Chapter 15
R enee arrived at the home of Ackerlund, Lola’s longtime, single-named producer, feeling excellent.
The footage from Lola’s studio had taken her breath away.
Golden light illuminated Lola, among the splayed-open journals, like a fairy ringed by white roses.
That shot had magic, beyond any doubt or criticism.
She cut together a short clip to send to Dragan.
He responded with a single-word message: “Intriguing.” It was the most positive feedback she’d ever gotten from him.
Since then, she’d filmed solo with Lola twice more.
First, they drove around to all the places Lola had lived in L.A.
, starting with her tiny first apartment.
The second time, they’d hiked up to the Griffith Observatory.
That had ended up as more of a hangout, since filming while hiking was a lot harder than Renee had expected.
It felt like an ace up Renee’s sleeve—proof she could make the kind of film she wanted, one where Lo acted like herself.
She was funny, kind, and fundamentally optimistic in a way that felt fascinating and foreign to Renee.
But at the same time, there was a melancholy air about her.
One moment she’d be laughing about a story from her last tour, and the next, a dark cloud would drift over her.
If Renee asked her what was wrong, she’d brush it off. Still, it was progress.
The session with Ackerlund was in a converted pool house in his enormous backyard. In the back was a recording studio for demos, but they’d be shooting Lola and Ackerlund running through new songs in the lounge area.
The prospect of hearing Lola’s latest work put a spring in Renee’s step even as she tracked down Micah. He was frowning into his phone by the sapphire pool. She clapped him on the shoulder.
“Nice place, huh?” Renee said.
Micah didn’t raise his eyes. “For sure. My wife hired the same landscaper.”
Not even this extremely Micah-y response could dent Renee’s mood. “Where’s our girl? She was due on set five minutes ago.”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Micah said, then moved away to answer a call.
Renee frowned. Lola was never late. Micah’s body language on the call wasn’t reassuring either: hunched, his phoneless hand shoved in his armpit, chin jutted out.
Micah came back with his report. “She’s running late, but she’s coming.”
“Was that Cassidy?”
“Gloriana. She promised Lola will be here.” It had never occurred to Renee that she might not be. Why would Gloriana be talking to Micah about Lola’s schedule? That was Cassidy’s job. Before Renee could ask, Micah said, “I’ll grab Ackerlund so we can get going on his interview.”
By the time cameras and lighting were rearranged and Ackerlund was getting dusted with anti-shine powder, Lola still wasn’t there.
Renee texted, Everything ok?
Yes! Held up at home. So sorry!
Renee frowned. Lola should have been there thirty—no, forty-five minutes ago, and she was only leaving home now?
“So Ackerlund, what three words would you pick to describe Lola?” Micah asked.
Renee rolled her eyes. Yes, Ackerlund was wearing sunglasses with yellow lenses and had clusters of prayer beads looped on his wrists and neck, but he had been one of the top-performing pop producers for the last five years.
He was behind fifteen Hot 100 number ones, five of them with Lola.
Surely, there were more interesting things to discuss.
Ackerlund didn’t appreciate the question either. “Lola’s a pop genius. The best I’ve ever seen,” he said evenly. “Most artists come in with the lyrics, or an unfinished idea, and we build from the ground up. Lola brings me demos that are already pure ear candy, and I’m just putting polish on.”
Renee’s chest swelled. Lo was so good that Ackerlund, one of the defining producers of the era, was gushing about her.
He went on, “Lola’s got an amazing gift.
She’s able to tap into emotion that feels honest and personal in the context of a hyper-relatable pop song.
The first session I did with her, I knew this girl wasn’t making songs for ten thousand people, or a hundred thousand people.
She was making music for a million people that feels like it was made just for you . ”
Still, as the interview went on, Renee began to wonder how well Ackerlund knew Lola.
Making art together was personal, vulnerable.
But as Ackerlund said, Lola was an expert at creating the feeling of intimacy, while giving as little of herself away as possible.
Did Ackerlund know Lola sometimes wrote love songs about women, or that the relationship with Nash was staged?
Did he know what it meant when she wore that crinkle-eyed smile, when she looked desperate to please?
Did he know the girl who looked down at her old notebooks and wondered if she’d run out of things to say?
Where was Lola, anyway?
Renee’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Cassidy.
Lola had a migraine. She needed to rest up before the premiere tomorrow. She wouldn’t be coming.