I fight the desire to look at him. Where’s the grateful nod in my direction? Any form of acknowledgment would be nice.
The crowd breaks into applause and René slips away from us. We follow after him, pressing our way slowly past the swarm of coworkers eager to get back to work, dispersing in every direction.
When we reach him, René is in the middle of complimenting Fabian. “You sounded incredible, like you had a full band up there with you,” he offers. Fabian is nodding vigorously, trying to take it all in while clearly being star-struck.
“This is good.” Maureen leans over, flashing me her phone. “ángel’s assuring me he can keep the budget under control.” I gaze at her and smile absently. “I’m glad you’re running the creative on this one.” She squeezes my hand. “You’ve clearly got a handle on it.” My throat is a tightly knit pretzel. “Now that it’s in Puerto Rico, I wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway,” she explains, eyes on her phone. “Things are crazy here, but I’ll try to make it down there for a weekend.”
My breath shallows as more of my new reality sinks in.
“When was the last time you went to Puerto Rico?”
“Oh”—my voice trembles slightly—“I’ve never been.”
Mo tears away from her phone and smiles approvingly. “But he’s refusing to do any press until the album’s done”—she’s switched into problem-solving mode—“so we have to cover every step of the process. You’ll need to go deep, get meatier material, you know?”
“Sure, sure.” I’m trying to remain calm, but inside, alarms are going off. I wasn’t able to get the guy to answer a single question the other night. Most of the time, it felt like he was interrogating me . And just now, he didn’t push back against us filming a behind-the-scenes, but I’m certain he would have if Maureen hadn’t been there.
As she responds to a message, I watch René and Fabian posing for photographs. The look on the newbie’s face is pure joy over having El Rico fawning over him so generously.
“Oh,” Mo says, reading a new message that’s popped up on her phone. “Sounds like they have an affordable solution already in mind.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s the previous home of some actor who had a recording studio built in, so we’d save on that. It’s on a small island just off the coast from San Juan.”
My body shivers, as though it’s experienced a chill. “Oh, that’s great.” There are a few islands, I reason. There’s no way it’s the same one.