Chapter 41
Hannah
Ripper, can you move a little closer to Hannah? Don’t be shy, she’s not going to bite.” Sindri, the photographer on hire by Variety, laughs, the sound musical in her Icelandic accent. “Or maybe she will and you like that sort of thing. I don’t judge.”
Ripper and I eye each other. He presses his lips into a line as he inches closer.
“Try putting your arm around her,” Sindri calls, her face hidden behind her camera. “Like you’re friends.”
Ripper gingerly lifts his arm and hovers it an inch above my shoulders. I restrain the urge to roll my eyes.
“This is painful.” Ginny pokes a finger into my cheek. “Real smile, Hannah, you heard of those?”
Sindri drops her camera. “Apologies, what’s your name—Keith?”
“Kenny,” Kenny says, sticking his hands in his pockets.
“Kenny, why are you three feet away? I’d like you to be on the same magazine cover, if you don’t mind.” Sindri exchanges exasperated glances with her two lighting assistants, who stand behind giant circular reflectors. Behind them, clothing, makeup, and hair technicians get our next looks ready.
This isn’t our first photo shoot, but so far it has the highest production value.
Variety’s rented out a warehouse in Santa Monica and created elaborate sets inside it, each according to Sindri’s moods.
So far, we’ve stood with our arms crossed in front of tall, red velvet curtains, rebels confronting the history of showbiz; lounged suggestively in armchairs, crooners luring in fans; and crouched on wooden boxes with our chins in our hands, thoughtful as Rodin’s Thinker.
None of it has been right for Sindri, who is as mercurial as any artist I’ve ever met.
Naturally, Ginny’s laughed at us throughout the whole thing.
“This is the Hitmakers issue, my friends, not the Musicians with Issues issue.” Sindri turns. “Manager, can you assist?”
Theo, who’s stood in the corner of the room since we got here, jerks up from his phone, seeming to remember that we’re in the middle of a photo shoot. “I’m the manager,” he says, looking around. “What’s wrong?”
Sindri waves a hand at us. “They’re like opposite magnets. One comes close, the other repels.”
I try to squint past the lights to see Theo’s expression. I haven’t known how to read him since the Billboard party, and especially not after he and Roger got into that fight at the studio.
He walks past the ring of monolights and studies us, folding his arms over his chest. “Okay, guys, I know we’re not exactly feeling each other at the moment, but can we put on a show for the camera?
” His tone is all business. This estrangement from him is making me more anxious than I would’ve expected.
Theo tilts his head, considering. “Hannah, why don’t you stand—”
He steps forward to take my arm and I react on nervous instinct, stepping back.
“Oh Christ, he’s a magnet too,” Sindri cries.
“Sorry.” I reverse course, stepping awkwardly close to him. “I didn’t mean—”
Theo’s phone rings, a loud, frightening burst of “I Need Some Help,” the first song I ever wrote about him in Vegas. The angry song that brought down the house and had me chasing him backstage to apologize.
Of all songs, why would he choose that one as his ringtone? “It’s Roger,” he explains to Sindri, as if she cares. “But I’m turning it off.”
He glances at it and freezes. Then—ignoring Sindri’s loud throat-clearing—Theo clicks his phone open and scans the screen.
“What is it?” I ask. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
Kenny tries to peer over Theo’s shoulder, but Theo wrests the screen away. “Nothing. Forget it.” But he’s frowning.
“Suit, you have zero poker face.” Ripper pulls his own phone out of his back pocket.
“What is this, a phone parade?” Sindri shouts.
Ripper types. “If I’m referenced in a story, it’ll pop up in my Google Alerts.”
“Ripper, don’t,” Theo pleads. “We’ll talk about it after the shoot.”
Apprehension wraps cool hands around my neck.
Ripper scans. “There’s a new link from the New York Times.”
“The Times?” Kenny frowns. “That’s good, right?”
I know it’s not by the look on Theo’s face.
“People, are we doing this shoot or not?” calls Sindri.
“It’s a review.” Forgetting he’s mad at me, Ripper gives me an awed look. “We got reviewed by the New York Times.”
“Read it,” I say quietly.
“Okay, we got some dude named Jerry Hughes, and the title of the review is— Oh.” Ripper frowns. This time when he looks up at Theo, there’s a question in his expression.
Theo gives a small shake of his head.
“Give it to me.” I grab the phone from Ripper. “The title is ‘Buzzy New Album from California Rockers the Future Saints’ . . . ” My voice falters. “‘Disappoints.’”
“Hannah.” Theo’s voice is imploring. But there’s no way I’m not reading this. My self-critical instinct flares to life. It used to be helpful. But it’s morphed into something different since Ginny’s death. From self-criticism to self-destruction.
“Maybe you should listen to Theo,” Ginny whispers, but I ignore her too.
“California alt-rockers the Future Saints, of recent internet fame, will release their next album on Nov. 20,” I read aloud.
“Meaning several of their previously released singles will be eligible for February’s Grammys, but not the album in its entirety.
Which, I can now confirm after listening to it, is no great loss. ”
I take a deep breath and keep going. “Titled ‘One Day, Virginia,’ the album explores grief and hope in the wake of loss, though it’s heavy on the former and light on the latter.
Fans of the Saints will certainly know the album is inspired by the passing of Virginia Cortland, 26, sister of singer-songwriter Hannah Cortland, 28, and close friend of bassist Tarak Ravishankar, 28, and Kenneth Lovins, 28—”
“And band manager,” Kenny cuts in. “He erased that fact.”
I swallow and continue. “While there’s certainly something to be said for big feelings—and the Saints, in sound, structure, lyrics, and emotions, are maximalists if nothing else—the album is an exercise in surface-level theatrics.
Apparently, Ms. Cortland and her associates are under the impression that they alone have experienced tragedy.
At least that’s what their lyrics would have us believe. ”
Wordlessly, Ripper rests his hand on my arm.
“The young Saints would do well to remember that every person on the planet has experienced loss, and many far deeper than they. Who wants to immerse themselves in another person’s pain when we all have enough of our own?
It’s only their TikTok audience—particularly the young women for whom this album is no doubt intended, who are busy gathering their rosebuds and might not yet have felt loss’s icy grip—who will appreciate such self-flagellating, grief-romanticizing tracks as ‘Little Beasts’ and ‘I Need Some Help.’”
I pause. Reading each new sentence feels like plunging a sword deeper into my stomach.
“Rather than try to tackle something as weighty as grief, one almost wishes Ms. Cortland, the band’s principal songwriter, had focused her attention on the same subjects that occupy her contemporaries, namely breakups and dance anthems—subjects in which she is no doubt more well-versed.
I will admit I’m not the band’s target demographic—I’m afraid my age, gender, and Ph.D.
in musicology disqualify me—but all the same, I’ll offer some advice.
For my money, the Saints would be better served by a return to form with their next album.
At least their light, breezy pop-punk songs provided a welcome respite from the depths of pain in which they’re currently wallowing. ”
I can’t read anymore. I click Ripper’s phone dark.
Silence falls over the warehouse. Kenny lays his head on my shoulder.
“It’s just one man’s opinion,” Theo says, his voice thick. “Not everyone is going to get it.”
Ripper squeezes my arm, and I want to comfort him, as well as Kenny, I really do—but even though it’s the three of us huddled here, the truth is, I stand alone with the weight of what we’ve tried and failed to do.
The new direction was my idea. And it doesn’t matter how many people have said nice things about my work.
It’s the criticism that matters, the criticism that’s honest. Jerry Hughes has peered past the layers of false hype and false praise to witness me as I truly am, as I’ve always been: a writer with ambition, but not enough skill to pull it off.
I’ve put my heart and soul into making Ginny a monument, art that could keep her alive, and what I’ve created is an embarrassment.
I failed her.
“Hey.” Theo’s voice has turned exceedingly gentle. “I’ll tell Sindri we need to wrap for the day.” He looks at Ripper and Kenny. “Why don’t we all go home and get some rest? Make it an early night.”
Rip and Ken nod. Theo turns to me.
“Sure,” I say numbly. “Sounds like a plan.”
Ginny’s watching me, but I don’t meet her eyes.
She knows I’m lying.